.✦ ݁˖ bella ˖ ݁✦.

Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.

You.

He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.

"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.

"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.

His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."

"Very."

He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.

Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.

Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.

"Don't," you breathe.

Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.

Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.

"Persistent," you mutter.

"Understatement."

It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack. 

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.

"You okay?" he asks without turning.

"Fine."

He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.

"Your heart rate's up."

"So is yours."

"Occupational hazard."

You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I adjusted my stance."

You snort. "Sure you did, hero."

His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.

"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.

"You hate sand."

"I could learn."

"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."

"It started it."

He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."

"Coward."

They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.

Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.

Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."

"And our worst bet for everything else."

"Probably."

He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."

"I am standing back."

"Further."

He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.

"Try not to worry so loudly."

"I don't worry."

You glance up. "Leon."

"...I worry a normal amount."

You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."

You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.

"You can let go," he says gently.

You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.

"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."

"Very."

But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.

Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.

Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.

"Help," he croaks.

Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"

The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."

His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner.  Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.

"Careful," he murmurs.

"I know."

His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.

The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."

Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.

"Jackpot," you whisper.

Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.

Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."

You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.

Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Good."

"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"

The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.

The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.

"Back!" Leon snaps.

You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.

One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision. 

More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.

"Too many," you shout.

"Move!"

You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.

A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.

The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.

"Leon!"

He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.

Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.

Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.

He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.

"You hurt?" he asks.

You shake your head, throat tight. "No."

"Good."

His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.

"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."

You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.

Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.

The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.

Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.

"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."

He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."

"You got a call."

"We both got a call."

"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."

"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."

"That's not a crime."

"It should be."

You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."

"I'll buy you dessert."

"You said that last time."

"I meant it last time, too."

His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."

You glance at him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."

"I'd last three."

"Two and a half."

He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."

The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.

Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.

"Hold."

You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.

He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."

"Could be."

He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"

"Always."

One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.

You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."

"Switch packs with me."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"It wasn't an order either."

For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.

"Tension," he says softly.

"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."

"Comes with the badge."

"You don't even carry a badge."

"Metaphorical badge."

You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.

"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.

"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.

He gives you a look. You give him one right back.

"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."

"Yes, dear."

His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."

"Yes, sir," you salute.

Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.

"Stand clear," you say.

He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.

For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.

"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."

He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.

"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."

Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.

"On you."

You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.

Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.

All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.

Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.

"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.

You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.

"Stay close," he murmurs.

You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.

"Always do," you whisper back.

The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.

Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.

A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.

"Probably just settling," you whisper.

Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.

Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.

"Leon—!"

He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.

You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat. 

Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.

"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.

Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.

The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.

"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."

You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."

His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.

The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.

You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.

"Oh," you say softly.

Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.

"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.

He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.

"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."

You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.

"Good news," you murmur.

His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.

"This won't stop it," you say quietly.

"I know."

He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.

"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.

"No."

"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"

"No, Leon."

He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.

"Hey," you say softly.

His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.

"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."

You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.

He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.

He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.

"Stay with me," he murmurs.

Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.

"Always," you whisper.

Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.

"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.

"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."

His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.

"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.

He glances at you immediately. "What?"

"Nothing. Thought I heard something."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.

The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.

"Hey," Leon says quietly.

You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."

He stops anyway.

"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."

Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down. 

When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.

You shake your head. "We don't have time."

"Sit."

There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.

The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.

His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.

His brows draw together. "You're burning up."

"Shock," you say weakly.

"You know that's not true."

His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.

"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.

"Look at me," he says softly.

You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.

"We're going to fix this," he says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.

"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."

His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"...Maybe."

"Confusion?"

You hesitate.

His expression darkens. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.

"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."

"I'm right here."

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.

"Leon."

"Yeah."

"If I start to..."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."

"You need to be ready."

"I am ready."

"That's not what I mean."

His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.

"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."

Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.

"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."

"Maybe," you echo.

He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.

Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.

You blink. "Leon—"

"Save your strength."

"I can walk."

"I know."

And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.

You nod weakly. "Yeah."

"Good."

He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."

"I'm trying."

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything."

You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.

"...Dessert," you mumble finally.

A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.

Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.

Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.

"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"

A pause. "...Yeah."

The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.

The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.

Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.

"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."

A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."

He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.

"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."

You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.

"It's... dark," you mumble.

His chest tightens. The lights are still on.

"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."

Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.

"...Leon."

Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."

Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.

"You look... tired."

He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.

Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.

"You should sleep," you whisper.

The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.

"Soon, sweetheart," he says.

Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.

Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"

The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.

Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.

"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."

Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.

"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."

His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice. 

Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."

Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.

"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."

You stir weakly. "...'m tired."

"I know."

"So tired."

His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.

"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.

Your eyes open a sliver.

"...Promise?"

The question is so small it barely exists.

He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."

He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.

He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.

"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.

"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.

He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.

"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."

He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.

"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."

The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.

Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.

A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.

"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."

He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.

"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."

Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.

Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.

"Where are we?" you murmur.

"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."

Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."

His throat tightens.

"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.

He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.

He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.

He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.

A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.

Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.

"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.

He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.

Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.

Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.

He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.

"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.

From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.

Behind him, the ward remains still.

Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"

He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.

"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."

You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."

"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."

Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.

The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.

"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."

Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.

The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.

Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.

Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.

He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."

He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.

His pulse hammers harder.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.

He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers.

Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.

Mutation rates. Transmission vectors. Failure rates. 

Failure rates.

His jaw tightens.

A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.

He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.

ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE

He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.

Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.

Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.

"Damn it," he breathes.

The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.

Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.

For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.

He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.

"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."

His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.

His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.

He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.

Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.

Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:

ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN

For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.

"Okay," he whispers, voice breaking anyway. "Okay. We're good. We're... we're good."

He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.

"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."

Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.

"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."

No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.

A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.

"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."

Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.

"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."

His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.

"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."

Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.

"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."

His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.

"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."

He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.

"You hear me? We've got plans."

Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."

He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.

"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."

He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.

"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."

The needle presses into your skin.

He hesitates.

Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."

He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.

"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."

He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.

Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.

"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."

He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.

"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."

Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.

"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.

Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.

He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.

"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."

He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.

"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."

Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.

There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.

"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."

Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.

"That's it," he says urgently. "That's something. That's good. Keep going."

Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."

Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.

"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.

"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."

He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.

Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.

His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.

"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."

Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.

Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."

Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.

Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.

Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.

Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.

The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.

Leon.

He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.

Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"

He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.

For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.

"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."

You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."

Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."

"Was I... gone?"

His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."

You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.

"You scared me," he says quietly.

Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."

His head snaps slightly. "Don't."

The word is sharp, then softens immediately.

"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."

You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.

"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."

He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."

He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.

"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"

"Everything hurts."

He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."

Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.

"...You found it," you whisper.

He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.

Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."

You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.

"You were crying," you say softly.

Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.

"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."

A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.

"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.

Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.

"I'm here," you whisper.

He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in. 

"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."

You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.

"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."

He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.

"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.

A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.

Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.

Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.

Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.

"You're staring," you murmur.

"Monitoring," he corrects.

"You blink?"

"Sometimes."

You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.

"I'm okay," you assure him.

He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Always."

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.

When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.

"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.

Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.

You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.

"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."

Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.

Your chest tightens.

"You remembered," you whisper.

He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."

You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.

An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.

Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.

For a long moment, you can't speak.

"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."

"Leon..."

He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.

"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"

You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.

"Thank you," you say softly.

Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."

You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.

"Worth it?" he asks.

You nod. "Absolutely."

You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before. 

You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.

"I love you," you whisper.

His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."

Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."

You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."

"Still."

His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.

Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.

"Two weeks," you murmur.

"Yeah."

"You think you can handle boring?"

He huffs softly. "I'll manage."

You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3

The only thing he regrets is that he's not more ruthless. That he's still playing this slow game when he could just corner you in a corridor, press you against the wall, and make you admit you want him too. Because you do. He sees it. The way your eyes linger on his mouth when he talks. The way your breath catches when he stands too close. The way you forget yourself in the meadow and reach for him like it's natural. You want him. You're just too duty-bound and proud to admit it. Yet.

He thinks about you constantly. Obsessively. What you'd taste like. What sounds you'd make. How you'd look with his hands in your hair, his mouth on your throat, your legs around his waist. He thinks about it in council meetings. At feasts. In the yard. Lying in bed at night with his hand on his cock and Caraxes's satisfied purr rumbling through the bond because the dragon can feel it, can feel Aerion imagining you, and approves.

He's memorised you. The shape of your collarbone, the small scar on your knuckle and the way you bite your lower lip when you're thinking. The particular shade of your eyes in sunlight versus torchlight. He knows how many steps you take from the great hall to your chambers (forty-three). He knows you favour your right leg slightly when you're tired (old injury, probably, he hasn't asked). He knows the exact pitch of your laugh when you're genuinely amused versus being coolly polite. He knows you better than Baelor does, and Baelor's the one who gets to touch you in public.

That's going to change. It's not a question of if. It's a question of when you stop fighting it and let him have what you both want.

Caraxes is notorious, that's the thing. The Blood Wyrm. The most ill-tempered, vicious, foul dragon alive except for the Cannibal himself. He snaps at keepers, screeches at other dragons, has bitten three handlers and burned two others. The only person he tolerates is Aerion. Everyone else is an enemy or food.

The dragonkeepers draw lots to see who has to feed him. No one wants the duty. He's mean. He'll snatch the sheep out of their hands and snarl. Will rake his tail across the ground and force them to jump back. Once pinned a keeper to the wall with his snout and just breathed on him (hot sulphurous breath, smoke curling from his nostrils) until the man pissed himself. Aerion had to come down and call him off. The dragon was smug about it for days.

Other dragons give him space. He's not the largest (that's Vermithor, old bronze bastard) but he's the meanest, the quick and the most vicious. Willing to bite first and worry about consequences never. The dragonkeepers say he's mad. Aerion says he's just particular.

Once, a new keeper (young, stupid, didn't know the rules yet) tried to approach you while you were petting Caraxes. Wanted to ask if you needed anything. Got within five feet and Caraxes's head snapped around. The growl that came out of him made the keeper go white. You had to put your hand on the dragon's neck, murmur, "He's fine, he's just doing his job" before Caraxes settled. The keeper learned. Everyone learned. When Lady Stark is in the pit, you don't approach. You stay back. You wait for her to leave.

Caraxes has bitten anyone who speaks to you dismissively in his hearing. Well, tried to bite. The pit has thick walls and the dragonkeepers are fast, but the intent is there. Once, Aerion was in the pit with you and some lord made a passing jape from the gallery above (something about northern girls being too wild for southern courts). Caraxes lunged at the gallery wall, not because he understood the words but because he felt how his rider felt at those words. Claws scrabbling on stone, screaming. The lord fell backward. Aerion only gave a disdainful snort and it took a pointed stare from you for Aerion to call Caraxes off. Eventually.

You're the only person besides Aerion who can touch him without getting bitten. The keepers are baffled. "He's never let anyone—" "She's not anyone," Aerion says, and doesn't elaborate.

For Caraxes, it's a lot simpler, he views you in rather simple terms: MINE. OURS. OURS. OURS. KEEP. CLAIM. TAKE.

You smell like cold and stone and pack and something sharp, not Targaryen, not fire, not anything he's supposed to want. Doesn't matter because he wants you anyway. You're his rider's which makes you his. It's the only truth that matters.

Doesn't understand why you aren't already in the nest. Doesn't understand why his rider keeps circling you, watching you, aching for you, and not simply taking you. That's what you do with precious things. You take them. You keep them. You bite and burn anyone who tries to take them away. You claim them. His rider is being stupid about this.

The other one (the one who touches you, the one whose scent is on you when you comes near the pit, the one whose name makes his rider's chest go tight and furious and hungry) he's wrong. Needs to leave. Needs to stop putting his hands on what belongs to them. Needs to die or go away or at minimum stop touching you. Caraxes has explained this to his rider many times (through growls, through the bond, through thrashing fits when the wrongness gets too strong) but his rider keeps saying not yet and patience and Caraxes is tired of waiting.

The bronze one (Vermithor) is part of the problem. The bronze one carries the wrong-one. The bronze one is old and slow and in the way. Caraxes could shred him throat to tail. Has imagined it in explicit detail: where to bite, how to tear, the satisfaction of watching the bronze one fall. His rider has felt every second of it through the bond and has not said no. Has not said stop. Has only said not yet. This, at least, is promising.

Every time you come to the pit, something in him settles. The restlessness eases and the world makes sense again. You're here. You're close. You smells like cold-stone-pack and under it all, faintly, you smell like them now. Like smoke and open sky. Like you've been marked. Good. You should smell like them, should smell like his rider, like you've been claimed.

When you leave (when you walk away, when your scent fades, when his rider's chest goes tight with watching you go) the world is wrong again. Unbearable. Needs you back. His rider needs you back. The wanting is a physical ache in both of them, traveling the bond until neither of them can tell whose want it is anymore. Want-ache-need. Hunger that isn't satisfied by sheep or goats or anything that isn't you.

You touch him, puts your hands on his scales. Your palms are small and warm and you pet him like he's something gentle, something safe, and not an ancient creature that's devoured and burned thousands, and he loves it. Craves it. Every time you reach for him his rider's breath catches, his rider's chest goes tight with want, his rider's body goes hard, and Caraxes can feel it all: the jealousy-pleasure-aching need. His rider wants your hands on him like that, wants your touch. Wants the gentleness and your fierceness and your everything. Caraxes gets it instead and his rider suffers and it's delicious and terrible and perfect.

You're affectionate with him in ways you're not affectionate with his rider. You kiss his great snout, scratch under his jaw. Murmurs soft things in strange tongue he doesn't understand but it's rough and warm and he likes it very much. You lean into him when you're tired. And every single time, his rider burns with it—desire and jealousy and the aching knowledge that you could do this to him if you'd let yourself. The bond carries it all. Caraxes feels his rider's hunger. Knows his rider is imagining your mouth on his skin, your hands in his hair, your body against his. Knows his rider is half-mad with it. Good. They should both be mad. Madness is language of dragons, of predators.

You keep the barrier between you. You're a Stark. Duty-bound. You don't let him get too close in the keep, don't let him walk you back from the yard, don't meet his eyes too long at feasts. You're careful. So, so careful. It would be admirable if it wasn't so fucking futile.

Because in the meadow? In the sky? You forget yourself.

The first time he took you there was an accident, but not the times after that. The meadow sits two hours south of the city. Wildflowers everywhere, knee-high grass, clean sky, no one for miles. Caraxes settled in the middle of it like a red stain on green cloth and started humming, this low satisfied sound, and when Aerion helped you down your legs were shaking. From your first flight. From the adrenaline. From the way his hands lingered at your waist and he said, quiet, "I have you."

You spent the afternoon there. Aerion sprawled in the grass, kissed by warm sunlight, shirt unlaced at the throat, utterly at ease in a way you've never seen him at the keep. Caraxes drowsing nearby, neck curled, one eye half-open watching you. You sat a careful three feet from both of them initially and Aerion watched you try to maintain the distance and smiled to himself. She thinks she's safe here. She's not. This is my place. My dragon. My rules. But I'll let her think it for now. It only took an hour for his head to end up in your lap.

Later, when you asked why he brought you here, he didn't answer for a long time. Then: "Because you looked like you couldn't breathe in the keep. And I wanted to see what you look like when you can." A pause. His eyes on yours, pale and too steady. "Also because Caraxes has been insufferable about you and this was easier than listening to him destroy the pit."

He keeps bringing you back. Once a week. Then twice. Then whenever Caraxes gets "restless" (which is code for Aerion wants an excuse to steal you away and the dragon is a convenient scapegoat).

You learn the shape of it by heart: the slant of the light through the grass in the afternoon, the way the wind smells clean and green and nothing like the city, the particular flower (some low purple thing) that grows in thick patches near the big oak. It becomes yours. The only place where the rules of the keep don't apply away from Winterfell.

Aerion brings things. Wine, sometimes. Food. A book, though he never reads them, just uses them as pillows while you sit nearby and he watches you through his lashes. A thick fur, because the grass is damp and he doesn't want you cold (doesn't say that, just spreads it out and tells you to sit, stop staring, just sit, will you?). He's building something here, making it comfortable. Creating a place you'll want to return to, making it impossible for you to imagine not coming back.

The dragon has opinions about the meadow. Specific spots he likes. Will huff and shift his bulk until you move closer to his preferred location. He's decided the space under the oak is his spot and you should sit there (in the curve of his side) and Aerion should sit there (close enough to reach you) and if you try to maintain more distance he grumbles until you come back.

Aerion has started lying with his head in your lap sometimes after that first time. Sprawls out in the grass and rests his head on your thigh like it's his right, every time you say his name in warning, without opening his eyes, he says, "Caraxes gets to. Why not me?" And you don't have an answer for that. So now he does it and you let him. Your hand hovers sometimes, like you want to touch his hair again but don't dare. He waits. He's patient. You'll give in eventually.

You've started bringing things too. The fur (you brought it the second time, said you didn't want him to have to carry everything). A flask of something stronger than wine, which you share, passing it back and forth until you're both warm and loose-limbed. Honey-cakes from the kitchen, which Aerion eats too fast and then complains his teeth hurt and you laugh, bright and genuine, and the sound does something very dangerous to him.

He's told you things in the meadow he's never told anyone. About his father, about what it felt like when his mother died and no one seemed to care. About how Caraxes was the first thing that ever chose him, the first thing that looked at him and didn't see a spare prince or a problem or a mistake, just saw Aerion, too bright and volatile, and wanted him anyway. His voice goes rough when he talks about it and you reach for him without thinking, hand on his arm, and he stares at your fingers on his wrist and doesn't pull away.

You've told him things too. About Winterfell. About your father. About duty and losing your own mother. About how sometimes you look at Baelor and feel safe but not alive, and you don't know what that makes you.

It's his favourite place in the world now, because he gets to see you, unguarded. Soft in ways you never are at court. Your hair coming loose from its pins. Your laugh bright and easy. Your hands gentle on Caraxes, on the grass, sometimes (gods, sometimes) on him.

The way you look at the sky when Caraxes flies overhead, showing off. Like you're proud. Like the dragon is yours to be proud of.

The way you've stopped flinching when Aerion gets close. The way you've started leaning toward him instead of away.

The exact shape of you drowsing in the sun, head on Caraxes's side, hair fanned out in the grass, face soft and younger than it ever looks in the keep.

The little unconscious things: the way you hum sometimes, tunelessly. The way you braid grass while you talk. The way you reach for him without thinking when you're excited or surprised.

He sees the exact moment you forget, every single time, that you're supposed to keep the barrier. The moment you relax. The moment you let yourself just be with him and Caraxes, no duty, no betrothal, just this.

And he hoards it. Every moment. Every smile. Every touch. Takes it back to the keep with him and uses it to feed the wanting.

One time you're in the meadow in late afternoon, sitting in the grass, and Caraxes is drowsing nearby with his great head in your lap. You're petting him. Long, slow strokes down the scales of his hot snout, murmuring to him in that soft voice you use with creatures you think can't understand you ("You're not so bad, are you? Terrible, beautiful thing."). Aerion is ten feet away, ostensibly reading, actually watching you through his lashes with his jaw tight.

And then you look at him. Smile. Small and genuine and unguarded. Reach your hand out without thinking, beckoning him closer. "Come here, he's being sweet." Like it's natural, as if there's no reason he shouldn't be in your space. Like you've forgotten you're supposed to keep three feet of air between you at all times.

He nearly swallows his tongue, putting the book down slowly. Comes over. Sits next to you in the grass, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh. You don't move it. Don't pull away. Just keep petting Caraxes, smiling at the dragon, and Aerion can barely fucking breathe because this—you, soft and unguarded, wanting him close—this is what he's been starving for.

Through the bond: Caraxes's smug, satisfied pleasure. The dragon can feel Aerion's heart racing, can feel the want spiking sharp and desperate, and is pleased. Yes. Closer. Good. Keep her close.

You stay like that for an hour. Your knee against his thigh. Your hand occasionally brushing his arm when you gesture while talking. You don't seem to notice. He notices. The warmth of you. The faint scent of you, soap and something sharp and cold, lavender underneath maybe. The small unconscious smile you wear when Caraxes purrs under your touch. He commits it all to memory. Takes it out later, alone in his chambers, and uses it, over and over.

You keep reaching for them in small ways. It keeps happening. Small moments where you forget the barrier and reach for him like it's instinct.

After a flight, wind-rattled and laughing, you stumble slightly on landing and grab his forearm to steady yourself. Your fingers wrap around his wrist (small hand, strong grip) and you squeeze. "Thank you." Breathless. Grinning. Your hand lingers for three seconds too long before you seem to remember yourself and let go. He feels the absence of your touch like a wound for hours.

Once, you're both sitting in the meadow, watching Caraxes hunt (the dragon likes to show off, dive for rabbits in the field, making a game of hunting without flame). You're laughing, delighted, and without thinking you grab Aerion's hand. Lace your fingers through his and squeeze, pulling him closer to watch. "Look, he's playing with it—" And then you realise what you've done. Your hand goes still in his and you look down at your interlaced fingers. You hold on for another heartbeat, two, three, before you slowly pull back and murmur something about the heat making you forget yourself.

Aerion says nothing. Just flexes his hand, feeling the ghost of your grip, and files it away. That night he lies in bed and remembers the exact pressure of your fingers, the warmth of your palm, the way you held on even after you noticed.

You fall asleep in the meadow once with your head pillowed on Caraxes's side. When you wake up, groggy and sun-warmed, you find Aerion sitting closer than he was. Not touching you, but close, close enough that you could reach out and touch him. You blink up at him, sleep-soft and unguarded, and instead of moving away you smile. Reach up without thinking and push a strand of pale hair back from his forehead. Your fingers graze his temple. Linger there. "You have grass in your hair." Your voice is low, affectionate, the voice you'd use with a friend or a lover, and then you seem to wake up fully and realise what you're doing. Your hand jerks back. You sit up quickly, muttering something about the sun making you thoughtless.

He doesn't move or speak. Just watches you with those too-pale eyes while Caraxes rumbles, pleased, and through the bond Aerion feels the echo of your touch like a brand. He wants to grab your wrist, yank you back. Put your hand back in his hair and tell you to keep touching him, to claim and rip. He doesn't. Not yet. But he wants.

You're affectionate with his dragon in ways that make Aerion insane. You don't seem to understand what it does to him. How the bond works, how every touch you give Caraxes, Aerion feels in an echo.

You scratch under the dragon's jaw and Caraxes purrs, this deep rumbling satisfied sound that vibrates through the ground, and Aerion feels it in his own chest. Feels the pleasure of your touch. Your fingers are gentle, rhythmic, finding the spots that make the dragon's eyes half-lid in bliss, and Aerion is sitting ten feet away, hard and aching, because he can feel it. Can feel your touch like it's on his own skin and it's not enough. It's fucking torture. It's the closest he's gotten to having you and it's not enough.

You kiss Caraxes's snout once, just a quick press of lips to warm scales, laughing at something, "There, you ridiculous creature, happy now?" and Aerion has to turn away. Has to walk away before he does something stupid like take you right there in the open until you can't deny how much you want this. Because Caraxes's pleasure slams through the bond and mixes with his own desperate want and he can feel what your mouth would be like on his skin. Soft. Warm. The pressure of it. He's halfway across the meadow, hands in fists, breathing hard, and you call after him confused ("Aerion? Are you all right?") and he can't answer because if he opens his mouth he'll say something he can't take back.

You lean into the dragon when you're tired. Bury your face in the curve of Caraxes's meaty neck, arms around hot scales, and just breathe. Like the dragon is a comfort, like he's safe. Caraxes rumbles, pleased and protective, and curls his neck around you gently, and Aerion watches. How you go soft and trusting in the dragon's embrace. Watches the way your fingers stroke absently over each scale, and he wants. Wants you to lean into him like that. Wants your face buried in his neck, your arms around him, your trust. Wants to be the thing you turn to when you need comfort.

Through the bond, he feels Caraxes's satisfaction. The dragon's smug pleasure at being trusted, at being chosen for affection by their she-wolf. And under it, the dragon's certainty: She does this with me. Soon she will do this with you. Patience. She is learning us. Learning that we are safe. Soon.

You pet the dragon absently while talking to Aerion, fingers tracing the ridges of scales, following the line of Caraxes's terrifying jaw, gentle and unconscious. You have no idea what it does to him. How he can feel every stroke of your hand through the bond. How Caraxes is smug and pleased and purring under your attention like a preening cat, and Aerion is sitting three feet away, imagining it's him you're touching. Imagining your hands in his hair, on his skin, on him.

The worst part is that you're gentle with the most terrifying dragon alive. Tender. You murmur soft things ("Good boy, yes, you're being so good for me.") and Caraxes melts under it, and Aerion feels the echo of that praise like a hit of wine. He wants you to speak to him like that, to purr those praises into his ear while he's inside you. Wants your gentleness and your tenderness and your approval. It's degrading how much he wants it. He doesn't care.

You've started doing this thing where you look at the dragon and then look at Aerion, and your expression softens. Like you're starting to see them as a unit, affection for one is bleeding into the other. You don't even notice you're doing it. But Aerion notices. Gods, he notices. Notes every time your guard drops like that. Each smile meant for Caraxes that you accidentally give to him too. Every soft look and gentle word. He hoards them like a dragon hoards gold.

Once, you're watching Caraxes preen his wings in the meadow sun, and you say, without thinking, "He's beautiful, isn't he?" And then you glance at Aerion, and something in your face shifts. Your eyes drag over him—the sharp lines of his face, the pale fall of his hair, the lean dangerous shape of him in the grass—and you look away, but not before he sees it. The recognition, the heat, the unwilling attraction. You think he's beautiful too. You don't want to, you fight against it, but you do.

You've started sitting closer to him. Not intentionally (you still keep the careful distance in public) but in the meadow, you'll start three feet away and by the end of the afternoon you're close enough that your shoulders brush when you lean forward. Close enough that when you laugh you sway into him slightly. You don't seem to notice. But every inch you give him, he takes greedily.

Sometimes you forget yourself entirely. You'll be mid-sentence and reach over to adjust his collar, brush grass off his shoulder, push hair out of his face, casual and familiar. The kind of touch you'd give someone you're comfortable with. And then you'll freeze, realising too late what you've done, and pull back at once. But the damage is done. He felt it. The ease of it. The way you touched him like you had the right. Like some part of you already thinks of him as yours.

Once you're in the meadow, sitting between them, Caraxes on one side, head resting near your hip, Aerion on the other, stretched out in the grass with his eyes closed against the sun. You're talking. Something about Winterfell, about your father, he's only half-listening because he's focused on the sound of your voice, the cadence of it, the way it softens when you talk about home.

And then your hand is in his hair.

Just... there. Fingers carding through the short pale strands absently while you talk, the same way you'd pet Caraxes, gentle and rhythmic and unconscious. You don't even seem to notice you're doing it. You just keep talking, fingers moving slow and careful against his scalp, and Aerion goes still, stops breathing. Every nerve in his body lights up. His cock goes hard so fast it's almost painful in how humiliatingly fast it happens. Through the bond, Caraxes's pleased rumble reaches him (yes, good, touch him, he needs it, give him what he wants, such a good mate) and Aerion is drowning in it, the feel of your hands on him, gentle and sure, and he wants to grab your wrist and beg. Wants to turn his head and press his mouth and teeth to your palm. Wants to pull you down into the grass and put his hands on you and make you feel even a fraction of what he's feeling.

You keep petting him. Thirty seconds, a minute. Your nails scratch lightly against his scalp and he bites back a starved, animal sound. And then you notice. He feels the exact moment you catch yourself in what you're doing. Your hand goes still, your breath catches, and when he opens his eyes you're staring at your own fingers in his hair like you don't know how they got there.

You jerk your hand back. "I didn't—I wasn't thinking—"

He sits up slowly. Looks at you. His voice comes out rougher than he means: "It's fine."

It's not fine. He's so hard he can barely think over his pulsing need. He can still feel the ghost of your touch. He wants to tackle you into the grass and find out if you'd keep touching him like that if he asked. If he begged, if he made you, if he offered his throat or sucked on tongue.

You won't meet his eyes. You get up quickly, murmur something about needing to head back before dark, and Aerion watches you retreat and thinks: soon. Soon you're going to stop pulling away. Soon you're going to give in. He can feel it. You're starting to forget why you're supposed to keep the distance. Starting to reach for him like it's natural, like you want to.

You do want to. He knows you do. You just haven't admitted it yet.

He knows your routine better than you do. Knows you walk the battlements after breakfast, east stair not west because the west gets too much sun and you don't like the glare. Knows you stop at the third landing to catch your breath and that you take the long way back through the gallery because you like looking at the tapestries. Times his own movements to "accidentally" cross paths with you. Has gotten very good at looking surprised to see you.

Can tell when you've been with Baelor by scent alone. His uncle wears some kind of Dornish oil (sandalwood, maybe amber) and it clings to you. Makes Aerion's jaw tight and makes Caraxes snarl with fury. He takes you flying as often as he can because it gets the wind to strip the scent away, replaces it with sky and smoke and them.

Has started stealing things. Not from you, of you. A ribbon you left on a bench in the yard. A glove that fell from your pocket in the hall, a hairpin you took out absently during a feast and forgot. Keeps them in a locked box in his chambers. Takes them out sometimes late at night. Holds the ribbon and remembers the way it looked in your hair. Brings the glove to his face and breathes in the faint scent of you. He knows it's mad. He doesn't care. They're his. Pieces of you that no one else knows are missing.

Watches you at feasts from across the hall. Counts how many times Baelor touches you. (Seven times at the last feast. Hand on your shoulder twice, hand on your back three times, fingers grazing yours when passing you wine once, lips to your temple once.) Counts how many times you smile at him. (Four times. Polite smiles, mostly. Only one that reached your eyes.) Tells himself he doesn't care. Lies. Caraxes, in the pit, thrashes every time the count gets too high.

Has imagined killing Baelor in every possible way. Poison in his wine. A blade between his ribs. An "accident" in the yard, a training sword that slips just a little too far, though this one he only entertains during his most foolish, feverish moments. His uncle might be old, but he's still a fierce warrior. Which is why his mind drifts towards Caraxes doing it for him, quick and clean, just a snap of jaws. Imagines it in explicit detail: what Baelor's face would look like, how long it would take, whether you'd cry. Whether you'd forgive him. (You wouldn't. That's the only thing that stops him. Not guilt. Not love for his uncle. Just the knowledge that you'd hate him for it, and he needs you not to hate him.)

He memorised the shape of your mouth. The exact curve of your lower lip. The small scar at the corner (you bit through it once as a child, he asked, you told him the story in the meadow, something about falling off a horse). He knows what your mouth looks like when you're about to cry (tight, corners turned down, the way you press your lips together to keep them from trembling). Knows what it looks like when you're trying not to laugh (bitten, the corners twitching). He wonders what they might look like bruised and wet from kissing him (perfect, they would look perfect). Wants to know what curve they would make when wrapped around his cock. Thinks about it constantly.

Knows you bite the inside of your cheek when you're thinking hard. That your eyebrows lifts slightly when you're sceptical. You touch your throat when you're nervous. Knows the small tell when you're about to argue with someone (your chin lifts, your shoulders go back, your voice drops half a register). Uses all of this against you in arguments because he fights dirty and if he can't have you he can at least make you feel as raw and off-balance as he feels.

Lies awake at night and feels Caraxes dreaming. The dragon dreams of you: your scent, your shape, the sound of your laugh, the feel of your hands on his scales. The dreams bleed into Aerion's head and he wakes hard and furious and aching and sometimes he gives in. Fists his cock and thinks of you or ruts against the hardness of his bed, thinks of your mouth, your hands. The small sounds you'd make for him. The way you'd look under him, over him especially, but all his. Comes with your name caught behind his teeth and Caraxes's satisfied rumble in the bond, because the dragon can feel it, feels Aerion's pleasure, approves.

He's stopped bedding other girls months ago. Tried once, after a particularly bad day watching you and Baelor in the yard. Got the girl back to his chambers, got her on her knees, all doe-eyed and pliant, and Caraxes shrieked in the bond so loud Aerion went to his knees too, head in his hands, because the wrongness of it was searing. Wrong girl. Wrong mouth. Wrong scent. Wrong everything. Sent her away and stumbled down to the pit. Spent two hours with his forehead pressed to hot scales while the dragon growled not-her-not-her-WRONG and Aerion finally, finally understood: it's you or nothing. Caraxes has decided, and what Caraxes decides, Aerion feels. He couldn't fuck someone else now if he tried. His body won't let him. The bond itself won't let him. You've ruined him and he's never hated anyone more.

He knows when you're about to bolt. You get this look: eyes too flat, breath shallow, a wolf two seconds from lunging. He's learned to back off when he sees it and give you space. Let you think you're in control. It's strategic. Push too hard and you'll run. Let you come to him and you'll stay.

Can tell the difference between when you're touching Caraxes because you want to and when you're doing it to avoid looking at him. When it's the latter, he moves closer. Makes it impossible to avoid him and watches you squirm. Enjoys it more than he should.

Sometimes he'll be in a council meeting and he'll feel it: Caraxes's sudden spike of fury. He'll have to excuse himself, go down to the pit, and find out what happened. (Baelor touched you. Baelor made you laugh. Baelor kissed your hand in the fucking courtyard and half the keep saw and Caraxes wants to burn something.) Aerion stands there, hand on the dragon's neck, breathing through it. "I know. I know. Soon."

Watches Baelor with you and feels nothing for his uncle except cold assessment. How to separate you, how to undermine him, how to make you see that Baelor is old and good and boring, and Aerion is alive and dangerous and exactly the thing you actually want and need.

Sometimes, just to stay sane, he works through his options:

Option one: wait until you break. Let the tension build until you reach for him first, kiss him first, beg him first. This is the smart option, the one that means you can't take it back, can't say he forced you into anything. This is the one he covets above all else. He needs you to claim him.

Option two: take you the next time you forget yourself in the meadow. The next time your hand lingers in his hair or you fall asleep against him. Pull you into his lap, put his mouth on you, make you admit you want this. Risky. You might bolt. But gods, the idea of it makes him so hard he has to pace and snarl into empty air.

Option three: wait until the betrothal is announced and then take you. Ruin you for Baelor, make it impossible for his uncle to have you without shame, seat you on top of Caraxes and fly East until you run out of horizon. This is the nuclear option. The one that burns everything down in both your lives, but he's keeping it in reserve. Just in case. Just.

Whatever he chooses, Caraxes will be there. The dragon is part of this. Part of them. And Aerion knows (knows with cold certainty) that you're already half in love with the dragon. You just haven't realised that loving Caraxes means you're halfway to loving him too.

Caraxes shows his affection differently. Mostly he brings you dead things. Goats, mostly. Sometimes a sheep. Once, an entire boar, charred to ash, dropped at the entrance to the pit like an offering to a goddess. The dragonkeepers are baffled. Aerion is smothering his amusement (fails). You're trying not to laugh and failing. Caraxes is smug. She is pleased. She is laughing. He has provided for his rider's mate. Good.

He also has a specific hum he only makes for you. Lower than his usual rumble or high-pitched snarling. Almost a purr. The dragonkeepers have started calling it "the Stark sound" when they think Aerion can't hear them. (He can. He doesn't correct them. It's true.)

Refuses to let anyone else near his saddle when you've been in it. Snaps at keepers who try to adjust the straps. They smell like you now. The leather has your scent, the saddle is yours. No one else touches it. One keeper got his hand bitten for trying. Aerion didn't even reprimand the dragon. Just looked at the keeper and said, "He's territorial. Don't touch what's his."

He sleeps better when you've visited. The keepers have noticed, started captiously asking Aerion to "bring the Lady Stark by" when Caraxes is having a particularly bad day because it's the only thing that settles him. Aerion hates that they've noticed, hates that it's true even more. But he does it anyway because a calm dragon means a calm bond means he can sleep instead of lying awake aching for you.

Has started hoarding things in his nest. Shiny things. A buckle that fell off your belt (Aerion saw it fall, watched the dragon flick it toward him with his tail, said nothing). A coin you dropped in the pit. A scrap of cloth from your hem that tore on his scales (Caraxes tore it on purpose, Aerion felt the intention through the bond, the dragon wanted a piece of you to keep and Aerion saw no reason to refuse him). Aerion finds them all buried in the straw sometimes and feels a complicated swell of emotions: pride (his dragon is clever), wry amusement (his dragon is obsessed), resignation (they're both damned, what's the point in pretending otherwise?).

Caraxes knows Baelor's scent now and hates it. Sandalwood-amber-WRONG. If you come to the pit smelling like Baelor (his hand on your back, his cloak around your shoulders, his mouth on your temple), Caraxes won't settle until Aerion takes you flying. High and too fast. Lets the wind strip every trace of Baelor away until you smell like sky and smoke and them again, always them. Only then does the dragon calm.

He can smell when you're drawn to his rider, too. Your scent changes, goes sharper, then sweetens. Caraxes notices. Rumbles approval. Pushes you toward Aerion with his snout. Go. Touch him. He wants it. You want it. Stop being STUPID about it.

Knows when his rider is hard for you, can feel it through the bond. Approves enthusiastically. Sometimes makes pleased little chuffing sounds when it happens. Aerion wants to kill him. The dragon doesn't care. Good. Want her. TAKE her. What are you WAITING for.

He guards the meadow. Once, a farmer wandered too close (didn't even see you, just cutting through the field) and Caraxes screamed. Wings mantling, neck arched, mouth open showing every one of those blade-length teeth. Aerion had to physically put himself between the dragon and the farmer, hand on Caraxes's neck, snarling in Valyrian: "Daor. Daor. Issa sȳz. Jikagon. DAOR." (No. No. It's fine. Go. NO.) The farmer ran away. Caraxes settled, but slowly, grumbling the whole time. His rider's mate is HERE. In HIS meadow. No one else gets to be here. This is THEIRS.

Watches the sky when you're in the meadow. Always. One eye on you, one eye up. If Vermithor flew overhead right now, Caraxes would attack, no hesitation. Doesn't matter that it would start a war. Doesn't matter that Aerion would try to stop him. The dragon has decided: the bronze one does not get to share the sky when she is here.

Positions himself between you and any perceived threat. Once, a snake in the grass. Caraxes moved, faster than something that size should be able to move, put his bulk between you and it, tail lashing. Aerion watched you press your hand to the dragon's side, murmuring thanks, and felt it through the bond: Caraxes's fierce satisfaction. Protected her. Kept her safe. MINE.

When you touch Caraxes, the pleasure travels the bond to Aerion. When Aerion wants you, the want travels the bond to Caraxes. They're locked in a feedback loop of wanting and having (sort of) and wanting more. It's unbearable. It's delicious. Neither of them would stop it if they could.

The dragon has started pushing, and not subtly. When you're petting him, he'll shift slightly, move his head, manoeuvre you closer to Aerion. When you're sitting next to his rider, Caraxes will rumble approval, loud and too obvious. When you pull away from Aerion, the dragon growls. Disapproval. She is being STUPID. She wants the rider. The rider wants her. Why is she FIGHTING it.

Caraxes has decided you belong to them. Both of them. The bond means they're one creature in two bodies, and you are theirs. Not Baelor's. Not anyone else's. Theirs. The dragon is simply waiting for you and Aerion to catch up to this obvious truth.

The meadow makes the attraction worse. There are no witnesses here. No court. No duty. Just you and Aerion and the dragon and the tall grass and the want that fills the space between you like smoke.

Sometimes you'll be talking, normal conversation, and you'll both just... stop. Look at each other. The air goes tight. Caraxes rumbles, low and pleased, feeling the spike of want through the bond. And neither of you moves. Neither of you dares. You look away first, every time. Always. Aerion lets you. For now.

He's gotten very good at reading the small signs of your desire. The way your breath quickens when he stands too close. The way your eyes track his hands. The small unconscious way you lean toward him before you catch yourself. He sees all of it.

You've started looking at his mouth. He's caught you three times now. Just... staring at his lips while he talks. You don't even seem to notice you're doing it, but he does. And it takes everything in him not to close the distance, put his mouth on yours, and make you admit what you want.

Once, in the meadow, you tripped over a root. He caught you. Hands at your waist, pulling you against his chest, and for three seconds you were pressed together, his mouth an inch from yours. You looked up at him. He looked down at you. Caraxes went serpentine still and the moment stretched. Your lips parted. His hand tightened on your waist. And then you pushed away, muttering words he can't recall, and he let you go because he could feel how close you were to bolting.

Another time, you were lying in the grass, drowsing, and he was watching you. Just watching. You opened your eyes and caught him staring. Didn't look away. Neither did he. Just held your gaze. Five seconds. Ten. Your stare went molten and wolf-like, wild around the edges. His hand moved, half-reaching. And then you blinked and sat up abruptly, said something about needing water, and escaped. He sat there, hand still half-extended, and laughed, low and wicked under his breath. You're breaking. Slowly. But you're breaking.

Worse of all is that you make him reckless. He's always been dangerous but you make him stupid with it. Makes him take risks he shouldn't. Flies Caraxes too hard, too fast, just to feel the adrenaline that's a pale shadow of what he feels when you look at him.

You also make him cruel. He's sharper with everyone else because all his softness (what little he has) is spent on you. He snaps at servants, provokes his brothers, sheds needless blood in the yard. Comes back to the meadow with bloody knuckles and you notice, reach for his hand without thinking, and he nearly drags you into his lap right there and then every time.

But you also make him patient in ways he's never been patient. He wants to grab you, kiss you, fuck you, make you his in every way that matters. But he waits. Lets you come to him in pieces, lets you get used to his presence, his touch, the idea of him. Because when you finally give in (and you will, he knows you will) he wants you to do it with your eyes open. Wants you to choose him. Not be taken. Choose.

You also make him vulnerable in ways he hates. You could destroy him with a word, tell him you'll never want him, you'll marry Baelor, you'll never come to the meadow again. And it would break something in him. Caraxes would feel it. They'd both go mad. He's given you that power without meaning to and it's terrifying and he wouldn't take it back if he could.

You think about him, more than you would ever admit. Late at night. In the bath. In quiet moments. You think about his hands. His mouth. The way he looks at you like you're something he wants to devour. You tell yourself it's just curiosity. It's not. It's want. And you're starting to run out of ways to deny it.

You've started dreaming about him. Waking up flushed and aching and furious with yourself. In the dreams, you don't stop him, you don't do the right thing, don't pull away. You let him kiss you, touch you, take you apart, you take him apart, and you like it. You wake up hating yourself for liking it, but the dreams keep coming.

The court doesn't help. You sit at the high table. Baelor on one side, your father on the other. Aerion is three seats down, angled so he can watch you without being obvious about it. He's gotten very good at watching you in public. No one notices. Except you. You can feel his eyes on you. On your throat when you swallow wine, your mouth when you speak. On your hands. Always your hands.

He times it so he arrives at the wine table when you do. Stands too close while you wait for a servant to pour. His shoulder brushes yours. You don't move away. He says something innocuous ("The Dornish red is better than the Arbor gold tonight") and you answer, and to anyone watching it's just polite conversation. But his hand is an inch from yours on the table. If you moved your fingers slightly, you'd touch. You don't move them. Neither does he. The space between your hands is charged.

You've caught him staring at you across the hall and held his gaze for longer than you should. Long enough that Baelor noticed and followed his nephew's line of sight to you and frowned slightly. You looked away first, but not before Aerion smiled, small and private.

After feasts, when everyone's drunk and loose, he'll find you on the battlements. You go there to breathe, to escape the heat and noise. He knows this, joins you, stands beside you in silence, looking out at the city torches. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't.

You sometimes watch Baelor train in the yard. Dutiful. Aerion has started training at the same time. Not near Baelor but across the yard. Close enough that you can see him if you turn your head. You try very hard not to turn your head. He knows when you're not watching. Fights harder, meaner, shows off. Once took a man down so brutally (swept his legs, put him on his back, and cracked his wrist) that you gasped. Aerion heard it across the yard, looked up and met your eyes. Smiled. You looked away, eyes narrowed. Caraxes, in the pit, was too busy laughing.

Afterward, he's sweaty, unlaced, breathing hard. Walks past you to the water barrel. You refuse to look and give him the satisfaction. He knows you're struggling though, taunts you by drinking slowly. Lets you watch. Pours water over his head and you track a droplet down his pale throat and have to look away before you do something stupid.

He's started doing this thing where he "accidentally" ends up walking the same direction as you through the keep. Falls into step beside you. Talks about nothing important. But his hand will brush yours. His shoulder will bump yours. Small touches, deniable, constant. You've stopped flinching, now you have to fight from leaning in.

Caraxes does this thing where he curls around you when you're in the meadow. Not trapping you just... surrounding you. Wings half-furled to block the wind. Neck curved to make a warm shelter. You lean into him without thinking and he rumbles, so pleased, and through the bond Aerion feels it like sunlight.

Once, you fell asleep against Caraxes in the pit. Just dozed off, exhausted from some long day. Aerion found you like that, curled into the dragon's side, Caraxes's wing stretched over you like a blanket, the dragon's breathing slow and even to avoid disturbing you. Aerion stood there for ten minutes just watching. The dragon opened one eye, looked at him. Through the bond: See? She trusts us. She is OURS. Aerion couldn't argue.

You fly on him alone once. It happens by accident. You're in the pit, waiting for Aerion (he's late, got held up in council), and Caraxes is restless. Pacing. You can feel it, the same way you've learned to read his moods and Aerion's both. He wants to fly. Needs it.

You stand, walk over to him, put your hand on his neck. "Want to go up?" you ask, and you're joking, you're not even remotely serious, you know dragons obey no one but their riders, that's what makes Targaryens special but Caraxes goes still like he understands your intent, turning his great head to look at you. Through the bond, Aerion feels the dragon's sudden certainty.

Caraxes lowers himself, an invitation. You stare. "You're serious." He rumbles. You look around. No keepers. No Aerion. Just you and the dragon. You've flown with Aerion dozens of times. You know how the saddle works, how to hold on. You climb up, settling into the saddle. It smells like Aerion, leather and smoke. Your hands shake slightly on the reins.

Caraxes launches.

It's different without Aerion holding you to his chest. Terrifying. Exhilarating. The dragon is gentle with you. No sharp banks, no dives, just smooth powerful strokes of his wings, but you can feel his raw strength. His leashed violence, the sheer power of a dragon that was once ridden by the Rogue Prince, that's seen hundreds of battles. He could throw you off with a twitch. Could burn you with a breath but chooses not to. Chooses to carry you carefully, like you're precious.

You fly for twenty minutes. Just over the city, out toward the coast, wheeling through clean sky. Caraxes rumbles the whole time: pleased, proud, happy, and you're laughing. Wind in your hair, hands tight on the reins, and you feel so, so alive.

When you land, Aerion is in the pit. Waiting. He watched you take off from the council window and ran. You slide down from the saddle, legs shaking, grinning like mad. "He let me—" you start, breathless. Aerion crosses to you in three strides, grabs your shoulders. You think he's furious, brace for his rage, but he's not. His eyes are bright, wild, feverish. "I felt it," he says. "Through the bond. I felt you up there. Felt how happy you were." His hands tighten. "Do you know what you just did? He's never let anyone else fly him. Never. Just me. And now you."

You stare at him, at the intensity in his face. At Caraxes behind you, smug and satisfied. "What does that mean?" you ask quietly. Aerion's jaw works. "It means—" He stops, steps back, running a hand through his hair. "It means everything."

You fly Caraxes alone sometimes after that. Not often. Once a moon, maybe. Always with Aerion's permission (he has to tell the dragon it's allowed, has to send the permission down the bond, or Caraxes won't let you up). Every time, Aerion feels it. Feels your joy, your exhilaration. Feels the dragon's pride in carrying you. It's intimate in ways he can't explain but only makes him hungrier. You on his dragon, his dragon loving you. The bond singing with it.

Aerion notices, over the course of several weeks, how you've been sadder. Not crying, just... diminished. Quieter. You stare out windows more. Touch your direwolf pendant more (you wear it always, silver wolf on a chain, tucked under your gown). You talk about Winterfell in your sleep. He knows because Caraxes knows, the dragon can hear you from the pit when your window's open, and what the dragon hears, Aerion hears.

He asks you about it once, in the meadow. "Do you miss it? The North?" You don't answer right away. Then: "Every day. Every single day. The keep here is... it's beautiful. But it's not home. I miss the cold. I miss the snow. I miss the way the sky looks before a storm." Your voice cracks slightly on the last word and you clear your throat, look away. Aerion watches you and feels an idea begin take shape inside his head.

He doesn't tell you what he's planning. Just makes arrangements. Tells the dragonkeepers he's taking Caraxes north for training exercises (a lie). Tells Father he'll be gone for a day (also a lie, but Maekar doesn't care enough to ask questions as long as he's disgracing himself). Doesn't tell anyone he's taking you.

He comes to your chambers before dawn one morning, knocks softly after dismissing the guards. You open the door in your nightgown, hair loose, sleepy and confused. "Get dressed," he says. "Flying leathers. Warm ones. We're leaving." "What—" "Don't ask. Just trust me."

You do. You trust him.

He flies you north. Far north. Past the Neck. Past the wolfswood. You don't realise where you're going until you see it: Winterfell. Grey walls rising from white snow. Smoke from the chimneys. Home.

You make a sound. Choked and stunned. Your hands tighten on his arms (you're pressed against his chest in the saddle, his arms around you on the reins). "Aerion—" "Shh," he murmurs in your ear. "We're not landing. Can't risk it. But I thought—you said you missed it. So."

Caraxes circles Winterfell three times. Low enough that you can see the yard. The glass gardens and the godswood. Everything. Silent tears drip down your face, down your cheeks. Aerion can feel them on his wrist where his arm crosses your chest, can feel your breath shaking.

"Thank you," you choke out. "Thank you thank you thank you—"

He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter and lets Caraxes circle one more time before turning south.

He lands in a clearing a few miles from the castle. You slide down from the saddle and your legs won't hold you. Aerion catches you. You're shaking. From cold, from emotion, from everything. He holds you up, hands at your waist, and you just... collapse into him.

You hug him.

You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder and hold on. Tight and desperate, grateful. "Thank you," you say again, muffled against his throat. "You didn't have to— I can't believe you— thank you—"

Aerion stills under the weight, the sensation. His hands hover for a second, not sure where to go. Then they settle on your back. Careful. He can feel you crying into his shoulder.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this. He did it because Caraxes was restless, because you'd been sad, because it was a way to make you happy and gods know he's selfish enough to want your happiness directed at him and only him. He did it because he's selfish but this— your arms around him, your face in his neck, your breathless gratitude—this lands somewhere deep and dark.

You pull back eventually. Wipe your eyes. Embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" "Don't apologise." You look up at him and whatever you see on his face makes you nod once.

Caraxes, sprawled nearby, is purring. So loud it vibrates the ground. Through the bond, Aerion feels the dragon's satisfaction: She is happy. We made her happy. OURS.

You stay in the clearing for an hour. Sit in the snow (you build a small fire, and you both huddle close to it). You talk about Winterfell. About your father. About your childhood. Things you've never told him. He listens, doesn't interrupt. Just listens.

When you fly back, you fall asleep against him. Head on his shoulder, arms loose around his waist. He holds you the whole way. Lands at the Red Keep after dark. Carries you from the saddle to the ground (you wake, groggy, mumbling apologies). His hands linger at your waist. "Sleep," he says quietly. "I'll handle the questions."

There are questions. As many questions as he expected. Where were you? Where was she? Do you have any idea how many people were looking for her? How this looks? Father is furious. Baelor stares, finally, not with vague suspicion but with knowing. Your father is somewhere between rage and relief. Aerion takes it all, doesn't give them anything. Just says, "She's safe. She missed home. I brought her back. That's all that matters."

They punish him. Grounded from flying for two weeks (it nearly kills him—and Caraxes, who screams for days). Confined to the keep, formal reprimand. He doesn't care, doesn't regret it. Not for a second.

You come to see him the next day. He's in his chambers (confined, remember). You slip past the guards (they don't stop you—you're a lady, not a prisoner). He opens the door and you're there. "You shouldn't be here," he says. "I know," you answer. You step inside, close the door and cross to him. And then you hug him again, slower this time, fiercely. Your arms around his waist, your head on his chest. "Thank you," you whisper. "For yesterday. For giving me home. For— everything." His arms come around you, too tight. He doesn't say anything. Can't. The feeling in his chest is too big for words and he hates it.

When you pull back and leave, he stands there for ten minutes, just stands there. Feeling the ghost of you in his arms, the scent of you in his room (lavender, something cold, you). And he thinks: I'm fucked. I'm completely fucked.

Caraxes, in the pit three floors down, rumbles agreement.

You're not soft. You look soft sometimes that's Caraxes favourite thing about you. You're gentle with children, kind to servants, diplomatic at court, but Caraxes knows better. Can smell it on you. The wolf. The thing under the courtesy that has teeth.

The dragon has a theory: strong mate makes strong eggs, strong hatchlings. Not that there will be eggs (you're human, not dragon, the logistics don't work) but the instinct is there. He wants his rider to have a mate who can fight. Who can hold her own, who won't break under pressure. You fit. You're perfect.

You've snarled at Caraxes once, actually snarled. He was being difficult about something (wouldn't settle so you could mount, being a brat), and you put your hands on your hips and growled at him: "Stop being an ass and lower yourself. Now." The audacity. The dragon was so delighted he obeyed with a wry little huff. Aerion laughed until he couldn't breathe. Through the bond: She commands me. She has the right. OURS.

Once, you and Aerion were arguing (about something stupid, he can't even remember what). You were furious, eyes flashing, voice cutting and you shoved him. Actually put your hands on his chest and pushed. He stumbled back a step, shocked. You stepped into his space, chin up, fearless. "Don't patronise me, Aerion. I am not one of your simpering southern girls. I am a Stark."

He doesn't want someone soft. He's too sharp for soft. He'd destroy soft. But you? You can take it. Can take him, can match him, push back when he pushes, snarl when he snarls, hold your ground.

You've started to see it too. The way you and Caraxes are alike, the way you and Aerion are alike. Fierce, protective, all with teeth. You're comfortable with the dragon in ways you're not comfortable with most people because he gets you. Doesn't expect you to be soft. Likes you because you're not.

Once, you told Aerion: "He's not as bad as people say. He's just—he doesn't trust easily. Neither do I." Aerion looked at you, then at his dragon. At the shape of what you were building together (you and him and Caraxes, the three of you tangled into something that has no name). "No," he agreed. "Neither do I." A pause. "But we trust you." You looked at him. "I know," you said quietly. "I know you do."

It's been months. Months of stolen flights, secret meadows, Aerion's hands carefully not crossing the line, Caraxes's growls every time you leave.

The betrothal announcement is coming. Everyone knows it. Baelor will ask formally. You will say yes. There will be a wedding.

Aerion can feel it closing in like a noose.

He's done being patient.

Next time you reach for him in the meadow, next time you pet his hair, touch his hand, look at him with those soft unguarded eyes... he's not pulling away.

He's going to kiss you. Properly. Going to put his hands on you and make you admit you want this.

The next time you come to the meadow, everything changes.

Not like a courtier making a show of it, like you’ve seen dozens do over the years to gain your favour. He kneels the way a devout man might kneel before a shrine; slow, careful, almost reverent. His head bows deeply. His huge hands rest on his thighs, palms open, offering before he even speaks.

“Your Grace,” he says, voice shaking in its quietness.

You reach for him automatically, to make him stand, to remind him he doesn’t need to offer himself to you, but he catches your hand in both of his, holding it as though it is a sacred thing, as though touching you is the riskiest thing he’s ever dared.

“I am your man,” he declares, lifting his eyes to meet yours at last.

There is nothing hungry in it. Nothing greedy or selfish. Only devotion so earnest it threatens to break him in half.

“Please,” he breathes, not begging for your affection, but for the right to serve you. “Your man. Your protector.”

He lowers his forehead to your knuckles in a gesture so old, so honest, it feels like a ritual older than any throne.

“I’ll guard you,” Dunk murmurs, voice thick. “With my life. Until you send me away, I am yours.”

And the pure sincerity of it—the way he means every word with the whole of his enormous, gentle heart—settles around you like a finest cloak.

BAELOR

You don’t mean anything by it.

It’s little more than a courteous exchange, a lord offering some practiced compliment, his hand hovering a fraction too close to your waist. You step back before it becomes improper, but Baelor notices it. He always does. His posture never breaks, his face never shifts, yet something in him tightens like a bow quietly drawn.

He finishes his conversation with perfect civility, but his gaze finds you across the hall with an intensity that pins you in place.

“My wolf,” he says when he reaches you, voice low, velvet-edged. “Walk with me.”

Not a question. Not truly a command, either. Something gentler, deeper; a request he expects you to honour.

You follow him into a quieter alcove, torchlight haloing the stretch of his shoulders. He waits until the sounds of the hall soften into a distant hum before turning to you fully.

He doesn’t look angry. He looks steady, frighteningly so.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that your breath catches, “did you welcome his attention?”

Your denial rises instinctively, but Baelor shakes his head once, too slow and knowing.

“No,” he cuts it in smoothly. “I already know your answer.”

He reaches up, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The touch is soft, but his eyes are not. They burn, some relentless, contained thing, but blazing from within all the same.

“He looked at you as if he had earned the right,” Baelor continues, voice a quiet burn. “As if you could be swayed by someone who has never learned the shape of your silences. The strength of your will.”

Your pulse stumbles. He feels it, his hand drifting from your cheek to the delicate column of your throat, fingertips skimming with a reverent, soft pressure.

“Baelor—”

His thumb presses lightly beneath your jaw, stilling the word.

“You forget,” he says, leaning in until your lips almost brush, “why you choose me. Every day.”

Heat flares through you. He sees it, tastes it in the hungry little hitch of your breath, and something shifts in his expression, too; something tender and devastating all at once.

“I see you,” Baelor murmurs. “Not the title. You. The woman who stands like winter and burns hotter than any summer sun. The one no man commands.”

He leans closer, his breath ghosting your mouth.

“The man in that hall saw what he wanted.” His voice drops, darkening. “I see what is.”

Your hands curl into the front of his tunic without conscious thought. His fingers linger against the flutter of your pulse, feeling, counting.

“I am your man,” he breathes, the words rich and rumbling in the quiet between you, “and you are my wolf.”

His head bows, your brows almost touching. “And I am not in the habit,” he whispers mildly, “of letting anyone mistake that.”

His thumb strokes your pulse once, reverently, like he’s memorizing the beat of belonging he feels there. When he finally draws back, his voice is barely more than breath.

“You choose me,” he finishes softly, “and gods willing, I will spend every breath proving why you were right to.”

LYONEL

You catch him lounging again where he shouldn’t be. Sprawled across a cushioned bench in a sun-soaked corridor, boots up, tunic half-laced, every inch of him radiating the smug indolence of a man who has escaped three meetings and one summons from the Hand.

“Stormlord,” you call his title on purpose, arching a brow. “You are meant to be in council.”

He brightens instantly, as though you’ve delivered him from execution.

“Ah,” Lyonel sighs, hand over his heart, “and here I thought you’d come to rescue me.”

You don’t dignify that with an answer. You only stand there, waiting, tapping your fingers lightly against your hip. He watches the movement with far too much interest.

Then, with a groan clearly meant to amuse you, Lyonel pushes himself upright, stretching like a cat waking from a pleasant nap.

“You know,” he says, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “it’s a terrible burden, serving the crown as Stormlord.”

“Oh?” you ask, dry as northern tree bark.

“Mm.” He nods gravely. “Endless storms. Endless paperwork. Endless dull old men droning in my ear about grain.” His eyes sparkle, sharp and devious. “One wonders why I ever agreed to it.”

“Your duty?” you offer. “Your birthright?”

He scoffs. “Hardly that. Duty is for respectable men.”

“And what are you?” you ask.

Lyonel steps closer, grin tilting, voice dropping just enough to slip under your skin.

“Hopeless.”

You blink, genuinely puzzled and wary. “Hopeless?”

“Utterly.” He leans in, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his fingers, a gesture so soft it contradicts every careless word he’s ever spoken to you. “Hopelessly devoted. Hopelessly distracted. Hopelessly inclined to ignore half the realm if you’re standing in the same room.”

Your pulse jumps. He notices it, drinks it in with a knowing little twitch of his lips. And still he keeps smiling that bright, infuriating smile of his that hides a blade.

“You think I bend knee to the crown?” Lyonel wonders, soft and idle, near ponderous. “Gods, no. I serve because you sit beside it.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t look so startled,” he says. “I’ve never pretended to be honourable. Only reliable.” His voice softens, the joke thinning into something bare and earnest. “For you, at least.”

Then, with a ridiculous, court-mocking flourish, he drops into a half-bow, pressing your hand to his lips.

“Your man,” Lyonel announces lightly.

It should sound unserious, perhaps ridiculing, coming from him. It should be nothing but flirtation. But the way Lyonel looks up at you from under his lashes ruins that lie completely, because his eyes are warm, molten, and far too honest.

“Please,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Your man.”

You feel the truth of it like a physical thing. And Lyonel—reckless, radiant, irreverent Lyonel—straightens with a wink, already turning toward the corridor as if he hasn’t just cracked open something dangerous between you.

“Well,” he tosses over his shoulder, “if I must endure council for the crown, I expect you to repay the suffering with at least one smile.”

He pauses mid step.

“And perhaps,” he adds, voice dipping sweet and sinful, “a reminder later that being your man is not entirely thankless.”

Then he disappears around the corner, leaving you standing in a wash of sun, breath unsteady, pulse still chasing the shape of his words.

AERION

You hear him long before you see him.

A shift of floorboards, a breath held too long. That sharp, restless presence you know like you know your own heartbeat. The hour is late, the castle asleep, and the fire in your chamber has burned down to embers when he appears in the doorway. Barefoot, shirt half-laced, pale hair mussed as if he has raked his hands through it a hundred times.

“Aerion,” you speak quietly into the dark. “You should be asleep.”

He huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “I can’t.”

Of course he can’t. He never sleeps well when something stirs in him. He’s half longing, half nightmares, and mostly just dark, destructive desire. All of it bruises him the same way.

He stands there a moment as though deciding whether he should leave.

He doesn’t.

He crosses the room in three slow steps, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t ask permission. He never asks. He waits, just long enough to be denied if you choose to deny him, and when you don’t speak, he sinks down beside the chair and lays his head in your lap.

The breath you draw catches.

Aerion exhales like someone drowning who has finally reached air. His cheek presses to your thigh. One hand curls loosely at your knee, not gripping, only holding, as though he needs the anchor more than he needs dignity.

“Nightmares?” you ask.

He shakes his head. His voice is low, dark, a whisper cracked at the edges.

“No. Just… you weren’t in my dreams tonight.”

Danger coils under the words, but so does something fragile, something almost childlike in its honesty.

Your fingers hesitate above his hair. He waits, more patiently than he does for anything in the harsh honesty of daylight. The moment you finally touch him—lightly, barely—Aerion’s entire body loosens. His eyes slip shut. He turns his face a fraction toward your hand, toward the warmth, toward you.

“Aerion,” you murmur warningly.

He smiles into the fabric of your nightrobe. A slow, wicked, aching thing.

“Don’t send me away,” he says. “Not tonight. I can’t bear it.”

You thread your fingers through his pale hair despite yourself, and the sharp, thrilled breath he sucks in nearly undoes you. He nuzzles closer, his voice dropping to something fevered:

“You have no idea what you do to me when you touch me like this.”

Your pulse kicks, and he hears it. You know he does. His fingers trace a line along your calf, ever so slowly, savouring, nothing like the arrogant confidence he wears by daylight.

Then, muffled against your lap, dangerous and tender in the same breath:

“Aunt.”

An aching little prayer, a bruise, a surrender.

“I am your man.”

The words scrape out of him like confession, not performance, a truth he can’t hold back in the dark. His hand tightens just slightly at your knee, enough to tremble, not enough to trap.

“Please,” he whispers, silky and dark, breath hot against the thin cloth. “Your man.”

There is hunger in it—wildfire desire that could consume a kingdom, you think grimly—but beneath that, horrifyingly, unmistakably, is need. The kind he would burn the world to keep hidden. The kind he brings only to you, only when the night strips him down to something raw and desperate and hungry.

Aerion turns his head just enough to look up at you, eyes molten, lashes casting shadows on his cheek.

“If you send me away,” he tells you softly, “I’ll go mad.”

Your hand is still in his hair.

And Aerion leans into it like a creature starved for gentleness, letting the fire paint his features in gold and ruin.

“Let me stay,” he breathes. “Let me be yours. Just for this hour. Just until the sun comes.”

He closes his eyes again, as though surrender is safer than looking at you.

“As if,” he murmurs, voice dark silk, “I was ever anything else.”

MAEKAR

It starts in the hall.

Snow has fallen from the hills all day, light at first, then heavier, thickening on the stone steps and clinging to men’s beards as they come in off the yard. The fire roars pleasantly; the air smells of smoke and wet wool and something stewing in a great black pot at the back. Men are loud with drink and the comfort of their own safe keep.

Which is always when someone decides to be brave and foolish.

“He wears our colours well enough, m’lady,” one of your father’s bannermen says, not quite slurring yet. “Talks like he means it, too. But steel’s still southern under it, my lady. Dragon’s a dragon. We’ll see if he holds when the winter truly bites.”

It’s not meant as an insult, not even as an accusation. Northerners are too blunt for such games. It’s worry, spoken poorly but sincerely. The words find their way across the firelight well enough regardless.

At the high table, Maekar pauses with his cup halfway to his mouth.

He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t ask the man to repeat himself. There is just the smallest tightening along his jaw, as if something in him has clenched and he’s set his teeth around it.

You answer, because it is expected of you and because you would have done so even if it weren’t. Your voice is even, and your words are Winterfell’s words, your father’s words, as sharp and cold and sure as the stones underfoot.

The matter dies, on the surface. Men shift, placated. Someone calls for more ale. The conversation turns again, as it always does, back to harvest and levies and some poor fool’s misjudged hunt.

Maekar does not speak for the rest of the meal unless he has to. He listens instead, and that’s worse. He listens with his face turned slightly away, the nape of his neck corded, his hand around his cup as if he’s holding onto it so he doesn’t reach for something else.

You do not touch him there. Not with eyes on you. Not when he is wound that tight.

Later, when the hall thins out and the cold sting of the corridors closes around you, he walks beside you without speaking. His strides are heavy on the stone. He does not offer his arm. But he doesn’t need to. You know precisely how to fall into step with him now. You’ve learned each other well enough.

Only when the door to your chambers shuts behind you and the latch drops does he stop.

The room is dim, lit by one low fire and two candles guttering on the table. Your shadow crosses his when you shrug off your cloak. He stands just inside the door a moment longer, as if deciding whether to leave again.

He doesn’t leave.

He unbuckles his sword belt and sets it aside. Shrugs out of the heavy Stark grey. Underneath, his shirt is dark at the throat where snowmelt and sweat have soaked the linen; his forearms are bare and scarred where he’s rolled the sleeves up. His movements are clipped, agitated. Only the muscle jumping in his jaw betrays anything else.

You hang your cloak. Turn back towards him, eyeing him for a breath.

“What they said—” you begin.

“Did you agree?” he demands.

It’s blunt in a way you’ve stopped flinching from. Maekar is a man who cuts straight to the bone once he’s decided to cut at all.

You cross the space between you until you are close enough to see the pale nick along his knuckles from this morning’s drills, the faint, fresh line at his throat where some boy’s blade slid too close.

“No,” you say.

He studies you. As if weighing that on its own, no other argument offered. Something eases in him, but not much.

“They’ll talk,” you add evenly. “They always have. New lord, new snow, new grumbling. You know this.”

“They can grumble about my manners,” he snaps back. “Or my face. Plenty there.” His mouth twitches, brief and humourless. “They start grumbling about whether I’ll hold the line when it breaks, that’s different.”

“You’ve never broken,” you remind him.

He huffs. “You weren’t there for every year.”

You tip your head, waiting.

He drops his gaze. Not out of shame. Maekar doesn’t waste time on that. It’s something else. A man digging in his heels before he says more than he means to.

“I know what they see,” he says suddenly. “Southern prince in a borrowed cloak. Dragon’s son. Man who rode north on a king’s word and a treaty, not because the old gods whispered in his sleep.”

Your throat tightens. “Is that what you think this is? A treaty?”

“Not now.” The answer comes too fast; he looks almost annoyed with himself for that much softness, for how quick he is to give it to you. His fingers flex at his sides. “Now it’s… different.”

You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. You bite back an impatient sigh.

“Maekar.”

He finally looks up.

You’ve seen this look on him in battle drills, when he has decided a thing and then decided it will be done even if it costs him blood and bone. Old. Stubborn. Unyielding. He takes two steps and then you have your back to the wall and him in front of you, not trapping so much as blocking out the rest of the world. His hands plant on either side of your hips on the stone, bracketing you without touching.

“Your father wants to know if I’ll stand when winter comes,” he says. “Your bannermen want to know if I’ll bleed for some hill they can’t see on a map.” His head dips, shoulders hunched just enough to bring him nearer, to make his voice a rasp between you. “I don’t give a shit about hills.”

Your breath catches; his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“I care if you’re on them,” he adds tightly.

That lands heavier than any oath could.

“If the snows come in and the dead are walking, if the gods themselves climb out of those woods to take a piece of this place—” his mouth twists, the words grinding out, “they’re welcome to try me. They’ll find me where you are. They’ll have to go through me first.”

The way he says it, like a simple fact, makes something in your chest ache and something in your belly coil, low and hot.

“I’m not good with speeches,” he mutters. “You know that.”

“I had… suspected,” you answer, dry despite the tightness in your throat.

“Good,” he grunts. “Then you know I don’t say this because it sounds pretty.”

His hand leaves the stone. Settles, heavy and warm, at your waist. Fingers spread, thumb pressing once into the bone as if to prove to himself you are here, tangible and his.

“I am your man,” Maekar says.

He doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t soften the rough edges. The words are as plain as any he’s ever given you.

“Not your father’s,” he goes on, staring at you. “Not your kraken-eyed bannermen’s. Not even my own Father’s, not anymore.” His jaw clenches, bones rolling. “Yours.”

You stare up at him. “Mine?”

He makes a low, frustrated sound. “Don’t make me say it twice, woman.”

You can’t help it. You smile, small and sharp. He sees it, and something in him steadies. His shoulders drop the barest fraction. The corner of his mouth threatens a curve he crushes before it can fully form, much to your disappointment.

“I’ll stand where you tell me to stand,” he says, a shade quieter now, but no less stern about it. “I’ll swing on whatever poor bastard you point at. I’ll freeze on these walls and bleed in these gods-cursed woods and eat boiled leather before I let anything take what’s under this roof from you.”

His thumb strokes once, rough, at your side. It could almost be accidental, but you know better than that. Nothing with Maekar is accidental.

“That’s my loyalty,” he finishes. “They can call it northern or southern or madness. Doesn’t matter to me. It’s yours.”

You lift a hand and catch his jaw in your palm. He goes still under your contact. You feel the scrape of stubble, the heat of skin, the way his throat works once under your fingers like he’s swallowed something sharp.

“Maekar,” you say quietly. “It’s more than enough.”

His eyes shutter for a beat, then open again, clearer and still hard.

“Good. They can keep their questions,” he says, softer now. “You know the answer.”

His hand tightens at your waist, something claiming and steady at the touch in the same breath.

And yet, you had been none the wiser.

The sheets still held the warmth of the previous night, eager touches from skin on skin, the complimentary burning of citrus perfume and incense still decorating the air. And in the bed, your hands braced comfortably on the plush of your pillow, and just tangled behind you, your husband. The pair of you softly snoring as Maekar pressed his bare chest into your back, few scars of combat and training still graced and raised over years of experience. His arm placed over you protectively, fingers dipping just over your belly button. Only the sweetest dreams guarded by the man at your rear, chest rumbling with every breath.

Though such peace did not last long, nor did it ever in the realm’s tendency to break it.

The glinting of armour, polished and shined to perfection had replaced where the sun would peek through the curtains, practiced frames standing rigid and expectant in the doorway.

“My Prince.. your father calls on you. There has been news from The Reach.”

You mumbled, voices murmuring faintly through your dreams, but you did not wake. Maekar stirred however beside you, tugging you closer upon the company, head rising as his eyes squinted in annoyance.

“Why the fuck are you here?” He called out confused, smoothing the sheets over your sleeping form, covering you from wandering eyes. The two Goldcloaks stood there, faces plain and stoic, bowing as their Prince gestured, grumbling and hair perfectly mussed. He was in a different state to how they usually saw him, all properly dressed and stoned-eyes, instead he was taken aback, unguarded and curled into his wife’s side like a tamed house cat.

They remained their gazes on him, not daring to sneak a look to your form, even in your splendour and beauty, the Prince’s vulnerability had not shaken them, his stare still just as, if not more dangerous. They repeated their words at the command, sleep muffling them the first time, and that’s when the dreaded news came.

“Daemon Blackfyre has declared war on the King and your house.” One of them announced, the declaration ringing in his head louder than the horns had shifted him moments earlier.

He shot up, hands bracing the sheets. He had heard every worry of the council, standing at his father and brother’s side as it had been warned, feared to happen for months to come.

Though now couldn’t have been worse time. The kingdom was at last in some kind of peace, though seemingly it was swept beneath the dusty castles of the Keep.

He waved them off, still offended but understanding of their urgency, and he made no mistake of it, sighing as the door closed with a heavy thud. He fought with the idea of going back to bed entirely, cuddling closer to you until he was just above, elbow propped onto the edge of your pillow as he took you in. Still warm, still curled into his side, still blissfully unaware.

And had he had time, he’d have taken all of the time left in the world, but there was none, and his restraint was far weaker than he would ever admit.

Especially with you.

“My love..” He called out to you, and for the first time your body reacted, recognising the voice, deep and ragged from sleep, and something else beneath it.

Though your slumber couldn’t tell.

He moved downward, craning his neck down to yours, fingers patting softly through your hair, taking in the strands that fell across the pillow. He wasted no time, his free hand reaching beneath the blanket and smoothing over your side, tracing up and down the curve of your waist and thighs, inching.

You rocked back against him instinctively, feeling the warmth of the growing heat as you blinked your eyes open. He was already pressing kisses all over. Your shoulder, the nape of your neck, arms wrapping tighter around you as he rolled you to your back, the sheets curling around you both as he rose, caging you in.

“Maekar..” You slurred, wiping your clenched palm over your eyes meaning to clear them, flicking up to him. He gave a small smile, nudging your nose with his, silver hairs falling mussed and swept, replying by pressing another kiss to your jaw. His knees were either side of you, balancing as his arm slowly pulled your hand away, uncovering you.

“Let me see you..” He whispered, sucking a mark onto your neck that made you whine, raising his head just above yours, meeting your quizzical look. Your hands linked around his neck as sleep escaped you, waking fully with the press of his body.

“And what is this..” He contemplated telling you right away, or keeping it secret, his brows furrowing, only looking to you, memorising. He decided against it, knowing how you’ll react, probably scold him, unhappily chasing him away.

“I must go..” You went rigid against him. You were no stranger to that, that one comment that made you freeze. Early rising and leaving with hardly much word to be had until you saw him late into the night. But this was different, his voice was softer, wanting, a farewell not to be taken for granted.

“Go where..?” You quizzed, shifting under him, allowing your body to rise.

His kisses carried, moving along your body, meeting the skin of your breast the sensitive bud grazed by his teeth

“Far enough away that I want to savour you..” You moaned as his lips made there way to your abdomen. “Have to..” The sheets pulled down with every inch he sunk down your body, his teeth grazing over you, testing a bite at your sternum, right over your heart.

You had not known exactly what he was talking about, nor where it had come from, but the haze from the dawn and the touch of his fingers sinking into your folds, and with his mouth delicately across your body, you were torn. His silver strands tickled down your skin, the pads of his hand cupping at your breast.

“Let me have you, wife.” He mumbled through his own haze, driven by desire and longing, the unknown of when or if this would be the last, and how he wasn’t going to waste another moment waiting for another interruption.

His gaze watched over you, waiting as he settled himself at the end of the bed, hunched over as he withdrew the sheets entirely, bearing himself as well as you. The pale plans of his chest, carved down to his abdomen and the sharp trace to his cock. He was hard, aching, hands firming at your hips as you shifted them wide. You responded only with a whine, pressing your fingers to his shoulder.

Take me.

And he did. Sinking down into you as your knees bent up, his palms parting them with a single slide of his fingers. His face pressed into you with no hesitation, tongue dipping into your core with an eager desire. You arched into him, the night’s soreness still aching your cunt, but his mouth a teasing soothing to the pain as he lapped you up, shoving, licking and tasting with all he could.

Your hands moved to his hair, taking the strands between your fingers and pulling impossibly close. He groaned into you, the vibrations sending jolts through your cunt as he rubbed his nose at your clit, steadying himself into your heat further. He loved you like this, these moments, no matter the time or need, there was never a time when he didn’t long for it. You blissfully whining and moaning beneath him, like nothing else could come close, only his touch, taking what you wanted. Titles did not matter, nor even your status, just the two of you, with only the sweet call of your names through the air.

And he did not want it to end. He firmed himself up onto his knees, scooping his one palm around your thigh, sliding it over his shoulder, the other finding its way to the mattress, lifting you by a slight to cup your arse cheek, dragging you into him.

“Maekar..” You whined out at the angle, his nose bumping into you as his tongue thrusted into your entrance, curling into your wetness as your arousal coated him. Your one hand fisted the sheet, giving you more leverage to rock back against him, the coil in your belly tightening.

“That’s it, my love.” He mumbled with his mouth full, never truly knowing manners, not that he cared. You were the only thing he cared for, and right now it was getting you to come undone onto him, driving his tongue in deeper with every movement of your hips. He sucked down, lips latching over your clit as his chin found its way through your folds messily. You fisted his hair tighter, head lolling back onto the end of your pillow, pushed up from your body being tugged down.

You came with a languid cry, whining into the side of silk, body convulsing through your high as he fucked you through it, lapping up your juices in a lewd motion, taking you into his mouth. And he did not rise, even as you hips bucked with overstimulation, only doing so after pressing a kiss to your cunt, right over your pearl, passionate and delicate. He parted from you, a string of his spit and your arousal from his lips, dripping down his chin shamelessly as he smirked, ghosting his way back above you as you chanced to look up through lidded eyes.

“The beauty you are..” He noted, rubbing up into you.

He crawled his way back over you, kissing your hip bone, to your breast, sucking lightly over it as you pulled him up, his hands bracing either side of your head on the bed.

“Must you go..” His eyes met yours, properly for the first time, his face mere inches in front of your own. Violet hues raked over your face, taking in everything, as if to memorise you, burning you into his brain indefinitely as if he hadn’t don’t so many times over. He pressed a sharp kiss to your lips, almost bruising, sharp and adoring as if he knew the words he were about to speak were going to shatter you.

He lets you feel him first instead, the hard length of his cock pressing into your thigh, the taste of yourself on his tongue, your hands finding there way around his forearms biting back a moan, encouraging him on for an answer.

He bit, “My father’s bastard kin has inundated a call to war.“

“How..” Your eyes widened, following his as they dropped to your body.

“Fled arrest, and now he makes means to call himself King.” He mentioned plainly, unimpressed and reasonably agitated, though that was the last thing he had on his mind. His stare fully fixated al over you.

“But that means..” You reasoned, the words sinking in. You weren’t unaware of the battle your father in law had been going through for quite some time, since many years ago his very own father had decided to legitimise his bastard children, the realm had been in a quiet upheaval. One that had been under the heavy lock and key of High Council and lords until now. And the realisation, the final breaking point, now a rebellion.. you felt a pang of panic, your heart beginning to thunder in your chest.

“I know..” His voice snaps you from your racing thoughts, those blown wide pupils searching for yours as tears begin to brim your eyes. Your palms move to the side of his face, mouth falling open for words that don’t come. He only nodded, pressing his forehead to yours, pursing his lip for a short kiss to the bridge of your nose.

“You have me..” A silent assurance that all would be okay, though neither of you knew that. He pressed his body to you once more, the heat and growing need of him a heavy weight over you, and yet the feel of his hands around you felt weightless. You whined, desperate and upset.. all at once, and he felt it, with every bone in his body he felt it to. That want, that pain. His hands reaching down to hook your legs around him, and you let them fall, your calves rested onto his lower back, as his arms found their way under your back, scooping you up. Your back settled between your pillow and his palms, your arse braced firm into the sheets where he held you.

“Just let me have you..” He slid his face against you, near pleading against your ear as his throat tore open, voice straining where it threatened to break. “Please..” He breathed, the sting beneath your skin creeping up around your eyelids with all emotion at once, a sense of overwhelm driving you forward. You nodded, kissing at his jaw as your hands held him in place, your gazes locked together.

You couldn’t find words to speak, the only noise from you were the ones he pulled from you, his cock pushing through your folds as he lined himself up with your entrance, his lengthy curve settling its way inside. You both gasped, his breath stuttering deep against you as he pushed himself in inch by inch, both of you relishing in every second that wasn’t to waste, the weight of him inside of you pulsing with every clench.

“Please.. move.” You moaned, and his hips steadied, rocking into you at your command, breathing deeply with an exhale through his nose. Your fingers gripped at his neck, pulling him back down into yours as he thrusted, every pull of his cock sending you jolting into his palms. And he kept you there, firming you down, fingertips gracing your back as his nose pressed into your hair, grunting with every drag that connected you.

And he did not stop, neither of you did until you were spent and aching, inching you back down to lay properly on the mattress, his knees firming to the plush bed, driving into you harshly, reverently with his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck, take me..” Your vision blurred, from the tears of pleasure and the pain that crept into your chest, wanting to tug him down with you and never let him leave. And by the Gods he cursed, wanting the same, wanting to stay inside of you, holding you that way as your mouth fell agape, utterly entranced.

“Perhaps I’ll fuck another babe into you for you to keep while I’am gone..” You moaned as he grunted, thrusting with promise, his hips stuttering as his thumb moved to your swollen pearl. Your breath shook, every motion too much, your back arching back into him as your breasts bounced, his palms capturing them roughly.

“Come..” He commanded gruffly, head falling at your side onto the pillow, lips pressing at your collarbone as he felt you tense. “Come for me and I’ll give it to you..” He bunched up against you, angling into your sweet spot, your clit vibrating with the rough of hisfingers, a silent begging that he was close too, and he wasnt going to last with you like this.

And you obeyed, your body faltering before you could. You came undone around him with a harsh clench, whining into the thick skin of his neck, muscle flexing under your touch with your fingers tugging at the loose strands of hair at the back of his head.

He followed not long after, groaning into your skin as he came, spilling inside of you in short, heated bursts, hips rolling into yours, with skin burning hot onto yours.

And as the horns sounded one more time, he grabbed your face, kissing you all over, his tongue sliding over yours like a vow. The sweat of your bodies colliding with where he still sat inside of you, not yet wanting to move.

“I don’t want you to go..” He shushed you with another kiss, passionate and meaning this time, one unhurried, and you knew there was no escaping that, not this time.

His eyes read everything he could not say.

I don’t want to leave.

“I must, I will come back to you.” He pulled from you as the shouting grew louder, men readying armour, distant calls for his presence.

The last chance.

His hands ran over you once more, dragging the sheets up to protect what warmth was left in the bed. You pulled his face back down as he hesitated to rise, fighting himself against all honour and duty, against his love that was so much stronger than it all combined.

More than many knew, but you did.

He groaned into you, his voice breaking without speaking, tears threatening his own eyes as yours did.

“I will come back to you..” He repeated, convincing you both of it, before pushing himself off of the bed, bare and naked, your scent and touch still clinging to him. His clothes were thrown on in a rush, undershirt and the thick of his breeches enough to protect from chainmail and armour to be placed on him by the squires. He gave you one last look then, the way you sat up in the bed, alone and lost, just as he had been. The sternness burned in his eyes, forcing himself away with a bowed head as he slipped out of the door.

——

It had been months since then.

That morning you’d spent tangled up in eachother, touching as if it were the last time, and as months passed, you wondered if it would be. Months of longing, waiting, worrying. Ravens had been sent but they had been lost on you, short words and no promise. You had taken care of the children, Daeron only five and Aerion now passed his second name day, you tended to their every care and need, even as their eyes searched for a certain absence.

Maekar.

Their father, your husband, who had spent far too long fighting, battling god knows whatever was left of a bastard army alongside his brother and their men. You had busied yourself with your ladies, passing the High Council chambers at every called meeting, in order to overhear the King and his court. It would have been frowned upon, punished scene, but the few prying eyes of squires and serving girls had paid no mind, knowing better than to test your fear and agitation.

Even your mother in law, Myriah, anxiously awaited her sons’ return at your side, finding what little comfort there was to be had in the privacy of her solar. In desperate attempt to escape the endless humdrum of reminders.

Death, duty, honour.

That’s all it was, not the fact many lives, amongst the ones you cared for most were put on the line. Though it was necessary, the slight of a King was no appraised declaration, and the realm would be safer this way, it did not help the fact your days were filled with fear. You oft sent reluctant curses to the Gods that had bestowed such a mess onto you all. And yet even despite your disrespect, though unwilling, by prayer and some grace by the hands of the Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar, had led the charge that ended the rebellion as it stood.

Daemon Blackfyre had been killed, his rebel army crushed and ambushed between your husband and his brother as a team, ending their father’s war in a battle what would be known for years to come.

The fanfare of their triumph had come first.

The Hammer and The Anvil they had called them, a thoroughfare of horses and celebration awaiting their return. Whispers had begun in the court of their return, and something had stirred in you. For the days that followed, soon to bring them home again, you had prepared, feeling at a loss. An uncertainty of what to do and how to act in your new present. You were frantic, excited, and nervous.

How would he be..? Has he longed for you as you had him..? Would this be the new norm..?

Those questions were surely answered upon the dawn they arrived, the sun peeking through your curtains, blinding and welcoming, the brightest it had been for some time. Your maids did not have time to wake you before you were up and pacing the room in your small clothes, feet padding the floor as they tenderly dressed you.

A light gown of crimson, adorned as it usually was to fit the house colours, lined in black, though understated, by your own request as not to strangle your aching heart with the tight lace of a bodice. Your children tumbled in soon after, afternoon soon gracing the day, in the hands of their nurse and chambermaid, clambering to your side.

You had smiled for once, not the brave one you put on for them or tight lipped for lords and ladies, but a bright, a true grin as Daeron hugged your skirts. The gaps in his smile shone just as wide in a mess of silver gold curls, raising Aerion onto your hip, as his small fists bunched in a familiar scowl, one he’d inherited from his father.

“Is papa home..?” You cupped Daeron’s chubby cheek, smiling down, your eyes flickered to the maid who had finished combing your hair, the first few to hear the news. Her eyes flashed you a bright agreement, nodding.

“I suppose we shall find out.” You urged him on, sinking down from the stool with babe on your hip, following after your son as he started for the door, through the corridors and into the great hall.

You had rounded the corner in a sharp breath before it escaped you entirely.

There he stood.

In a swarm of people, with nobles greeting, their King welcoming, and an exhaustion of soldiers proudly smiling. He stood tall amongst the rest, clad in dirtied black armour, chipped and broken along the plates of his chest. You paused for a moment, taking in the sight before you.

His distant eyes scanned the crowd much like yours did, your feet absentmindedly moving down the steps and into the expanse of hall.

“Papa..” Daeron called ahead of you, his small frame near tripping on the way to his father, who scooped him into the side of his leg careful of the jagged pieces in one arm, placing a steady hand to his back. He smiled, unabashed for once, gazing down at his eldest son with a unique softness. Baelor stood beside with his family, content and in a small circle as he held his eldest in his arm protectively and proud, accepting the well wishes of their return.

Aerion babbled on your hip, only just beginning to speak, mumbling only syllables that you could make out were coos of excitement, and you wiggled your finger at his chest, nearing the congregation. He was a sight to be seen.

A different one than what you expected.

War and battle had aged him in the soon to be year he had been gone.

It had aged him, not disgracefully, but handsomely. The weak stubble of his jaw had turned white in its growth of hair, thick and rugged. His hair neatly smoothed in preparation but the sternness of his brow furrowed deeper, his features striking prominent.

Though in your own staring, you were the sight that truly took his breath. He had searched for you the whole ride back from far in the countryside, watching every woman who passed, only seeing your face. Even as they pulled to the gatehouse, Baelor had to stop him from bolting right then and there, having to deal with the welcome party gratefully, as if they hadn’t just fought for them and were entitled to their own needs.

So he remained tight lipped, nodding where necessary, but his mind only belonged one place. There was duty to be done, but the worst had been over, the bastard was dead, and the war had been finished, waiting for another attack to brew no doubt, but right now in front of him stood the only important thing.

You, your family.

He had taken a stride forward with Daeron in his wake, clinging to his father’s steel leg as he held him tightly.

“Maekar..” His head snapped up, taking you in all at once. The most beautiful and only welcoming comfort he had been given since he had left. No proclamation of courage, or the walls of the keep could change it. The lightness of your gown gifted your radiance, your young son in your arms, the other in his grasp, eyes finding his so sweetly, it tugged something deep into his chest.

You closed the distance, giving all you could not to topple over him then and there, but uncaring of the stares, his arms wrapped around you so tightly as if you were to break. Aerion squeezed between you, hitting at the steel plate of Maekar’s chest in small, futile punches. “Careful.” His voice was gruff, gesturing to the point of his armour, resting the words on his lips, gaze lowering only to look at you.

“I do not care..” You managed as you cried a sigh of relief, falling into his frame as his other hand hugged your son to his side, his lips finding their way to the crown of your head.

——

An hour had passed since then, with you and Maekar seated beside eachother at the feast table that had beenextravagantly set up in the Great Hall. All had been well, celebrations were rife, the children gorging and smiling, cousins playing with each other as the adults drank graciously.

You were the most content you had remembered being in far too long, your hand not leaving Maekar’s even as you moved. And your husband had felt the same, resting his back into the height of the wooden chair, now shed of his armour, comfortably dressed in his crimson-black doublet.

Though one thing ailed him; how much he wanted you.

He had for every night spent in the encampment, trapped in the barracks amid dirt, unwashed men and the strong scent of blood and death. And all he could think of, could see, was you. You smiling, laying in the same bed that he left you in, playing with your boys, you in his arms. His stare became overwhelming as he fell into thought, so much so you attempted to do your best to ignore it, distracting yourself through your own want, though it burned into your skull. Every glance, every fleeting look that met yours, the tightening of his fingers around your knuckles, it grew too much.

And with the grown look of him, you wouldn’t have cared if he’d have taken you right then and there, on the table, for anyone and everyone to see. He hadn’t been against it himself, though he preferred you to himself. And instead rose, the chair scraping behind him, muffled by the cacophonous joy in the room, his hand tugging yours firmly.

He hadn’t looked at you, only sighting your children once who were already giving hell to their maids who attempted to feed them, blissfully oblivious. He had led you both through the wind of hallways to the very door of your chambers before he was on you, kissing you with a tender harshness.

“I wont bear any more of this..” He managed to breathe with his mouth against yours, turning the lock behind you as his hand braced around the small of your back, catching you as the door opened and closed with a rapid movement. You moaned into the kiss as he slid his tongue inside, groaning.

“I have waited far too long.” He admitted.

“You have kept me waiting..” He shrugged his doublet off, tossing it to where it landed on the armchair, the dim light catching his shadow as it met yours.

“A surprise our Prince did not take another while he was away and in need.” It was harmless, a useless jest meant to tease, though it would be a lie if the thought had not crossed your mind. He was loyal beyond belief, even as the women that attempted to compare to you in court had tried, his eyes had never nor wanted to stray. Though even you knew, war made men driven to do mad things, kill, take, lust.

“What?” Maekar snapped, pulling from your mouth only by an inch, still breathing in your space, like yours was the air he needed. His eyes squinted at you, dark and dangerous, but his hands did not move, only tightening around your waist, pinching just enough to make you gasp.

“You think I would dare?” He continued, backing you into the bed, step by step until the backs of your knees knocked onto the oak bedframe. He braced you from falling, his undershirt peeking the lining of his chest, deep, fresh scars etching the skin. “When you are the only one, when this body is the one I have thought of.” He leaned down, lips ghosting yours with an offended reverence, taking the words as a personal insult he sought to deny, and he had reason to.

For it was the only truth, you were the only one.

“You are what I came back for, what I fought for, and you think I mean to fuck a whore..?” He shook you firmly in his hold, breath stuttering with anger and desire. “Maekar I..” You reasoned but he did not relent, kissing you harshly as he laid you down onto the bed, your back falling as he followed, collapsing over you. “Enough. I have been without you for far too long, denied you.. and I wont take another fucking moment of it, not like this.”

His hands roamed your body, his fingers making quick work of the lace at the back of your gown, the lack of boning making it easy to tug off, stitching close to ripping with how he folded it over your head, your chemise bunching with its removal.

“I need you..” He whispered against your lips, purely vulnerable, more than he wanted to allow himself, but it slipped free anyway in a shaky breath, his breeches tightening with restraint he could no longer hold back.

“You have me..” You called back, palm raising to slide against his face, rubbing your fingers through the length of his beard, the feeling unusual, but you smiled through glazed eyes. His eyes flashed with recognition, anger dissipating in your hold, with intent bright in them.

It was not of telling, it was of showing, of proving you were his, as he was yours.

His palms moved the silk of your garment, revealing your breasts and body to him, the curve of your hips complimented in the soft candlelight, for once feeling the comfort of home. You. The tough callouses of his skin ran up yours, smoothing over your body as he cupped your breast.

“Mine.. my heart.” His lips dipped to yours, passionate and remembering, savouring you on his tongue, with the reverence of a man left longing could allow. He worked his way down then, sucking marks at your jaw and into your neck, licking a stripe along your collarbone as his fingers traced along your body. Moving across the stroke of your stomach, touching with the most tenderness he was able to give in months, finding their way to your core.

The heat was unbearable, a tingling etching your spine enough to make your toes curl, you too had been denied far too long, and the first touch of him had sent wetness pooling to your heat, his fingers collecting your arousal on his fingers, he groaned at the feeling, humming at your shoulder.

“Please..” You called out, wanting no more time to wait as your core ached.

“Where..” He paused at your skin, thumbing over your clit in languid strokes working you up further.

“Inside of me.. all of you.” He looked up at you then, gaze lingering on you as if to check, to make sure, and you only nodded, whining as you rocked back into his hand. And he could not deny you any longer, straining against you through the rough material of his trouser.

He found his way back to your neck, casting over your pulse as if to ground himself there, unsheathing himself with one hand and caressing your cheek with the other. A softness he had not let out until that moment, though eager to prove.

He eased into you, sinking in like he did the last time, worshipping and finding, filling you inch by inch as both of you panted. You stretched around him, cunt pulsing with the pleasurable burn his length gave, hips bumping into yours.

“Do not cease to know how I want you, no fucking other, only you, do you understand..?” He gave one last snap, eyes boring deadly into yours accepting no other protest, beginning to rock his hips. And you understood, you understood it well, his body reclaiming yours, as yours did his.

His breeches were shoved to his thighs, scraping the insides of your legs with every thrust as he set the rhythm, unyielding and merciless, snapping into you with a fervor not meant to remember, only to remind. To find what was and to stay there. His fingers teased along your throat, curling around the nape of your neck, holding you up to him as his chest shoved into yours, braced so tightly you could mould.

His cock thrust inside of you deeply, barely inching out of you as he rolled, hitting the spot that kissed your sweetest spot, and you moaned, gutturally and carnal, one that had your thigh curling around him and dragging him into you.

“Fuck, my girl..” He grunted, beard scratching across your face as he captured you once more, dominating your mouth with tongue as he took you.

There was no telling how much time had passed, the sheets tangled and pillows casted to the floor as the bed rocked, creaking with every movement you two remembered just how it was. Never once did you leave each other’s arms, even as your face shoved into the mattress as he rutted into you from behind, grasping your ass tightly with firm smacks. Or as you rode him, rising and falling down onto his cock as he gripped you in place, your clit teased with the light hairs at his base.

Even as you slowly fell into a lulled sleep, pleasured and blissed out, he kept himself inside of you, pressed right into your back as he moved slowly, languidly until you were left warming his cock, swallowing him with unconscious pulses that were leaving promise for the morrow.

His hand splayed over your lower stomach, draping his whole arm over you, as it reached for your fingers, curling them and intertwining them with his own. You hummed, whispering ‘I love you’s’ into the night and into each other, letting it to hang above you and into the air.

“I trust you’ll keep the beard..” You chuckled as he grunted back, pressing a final kiss to your neck that contrasted his hidden eye roll.

“If I must..”

When he walked into the classroom and spotted you again in the second semester, a quiet recognition settled in his chest, the subtle surprise of realizing someone else had survived the same academic gauntlet and ended up here too.

It was rare to see a familiar face that was not tied to his major, rarer still for it to be someone he vaguely remembered for reasons he could not immediately place.

He remembered your handwriting from group work signs in sheets, the way you always underlined titles twice, the fact that you asked questions that were thoughtful without trying to impress anyone.

Someone who arrived a few minutes early and claimed the same seat near the aisle. Someone who sighed softly when the professor went off on a tangent, who laughed under your breath at jokes that barely landed. Tim noticed these things without meaning to, the same way he noticed patterns everywhere else in his life. None of it felt important at the time.

You were just another student, another name on the roster, another presence in a room full of them.

If anyone had asked him then, he would have said meeting you meant nothing at all.

Just a coincidence.

Just shared schedules and overlapping paths.

But it kind of changed when he started to interact with you.

It was never anything important, never anything that felt like the start of something. Small comments exchanged before class, a quiet complaint about an upcoming exam, a brief conversation about how unbearable the assigned readings were. Mundane things. Things he would not have remembered on any other day.

And yet, he found himself listening.

He listened when you talked about how you always forgot to bring a charger and lived in a constant state of low battery panic. He listened when you mentioned grabbing coffee after class, not as an invitation, just as information offered into the air. He listened to the way your voice softened when you spoke about things you liked, even when the topic was painfully ordinary compared to.. well, Tim’s night life.

Somehow, you had decided to sit next to him through these lectures.

You went on about your weekend plans, part time jobs, a professor you could not stand.

Tim told himself it was nothing.

He was just being polite.

Just filling the silence like everyone else did.

But somewhere along the way, he realized he was paying attention in a way he did not with anyone else.

He remembered details he did not need to remember.

The brand of pens you preferred, the way you tapped your fingers against the desk when you were thinking and the way you slightly lift your shoulders when you laughed, like you were surprised by your own amusement.

The conversations never lingered long.

They ended when class began, when one of you packed up your things, when life naturally pulled you in separate directions.

Still, he caught himself replaying them afterward, cataloging your words as if they held weight simply because they had come from you.

It unsettled him, a little.

How something so ordinary could start to feel significant.

That was when it started, when he began to have this small, itsy bitsy, nothing serious kind of crush on you.

“It was just proximity,” he told himself, over and over, as if repeating it enough times would make it true. As if that alone explained why he started waking up earlier than he ever had before, setting alarms he did not need, just so he could take his time.

Why he stood in front of his closet longer than usual, choosing something awfully comfortable yet still deliberate, still stylish in a way that looked effortless if no one thought too hard about it.

He paid attention to things he normally did not.

Made sure his hair did not resemble a bird’s nest, fingers combing through it until it sat just right. He actually showered in the morning now, instead of the night before, letting the hot water wake him fully as he went through the motions with more care than necessary.

He chose a scent that lingered without being overwhelming, something clean, something he thought you might notice if you were close enough.

And then there was the mirror.

He’d lowkey snap outfit flicks.

Sometimes, it would be little videos or photos perfectly timed to show off how his clothes fit just right, and the fact he could fit your aesthetic, or match your outfits like what couples usually do (you guys barely interacted more than 15 minutes and he doesn’t even have your instagram, because he’s a wimp to ask, even though he had found you on Instagram easily).

Everyone likes a guy that could dress and match them, right? Right.

He’d pick a song that matched the vibe as well, something cool but casual, and post it to his Instagram story, followed by hundreds of thousands of people since he’s famously one of Bruce’s adopted sons, which comes with perks and downsides (this was one of the downsides), but without making a big deal out of it.

Then, of course, he’d save those stories to his highlights, making it easy for you to stumble across them whenever you felt like it. All so you could—whether you wanted to or not— notice just how cool and awesome his fits were.

Yeah, he was a total D1-plotter, and he wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed of it.

Because, really— if girls could do it, why couldn’t guys?

He has a second account as well, only followed by his close friends, his annoying older brothers and Damian too, but he absolutely could not wait for you to eventually be added to his spam account.

One that had more outfit flicks saved neatly in his highlights. Another filled with his friends getting up to shenanigans he would never post publicly on the main, the kind of moments meant only for people he trusted.

Mixed in between were appearances from his brothers, candid shots and blink and you miss it videos that felt oddly domestic for someone like him, and then there were the miscellaneous things. Late night thoughts typed in tiny text, blurry city lights, half eaten food, dumb memes, moments that did not need context to matter.

And because Tim is a show-off, he’s definitely bringing his skateboard to ride around campus today, so he could catch your attention, most likely talk to you, compliment your outfit of the day, ask for your Instagram, and uh, talk about how long he’s been skateboarding and if he could do a kickflip, which he abso-flipping-lutely could do one.

Not only that, he also had a highlight of videos of skateboard tricks too on his spam account, clean landings, a few near wipes, proof that he actually knew what he was doing and was not just carrying it around for show.

And boom.

There ya’ go.

Simple as that.

A small plan with a big hope: to get a little closer, one casual skate session and maybe even one date with you.

Before he knew it, Tim was out of his apartment, cruising down the sidewalks with the breeze tugging at his jacket, the familiar hum of wheels against concrete keeping his mind sharp. Up ahead, something, or rather, someone— caught his eye. A familiar figure, moving at their own pace, completely unaware of him approaching.

“Yo, Miro!”

Tim called out, his voice cutting through the morning air with an easy confidence.

He stopped smoothly, catching his skateboard with one hand and tilting it casually within his hold, like it was no effort at all.

“Hey, man!”

Miro greeted him with a laugh, already extending his hand.

Tim understood immediately, muscle memory kicking in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat.

Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.

“You freshened up today, bro, tryna impress someone?”

Miro pulls away with a raised brow, clearly noticing the way Tim’s hair sat a little too neat to be accidental, the whole look pulled together in that effortlessly intentional way. And then there was the scent— something clean, subtle, and lingering just enough to be noticed when he stepped closer.

Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes as he shifted his grip on the skateboard. “What? Nah,” he said a little too quickly, which absolutely did not help his case.

He shrugged like it was nothing, like he always looked this put together, like the extra effort not been deliberate at all.

But the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.

“Can’t a guy look good for himself?” He added, tone light, defensive in that way that meant Miro had hit a nerve that made Miro whistled a teasing tune, nudging his shoulder against Tim’s own.

He leaned back on his heel, pretending the conversation was amusing rather than mildly exposing, even as the smell of his cologne hung in the air, undeniable proof that, yeah— he had definitely freshened up for a reason.

“You’re such a liar, Tim. Is it that girl you’ve been tellin’ me about in your class?”

Tim’s shoulders deflated.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice dropping just a notch, “she’s the pretty girl I’ve been telling you about.” He confirms, glancing away for half a second, jaw tightening like he was bracing himself. “I wanna ask her out, but I’m flippin’ nervous.”

Miro immediately cooed in mock sympathy, dragging it out just to be annoying. “Aww,” he teased, pressing a hand to his chest. “Look at you. Tim Drake, nervous over a girl.”

Tim shot him a look, equal parts warning and embarrassment. “Don’t,” he muttered, shifting his weight, skateboard tapping lightly against the pavement. “This is serious.”

Miro just grinned wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Nah, I get it,” he said, still not letting go of the teasing tone. “She’s got you down bad.”

Tim huffed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Miro was more than just some random guy he talked to in passing that happened to be going in the same direction, but he was an actual friend.

They had shared a computer science class in their first semester, ended up sitting next to each other by chance, and somehow never stopped talking after that. What started as borrowing a charger and comparing notes had turned into easy conversations, inside jokes, and a familiar presence that made long lectures more bearable.

Miro is also the kind of friend who notices things.

And if anyone was going to call him out for putting in extra effort, for being nervous in a way he rarely was, it was Miro and most likely Steph.

Which made admitting it out loud both easier and infinitely more embarrassing.

“Are we still going out for drinks with Steph, Zinnia, and Ezra?” Tim asked, a little too quickly, very obviously changing the topic before Miro could dig any deeper into his small crush.

“Mhm,” Miro hummed, an entertained smile tugging at his lips at the sudden change of topic as he nodded along. “Though Ezra said he’s bringing his girl to meet us, even though he doesn’t want to.” He shook his head, a small frown settling in. “Don’t get why Ezra’s ashamed of her. It’s cool if he brings her along, y’know?”

Tim frowned at that, brows knitting together. “Ashamed?” he repeated, tone sharper than he intended. He shifted his skateboard under his arm once more, jaw tightening.

“That’s… weird, I didn’t know he had a girl.”

“Right?” Miro pitched his voice, pulling a drink from the side of his bag. “Like, either you’re with someone or you’re not, hiding her just makes it worse and yah’ I didn’t know either.”

Tim nodded slowly, the thought sticking with him longer than he expected. The idea of being embarrassed by someone you chose to be with rubbed him the wrong way.

He exhaled, forcing his expression back to neutral.

“Ya’ think it’s like a situationship? I thought he was still hung up with ya’know who.”

Miro snorts at that.

“Nah,” Miro said immediately, waving it off. “Even though Ezra keeps talkin’ about how many people he’s getting and all that, he’s been telling me she’s a keeper and that he’s moved on from that big ol’ crush.”

Tim hummed at that, thoughtful, eyes briefly dropping to the pavement, letting Miro run his mouth to fill the silence between them as he took a swig of his bottled water. “Man, how does Ezra do it?” Miro muttered, kicking a pebble. “Dude has the charisma that could probably rival Nightwing.”

Miro scoffs, but Tim raised a brow at his own words, the comparison landing heavier than he expected.

His older brother’s vigilante name had a way of doing that, slipping into conversations uninvited and lingering longer than necessary, becoming a symbol to Gotham and his charm that had women posting forums about how they bet he looks good underneath that mask.

Dick had always been like that, though.

Effortless charm, easy smiles, and the kind of presence that pulled people in without trying.

“I would pay to see Nightwing and Ezra going toe to toe,” Tim mused, lips quirking up as the image formed in his head.

He already knew how it would end.

Ezra would lose.

Badly.

Even with a pretty face, it did not come close to Dick Grayson, which he could honestly admit— it was a fact that everyone and their mama knew.

That was just an unfair comparison.

Dick’s face is literally a public service at this point, plastered across magazines and billboards, the undisputed #1 lethal face card of the Wayne family, according to Reddit, Twitter, and an article that had statistics, polls, and the golden ratio of their face displayed on Gotham Gazette’s ranking on the Wayne family.

It was the kind of face that launched headlines, sponsorships, and unnecessary levels of public adoration.

Tim shook his head, half amused, and half resigned.

It was wild growing up next to that kind of genetic overachievement that did things to a person. Still, he could not deny it. If charisma were a competition, Nightwing would win without even realizing he was playing.

Tim was fine with that.

He was perfectly content sitting at number three on Gotham’s Gazette ranking, unofficially crowned “pretty boy” by the internet and whatever unhinged ranking system people had cooked up that week.

A pretty boy should be with a pretty girl.

And you’re a pretty girl.

“Hey, don’t bail on us again,” Miro nudges his shoulder into Tim’s.

Tim stumbled half a step, scoffing as he steadied himself. “I don’t bail,” he protested automatically, even though they both knew that was a lie.

“You and Steph bail way too much,” Miro continued, pointing at him. “You guys gotta stop studying for once and live a little.”

Tim sighed, eyes flicking away as he adjusted his grip on the skateboard. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. “We’ll live a little.” He paused, then added more quietly, “No promises, though.”

Miro grinned, clearly taking that as a win anyway.

Even if he did not know the exact reason why Tim and Stephanie were always the first to cancel, always the ones juggling too much, there was a reason for it.

One neither of them could ever say out loud.

The weight of responsibility sat heavy on their shoulders, the unspoken duty of protecting the city of Gotham shaping their choices long before plans with friends ever could.

“Hey, after classes wanna go grab lunch?” Miro offered, grinning like he already knew the answer.

And he did.

“Yeah,” he accepts, like it was the simplest decision in the world. “I’m down.”

Obvious, really.

If you thought Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne would obtain your phone number, then you were dead wrong.

He was far too much of a wimp to ask.

Instead, he stuck with the casual approach, offering a compliment on your outfit as he watched you walk in dressed cutely. You always tended to dress up a bit more on Fridays, he had noticed that over time. A little extra effort, a little more intention, like you already had plans waiting for you once the day was over.

Most likely going out with your friends, since your Instagram did not show any highlight of a significant other. No tag in your bio, no initials tucked beside your name, no subtle hints hidden in your profile picture.

Tim had noticed all of it, cataloged it without meaning to, filed it away like evidence he was not supposed to be collecting.

“Hey, Tim.” You greet, “you look nice today.”

“Hey, UH, um,” he started, the words tripping over each other as soon as you sat down beside him. He froze for half a second, watching you turn toward him, grinning with clear amusement at how flustered he suddenly was.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks, your outfit looks really nice too,” he managed, finally meeting your eyes. “Going somewhere?”

The question hung there, casual on the surface, but his heart was already racing ahead of it, waiting to see what you would say.

““Thank you— cat got your tongue?” you teased playfully, your smile only widening as you spoke. “But yeah, I’m gonna be with a few of my friends at the shopping center.”

The way your mouth curved when you smiled did something to him, a quiet rush of satisfaction settling in his chest. Tim felt his chest loosened as he nodded along, listening closely, like every word mattered. “That’s nice,” he softly replied. “Anything particular you’re getting?”

You perked up at that, launching into a small tangent about something you had been eyeing for a while, hands moving as you spoke and pulled out your phone to show an image of models wearing the products you’ve been looking for. Tim listened, really listened, mentally noting every detail even though he did not need to.

“A red scarf?” he repeated, brows lifting slightly.

He paused, eyes flicking over you for half a second longer than necessary. “That would… look good on you,” he added, softer now. “Compliments you a lot.”

Tim had a red scarf in his closet, it’s the exact same brand and color of a burgundy red from the picture you’ve shown.

He got it last year from Kon.

Perhaps, he could wear that scarf when he goes out for drinks with the others later tonight?

Yeah.

“Really, you think so?” you asked, and Tim could have sworn your eyes twinkled as you fiddled with your necklace, fingers brushing the chain in a way that felt unintentionally devastating and he could tell that you’re imagining the red scarf on you.

“Yeah,” he repeated, a little more certain this time. His voice softened, earnest without trying to be. “I do.”

He shifted slightly in his seat, forcing himself to hold your gaze even as his heart picked up speed.

“Thank you.” You were grinning brightly, flustered from the way you stopped fiddling on your necklace and decided to prop your hand against your chin, glancing away from Tim’s gaze to his skateboard that’s settled beside the space you’re in, settled on the nose and tail of the board, displaying the deck that only had stickers filled every corner of the space, leaving no room.

“You skate?”

Tim’s face lit up immediately, the nerves easing just a bit. “Yeah,” he admits, almost too quick, shifting the board with his foot so it leaned closer into view. “For a while now, actually.” He glanced at you, catching the interest in your eyes on the stickers.

“Most of these are from places I’ve been or people I’ve met,” he explained, a little sheepish. “I keep telling myself I’ll stop adding them since it’s already filled, but I never do.”

He straightened when he realized he was rambling, clearing his throat. “Uh— do you skate too? Or just appreciating the aesthetic?” There was a hint of a smile there, something softer, hopeful.

Your eyes flicked back up to his, amused, and the way you leaned in just a bit made his chest tighten.

“Kind of, but it never stuck around.” You shrugged, “it’s definitely fun, I enjoy longboards to cruise, but nothing crazy.” Tim positively hummed at that, a plan forming within his mind.

“Well, if you don’t mind, you should definitely ride along with—”

The door swung open.

The professor walked in with an announcement that cut straight through the low hum of conversation, immediately pulling everyone’s attention forward and shutting Tim’s offer down mid sentence. He froze, mouth closing just as quickly as it had opened.

You glanced at him, lips tugging into a small, pitying smile that made his chest ache a little. You leaned closer, whispering, “tell me after?”

Tim nodded, just once, trying not to smile too hard as he turned back toward the front. “Yeah,” he murmured.

“After.”

The lecture dragged on in a blur of slides and half-heard explanations, Tim’s focus slipping every time his mind circled back to you.

He replayed the moment over and over, the way you’d leaned in, the quiet promise in your voice. Tell me after. He told himself he wouldn’t forget. That he’d wait, that he’d bring it up when the second class ended.

Except class ended too fast.

People stood, bags zipped, chairs scraped against the floor. Someone asked him a question about notes and someone pointed out his skateboard asking where’d he got it from. And by the time Tim looked up again, you were already halfway out the door, glancing back once with a small wave before disappearing into the hallway.

He lifted his hand too late.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Hours later, he was sitting at the bar with Miro and Steph at a circular booth table, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched much, wearing that red scarf you mentioned, to fight the cold outside but a reminder he served himself of his failure today.

The place was loud enough to blur the edges of the day, music humming low, glasses clinking around them.

“I literally had the perfect opening,” Tim was saying, frustration leaking into his voice despite how casually he tried to sound. “She told me to tell her after. After. And then I just— didn’t.”

Steph stared at him, unimpressed, twirling around a lock of her blonde hair. “You didn’t… what? Ask her to ride with you?”

For half a second, a wildly inappropriate image flashed through Tim’s mind.

He immediately shut it down.

“No,” he groaned, dropping his head back against the booth. “I forgot. It just completely flew over my head. By the time I realized, she was gone.”

Miro blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Tim,” he said slowly, “you’re telling me you fumbled a clean invite because you got distracted and didn’t even ask for her socials?”

“Yes,” Tim snapped, then sighed, rubbing his face. “Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.”

Steph shook her head, already laughing. “That’s actually tragic.”

“I’m actually mad at myself,” Tim muttered, staring into his glass like it had personally betrayed him. “I had a plan…”

Miro snorted, not even trying to hide it.

“Congrats, dimwit.”

Tim shot him a look, but the bite wasn’t there. He exhaled instead, shoulders slumping as the frustration finally settled in. “Next time,” he wished quietly, more to himself than to them.

Steph raised her glass, eyebrow arching as she clinked it lightly against the table.

“You say that every time.”

Tim winced, glaring at her at the comment, but before he could utter a word in his own defense, someone finally joined them.

“Heyy!”

Zinnia slid into the booth next to Steph, grinning like she hadn’t just shown up late. “Sorry, it took me a bit of time to get here— I just saw Ezra and his girl outside talkin’ bout something. They should be coming in any moment now.”

Miro waved a hand dismissively over the thrum of the music. “Nah, you’re good!” he called back, already shifting to make room.

Tim leaned back against the booth, the tension easing just a bit as the table filled out again, though his thoughts stubbornly lingered on everything he hadn’t said earlier that day.

Yeah, he won’t mess up next time.

“Yo!”

A familiar male voice grabbed Tim’s attention, pulling his focus toward the entrance. His head turned automatically— only for his eyes to widen, just briefly, at the figure standing beside Ezra.

“Sorry we were late,” Ezra started, a hand lifting in apology. “My girl was fixing her— ow!”

You nudged his side hard, sharp enough to shut him up. Your lips dipped into a brief frown before a smile slid into place, easy and practiced, like nothing had happened at all.

“Sorry, sorry, I was joking! There was traffic.”

Tim’s brain short circuited.

You.

Here.

With Ezra.

The room felt a little louder all of a sudden, the music pressing in as he stared a second too long before catching himself.

His grip tightened around his glass, disappointment settling heavy in his chest, quiet and unwelcome, as the realization hit him all at once.

Fucking hell.

“Yeah, traffic has been bad, but I’m glad to meet Ezra’s friends!” You smiled before introducing yourself easily, shaking Miro’s hand when he offered it, your smile warm and polite. Then you slid into the circular booth, settling in beside Zinnia like you belonged there, like this was natural, adjusting your blue scarf.

Wait, blue scarf?

“I like your nails, they’re cute!” You complimented Zinnia, seeing the cute charms on them as she flashes them to you for a closer look.

“Thank you! I got them done at—”

You nodded along, laughing at something funny with Zinnia when Steph mentioned something.

And then your gaze lifted.

It locked onto Tim.

For half a second, everything stalled.

The disappointment didn’t disappear, but it shifted, tangled with something sharper— surprise, maybe, or hope he didn’t want to name. Your expression softened when you recognized him, brows lifting just slightly, a smile tugging at your lips like you were pleasantly caught off guard.

Tim swallowed, forcing himself to straighten, to look normal, to look unfazed. His mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, even as his thoughts scrambled.

Of all places.

And of all people.

You had to date fucking Ezra.

“Tim, I didn’t know you’re friends with Ezra!” You exclaimed, eyes bright with genuine surprise as you glanced between him and Ezra.

Ezra hummed thoughtfully, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he glanced between you and Tim. “You know Tim?” he asked you, watching you nod your head, explaining you have a class with him.

“Ezra and I have been friends for a while,” Tim replied to your unanswered question. “Miro was the one who introduced us.”

Miro grinned, clearly proud to have brought them together.

“Yeah, small world, isn’t it?”

Tim thinned his lips, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “A small world.”

Steph leaned in, curiosity bright in her eyes. “So how long have y’all been together? We didn’t even know Ezra was talkin’ to someone,” she said lightly, like it was just friendly banter.

Tim took a slow sip of his drink, gaze dropping to the glass. He wondered, distantly, if you’d take that to heart, if it stung even a little to realize his friends hadn’t known about you.

“Oh, we just recently made things official,” you answered easily. “Two weeks ago, maybe? We’ve been dating for like a month and a half, but we’ve known each other for a while as friends.”

“That’s cool,” Miro comments, leaning back. “Congrats on the new development.”

“Yeah,” Steph added, smiling at you. “Happy for you guys.”

Tim forced himself to follow suit, lips curving into something polite. “Yeah. That’s— nice.” His voice came out quieter than he meant, so he cleared his throat and took another sip, mostly to give himself something to do.

Ezra draped an arm along the back of the booth behind you, casual, like it was second nature.

Tim noticed the way you didn’t lean into it immediately, just a half second pause before settling.

He hated that he noticed.

Hated more that it gave him hope.

“So,” you dragged the ‘o’, turning slightly, eyes landing on Tim again. “You come here often?”

The question caught him off guard.

He blinked once, then nodded. “Uh. Yeah. With them,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the table. “It’s kind of our usual spot.”

You smiled, warm and familiar, the same one from earlier that day, like nothing had changed.

Tim’s chest tightened.

He told himself to get it together.

You were taken.

Ezra was his friend.

This was a dangerous territory.

Still, as the conversation carried on and the night settled in, Tim couldn’t shake the quiet, persistent thought that kept circling back.

A mischievous, devious glint sparked in his heart.

He was late.

But not too late.

Don’t get him wrong— Tim wasn’t about to earn the label homewrecker, and he wasn’t about to turn you into a cheater or make Ezra one either.

He wasn’t like that.

He wouldn’t let Ezra cross that line, wouldn’t let things unravel in a way that hurt people for the sake of his own feelings.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be patient.

He would keep things clean.

Honest.

If anything were to happen, it would be because feelings shifted on their own, because choices were made freely, not because he forced them into the wrong shape. He’d wait, pick apart a relationship piece by piece.

Be there in the spaces where Ezra wasn’t paying attention.

If the door ever opened, even just a crack, Tim would step through only when it was right.

Until then, he’d play the long game.

“Hey,” he called, saying your name just loudly enough to catch your attention.

You turned toward him, brows lifting in question.

“You don’t mind tutoring me, do you?” he asked, tone easy, almost sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know the current subject— you’re better at it than I am. Would you be okay with that?”

It was harmless on the surface. Academics, it was reasonable. He wasn’t asking for anything that crossed a line, wasn’t pushing for something personal.

He only requested help.

Even though his grade was perfectly fine and he understood the subject well.

You nodded.

“Sure! I don’t mind. We can probably do it over the weekend, does tomorrow work?”

Tim hummed in response, already running through his schedule in his head. Tomorrow he had things to take care of— leads Dick had asked him to follow up on, work that mattered, work that usually came first.

Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate.

This time, he did.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, decision made. “The weekend works.”

Dick would understand, he always did.

“You’re not getting turnt?” Miro asked you, tilting his head with a grin, clearly assuming your plans lined up with the rest of the group.

Tim stayed quiet, lifting his glass, listening a little too closely to your answer. It was honestly a good thing he’d never mentioned your name around Steph or Miro— not yet, anyway. He knew it was only a matter of time before they caught on.

You can’t really hide anything from the bats’.

“I’ll still drink!” You laughed, shaking your head with a smile. “Not too much, though, since I do know—” you nudged your head gently against Ezra’s side, “this guy’s going to get blackout drunk, and someone has to drive us home.”

Ezra laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me. Someone’s gotta keep me in check.”

Tim watched the exchange quietly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

Zinnia frowned playfully. “Girl, don’t even worry— I rarely drink, so if you need a ride, I’ve got you. Same with Tim.” She points at him. “He’s not lightweight, so he can handle his shit.”

Tim glanced at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he nodded slightly.

It wasn’t just about handling his drink; he’d be there to make sure you got home safe, no matter what.

“Yeah, I know Ezra can be a handful,” Tim smirks, voice steady but quiet. “So I don’t mind taking you home— if he doesn’t mind, of course.”

Tim looked over at Ezra, eyes steady as he waited for his response.

Ezra just shrugged, flashing that easygoing grin.

“Whatever works. As long as you don’t make me miss out on all the fun.” Ezra begins to lift himself out of the booth, ready to hit the bar.

Tim smirked slightly, already knowing this was his way of giving a reluctant okay.

You caught Tim’s glance and smiled softly, a subtle acknowledgment passing between you both.

Steph nudged him sharply on the elbow, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Come on, Tim, pool’s waiting,” she teased, tugging him toward the center of the bar.

Tim sighed, rolling his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips said otherwise— he wasn’t really complaining.

The night blurred after that.

Tim didn’t remember much.

Actually, that was a lie.

He remembered a lot.

Every laugh, every glance, and every quiet moment tucked between the noise.

He watched you from the edge of the group, eyes quietly tracking as you went head-to-head against Ezra, Miro, Steph, and Zinnia at the pool table. You had the confidence, cockiness, and a tongue that had sharpness when you landed another ball within the hole effortlessly.

Your fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the little stick of your too many cocktails, a subtle sign of nerves or excitement— Tim couldn’t tell which.

When Zinnia fired off a sharp remark at Ezra that made you laugh, you bit down on your bottom lip, and Tim caught the small, almost shy gesture.

Then, after a few more drinks, it was clear you’d taken Zinnia’s offer to heart, leaning a little too heavily on the idea that either she or Tim would be willing to give you a ride home.

You got along with everyone easily.

“She’s cute— hic— isn’t she?” Ezra slurred slightly, clearly well into his drinks, following Tim’s gaze toward you with Zinnia. He watches you nudge Zinnia’s arm playfully, teasing you with a wide, mischievous grin.

“Yeah, she’s getting pretty close to Zinnia easily, and everyone else.” Tim plainly comments, still looking at them without a glance to Ezra, his voice calm and steady. There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his tone— just quiet admiration, watching you from the circular booth, fully aware that Ezra was the one lucky enough to be in a relationship with you.

A sharp thud echoed against the table, but Tim barely flinched. It was most likely just Ezra slapping another drink down with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“Make sure you treat her—“ Tim started, his words trailing off into a loud snore that cut through the noise.

He furrowed his brow and finally looked over, only to see Ezra face-planting straight onto the table, completely out cold.

“You’re kidding,” Tim muttered under his breath.

It was to be expected.

And that usually meant it was time to wrap things up.

The night finally caught up to everyone all at once.

Zinnia was the first to react, leaning forward to check on Ezra, pressing two fingers to his neck like she was taking a pulse.

“He’s alive,” she announced. “Barely.”

Steph laughed, grabbing her purse. “Alright, that’s our cue. Someone grab his keys before he wakes up and tries to prove he’s invincible.”

Miro slid Ezra’s drink out of reach to make sure it doesn’t spill and shook his head.

“Told him to pace himself, which he never listens to.”

Tim stood, slipping his jacket on as his eyes searched for you without thinking. You were still by the pool table, gathering all of the numbered balls and organizing things back to its place.

He approached calmly, not making it a big deal. “Hey,” he said gently, catching your attention. “Looks like your boyfriend’s officially done for the night.”

You blinked, glancing past him to where Ezra was being carefully propped upright by Miro and Steph, his head tilted down. “Oh… wow,” you laughed softly, a little dazed.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

Tim smiled, easy and reassuring. “Zinnia said she could give you a ride, or—” he paused, just enough to make it sound casual, “—I can, if you want. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

No pressure.

“Hm, it just depends which way you guys are going,” Tim nodded, offering a simple explanation without overthinking it. “Well, if it helps— I’m heading toward the school. My apartment’s pretty close to it, so I’m willing to give you a ride over there.”

You straightened a bit, visibly perking up. “Sweet, my apartment is around the school too!”

Tim internally screams.

“Oh—nice,” he replies. “That works out then.”

Zinnia shot him a look, one that spoke of an understanding, before turning her attention back to Ezra, who was already half-asleep again. “Alright, that settles it,” she declared. “You’re with Tim.”

Steph hummed approvingly.

“Responsibility buddy system. Love to see it.”

Tim shrugged like it was nothing, beginning to walk towards the exit with you.

“I’ll make sure she gets back safe.”

“Alright, bye Tim! And it was nice meeting you—” Zinnia called out, already half-turned as she wrangled Ezra on her shoulder with Miro that also offered their farewells.

“Yes, I hope to see you guys soon!” You chuckled.

“Text us when you’re home!” Steph added, waving.

Tim lifted a hand in a brief wave, an easy smile in place.

“Night.”

It was just the two of you now.

“You good?” he asked gently. “Not too dizzy?”

Outside, the cool air hit sharper, the night quieter than the bar had been. You walked side by side toward the lot, steps a little unsteady but determined. Tim matched your pace without comment, subtly positioning himself closer to the curb, like it was instinct.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said with a small laugh. “I didn’t drink too much, but definitely don’t put me behind the wheel.”

Tim huffed softly, amused. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

He unlocked his car and held the door open for you without making a big show of it, waiting until you were settled before closing it gently. Once he slid into the driver’s seat, he adjusted the mirrors out of habit, movements easy and familiar.

“Seatbelt,” he reminded lightly, already pulling out of the lot once you were ready. “I would hate taking my midterms just to get taken out by bad decisions.”

You chuckled, shaking your head before buckling in and taking his phone when he offered it to you, the screen still warm in your hands as you typed in your address. Tim glanced over just long enough to confirm the route, nodding once before his attention returned to the road.

“Alright,” he said easily. “Got it.”

The car filled with a comfortable quiet, the city lights slipping past the windows. Tim kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, occasionally tapping along to the low music playing through the speakers.

Every so often, he’d glance over, just to make sure you were alright, that you hadn’t drifted off.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’re wearing a blue scarf instead of red,” Tim remarked, eyes flicking to the fabric with a curious tilt.

You blinked, a small ‘oh’ slipping out as your expression shifted. “Yeah, they were sold out of red,” you admitted with a slight frown. “There were only a few colors left, so I went with blue— it’s a safe, neutral choice.”

Tim glanced over at you, then at the scarf, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Blue works,” he said easily. “Looks good on you. Kinda brings everything together.”

He paused, eyes flicking back to the road before adding, a little quieter, “But honestly? Red would definitely look better.”

He lifted a hand briefly, tugging at the edge of his own scarf. “So if you want,” he offered, tone casual like it wasn’t a big deal at all, “I’m willing to trade with you.”

You glanced at him, a small, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Trade scarves?” you asked, amusement shining in your eyes.

“It’s the same brand and everything?”

“Yep,” Tim popped the ‘p’ with a playful grin, clearly enjoying the way you practically lit up in your seat.

“Well, if it’s the same brand, I guess that makes it official,” you grinned, reaching out to tug lightly at the end of your blue scarf.

Tim chuckled, the sound easy and warm.

“Guess it does.”

Then, you unfold the blue scarf, leaving it on your lap while Tim lends you the red scarf, his gaze still forward.

“I just realized— I don’t have your number, or your socials. And since we’re supposed to study together…”

You smiled, holding out your phone expectantly.

Tim’s eyes flicked up, a small spark of surprise and something else, shining through.

He quickly pulled out his own phone, unlocking it as he met your gaze before focusing it back on the road, conveniently the light turning red.

“Guess I’m going to have to fix that.”

You grinned, tapping your screen as you handed Tim your phone.

Tim took it, fingers moving swiftly but deliberately, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused expression.

Once he was done, he handed it back with a small smile.

“There. Now you’ve got me on speed dial.”

You laughed softly, slipping your phone back into your pocket.

“If you already follow Ezra on Instagram, you’ll find me pretty easily,” Tim added with a sly grin, his voice casual but carrying a hint of something more.

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Is that your way of making sure I can’t avoid you?”

He shrugged, still smiling.

“Maybe, or I’m making it easier for us to actually hang out.”

You chuckled, shaking your head but clearly entertained.

“Clever move, I’ll hold you to that.”

When Tim finally reached your apartment, (10 minutes away from his own) he waited until you were safely within before pulling away, but the night lingered in the air— a promise of what could come next.

Especially when he’s finally lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a dazed look, his fingers tracing the soft fabric of the blue scarf you’d exchanged.

His phone buzzes suddenly, breaking the quiet.

He glances down to see a new notification—

You have a new follower!

Tim’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile as he unlocked his phone, the familiar username lighting up the screen.

Months.

It took months to get to where Tim was now.

Tim had grown bolder— maybe even too bold.

What had started as small gestures and subtle attentions had slowly shifted into something more confident, more intentional.

His friends began to notice.

The way he lingered a little longer in conversations with you, how his smiles held a different kind of warmth, how his presence seemed to quietly claim space beside you.

Ezra, distracted and careless, unwittingly gave too many openings, moments where his attention drifted, words left unfinished, or promises forgotten, leaving cracks wide enough for Tim to slip through with ease.

He started painting himself in a better light— not because he wanted to manipulate, but because he genuinely believed you deserved someone better.

Tim wasn’t one for games or deception; he was honest, sometimes brutally so.

He just couldn’t stand the idea of you falling for Ezra’s careless promises and half-truths.

“Strange, you say he’s doing homework? We were playing a game for a couple of hours with Miro,” Tim remarked one afternoon, a hint of frustration slipping into his voice.

When you were in the library together, you often found yourself venting to him— about Ezra being late, canceling plans, or how you had to keep asking to meet his other friends, always feeling a little on the outside quite disappointed after being friends for a long time.

Tim listened quietly, letting you speak without interruption, his expression softening.

“You’re really patient, I don’t know how you put up with that,” Tim commented, leaning casually against his chair.

Inside, he was quietly cheering for every one of Ezra’s slip-ups, each missed call, every forgotten promise, because it made this whole thing disgustingly easy.

An unspoken opening formed, clearing the path for a clean break.

Tim’s voice softened, almost careful.

“You deserve better than that, you know.”

Him.

Give him a chance.

You are on his spam account, a secret corner of Instagram where he quietly follows you and posts things meant just for you to notice. He shares Instagram stories that catch your eye, knowing you’ll like them. Each post is carefully chosen, like a subtle message only you can understand.

He often checks your Instagram Notes, the little snippets where you share song lyrics. When he sees a song from a particular artist you like, he posts a track from the same artist onto his notes as well. It’s his way of connecting without saying a word, hoping you’ll see it and send that tiny heart reaction that means everything to him.

When he uploads videos of himself skating, you don’t hesitate to comment or message him, teasing him to do a kick-flip. After a few tries, he finally nails it and sends you a video just to show off. It feels like a private celebration, something between the two of you.

Every time you spend time together, no matter how casual the hangout, he posts a photo or a story of the both of you, or how you always show up in his spam posts.

Steph caught on pretty quickly to how much time Tim had been spending with you.

Her brow raised the moment she noticed his hand brushing against yours and how you didn’t pull away.

Later, during patrol, she didn’t hold back.

“Hey, Tim,” her voice crackled through the comms, sharp and teasing. “You’ve been awfully cozy with someone lately. What’s going on?”

Tim hesitated for a moment, then grinned.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, though the tone didn’t quite convince.

Steph’s laughter came through, warm and knowing.

“You’re lying, isn’t she still with Ezra?”

Tim shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“It’s not like she’s married, Spoiler.”

Spoiler gasps.

“Red Robin, you dirty dog! You better not cause any drama in the friend group, or become a homewrecker!”

“Oh trust, I won’t.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make it sting, before Tim snickers softly into the comm. “But she wouldn’t say no to seeing her favorite band, would she?”

Another sharp, scandalized gasp crackles through the line.

“Tim!”

He can practically hear the glare through the static. He grins anyway, fingers tapping idly against the console as if he hasn’t already crossed several invisible lines.

“What,” he says, faux-innocent. “It’s just a concert, friends do nice things for each other.”

If Tim were your boyfriend, he would never let you go— always keeping you close, his arm draped around yours like you belonged there.

He’d notice when you’re cold, slipping his jacket over your shoulders without a word, making sure you stayed warm.

He’d never leave you alone in a crowd, always by your side, a quiet but constant presence.

And sometimes, he’d act like he already was, like the time he absentmindedly picked lint off your sweater, his fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that felt surprisingly intimate and the look you gave him absolutely melted him.

The way you looked at him, the softness in your eyes, it was enough to make him forget everything he told himself about waiting.

He nearly wanted to break his own morals, screw the friendship he had with Ezra, to kiss you right then and there.

But he held back, swallowing the urge, knowing some lines shouldn’t be crossed— at least not yet.

After a few months, Miro finally caught on.

They were sitting across from each other in a quiet café, just the two of them, talking about life and whatever else came up. The conversation drifted, as it often did, until Miro brought up something he’d been meaning to ask.

“So,” Miro said, smirking as he nudged Tim’s shoulder lightly, “you’re not trying to steal Ezra’s girl, are you?”

Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking away quickly, avoiding Miro’s gaze.

He didn’t answer right away.

The silence between them spoke volumes.

“You’re kidding.”

And eventually, it leads to Tim explaining himself. Not all at once, not cleanly, but enough for Miro to understand what’s really been going on.

Miro goes quiet as it sinks in.

Too quiet and blocking everything out.

He pushes his chair back, standing abruptly, muttering that he needs to go before he says something he can’t take back.

Tim barely has time to react before Miro is already heading for the door. The last thing Tim catches is a sharp glare thrown over his shoulder, disbelief written plainly across his face.

It wasn’t until two days later, they were on call together.

“You’re respecting her boundaries though, right? She doesn’t know you like her?” Miro asked through FaceTime, sprawled across his bed, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he watched Tim demolish his food after the debrief once he’s fully explained the entirety with Miro opening his ears once again.

Tim didn’t look up right away.

He chewed, swallowed, then shrugged like it was obvious.

“Of course I am.”

He finally glanced at the screen, expression calm in a way that felt rehearsed. “She doesn’t know. I’m not… crossing anything.”

A beat. Then, quieter, more certain, “I’m just being there.”

He took another bite, unfazed, like he hadn’t just admitted to hovering in the margins of your life, waiting for the moment you’d realize he fit better than the person you were already with.

“Yo, that’s genuinely the most insane thing you’ve ever done, Timothy Jackson Drake.”

Miro snorts, laughter bubbling out of him as Tim rolls his eyes, completely unbothered.

“It’s not insane,” Tim says, tone flat, defensive in the way only he can be. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

Miro lifts a brow behind his glasses. “You are actively emotionally investing in your best friend’s girlfriend, if that doesn’t say anything wrong then I don’t know what does and you’re lucky you explained yourself before I would’ve had Ezra blasted you.”

Tim scoffs, reaching for his drink. “I’m being supportive.”

Another laugh from Miro, sharper this time. “You’re being strategic.”

Tim doesn’t correct him.

“Fuck’s sake, bro, how long have you been plottin’ on her?” Miro exclaims, shifting to sit straighter on the bed.

Tim huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not plotting.”

Miro just stares at him through the screen, unimpressed.

“…Okay,” Tim concedes after a second, quieter. “I don’t know. Longer than I should have.”

He picks at the edge of his bowl, jaw tightening. “Long enough to know she deserves better. Long enough to know I could be that, if I was given the chance.” Tim huffs, stabbing his fork through his food. “Ezra has the most unbelievable girlfriend in the world and he doesn’t even know it.”

“That’s not an answer, Tim.”

Tim looks away.

“Since the bar.”

A beat.

“THE FUCKIN’ BAR?”

Miro yells, nearly dropping his phone as he jolts upright.

Tim winces.

“Lower your voice.”

“You met her at a bar,” Miro hisses, eyes wide, “and instead of doing the normal thing, like moving on or being a decent human being, you decided to emotionally annex your best friend’s girlfriend?”

Tim’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know she’d end up with him.”

“That makes it worse!”

Tim finally looks back at the screen, expression serious, almost stubborn.

“To be fair, I knew her before the bar,” Tim says, pointing at the screen with his fork. “She was the girl I told you about, from my class. The one I wanted to ask out.” He picks his food and eats it.

Miro just stares, disbelief spilling out in half-formed sounds. “I— I genuinely— what— how could you— is that why you stopped talking about ‘pretty girl’?” His eyes widened, everything clicking to him.

“That was her!?”

Tim doesn’t answer right away.

He drops his gaze to his plate, letting go of his fork into his bowl.

“Well,” he mutters, almost to himself, folding his arm to lean closer to his propped up phone. “She’s going to be mine eventually...”

Miro goes dead silent.

“…Tim,” he says carefully, “you sound clinically insane.”

Miro exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to reset reality, carefully not breaking his glasses. “You cannot say shit like that and then act normal,” he mutters. “That’s not confidence, that’s a manifesto.”

Tim shrugs, too casual for someone who just admitted to mentally claiming his best friend’s girlfriend. “I’m not acting on it, not directly.”

“Timothy.”

“I’m waiting,” Tim corrects, voice steady. “There’s a difference.”

Miro lets out a sharp laugh once more. “You’re waiting for what? Him to screw up?”

Ideally, yes. It would make things quicker, but no.

It was more of you making comparisons, how you should be treated versus asking how you should be treated.

“For her to realize,” Tim says finally. “I’m not forcing anything.”

Miro watches him for a long second, expression shifting from disbelief to something more serious. “And if she doesn’t.”

Tim looks back at the screen, eyes calm, unsettlingly sure.

“She will.”

Then Miro’s eyes flick to the top of his screen, his brow knitting together as confusion twists into disbelief, watching him immediately shoot up from his bed and readjusting his glasses.

“…No FUCKING way,” he murmurs.

Tim frowns.

“What.”

Miro doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares, scrolling once, then twice, like he’s hoping the information will change if he looks again.

“Zinnia just texted me that Ezra broke up with—”

“YES! FUCK YES!”

The shout explodes out of Tim before Miro can even finish the sentence. Tim’s chair screeches back as he shoots to his feet, fist clenched, grin sharp and unguarded in a way Miro has never seen before.

“Tim—” Miro starts, half laughing, half horrified.

“Months! It took months of waiting!”

Tim drags a hand through his hair, pacing now, adrenaline buzzing under his skin. “I mean—” He stops himself, forces a breath, tries to reel it back in.

“I mean, that sucks, for him. Send my condolences.”

Miro blinks at the screen. “I’ve never seen you happier than that time when Taco Bell put the Quesarito back on the menu.”

Tim scoffs, trying and failing to wipe the grin off his face.

“That was a big deal.”

“This is bigger,” Miro says flatly.

Tim exhales, finally sinking back into his chair, fingers drumming against the table like he’s trying to ground himself. “I shouldn’t be happy,” he admits, quieter now. “I know that.”

Miro tilts his head.

“But you are.”

Tim doesn’t deny it.

“I am.” He grins, sharp and a little reckless, like he’s daring the universe to stop him now.

“Wait, you gotta ask Zinnia why they broke up,” Tim points out, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Or, like, why Ezra broke up with her instead of the other way around?”

He ran a hand through his hair, frowning slightly. Tim had always assumed his plan would play out the other way that eventually you’d be the one to walk away.

So hearing that Ezra was the one to end it caught him off guard more than he expected.

Miro shook his head, amusement flickering across his face. “You make it sound like you’re some kind of relationship expert or something.”

Tim smirked, leaning back in his chair.

“Well, I’ve been watching this mess long enough to know where it’s headed.” He glanced at his phone, eyes sharp. “But still— gotta know if he knew, or if he just gave up.”

Miro sighed, shaking his head again.

“Man, you’re way too invested.”

Tim’s grin didn’t falter. “Maybe. But when you know what you want, you don’t just wait around forever.”

Tim could see Miro’s face up close, the way his fingers jabbed at his phone with a mix of urgency and hesitation. He was most likely texting Zinnia right now, trying to get the details Tim needed.

“Said ‘they were better off as friends,’ ended it mutually, but I think that reason is bullshit.”

Tim glanced up as his phone buzzed, a familiar caller ID.

“Steph’s calling— I’m gonna add her to the call.”

Miro didn’t look away from his screen.

“Fine by me,” he muttered, fingers still flying over his phone’s keyboard.

Within seconds, Steph’s face popped up on the screen, her eyes sharp and curious.

“Alright, spill. Zinnia is texting me that Ezra broke up with his… ex girlfriend now! Congratulations to Tim, condolences to Ezra. What’s happening?”

Miro filled Steph in, catching her up on the last bit of the conversation.

“Zinnia’s saying Ezra broke up with her to stay ‘friends.’ Do you buy that?”

Steph made a disgusted face, pressing her phone against the mirror as she swiped through her makeup wipes.

“That’s absolute bullshit.”

Miro paused.

“Do you know the actual reason, Steph?”

Tim watched as Steph hesitated, her brow furrowing in thought.

“No, I’m not really sure,” Steph replied thoughtfully. “Usually when people say that, it means one of three things:

1. They’ve lost feelings but don’t want to hurt the other person,

2. They’re scared of commitment, or

3. They’re interested in someone else.” She raises each of her fingers, going through the reasons.

“Are you asking Zinnia right now?” Tim asked, eyes fixed on Miro’s screen.

Miro nodded, then his screen froze for a moment, the lag dragging out the tension.

“When I pressed her, she said it’s ‘nunya’ business,” he explained after the lag had passed, “but honestly, she admitted she doesn’t really know.”

Tim let out a slow breath, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“Hm’ okay.”

The next time Tim sees you, he’d ask about what happened between the both of you.

Which was a few days later, when he finally found a quiet moment to ask. You were in his apartment, sprawled at opposite ends of the couch, a new season of a rom-com playing on the screen. You had mentioned wanting to watch it weeks ago but never had the time until now.

How did that happen?

Well.

Tim: Hey, is it alright if we study at my place?

Tim: the library’s is too noisy

Girlfriend (soon): ???

Girlfriend (soon): it’s a library?? How can it be noisy??

Girlfriend (soon): aren’t we on spring break right now??

Tim: cmon

Tim: don’t make me say it

Tim: fuck, could you pretty please come over to my apartment?

Tim: and hangout?

Tim: I miss our weekly study sessions

Tim: I’ll even beg on my knees?

Girlfriend (soon): alright alright

Girlfriend (soon): I’ll come over, no need to beg on your knees

You were already five episodes in, curled into the corner of his couch, while Tim sat at the other end with his laptop balanced on his knees. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, a case file pulled up and neatly organized, which he excused as getting ahead on work for his criminal justice class.

He looked focused, intent, the soft glow of the laptop lighting his face.

Too focused, maybe.

Every now and then his fingers paused over the keyboard, attention drifting back to the sound of your laughter or the way you shifted closer without realizing it.

The episode’s credits rolled and automatically skipped to the next one.

You stretched, shifting on the couch, eyes still on the screen.

“I’m kind of surprised,” you spoke casually, breaking the comfortable quiet. “You haven’t asked me why we broke up.”

Tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard.

For a split second, his gaze stayed on the laptop, jaw tightening just enough to give him away.

Then he looked over at you, expression carefully neutral.

“I didn’t want to pry,” he slowly dragged, making it sound reasonable, which it honestly did— he didn’t want to pry it out of you.

But his laptop screen had long stopped updating, the case file forgotten as his full attention settled on you now, waiting to hear what you’d say next.

“Do you want to know?” You asked, raising a brow towards him.

Tim shrugged.

“Only if you’re okay with sharing it.”

Please do.

“He broke up with me because he couldn’t give me what I deserved.”

Oh.

“He realized he was unintentionally hurting me,” you explained, voice drifting as you stared up at the ceiling. “Missing things, forgetting dates, always prioritizing other parts of his life. He’s overwhelmed right now, so he decided to break it off and just be friends. Instead of trying to work through it.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, sinking further into the couch, the weight of it settling in now that you’d said it out loud.

“Really…?” Tim murmurs, brow furrowing.

He doesn’t quite connect the dots yet, doesn’t realize just how hectic Ezra’s life must be right now.

Geez.

“And,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “he also lost feelings for me. Apparently he’s been falling for one of my guy volleyball friends.”

What.

“Excuse me—” Tim chokes, coughing as he straightens up on the couch, suddenly very alert.

You laugh, gazing at Tim with a glint in your eyes.

“Yeah,” you said with a small shrug. “I actually set them up on a date two weeks from now. We’re happily just friends since the dating scene with each other wasn’t working. We only tried dating because he had this big, obvious crush on my friend, and I guess it turns out he never really got over it.”

You glanced back at the screen like it was no big deal, but Tim stayed frozen beside you, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. The breakup had not been about distance or effort or timing.

It had been about someone else.

He did not need to calculate, wait, or maneuver at all.

Are you fucking serious.

You kept talking, unaware, filling the space with idle rambling about schedules and volleyball practice and how awkward it all felt in hindsight.

Tim barely heard you.

He shifted the laptop onto the coffee table before he could stop himself, and the couch dipped under his weight as he moved closer.

Too close.

You cut off mid-sentence when his presence suddenly crowded yours. Your eyes widened as Tim leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of your head, caging you in without quite touching. You pressed back instinctively against the cushions, heat rushing to your face, heart kicking hard against your ribs.

Tim froze too, just as startled by the proximity as you were, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours.

You were frozen there, Tim hovering above you, caught between your legs, his arms braced on either side of your head as if he’d accidentally cornered himself. The air felt thick, charged with the kind of tension neither of you dared to acknowledge out loud.

Then you broke it.

You grinned up at him, slow and mischievous.

“Did you get a haircut?” You hummed, lifting a shy hand to gently brush a lock of his hair back behind his ear, but it didn’t last long because of his position.

“Your face-framing pieces are shorter than the last time I saw you.” Your fingers lingered for just a second too long.

Tim forgot how to breathe.

His hands stayed planted on the couch, but every muscle in his body went rigid, pulse thundering loud enough he was sure you could hear it. Of all the things he had planned for, all the conversations he’d rehearsed, this was not one of them.

He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes, completely undone by how easily you’d closed the distance.

Tim was a wimp though, and slowly pulled away from you, sliding back to sit upright.

He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks flushing hotter by the second.

“Yeah, I got a haircut… yesterday,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

He could practically feel the heat pooling at the back of his neck, spreading in a way that made him painfully aware of every second that had just passed.

You grinned, swinging yourself upright and sliding your knees to sit right in front of him with a playful bounce on the cushion, you gave his shoulder a gentle shove.

“Aww, are you flustered?” you teased, voice light and full of mischief.

Tim’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, a mix of surprise and something softer lurking beneath the surface. He rubbed his shoulder where you’d nudged him, trying to play it cool but clearly caught off guard.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, voice low and a bit shaky.

You leaned in just enough to close the space between you, your smile widening.

“I knew it.”

Tim swallows, his breath hitching in a way he definitely does not mean for you to notice. His gaze drops for half a second, then lifts again, steadier this time, like he’s forcing himself to stay present.

“You’re enjoying this,” he says, not accusing, just stating it softly.

You hum in response, eyes flicking between his, unbothered by how close you are now. The rom-com keeps playing in the background, the laugh track distant and ironic, like it belongs to another room entirely.

“Maybe,” you reply, just as quietly. “Though, I just like looking at your shirt ‘Big Dick Back in Town’? Really?” Tim grins, shrugging with a slight raise of a brow.

”What’s wrong with that?”

You could only shake your head.

His shoulders relax a fraction, his hands easing against the couch instead of gripping it so tightly.

“You aren’t sad about the breakup?” he asks, studying your face.

“Nope.” You pop the p, grinning wide.

“We’re grown adults. We had a whole four-hour conversation about everything. About what it meant, what issues were there, about our friendship. So we’re fine and it was three and a half months anyway,” you shrug, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Three and a half months was way too long by Tim’s definition.

“Well, three and a half months is a pretty long time.” Tim commented, watching you nod, understanding where Tim is coming from. “That’s true, but I don’t regret being with Ezra. There were good moments in that short-lived relationship, and honestly, half the time it just felt like we were friends more than anything romantic. So it doesn’t really feel like a waste, you know?” Tim hummed, quietly understanding with a so-so motion with his hand.

“Then, it must’ve been… not a serious relationship?”

You snapped your fingers, then a grim expression took over your face. “Yeah! Or… well, I think so. It definitely hurt when he didn’t show up for a lot of things a boyfriend should’ve— but honestly, he wasn’t as invested in it as I was.”

You sighed softly, shaking your head a little as if trying to shake off the lingering disappointment.

Tim hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek, debating whether he should say what was on his mind.

Fuck it.

“Does that mean… you’re officially available?”

You raised an eyebrow at the question, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, making Tim suddenly self-conscious.

“You’re making me sound like I’m some kind of product you can pre-order.” You snort, waving your hand. “Go ahead— someone can preorder me, I’m the only item on the shelf, limited availability, guaranteed to arrive before Valentine’s Day.” You shake your head in disbelief.

Tim chuckles, a little breathless.

And he doesn’t know what came over for him to say this—

“Well, lucky me, then. I guess I’d better place my order before someone else beats me to it.”

He winks, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly as his smile widens.

You grin, nudging him lightly.

“Oh, sure, you’re joking… right?”

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“You wanna kiss me and find out?”

He watches as the room falls into a heavy silence.

He can almost feel the air holding its breath between them besides the Netflix series.

Time seems to stretch endlessly as he waits, watching your mouth open slightly but no words come out.

Your face completely blue-screens, and Tim can’t help but smile at how utterly caught you are.

Tim burst into laughter, clearly amused by the shock on your face.

He noticed the telltale signs of your flustered reaction: how you suddenly went quiet, how both your hands flew up to hide half of your face, even if he could see it in your eyes of your uncontrollable smile that you’re trying to get it under control, and the clear way that you’ve scoot back.

He reached over to nudge your shoulder too but you slap it away playfully, hearing him laugh harder.

“Don’t get any closer to me!”

“Relax, I’m just messing with you.”

But the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes told him you weren’t entirely sure if he was joking or not and that made the moment even better.

He watched you struggle to keep your composure, the way you would try to hide your facial reaction from him every time he nudged you or threw out a cheeky comment.

The quick, sharp shove to his shoulder made him laugh quietly, but he could see the way your eyes sparkled with a mix of irritation and something softer— something that told him you secretly enjoyed the attention just as much as he did.

In fact, there’s an entire day where the two of you just “hung out.” And though it started off as just the two of you, you eventually ended up meeting the rest of the group later that night, a couple of weeks after the breakup, like it was the most natural progression in the world.

Though, obviously, Tim had already labeled it as a date in his head.

I mean, you two had unintentionally matched outfits, he picked you up from your apartment, and even stopped by that one café to grab your favorite drink along with the menu item you always order without fail.

The rest of the day melted into wandering downtown, poking around trinket shops you always insisted on visiting before any hangout. You had mentioned it back at his place while you were on Episode 10, and he had gone along without hesitation.

At some point, you kept bumping into him, drifting a little too close to the curb every time you laughed or got distracted by a shop window.

Tim caught it after the third time, lips twitching as he reached out to steady you.

“Do you always walk like this,” he teased, lightly tugging you back toward the sidewalk, “or is this a special performance just for me?”

You scoffed, swatting at his arm. “I walk perfectly fine. You’re just standing in my way.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.

The next time you veered off course, he didn’t even bother commenting. He simply draped his arm around your shoulders, easy and natural, guiding you away from the curb like it was instinct.

His hand rested warm and secure against your upper arm, like it had always belonged there.

You glanced up at him, putting on your most innocent look. “Wow, so now you’re supervising how I walk?”

“Someone has to,” Tim said easily, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “You keep drifting like you’re aiming for traffic, starting to think you planned this just to get my arm around you.”

That wiped the smug look right off your face.

You went quiet, lips parting like you had a comeback ready, only for nothing to come out at all.

Tim noticed, of course, and his grin widened just a touch as he kept you tucked safely at his side.

You were still very much in control of where you wanted to go, which was not surprising at all. Somehow, that freedom led you straight into another store and Tim barely had time to read the sign before realizing where you were.

PopMart.

He slowed to a stop, glancing around at the walls lined with blind boxes and glossy displays. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “I should’ve known.” You were very much who you’re expected to be, one to feed capitalism and spend money on these lil’ guys.

You, meanwhile, had already zeroed in on a display, eyes lighting up as you leaned closer as if you’ve been waiting for this day.

Tiny figurines were lined up behind the glass, all sharp details and dramatic poses.

The Gotham City Series.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, pointing. “Look at them.”

Tim stepped closer, folding his arms as he followed your gaze. Vigilantes in miniature, capes frozen mid-swoop, masks carved with ridiculous precision, in a display box with all twelve figures.

Then he saw it.

Red Robin.

You stared a second longer, squinting thoughtfully.

“This one’s kinda cute.”

Tim coughed.

“Kinda?”

You glanced back at him, grin turning mischievous.

“What? You seem defensive.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly, shifting his weight. “Just saying. If you’re ranking them, that one’s objectively… fine.”

You hummed, clearly unconvinced, eyes drifting back to the figure.

“Wait, Red Hood might be cuter.”

Oh hell no.

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked at him, amused.

“What do you mean absolutely not?”

“He’s wearing a helmet,” Tim shot back, gesturing vaguely at the tiny figure. “You can’t even see his face. That’s not cute, that’s… just anonymous and ugly.” You laughed, clearly enjoying this.

“Mysterious can be cute and you don’t even know he’s ugly!”

Tim scoffed.

“Well, he for sure doesn’t look like Prince Charming, that’s a traffic cone with trauma.”

You burst out laughing, and Tim tried very hard not to look too pleased with himself as he watched you reach for a blind box, silently hoping you’d pick the right one.

Not even a minute later, you were already drifting toward another section of the store.

This one was… different.

Rows of small figurines stared back at you, each one wearing the same expression of pure misery. Angry little side-eyes and sad, hollow looks.

Not a single smile among them.

Tim slowed beside you, taking them in. “…Why do all of these look like they’re judging me?” You crouched slightly to get a better look, eyes lighting up.

“Oh my god, Tim! They’re all so cute!”

He glanced at you, then back at the figures.

“They all look the same.”

You read a little note they have on the figures, glued to the glass and the artist of them. “They’re called Hironos, they’re supposed to look like that. And look at that one!”

Tim leaned in despite himself, following where you pointed. In the back of the display box sat one figure giving a particularly nasty side-eye, a tiny castle perched on its black hair. It was crouched low, bound in rope, dressed in a black-and-white uniform that was unmistakably prison-striped and bandages on its knee.

“Really?” Tim asked flatly.

You nodded without hesitation.

“He looks like you.”

Tim stared at it.

Then at you.

“He’s literally wearing a prison outfit.”

“Yeah,” you said easily. “Exactly, you belong in prison with the way you’ve been treating me.”

Tim snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, without missing a beat, he swung his arm back around your shoulders, pulling you close until your noses were almost touching. The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin as he leaned in just slightly, voice low and amused.

“Unbelievable,” he murmured. “I took you out this morning, with your favorite drink in hand and your food too, and now I’m already getting sentenced?”

You smirked, feeling the subtle heat of the moment settle between you, both of you caught somewhere between playful and something much more electric.

Without hesitation, you slipped under his arm, catching him off guard as you picked up a box, turned toward the register with the two boxes in hand.

Tim blinked in surprise, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face as he watched your smooth escape.

“Will that be all for today?” the cashier asked, glancing between you and Tim, pulling up the total and placing them in a bag.

Tim mouthed ‘don’t let her pay,’ making the cashier smile knowingly.

“Yes, that’ll be all,” you replied with a smile, already reaching for your card— only to see Tim’s phone beat you to the card reader, the screen glowing as he swiftly completed the payment and your head snapped back towards him, eyes wide with shock.

He just grinned, completely unfazed.

“Tim, what the—!”

He, of course, wasn’t about to let you pay.

The cashier chuckled, handing over the bag, while you were too busy scolding Tim to reach for it yourself. Tim just laughed and grabbed the bag, dodging your playful slap on his shoulder.

“You guys are cute, have a nice day!” The cashier called after you, still smiling.

You completely ignored the cashier’s playful comment, but Tim caught it and that knowing smile didn’t escape him.

It was clear someone had already picked up on the way you two fit together, especially with the subtle, unplanned ways you matched, whether it was your similar jacket colors or the way you moved in sync like a practiced duo.

“You absolutely didn’t need to do that!” You exclaimed, narrowing your eyes and pointing at him with mock exasperation.

Your brow furrowed as you crossed your arms, the frustration genuine but softened by the teasing edge in your voice.

“I have my own money, you know. I don’t need you to pay for me every time.”

Tim just shrugged, that familiar, cocky grin tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying the moment and you.

“I know, I know. Just return the favor later tonight, or when we grab something to eat,” he mentions with a teasing glint in his eyes.

He handed you the branded bag, watching as you rolled your eyes in exasperation at his good deed.

“So,” he added, voice playful, “are you going to open up those blind boxes, or are you just going to stare at the bag all day?” You huffed, nodding reluctantly. “I’ll open them, but maybe we should find somewhere to eat first. It’s way more fun to do it with food.”

Tim grinned, clearly pleased with the suggestion, and didn’t hesitate to drag you toward a nearby restaurant he’d heard good things about. As you walked, you could already feel the excitement building, blind boxes, a good meal, and friends later on— the perfect combo for a day like this.

After about twenty minutes of scanning the menu and deciding on your orders, you caught the waiter’s attention and placed them with a few quick questions about the specials. Drinks arrived shortly after, glasses clinking softly as you both settled into the cozy booth, the warm buzz of the restaurant wrapping around you like a comfortable blanket.

The conversation flowed easily— small laughs, shared stories, and that quiet, familiar rhythm you both fell into when no words were wasted.

Finally, when the plates were still moments away, you reached into the bag and pulled out the first box: the Gotham City Series. The crisp packaging caught the low light, hinting at the tiny surprise waiting inside. Tim’s eyes flicked up to yours, curiosity and anticipation mirrored in his expression.

With a quick breath, you tore open the box and reached inside, your fingers brushing over the tiny figure waiting to be revealed. You pulled it out slowly, turning it over to admire the fine details: the sharp mask, the cape, the laptop, and carefully sculpted utility belt.

“He’s so cute!”

Tim’s grin widened as he watched you, feeling a sense of warmth and a tad-but of jealousy from that compliment, clearly impressed. “Nice one,” he compliments, voice low. “Red Robin suits you.”

You shot him a playful glance, pretending to mull it over seriously before setting the figure down on the table. “Please, you wish you were Red Robin.”

He is Red Robin.

“Better than Red Hood,” Tim shot back with a smirk.

You laughed, shaking your head, then reached into the bag for the next box— the Mime Hirono series.

“Which one do you want?”

You hummed, pointing at a few figures you found adorable, “but I would be fine with any of them.” You smiled, peeling the tab.

The anticipation between you only grew as you peeled back the packaging and the plastic, ready to see what surprise awaited inside.

You gasped softly as you pulled out the next figure, a tiny Hirono with a delicate feather perched on his head, wearing a makeshift newspaper kite strapped like a backpack. A thin rope was tied to his leg, the other end secured to a small bolt embedded in the ground beneath him.

The little guy looked calm and relaxed.

“I changed my mind, this one looks like you.”

Tim watched as you flipped the tiny figure toward him, slowly turning it a full 360 degrees to show off every detail.

“Is it because I have black hair and pale skin?” Tim teased, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged casually, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, and blue eyes too,” you added, pointing to the Hirono’s faintly dark blue eyes, contrasting with Tim’s lighter shade.

“Wait, he has a lil’ card and it says Patience!” You cooed, taking a picture of your new ‘baby’, talking about your collection of them on your shelves, making this one your 17th Hirono.

Or your 17th ‘child.’

Tim will never admit this, but he honestly found your love for blind boxes, specifically Hironos’ or the trinkets, veryenduring.

Later that evening, once the sun had dipped below the horizon and the city lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves back at the bar with the usual group.

The familiar buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, but surprisingly, there was no awkwardness between you and Tim.

There was no awkwardness with Ezra either— in fact, when you saw him, you greeted him with a warm, genuine hug that felt natural and unforced.

Still, Ezra wasn’t blind to what was unfolding around him.

His eyes caught the subtle details, the way Tim’s arm casually settled around your shoulders, the slight protective tilt as if claiming his space beside you. He noticed how you leaned in without hesitation, your body relaxing against Tim as though it had always belonged there.

Ezra caught the quick, knowing looks shared between you two: the brief smiles exchanged over inside jokes, the gentle teasing that seemed to flow effortlessly, and how you would slap Tim’s shoulder playfully.

Even Zinnia noticed, her raised eyebrow and subtle side glance betraying her surprise at this sudden shift.

Then, when it was just Ezra and Tim left at the table, the tension thickened— both of them knowing what was coming next. Ezra let out a low, bitter sigh, raising his glass to take a shot. This time, it was noticeably less than last time, his movements sharper, more controlled.

“It doesn’t matter to me anymore,” he begins, voice rough but steady, “since we’re no longer together. But don’t lie to me.”

His eyes locked onto Tim’s, piercing and unyielding, searching for any trace of dishonesty beneath the surface.

Tim felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure, the room shrinking around them. The air buzzed with unspoken accusations and simmering resentment, the calm before the storm.

“You’re going to have to be honest, Tim,” Ezra continued, voice low but edged with anger. “Because if you think I’m just going to let this slide, you’re wrong.”

Tim’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he met Ezra’s intense gaze without flinching. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, but he wasn’t about to back down or give in to the silent demands.

“Honest?” Tim’s voice was steady, edged with a controlled fire. “I’m not here to stir things up or hurt anyone, but yeah, I like her. I have for a while.”

Ezra’s eyes darkened, hurt and anger flashing through them like lightning. “You decided to not tell me anything about it whatsoever? What the fuck, Tim? Don’t tell me—“

His gaze was sharp, filled with a mix of hurt and a desperate need for honesty. It wasn’t just about the breakup anymore.

This was about trust, respect, and everything tangled in between.

Tim swallowed, feeling the weight of Ezra’s stare like a physical force. “I will tell you,” he replies, voice quieter than usual but unwavering. “I like her, I have for a while before you two got together. But this wasn’t some calculated move to take advantage of what was between you two.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t break us apart?”

Tim shook his head firmly, his words deliberate and honest. “No. Absolutely not. You did that yourself,” he gestures toward Ezra with a pointed look. “I cared about both of you too much to ever create some stupid cheating situation. That’s not who I am, and I never wanted to be the reason you two ended.”

Ezra’s voice tightened, the anger barely held in check. “So you were just… there for her? The fuck, waiting for your chance?”

Tim met the accusation head-on, his jaw clenched but his eyes sincere. “Yes and no, I didn’t plan for this to happen. I hated watching her hurt, hated seeing you both drift apart. I tried to stay out of it because I respected you, but eventually, it became clear things weren’t going to work due to your own personal reasons, but yeah.”

Ezra’s jaw tightened as he studied Tim, the tension thickening the air between them. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice quieter but still edged with frustration. “I messed up our relationship. I got overwhelmed and missed things I shouldn’t have not only in a relationship, but as friends. I had leftover feelings for… and new feelings.” He hesitated, letting the words hang, making Tim furrow his brow. “But this… waiting in the shadows— it doesn’t make it any easier to accept, even if it wasn’t a serious type of relationship.”

Tim nodded slowly, his expression softening just a bit. “I get that, which you’re valid to feel that way. I’m not trying to make this easier or pretend I’m some hero, but I was there because I care about her and about both of you. I never wanted to be the cause of your breakup.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything settling between them.

“Just to clarify, we never did things romantically while you were both together. We hung out a lot, yes, I will admit. There’s some things I’ve done that could be interpreted as a move, but I knew to be patient and respect your relationship.”

Ezra finally let out a slow breath and shook his head, a reluctant acceptance in his eyes.

“Well, I’m just glad you explained yourself,” Ezra speaks, his voice rough but sincere, “and that you’re giving her what I couldn’t. I wasn’t the person she needed, and maybe I never really was.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes searching Tim’s. “And yeah, we were truly better off as friends.”

Tim softened, nodding slowly.

“I’m glad. You two already talked about it, right?” Tim asked, though he already knew the answer— it was more about hearing it from Ezra.

Ezra gave a slow, firm nod.

Ezra smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes as he raised his glass. “Yeah, treat her better than I did, you two already look good together.” He downed the shot in one smooth motion. “You’re matching with her, but not dating her yet? You gotta get on that, Timothy.”

Tim rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “I will,” he promised, taking the shot Ezra poured for him without hesitation.

“I already thought you had plotted for this moment.”

Tim snorts, “man, I didn’t plot shit.” Yeah, he absolutely did.

As the night wore on, the crowd inside the bar began to thin.

Zinnia and Steph were the ones supporting Ezra this time.

The guy really knew how to relax once the drinks kicked in, but he was definitely a lightweight. He leaned heavily on them, laughing more loudly than usual, his steps unsteady as they guided him through the cool night air.

Tim and Miro watched them, snorting before they see each other off.

“Well, it was nice seeing the both of you,” Miro warmly told, glancing between you and Tim with a relaxed smile.

You agreed, nodding your head with excitement on your grin.

Tim also nodded, but instead he extended his hand.

Miro laughed, understanding immediately. His muscle memory kicked in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat while you watched.

Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.

“Alright, see ya’ man, drive safe.”

“Will do,” Miro replied with a wave as he turned and walked away.

You both started walking toward Tim’s car, the night air cool around you.

“That was cool,” you commented, glancing over at him. “I never realized you only do that handshake with Miro, not the others.” Tim smiled, eyes on the path ahead. “Yeah, it’s kind of our thing. Something that just stuck between us.”

You hummed in affirmation.

“Why? You want us to have our own handshake?”

You immediately shook your head. “No, no, I’m okay. I was just thinking it was cool, that’s all.” Tim glanced over with a playful smirk. “Come on, don’t act like you don’t want one. We can have our own handshake— something small, nothing crazy.”

You hesitated, pretending to consider it but clearly curious.

“Just a little one,” Tim added with a grin. “Nothing complicated. What do you say?”

After a moment, you finally smiled and nodded.

“Alright, fine. But just a small one.”

Tim’s grin widened.

“Deal.”

You both paused right in front of his car, determined to get this handshake just right. Even though it was a small, simple one, the timing and coordination still mattered.

You stumbled a bit, struggling to remember the steps, and Tim couldn’t help but laugh softly at your concentration.

“It’s okay,” he said, patient. “We’ll get it down eventually.”

Tim noticed the way your hand slightly shook when he reached out to hold your hand during one of the handshake steps. Your hand felt soft and smooth in his grasp— delicate in a way that made him instinctively careful.

His own hands were rougher, marked with calluses from everything he’d been through, but he wrapped his fingers around yours gently, mindful of the contrast.

His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, and when his eyes met yours, there was a quiet spark between you— an unspoken connection that caught him by surprise.

Even as you stumbled over the handshake, fumbling to remember the steps, Tim realized it wasn’t about the routine anymore. It was about the moment, the warmth of your hand in his and the closeness you shared.

He knew the handshake would take practice, but he didn’t mind at all.

After about fifteen minutes, you finally got it down.

The first couple of tries came with one or two small mistakes, but you were confident enough to try again.

“Okay, okay, one more time and then we go home,” you laughed, a determined smile lighting up your face.

“Alright, one more,” Tim agreed easily, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes you didn’t notice.

You focused intently on the handshake, your fingers carefully following his as you moved through the steps again.

The rhythm was growing familiar, the motions less awkward.

Just as you reached the moment where your hands were supposed to part, Tim’s grip shifted without warning.

Both of his hands slid from your fingers down to your waist, wrapping around you with a steady, firm hold.

Before you could react, he pulled you closer in one smooth, deliberate motion.

You stumbled slightly, your breath catching as your body pressed against his.

The sudden closeness sent a warm rush flooding through you, your heart quickening in surprise.

You could feel the solid strength of his arms holding you, his fingertips gently pressing against your back, grounding you. Your skin tingled where he touched you, and the soft scent of his cologne filled your senses.

Tim’s eyes locked onto yours, the usual teasing glint replaced by something softer but still filled with that playful spark.

His grin widened into that little shit smirk he wore when he knew exactly the effect he was having— when he knew he had you a little off balance in more ways than one.

For a moment, the handshake was forgotten.

The world around you blurred as you both stood there, caught in the electric tension and unexpected intimacy. You felt the steady beat of his heart against yours, the subtle rise and fall of his chest so close to yours.

Tim watched you freeze, your eyes wide as you stared up at him— disbelief, surprise, and a flicker of irritation crossing your face as you tried to process how he had completely messed up the handshake by pulling you in so suddenly.

You stumbled against him, caught off guard, and he couldn’t help but notice the way you struggled to hold back a mix of shock and mild frustration.

But then his mischievous grin grew wider, that confident smirk that he knew always managed to catch you off guard in the best way. You found your gaze flickering from confusion to something softer, as if despite yourself, you were charmed by him.

He held you close for just a moment longer, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against his, the electric charge in the air thickening.

Tim knew exactly what he was doing, pushing your buttons, teasing you, and drawing you in closer, and he loved every second of watching you fall, even if just a little bit, under his spell.

His voice dropped to a low murmur, almost too quiet to hear but impossible to ignore.

“I like the way you’re looking at me right now.”

You lean in slightly, your voice soft but teasing, though your eyes betray you completely.

“Oh yeah? And how exactly am I looking at you?”

Tim’s grin deepens, amused by how effortlessly you fell into his trap and the way he falls for your doe eyes, hypnotizing him.

“Like you’re waiting to find out what it’s like to kiss me.”

You freeze for a moment, the weight of his words settling between you like a spark ready to ignite.

Your breath catches, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You try to steady yourself, but your heart is pounding loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it.

With a half-smile, half-challenge, you meet his gaze again and whisper—

“Maybe I am… but you’re the one who has to make the first move.”

Tim’s eyes gleam with that mischievous light, and without breaking eye contact, he inches just a little closer, the space between you shrinking.

The playful tension hangs thick as the moment stretches, charged and electric.

“I guess… I will have to make the first move.”

Without a word, he closes the space between you.

His lips meet yours with a softness that takes your breath away, like the gentlest brush of a feather. The kiss deepens, warming and steady, spreading a quiet fire through your chest.

His hand left from your waist to lift to cup your jaw while you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers light but sure, tilting your face just enough to hold you still in this suspended moment. You feel the subtle press of his body, the heat from him seeping into your skin, blending with the rapid beat of your heart.

Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to just the two of you. That kiss speaks volumes— unspoken feelings, careful restraint, and raw, tender promise all wrapped in the softness and intensity of this perfect, unforgettable moment.

He does not pull away.

If anything, he leans in closer, like the space between you is unbearable now that he knows what it feels like to close it.

The kiss deepens with a quiet urgency, not rushed but full of need and patience. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers curling there as if he is afraid you might disappear if he lets go. There is a faint hitch in his breath against your lips, something almost desperate slipping through the careful control he usually keeps wrapped tight around himself.

He kisses you again, slower but heavier, like he is trying to tell you everything he has been holding back for months. Every near moment and every time he stopped himself. You can feel it in the way he lingers, the way his thumb presses softly at your skin, grounding himself while still wanting more.

For a second, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, his eyes closed like he is steadying himself. Then he goes back in, softer now but no less intense, like he is savoring this instead of rushing it. Like he knows this is something precious and he refuses to waste it.

There is yearning in every movement, his pupils that are enlarged, a heat that consumes his own being, a quiet desperation that says he has waited, that he has earned this, and that now that he finally has you here, he is not letting the moment go.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmurs quietly, like admitting a secret he has been carrying far too long. “For longer than I should’ve.”

His thumb brushes along your jaw again, pausing for just a beat, like he is silently checking that you are still here with him. When you do not pull away, his voice drops, softer and more intimate than before.

“Tim’s girlfriend,” he murmurs, the words careful, almost reverent. “It kind of has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

You hum thoughtfully, lips curving as if you are genuinely considering it, a teasing lightness in your voice even though your eyes give you away.

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.” His voice is steady, sincere, even as he leans closer again, like the distance between you is already too much. “You should give me a chance, you’re all I need.” His breath brushes your lips as he adds, quieter, more certain, “I’d never let you go from me.”

Your lips graze his as you speak, the words barely a whisper.

“Are you begging me?”

Tim’s eyes lock onto yours instantly, something intense and unguarded flashing through them. Your hand comes up to his cheek, warm and sure, pulling him back in before he can answer.

If anything, he leans into your touch, like your hand on his cheek is permission he has been waiting for. His breath stutters, warm against your lips, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, honest, completely stripped of teasing.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I am.”

His forehead rests against yours, eyes still locked on you, searching your face like he is afraid this moment might slip through his fingers. His hand comes up to cover yours where it cups his cheek, holding it there, grounding himself.

“I don’t care how it sounds,” he admits, voice rough with feeling. “I want you, I’ve wanted you, and I’m asking now.”

He leans in just enough that your noses brush, his words spilling softly against your lips.

“Let me be completely yours, please.”

Your breath catches, heart pounding as you meet his intense gaze.

Then, you answered him without words, pulling him closer and capturing his lips once more.

Your fingers tangled in the strands at the nape of his neck, gently tugging him forward as he melted into the pull, falling deeper into the irresistible pull of your own magnetic kiss.

Beneath the shadowed skyline of Gotham, a shooting star streaked across the night, briefly igniting the darkness with its fleeting, brilliant light.

And Timothy Jackson Drake is completely yours.

a/n: HEHEHEHEEHE. now how we like thattttt, I lwk wished…. I had the balls to make Tim messier in this fic, but my boy is just a D-1 plotter and just nudging like “oh, how could you be so patient with him…” “you deserve better…” “that was all on you, not me.” (To Ezra) type of thing, which he wasn’t lying!! It was literally the matter of time before they cut that relationship off!! AND I made him such a lil’ shit truly. I hope you guys caught that Hirono moment!!! I decided to use ‘Patience’ because it truly fitted Tim, a man that yearns is a man that EARNS.

most people wait years to hear they’re loved.

some never see their mark at all at all.

you and chan never talk about the concept of soulmates.

not because it doesn’t matter, but because it does—it matters too much. because bringing it up would mean acknowledging the quiet, hovering what if that has rooted in your being for as long as you can remember.

you met chan when you were very young through your parents, and the thing about him is that he just… stays.

he stayed when you were a rambunctious and clumsy child, he stayed when you were an awkward and unsure teen, and he continues to stay now when your dreams feel too big for your chest. he stays when you cry over things you pretend don’t really matter. he stays in all the small, unremarkable ways that end up meaning everything.

yeah, that ‘what if’ is really at home in your heart.

by shared snacks and late-night walks and him always answering his phone no matter how late it is. by the way you gravitate toward each other in rooms full of people. by the way silence between you never feels empty.

people ask if you’re together.

you say no, mastering your ability to mask the embarrassment. chan laughs it off. it became easy and familiar.

you date other people… technically.

if suitor after suitor being incompatible with you in various horrendous ways counts as “dating other people”… then yeah. you were dating other people.

it never lasts long for you because no one ever feels quite right. no one listens the way chan does, like every word you say matters simply because it’s you that’s the one saying it. no one understands you like he does.

chan however, barely dates at all.

he uses the excuse that he’s too busy to date. he says just he doesn’t have time, it wouldn’t be fair to whoever. he says he just hasn’t met the right person yet.

what he conveniently doesn’t say is that every time he thinks about confessing, he imagines losing you.

and that is a risk he has never been willing to take.

chan knows he’d rather live the rest of his life loveless than lose whatever domesticity you both flow into naturally.

you have sleepovers. you steal each other’s clothes. you cook together in the middle of the night when neither of you can sleep. he knows how you take your coffee, how you like your breakfast, how you go quiet when you are overthinking.

you know when he’s lying. you know when he’s pushing himself too hard. you know exactly how to touch his arm, his shoulder, his back, to ground him when the world feels like too much pressing down on him.

sometimes, late at night, you catch him looking at you. not staring, per-se. just… lingering. like he’s memorising something.

you pretend not to notice.

until one night, when pretending became impossible.

it was a late night, a quiet one. you were curled up on the couch together, half-asleep, some movie playing on the screen that neither of you were actually watching. your head was resting on his shoulder into his chest, with his arm draped around you, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your sleeve.

“can i ask you something?” chan requested suddenly.

you hummed. “yeah, of course.”

he swallowed. you felt it against your temple. “do you ever think about… soulmarks?”

your heart stuttered across a few beats. you tilted your head up just enough to look at him. his eyes were fixed on the screen, jaw tight, chewing the corner of his lip like he was bracing for something. like he was nervous.

“sometimes,” you admit carefully. “why?”

the exhale he released was shaky. “i think… i think that maybe i’m scared of mine.”

you sat up fully now, turning to face him. “scared how?”

he laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it. it was more akin to a pathetic little sigh, trying to ease the tightly wound anxiety in his chest.

“what if i already met them,” he breathed, still not looking at you, “and i just… never said anything. what if i missed the opportunity for real love.”

something soft and aching opened in your chest.

“chan,” you cooed gently, leaning your head a bit in order to be in his line of view, “you can’t miss your soulmate just by being afraid.”

he finally looked at you.

really looked at you.

“what if i already did?” he whispered, brows furrowing up. “what if they were right here, and i was too much of a coward to say anything. what if i was afraid of the risk losing them.”

the air became heavy between you. your pulse charged loudly in your ears.

“then maybe,” you replied, voice trembling despite yourself, “they may be just waiting for you to stop protecting them from a truth they already know. one they already want”

his breath caught in his throat.

“what if i’m wrong?” he worries. “what if i confess to this person and nothing happens? what if there’s no mark? no sign? and i just ruin everything...”

you reached for his hand without thinking and laced your fingers through his. his are warm and clammy, a sign of his anxiety, contrasting your tender touch.

“then you figure it out with them,” you consoled. “you could find a way. like you always do.”

he stared at your joined hands. then, quietly, like he was stepping off a ledge, he whispered your name.

“i’m… i’m in love with you. i always have been.”

it wasn’t dramatic, nor loud. just honest.

the room felt like it held it’s breath in the silence that follows.

your wrist tingled, then began to burn—not painfully, but warmly, like sunlight sinking into your bones. chan gasps, eyes flying to your hand as words begin to bloom into existence.

home.

at the same time, heat spread across his collarbone, just beneath his shirt’s collar. he fumbled with the fabric, pulling it aside, and there it was—the same word, fresh, glowing, and undeniable.

you laughed, breathless and teary all at once. “we’re idiots,” you whispered. “of course it was you.”

chan looked like he might cry—hell, he already was. “you aren’t scared?” he said softly.

you shook your head, leaning in to him until your foreheads touched. “i’ve also loved you for years,” you admitted. “i was just waiting for you to catch up.”

he let out a broken, wet laugh, pulling you into his arms like he was been holding himself back from this his whole life. he had held you a hundred times before, but this time meant so much more. his hold was warm, sure, and familiar.

like home.

he brought a hand to brush hair out of your face, and caressed your jaw. you look deeply into his eyes, falling into the pools of his irises.

“can i kiss you, please?”

“i thought you’d never ask”

when he kissed you, it was gentle. reverent. like he knew this is something precious and wanted to treat it that way. he wanted it to be memorable. it was everything the both of you had dreamed of and more.

when you pulled away, you both just stared at each other. almost in disbelief, of course you were destined to be together.

you were just glad you found home in where you were meant to.

i hope this makes up for your late gift! sorry the person ghosted you💔

chan | celebrating first christmas together to: @akindaflora 💌 read gift!

ot8 | fluff, poly, a/b/o to: @astrayapple 💌 read gift!

jeongin | fluff, friends to lovers to: @bahngarang 💌 read gift!

han | smut, fluff, friends to lovers to: @bb2ol 💌 read gift!

minho | angst, fluff, best friends to lovers / exes to lovers to: @bbokaricentral 💌 read gift!

loser bf!seungmin | fluff, suggestive to: @breakmeoff 💌 read gift!

bf!chan + ex!felix | angst, smut to: @chrizzztopherbang 💌 read gift!

jeongin | fluff, friends to lovers, movie night  to: @elylyyy 💌 read gift!

hyunjin | smut, fluff to: @emmiesoverthemoon 💌 read gift!

hyunjin | fluff to: @eroskz 💌 read gift!

minho | crack, under the mistletoe to: @fenya-scribbles 💌 read gift!

minho | angst, no comfort to: @filmrku 💌 read gift!

felix | high fashion au, model x model to: @havennz 💌 read gift!

changbin | new relationship, fluff, silly to: @hearts4binnie 💌 read gift!

hyunjin | fake dating to: @hyunjincanraptoo 💌 read gift!

minho | christmas au, friends to lovers to: @imagine-all-the-imagines 💌 read gift!

han | first meeting, fluff to: @kisjourney 💌 read gift!

changbin | best friends to lovers, fluff, smut to: @l0bulariia 💌 read gift!

felix | friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, jealousy to: @lililixie 💌 read gift!

felix | soulmate au, percy jackson au to: @lily-5 💌 read gift!

han | established relationship, sickfic, hurt/comfort to: @loonarixsxx 💌 read gift!

jeongin | fluff, suggestive to: @louanesays 💌 read gift!

changbin | established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort to: @lov3rachan 💌 read gift!

chan | fluff, soulmate au to: @maxinehufflepuffprincess 💌 read gift!

felix | fantasy, fluff, strangers + enemies to lovers to: @mikashisus 💌 read gift!

changbin | idol au, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst to: @moonqz 💌 read gift!

changbin | soulmate au to: @orithyia-eriphyle 💌 read gift!

han | fluff, sunshine x sunshine to: @pineapple-burgah 💌 read gift!

felix | friends to lovers, yearning, angst  to: @pixielixx 💌 read gift!

chan | fluff, strangers to lovers to: @skzophreniic 💌 read gift!

han | fluff, smut to: @starlostjisung 💌 read gift!

chan | best friends to lovers to: @teffyx 💌 read gift!

minho + han | fluff to: @thegreenlynx 💌 read gift!

changbin | friends to lovers to: @ttturnitup 💌 read gift!

Smut warnings: Kissing. Biting. Dry humping. Hands on neck (front and back) for control. Reader has a wet pussy. Nipple and breast play. BigDick!Chris. Scratching. Oral sex (male and female receiving). Cum eating. Fingering. Squirting. Unprotected sex. Christopher kink. Multiple orgasms. Primal play. Breeding king. Possessive!Chris. Dacryphilia. Knotting.

Chris Bahng has been in the woods for most of his adult life. There is a cabin on the far north end of the Horizon Forest that he calls home. Not many people make it so far North and that is how he likes it. The seclusion. It’s what he chose.

What he deserves.

Until you stumbled upon his land during the last few weeks of spring, with the scent of fear and sorrow seeping from you. Strong enough that he smelled you before he heard you trip and fall. Your whimper was the last thing he heard, his hearing elevated due to his nature. 

His wolf instantly alerts at the sound, wanting to seek you out. Minutes pass and no sound or movement comes from the south, where he last heard you. His wolf is restless under his skin, making him pace the length of his front room.

Sighing heavily, he slips into his boots and heads off to find you. Following your heart beat, he quickly makes his way so he can see you. He stops when he comes up to your body, careful not to make a sound in case you were armed. It wouldn’t hurt him but he didn’t want to deal with explaining why.

You’re curled on the ground, a pack at your side and your hands curled tightly to your chest inside of the heavy black coat. Your eyes are closed and your heart beat is steady. You passed out. As he gets closer, he sees your face is cut like you ran through the low branches surrounding his property. 

He smells the heartbreak on you as he takes in the tear streaked face. Someone hurt you and he feels his wolf snarl at the thought. 

This is bad. 

He circles you slowly, checking for weapons before he shoulders your pack and lifts you into his arms with ease. You do not stir, not even when Chris adjusts you so your head can rest on his shoulder as he starts the slow trek back to his cabin in the dark.

You slipped in and out of consciousness for the first few days. He learned your name and a few other things about you. After you regained some strength, he asked you why you were in the middle of the woods. Your answer shocked him and he had to force himself to remain calm and in the glider across the bedroom as his wolf wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and protect you.

It was a couple minutes before you spoke but the sorrow that flowed off of you made him clench his jaw and curl his fingers into fists.

“My fiancé was going hiking with some of his work friends, his high school sweetheart included. He knew how she made me feel but he always said there was nothing to worry about.” Your hands shake in your lap, having nothing to do with the chill of the season making the leaves surrounding the cabin change color. 

“I’m not athletic, like they are so any chance they got they would tease me about holding them up or saying that I should consider staying behind. I guess I tripped one too many times and the last time, he decided to leave me to continue the hike claiming he was going to set the tents up.” Your eyes fill with tears and your bottom lip wobbles so hard you pull it between your teeth and take a couple of deep, shaky breaths.

“When I questioned him about leaving me, he just said that he told me not to come. That I wasn’t cut out for that type of activity.” You scoff as you remember how his high school sweetheart smirked behind him before smiling when he stood and turned around. “He said to rest and meet them at the site when I cooled down and my jealousy was gone. Then he just left me.”

Taking a deep breath with a shrug, you look up into beautiful amber eyes. “I got lost on my way back to the ranger station and then just kept getting turned around. I remember I fell over a log and then I woke up a couple days ago here.” 

Chris was still the entire time you told your story and when you finished, silent tears rolling down your cheeks, he lost to his wolf. He was up and sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand gently cupping your face. His wolf yips with joy at finally getting to touch you, even if you smell like sorrow and humiliation. “What he did was wrong.”

At this, the dam breaks and your sobs rattle your frame. You go to cover your face but Chris pulls you to him, wrapping his arms around you, hoping that if he held you tight enough, he could keep your heart from shattering. His hand rubbed soothing circles on the small of your back as his other hand cupped the back of your neck to support your head as you cried into his chest.

Eventually, you cried yourself out and fell asleep against him. The warm scent of cedar and musk surrounding you more than his flannel sheets did. With your body limp in his arms, Chris gently lays back on the bed with you, wanting you to keep you close, vowing so long as you’re at his cabin, he won’t leave you scared and vulnerable like your human.

This might have been your favorite part of the Forests. 

In the middle of fall, all the leaves have fully abandoned their green in favor of red, yellows, orange, and brown. Horizon is thick and lush with plant and wild life, the days are filled with the ambiance of birds and other little animals scurrying across the first floor. 

After the sun goes down, while there are plenty of trees surrounding this spot, the moon and her stars are unfiltered. It was something Chris said he did on purpose when having the house built. He specifically used the trees in the area for it and made sure there were enough taken down to leave a nice, wide opening for the sun and the moon.  

There are no lights outside unless you bring one so that means no light pollution.  Absolutely nothing to ruin your view of the trillions of stars, their constellations, and the waning moon. This is your second favorite part. 

After he found you, you returned home for a total of two weeks before you were packing a bag. Leaving your ring on the coffee table of the apartment you shared with your fiance. You left with no real idea of where you were going but you found yourself at Horizon Forest. You got out of your car, not really sure where his house was but you decided to give yourself an hour to find familiar territory before turning back and going to the next town.

It’s like you were called back. With only minutes to spare, there he was, at the edge of his property.

You look up from the map you have in your hand to see Chris just standing there, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you. You stop, rooted in place. Your face is flushed from the walk but it deepens upon seeing him again. You had no real plan, no idea what you were doing.

All you knew was you wanted to be near him.

Chris felt you before he saw you. The pull has been getting stronger, the closer to the full moon. He goes out to the edge of his property and waits. It’s almost an hour before he sees you, a small smile comes to his lips but he wipes it from his face by the time you look up. 

White hot rage replaces his happiness to see you.

You’re pale, almost sickly so. He remembers the shape and curve of your body having held you in his arms while you cried thinking you were too thin for your stature then. But now? Now you’re so frail, barely holding yourself up. The little shine and bounce that your hair had two months ago is gone. Your eyes are dull and bloodshot. 

What happened to you in those two months? How can he help you? Did you come for help? 

“You came back.” His voice is rough but quiet in the space between you. 

“I don’t know why but this cabin, with you, is more home than anything I have ever felt.”

Without a word, he crosses the space and stops in front of you. His eyes are still the stunning amber yellow color you remember, a softness to them. His face is tired but you see no other emotion on it until he reaches out and grabs your bag. 

With your bag on his shoulder, he nods his head in the direction of his cabin. “Welcome home.”

Now, three and a half months later, you’re tucked under a thick woven blanket that you made as you sit on the front porch with your tea. Chris takes nightly runs through the forest, saying the cool evening air helps to calm his mind after his day. 

Tonight, you see him jogging up the path with something in his hand. When he gets to the foot of the steps, that is when you realize what it is, a single sunflower between his fingers. 

“My favorite flower.” You whisper as he hands it to you, a soft flush on his cheeks. 

“I know.” He nods into the cabin. “They’re all over your laptop.”

You stand, realizing once again how large he is. You come up to his shoulder but he is so broad he actually hides you from view when people come to visit. 

Chris leans down and picks up the blanket that slipped from your lap and takes the empty mug of tea from you. He nods to the front door before following you inside.

The fireplace is still warm from when he built it for you to bake and cook dinner on it. The smell of lamb, rosemary, and potatoes is still heavy in the air. You hear his stomach growl from behind you as he leaves the door open, the storm door closes to let some of the heat escape. Neither of you sleep well in the heat and Chris is a furnace on his own. 

You started sharing a bed, platonically, only a few weeks ago. While you don’t like to sleep hot, the cabin gets very cold at night. Too cold for your human body to handle. Chris thrives in the cold and always sleeps more soundly the colder the cabin gets. 

Except when he heard your teeth chattering. That woke him up from his sleep instantly and within seconds he was back in his room, laying down over the blankets and pulling you close. You stammered and tried to fight but as his warmth seeped into your skin, you quickly stopped and tucked yourself against him. His soft chuckle was the last thing you heard as you fell asleep, feeling safer and warmer than you have in months.

“Are you still hungry? I can dish you up some more stew.” You head to the small kitchen to get a glass for the flower before setting it on the little table you two share meals at.

“I can get it.” He smiles softly and slides a hand over your shoulder as he passes you on his way to the fireplace. 

Smiling to yourself, you turn and busy yourself with slicing some of the cinnamon bread you made and grabbing a couple of rolls for Chris, turning to set them on the table. He’s already there, his pewter bowl of stew steaming. He has his tablet open, scrolling through some of the news articles to read what has come out in the last few hours.

Sitting across from him, you pick back up your crochet project. You’re making him a cardigan, he doesn’t know it yet since it’s in a deep pine green color instead of his usual black. His beautiful tanned skin would look really good with this color and you’re excited to give it to him once it’s completed. 

The silence between you is never uncomfortable, never has been. You’re what you believe to be soul companions. The connection formed as Chris has helped you heal from your trauma that led you to him. The humiliation, the body shaming, and much more. He’s a man of few words but you can see it in his eyes, the patience and constant support as you work through your issues. 

After he finishes his stew and the rolls you set out for him, you slide the rest of your cinnamon bread to him, smiling when he meets your eyes. “I made extra loaves this time. Have as much as you want.”

“You’re the best.” He returns your smile as he picks up a slice. He eats in silence as you crochet before he speaks up. “I’m going to be gone for a couple of days next week.”

“Ah, the monthly meeting?”

He nods. “Yeah, it’s that time again.”

Every month Chris has to go with his work for a monthly meeting on the southwest side of the forest. He’s usually gone for about five days and comes back exhausted. The first time he came back, he slept in the small shed he was working to convert into a greenhouse for three days. You always left him food and water, happy to see that when you would bring the next round, he had finished off what you left. 

“Will you show me how to get the fire going so I can restart it while you’re gone?”

He nods again, mouth full this time. You smile and turn your attention back to your hands. 

“I’m sorry that I have to leave you.” Your hands freeze but you don’t look up at him just yet so he continues. “With the winter coming, I’ll show you how to do anything you want to learn. You’ll still be safe here and stocked so I’ll be able to come back and see your beautiful face.”

You flush instantly at the complement. It’s the first time he’s called you beautiful and you try not to let your heart flip around in your chest too much. Slowly, you look up to see him flushed, his bottom lip between his teeth as he looks down at the now empty plate in front of him. 

His amber eyes, currently not currently they’re usual amber but a little darker, meet yours and you gasp. “Chris, your eyes? Do they-,”

“Ah, it must be the fire.” Instantly he is up with his back to you as he stokes the fire back to life. 

You furrow your brow and tilt your head feeling confused. Usually as the fire is reduced to embers, that is when you two go to bed and that would have been soon but now that he has built it again, that is postponed. 

At least for him.

You start packing up your project and stand to get the dishes to the sink so you can wash them but Chris gently takes your wrist. “I’ll get them. I can tell you’re tired.” Slowly, he releases your wrist and moves his hand to cup your cheek. You tilt your head into it, without thinking and look up at him from under your full lashes, his eyes once again amber. His thumb caresses the blush on your skin before there is a small tug at the corner of his lips. 

“I’ll come to bed after the fire goes out.” His voice is soft as he drops his hand and takes the dishes to the sink. You still haven’t moved as the water runs. Taking a trembling breath, you grab the woven basket you keep your supplies in and head to the bedroom. 

To say you’re not attracted to Chris would be a lie. His black hair is longer right now than usual with his amber eyes, honeyed skin, and the muscles on his frame make him very easy on the eyes. 

But that’s not what makes your stomach flip.

It’s the soft moments like you just had. The moments when you do something and he catches you fumbling, he’ll come help with a soft chuckle and a quiet “cute”. Not to be condescending but because he genuinely thinks you’re adorable. Then there are nights when he beats you to bed and his bedside light is sending a golden glow through the room when he looks at you with something primal, hungry. 

You’ll come to bed in shorts and a shirt, one of his, and he’ll take you in slowly as you move about the room. You’ll feel his gaze burn over your curves and sear into your plush thighs as you rub lotion over yourself. Every so often you will catch his eyes in the mirror, the darkest you have seen them before he blinks and looks down at the book in his hand.

Chris isn’t immune to you. He is in fact more affected than he expected to be. His wolf yips when you’re near and you touch him or let him touch you. When you first arrived and were in so much pain, his wolf whined and howled for you. Now, as you two have shifted into something more comfortable, it’s getting harder to control those urges from his wolf. The want. The hunger. The all consuming need for you that has been slowly brewing over the months. 

It pains him to leave every full moon but he refuses to tell you anything until he feels you are ready. Let alone, tell you about the rut that he has to endure alone before the actual moon. There is no meeting, there never has been. He sends himself as far away from you so he can keep you as safe as possible during the day.

At night, that is a different story. 

On the night of the full moon, Chris is in his wolf form. Sleek all black fur with amber eyes, standing as tall as you, power and lean. 

At night, he returns, crossing the forest in record time to watch over you as you sleep in the bed you share with his human form. He sits a patience vigil outside the cabin, a view into the room so he can see you but still remains hidden. He will wait until your breathing evens out and you give into the day, slipping into your dreams. Sometimes your dreams are quiet, sometimes you cry out and his wolf whimpers softly, wanting to comfort you.

On the nights where your dreams leave you alone, he will hunt the surrounding area, making sure to stay close in case you somehow wind up in danger. The nights where you’re tossing and turning, whimpering, with tears spilling down your cheeks, he lays below the window, pressed up to the house. That is as close as he will allow himself to get in his wolf form. Until he tells you the truth.

Which he plans to do, very soon. 

He hears you getting ready for bed in the other room as he busies himself with dishes that were clean minutes ago. Chris is just trying to clear his mind. The closer the full moon gets, the harder he has to fight his wolf. As you spend more time together, his wolf becomes more and more attached. The primal side of him begging to claim you is why he spends extra days away. He doesn’t want to hurt you. It would destroy him.

“Chris?! What happened?”

He jolts out of his head and back into the present. The water is still running and the bowl he had in his hands has broken. The jagged piece slicing the skin of his palm clean open. Holding his bleeding hand under the water, he turns his head to see you standing there in your usual cold weather pajamas.

One of his shirts and a pair of leggings. 

It started all because you forgot to grab sleep clothes. You managed to grab the important things, like your medicines (mostly supplements) but pajamas were not on the list. He gave you one of his softest shirts and when you woke up that next morning, covered in his scent, he couldn’t let you wear anything else. Plus, seeing you wear his clothes just makes him want you more. 

“I dropped a bowl. I’m okay, I’m okay.” He responds, trying to keep you from coming closer. His wolf is already working on knitting the skin back together, the bleeding long since stopped. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” Your eyes are shocked and nervous as you walk over to him, trying to see past him.

The size difference isn’t lost on him either. His wolf, having finished his mission to heal the wound on his palm, now yips and begs to get closer to you. 

“Nope, it's just fine.” He shuts the water off and shows you his hand. “Just a little scratch.”

“Man, I liked that bowl.”

Chris chuckles and shakes his head as he tosses the pieces into the trash before drying his hands off. “We can get more.” You smile up at him and nod. Slowly, you relax after the short burst of adrenaline wears off. “Come on, sleepy.” He gently guides you to the bedroom and helps get you tucked between the soft, worn flannel sheets. 

Almost as soon as he turns to walk away, your chilled fingers curl around his wrist. He feels the tremors but he’s not sure if they’re from the cold of the cabin or from the small shot of adrenaline. “Will you stay for a little bit?”

“Of course.” He crawls over you and lays on his side of the bed.

You let him get adjusted and hold his arm up before you curl into his side, instantly melting into his warmth. A soft moan leaves your lips as you press into him, your head on his shoulder. “I don’t know how I’ll survive the cold without you.”

Chris turns his head so his nose is buried in your hair, breathing you in as his hand slides up and down your back, trying to get more heat into you, hating that you’re still shaking slightly. “We’ll have to swap out some things for thicker, winter wear. I need to do the same.”

You nod and curl yourself tighter into his warmth. He rests his cheek on your head and lets his eyes slip closed. Having you in his arms at the end of the day might be one of his favorite things. It’s his reward for making it through one more rotation on the Earth’s axis. 

“Chris?” He hums in acknowledgement. “Don’t leave me when it’s cold. Please?” 

His hands stop moving and he squeezes his eyes closed. “I don’t know if it’s possible right now.” He hates himself for lying. You never asked him to stay before so he knows you must really be afraid. He hears you sniffle before the wet drops of your tears land on his collarbone. “Hey, hey, hey.” He cups your jaw softly and tries to tilt your face to look at him but when you put up the slightest bit of resistance, he stops and just rests his forehead to the top of your head. “Please don’t cry. I hate it.”

“I’m just scared. I’ll try to be as self-sufficient as I can but what if I burn down your cabin?”

Chris can’t help the smile that comes to his lips. “You don’t have to be scared. I’ll show you everything you need to know so you don’t burn down our cabin. You have picked up so much and have been such a huge help.” He’s not lying now. After getting you nursed back to health, getting your strength back up, Chris started showing you how to do some little things around the cabin and the surrounding property to maintain upkeep. 

He still handles all of the big things but most of the time he brings you with him because he really likes to have you around. Plus, you’re always so eager to help, even if you’re just holding a tool, a flashlight, or even just fetching something for him. 

You must not catch his correction because you continue. “I’m either going to freeze to death or I’m going to burn your house down.”

“Our house.” He corrects again and he can feel your body when you register his words. “Yes, this is our house. It has been the moment I carried you in here.”

Smiling softly, you burrow your head deeper into his chest, wrapping your arm tighter around his stomach. “Don’t let me burn our house down.”

A smile still on his lips, Chris presses them to the top of your head softly. “Never.”

The cold snap came earlier than either of you could have predicted. 

He woke up one morning a couple weeks later to frost on the windows and he knew this winter was going to be hard. He would be fine but you, his beautiful, precious human would not be unless he did something. 

Chris got to work prepping the house, winterizing, as it would be called. Making sure the windows are sealed and covered, getting thick down blankets and electrical blankets as well. He spent hours chopping wood to make sure there would be enough to keep the fireplace stocked. 

While Chris would be chopping the wood and working on the cabin, you were prepping your garden and food storage the best you could. You’ve learned a lot about living off the grid and off the land but nothing could have prepared you for something like this. Not weeks in advance. 

When you weren’t in the garden, the kitchen, or your green house, you were helping to stack the wood that Chris chopped. He smiles as he watches you, trying to make sure the stacks against the house don’t fall.

“It’s okay if they tumble.” He hurries over and catches a couple logs before they fall on you. “This is a perfect start. When it gets low, I’ll come out and do the rest.”

You nod and go to step back but you stumble and wind up falling back into his solid muscle. One of his arms holds you close, the other restabilizing the logs to not fall on you. 

“I’m sorry.” You reply and go to stand but Chris can tell from your voice that you’re exhausted. 

Scooping you up effortlessly, he carries you up the stairs and into the house. “You never have to apologize.” He sets you down in your favorite arm chair and lays a blanket you knitted over your lap. “Are you okay?”

You nod and lean back, letting the cabin’s warmth seep into your bones. “I’m fine. Being up early and all the prep has me feeling pretty stressed.”

Chris smiles and cups your face softly, tilting your head side to side as he takes you in. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m okay. I think I just need to rest. Just for a little bit.”

“Take as long as you need, beautiful.” He stands and kisses your forehead. “I think you are doing great, by the way.” His hands rest on the arms of the chair, caging you in and surrounding you in his warmth and scent. 

“You rea-a-” Your voice cracks and you swallow thickly before clearing your throat and trying again. “You really think so?”

Chris nods and places a kiss on your forehead, “I know so. Most of that wood would have sat out there until later this winter but you have been working hard to line the house with it. Thank you.” He smiles as your face flushes. He straightens up and heads to the kitchen, “Did you still want chicken and rice for dinner?”

“Yes please. I have everything ready to go, it just needs to go over the fire.” 

“Hang out and rest. I can get it on the fire before I come sit with you.”

You nod and lean back, melting into the comfort of the couch as Chris gets the pot you put together with your dinner and hangs it on the hook in the fireplace. He then feeds and rebuilds the fire before pulling his sweater off and sitting beside you. 

Pulling your feet into his lap, he leans back and gently slides your shoes off. You smile and watch him as he squeezes your feet before massaging them. Your head falls back and you moan his name as his thumb works the sore spot you’ve often had trouble with.

Chris smirks and watches you, shifting to hopefully hide his reaction to you moaning his name. He eventually switches to the other foot but this being the nondominant he does not get the same reaction.

You giggle and pull your foot back when his thumb slips over a ticklish spot. “No. God please don’t.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, “I would never.”

“Good.” Pulling your feet under you, it allows you to shift closer, pausing for a moment before moving onto his lap. You’re sideways, facing the fireplace as you adjust the blanket on your lap to cover you both. When he doesn’t ask you to move, you lay your head on his shoulder and his arms wrap around your waist.

It feels so right. Being with Chris like this. The small intimate moments that make your stomach flip and your heart flutter. It’s just so easy and effortless, which is not something you are used to. Chris is a true partner, he doesn’t do everything for you but he supports you as you try to do it for yourself. That alone means more to you than a million foot massages. 

“You’re my favorite.” You whisper softly as his thumb draws circles on your thigh.

“I’m your favorite?”

“Yeah. My favorite person.”

His smile is wide and pride fills his chest. Chris wraps his arms tighter around you, burying his nose in your hair. “You’re my favorite too, beautiful. You have been for a very long time.” He kisses you temple.

You smile and relax deeper into his warmth, letting his gentle kisses soothe you. Soon, you fall asleep without meaning to.

You were going to freeze to death. 

Not actually but you felt like it. Nothing was working. The electric blankets were not warm enough. Your core temperature had dropped too low and that is where the danger started. The fire is burning but taking time to spread through the rest of the cabin. After shivering so hard in bed you swore you could feel the whole thing shake (which is impossible because Chris made the thing himself out of wood and it is SOLID), you went to lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. Soon, you’re asleep, not carrying that you have no pillow and nothing but the one down blanket you burrito’d yourself in. 

It’s just past midnight when the front door slips open and a shadow slinks into the house. It stops when it sees you in the front room in front of a fire, roaring like you just added more wood to it before passing out again in front of the hearth. You stir slightly when the door shuts so the shadow freezes, watching you. When your heartbeat and breathing steadies, the large shadow moves closer. Chris’s wolf form moves to lay just out of the light of the fire, resting its large head on its paws. 

You have spread out on your back, how you normally sleep, one leg bent at the knee and resting over the other. Both of your hands are tucked under your head, acting like a pillow to keep your skull from the hardwood flooring. The wolf whimpers softly when he sees the goose bumps rise to your skin and you shiver again in your sleep. He knows it isn’t the cold. 

You’re having a nightmare.

He should be able to shift back soon and lay with you, helping more but for now, he crawls closer, leaving his head resting on your feet. The wind must shift because your features are illuminated by the soft glow of the full moon. Your brow is furrowed and your lips are drawn back from your teeth like you are wincing in pain. 

As if you can sense you’re not alone, your features relax and your heart rate slows down once again, leading him to believe you are no longer in your nightmare. Nuzzling closer to you, the wolf allows his eyes to slip shut, enjoying how close he gets to be to you. It’s just before 3am when your dreams start up again.

This one starts out the same. You whimper softly and your fingers twitch. As it progresses, Chris notices this is different. Your twitches turn into you gripping the sheets and you’re writhing under the blankets. A pleasured gasp leaves your lips and that is when the scent of your arousal hits him. 

A low whine rumbles through his wolf form as his head leaves your feet and he slowly backs into the shadows, his large head dying to rest between your legs but he removes himself for the most part, his eyes trained on your face.

“Chris, please,” when his name leaves your lips followed by a raw, pleasured cry, he forces himself back out of the cabin. If he had stayed any longer, his wolf would have acted on instinct and tried to claim you. 

The two of you have shared a lot about yourself but you have never mentioned anything about your sexual desires. So as you dream of him, he paces the surrounding area until he can return to his human form and crawl into bed beside you.

It’s now early morning, a clock in the house would tell you it’s 6:28am. You’ve kicked the covers off and have starfished yourself on the bed. Slowly, your eyes open and you take a deep breath as you come back into your body. Flexing your fingers and toes, you stop when your fingers come in contact with skin.

Slowly, you turn your head and find Chris laying beside you. He’s very naked so you keep your eyes focused on his face, which is peaceful. He’s still in a deep sleep, curled on his side favoring you. There is a thin layer of sweat covering his body and you can guess it is because of the heat in the cabin. You also realize you are in bed. You distinctly remember sleeping in front of the fireplace. Chris must have scooped you up when he got home and laid down with you.

Gently you get out of bed and slip your feet into thick slippers. The front room is dark so the fire is low or completely out. You reach behind the bed to crack the window, allowing a cool breeze to come through, letting it cool Chris’s heated skin.

You smile softly, you pull the thinnest quilt over his hips to give him some modesty before you disappear into the bathroom. Taking care of business, you note that he is home early. He wouldn’t normally be home until later this evening so you wonder why he is here. Definitely not complaining, just curious. 

After cleaning up, you head back into the bedroom to slip back under the covers. With Chris back, you don’t have to worry about being cold. His presence alone has made the bedroom more tolerable already. Even though he is indecent, you still scoot closer, allowing your hand to rest next to his, curling your body in towards his. You let sleep find you once more, not noticing that his fingers have laced with yours and been tugged against his chest. 

Hours later you wake feeling disoriented and sweating. You groan and try to get out of bed but that is when you feel two arms pull you tighter against something hard and solid. A grumble sounds from behind you and all at once your mind is wide awake. 

Chris is home and is naked. 

Currently he has your back pinned to his chest, his large, solid body curled behind yours. His arms are wrapped around you, one hand resting on your lower stomach and the other is just under your breast. This is the most touching you have ever done with Chris. 

A stolen forehead kiss here or there with hugs and soft caresses, sure. But the complete bear hug from behind, his pinky literally resting on your breast, the finger tips of his other hand resting under the elastic of your panties, yes his fingers are already inside your leggings. 

What really shocks you is the steel rod you feel nestled against your hind end. The icing on the cake is when you shifted to get out of bed and he pulled you back, Chris groaned against your shoulder and rocked his massive package against your ass. Your jaw drops as you feel the full length of him against you.

“Chris?” Your hands gently come up and tap on his arms. “Honey, you gotta let me go.”

More grumbling comes from behind you as he presses himself against you once more, a low growl rumbling through his chest. You can’t make out what he says but you can feel how hot he has gotten against you. His fingers twitch against your breast and your stomach. He pulls you back to him, groaning as he feels your softness give against him.

“Chris? Wake up.” You try to shake him but that only ends up with you flipped onto your stomach, his legs straddling your plush thighs. He groans into your shoulder as his hips roll against your ass. You can feel how wet his cock is getting from the amount of precum leaking from him. 

He growls your name and you hear his jaw clench while his hips continue to grind against your ass. “Fuck,” your name slips past his lips in a whimper. “You feel so good, baby girl” His voice is raw and rough with arousal.

“Christopher!”

Eyes snap open. All movement ceases. 

Within seconds the weight is off of you and you can hear him across the room. A drawer opens and closes before his foot’s steps sound and then the front door slams.

You jump at the slam, your heart racing for a different reason this time. You give yourself a few moments to calm down and straighten the bed and your clothing before heading to the front door. 

Chris is pacing out in the front yard, only in a pair of black shorts. His hands in his hair and his eyes squeezed shut. You open the door and before you can press the storm door open he freezes and looks up to the house. The sun catches his features and you’re rooted in place. 

His usually amber eyes are black, no mistaking it this time. His canines are elongated and you can see his ears are pointed. What you notice before all else is the tears filling his eyes and the streaks down his cheeks. He turns and you can tell is going to take off but you open the door and hurry onto the porch.

“Please don’t run.” Your voice is so soft but your heart squeezes at the fear of him taking off on you. 

When your voice breaks, Chris falls to his knees, his whole body slumping onto his flank. His head hangs between his shoulders and his hands are in fists. Soon blood begins seeping between his knuckles and he quickly moves them to fist the pine flooring. Your devotion has floored him.

Ruined him. 

Chris is heaving breaths as his forehead rests on the forest floor. He’s so focused on not losing control and changing that he doesn’t notice you’ve come up to kneel in front of him until your hands run over his hair. His whole body stills as he tries to focus on your touch but it’s too soft. 

“Nails. Back. Please.” His voice breaks on the last word as he begs for you to divert his attention.

Within seconds you’re closer, sliding your nails over his bare back. Chris shivers and you watch as the red lines and goosebumps come to the surface of his skin. He groans and arches up to your nails so you press harder, dragging them up and down. His claws release so quickly he is up and has pulled you under him, nuzzling his nose into your neck and breathing your scent. 

You continue to slide your hands over his back, not wanting to over do it with your nails and do more harm than good. Minutes pass and he is still trembling so you bravely let your fingers thread into his hair as you hold him. Softly you whisper “you’re okay” and “I’m right here” just like he used to when you were struggling. You have no idea what is going on but you are not going to let him go through it alone. 

Not anymore. 

Eventually he fully relaxes against you, his knees sliding out from under him. You continue your gentle caresses and whispers until he moves to his elbows and looks down at you, his amber eyes back to normal. Your hands move to cup his face and his eyes close before he leans forward to rest his forehead on yours.

“I’m so sorry.” His words whisper over you and you shake your head slightly. “Yes. I violated you and I’m so, so sorry.” Once again, his voice breaks.

You shush him softly and run your fingers over his jaw, nuzzling your nose with his which makes him whimper softly. “I was more shocked than anything.”

The moment you nuzzled your nose to his, Chris was a goner. He has done it to you countless times but when you did it back, that act alone solidified that he was in love with you. In wolf packs, when two wolves nuzzle one another like you did to him, it’s a way to show affection, intimacy, and even submission. It’s also something mated wolves do in their wolf forms before and after a hunt.

“And what you saw," he starts but you cut him off, knowing he is my ready to talk about it

“You don’t have to say anything now. Whenever you’re comfortable sharing, you can.” 

He deflates into you, letting his face rest in your neck to breathe in the scent that is his favorite in the world. You with just the slightest hint of him. An emotion that he cannot quite name wrecks through him. It is enough to bring tears to his eyes once more but he swallows it back and just basks in the feeling of knowing that you were always meant to be his. 

Mate.

You kiss his temple softly, holding onto him with no idea of what is currently happening. All you know is he needs comfort and you are more than willing to give it to him. If anyone were to come up and see you both, it would be very suspicious. You are on your back with your legs hooked over his hips, your bodies are tightly pressed together, and his head is in your chest.

Chris is fighting himself from telling you how he feels and he also is trying not to grind himself against you. So, after letting himself stay with you for a few more minutes, he pulls away and stands before he picks you up and gently sets you on your feet. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and walks with you back towards the house. 

You stop at the bottom of the stairs and tilt your head as you look up at him, a couple stairs ahead of you. “Chris?”

He turns to look down at you but that is when the arrow sails through the air and plants itself right into your chest. Your eyes widen in shock and fear as they turn up to him and they mirror your emotions back. 

Shock. Fear.

Two emotions Chris swore you would never feel in his presence again. 

He failed you. 

Within seconds you are in his arms and back in the house. 

The last thing you remember is Chris begging you to hold on before a snarl rips through the air. Something large and black rips through the front door as your eyes fall closed and your world goes silent.

The door doesn’t fully shut behind him before Chris has shifted. His wolf tears through the forest until he finds the man with the bow. It’s finished before anyone could blink. It’s midday before Chris gets back to you, his wolf still simmering with rage at the idea of you being hurt. He mildly feels guilty for leaving you but once glance at any clock would tell him he was not away from you for more than 10 minutes.  

Back in his human skin and he scales the steps to get to you. Relief fills him when he sees you’re breathing. He can hear your heart beat but he waits no time getting you in his arms and then he is back out the door. 

His pack resides on the south west side of the forest. In his wolf form it wouldn’t take him 30 minutes to cross the miles but in his truck, it’s agonizing. Chris has warned the pack’s healer, Felix, that he’s bringing his mate. He made the seven of them swear that they would not mention their nature to you, not until Chris gets to tell you himself.

Now, days later, you’re still unconscious in the spare bedroom of Felix’s home. That is where he keeps his supplies and where he treats everyone. You were treated and deemed stable but Felix wanted to keep you close in case of infection. 

It’s been six days since he felt you against him. 

Six days since he held you in his arms.

Chris feels like he is going to go insane. He’s pacing the small hallway outside the door as Felix checks your vitals. “She’s okay to take home whenever you want. We’re past the window of infection. I’ve shown you what to watch for and how to keep everything clean if something does happen.”

Chris nods and looks to the healer and then to another member of the pack, Minho. “Any word on what the guy wanted?”

Minho, the one who handles the loose ends of the pack. Whether that is spinning rumors in town or erasing someone entirely. “It would have been easier if you left him alive but it honestly looks like an accident. He was a hunter, not our kind or anything supernatural. He had a heart condition so it’s not hard to believe he had a heart attack that made his arrow go off course.”

Chris nods and pats Minho on the shoulder. “Thank you for checking for me.” He turns to Felix and nods in respect. “And thank you for taking care of her.”

Minho and Felix nod back but it is Changbin, who came from the kitchen who replies, “you’re the alpha. Of course we’ve got your back.” He takes another bite into a roasted chicken leg in his hand, smiling at Chris.

Chris winces and shakes his head. Alpha was not a role he wanted. When their previous alpha died, the pack was just going to stick together and be leaderless but after the first full moon, it was clear someone needed to step up. Chris is the oldest and was voted to be leader by the other seven so he had no other choice.

Changbin is the muscle of the group. If someone goes too far or over stays a welcome, he makes sure they get where they need to be. 

“Shouldn’t you be off reservation for the time being? I thought you had a yoga thing with that one wolf.”

Changbin smirks and nods, “we leave tonight. I convinced Seungmin to join me.”

“Poor kid.”

“Too bad the Alpha is mated, you would have loved it.” Changbin finishes the meat off the leg and heads back into the kitchen for another. “Yah, this is great, Minho!”

“Save some for everyone else, piggy!” Minho, who is also the cook of the pack, teases as he follows the younger wolf to the kitchen. It leaves Felix and Chris together in the hall.

“So, you think she’s the one?”

“I don’t think,” Chris looks from your room to Felix. “I know.”

“That is something many of us dream of. Congratulations.”

Chris looks into your room and sighs softly when you’re still unconscious. “She saw me lose some of my control and wasn’t scared.” He smiles fondly. “After all she has been through, she was concerned about me, not scared.”

They all nod in agreement. You’re his, one way or another. He’s helped you heal and that has gained him true devotion. You are his. And he is yours.

“Chris?” 

His heart plummets to his stomach and he turns when he hears the softest whisper of his name. Your eyes are open and you’re sitting up in the bed you have been in for the last six days. You’ve never been more beautiful to him.

“Baby girl,” he barely makes it to your bedside before he is on his knees, your hand curled in his. 

A smile on his face so wide he feels like his cheeks might cramp. You return his smile with a weak one of your own. Felix follows but after checking on you, he leaves and pulls the door closed. After Felix left you apologized to Chris for bleeding on the couch and then drifted off once again. 

Still beside you, this time on the bed and stretched out beside you, one arm under your head and the other cupping your cheek softly. He’s watching you sleep more, his eyes shimmer with unshed tears. 

“I love you so much.” He presses his forehead to yours before nuzzling his nose with yours. His eyes falling closed, a few tears slipping past his lashes. “I can replace the couch. I can’t replace you.” 

He whispers his life story to you, hoping you can hear him. Even if you can't, he'll tell you again. He talks until his voice starts to break, and the sun is setting. Changbin has brought food and water but he hasn’t stopped talking to you long enough to eat.

“Then I found you.” He smiles against your cheek. “You were so small, so fragile. I was scared I would break you when I lifted you off the forest floor.” He shifts back enough so he can take you in. “When I look at you now, your body is so beautiful and so full of life and happiness, it’s so hard not to tell you how badly I want you. I’ve been waiting, not wanting to push you but I don’t know if I can wait anymore.”

He pauses to eat and drink before he curls into the bed with you, covering you both. You both lay in silence for a while, the sounds of the night passing around the house. Finally, as he hears the rest of the pack settle in for the night, Chris allows his eyes to close.

“Come back to me, baby girl. I’m waiting to tell you so many things. Mostly, I just want to tell you I love you.”

There is a ray of sunlight directly in your eyes. You are sweating profusely and your body aches. Tilting your head some, you realize how caged you are. Chris has his arms around you and one leg slotted between yours. His chin is resting over the top of your head. The sun has managed to shine over his shoulder and into your eye. You try to shift but it pulls at your stitches making you wince and whimper softly.

Amber eyes shoot open to meet yours. You watch as they go from alarm to warm within seconds. Chris smiles and you can’t help but return it. “Good morning, Chris.”

He smiles and pulls you closer, careful of your stitches, and kisses your forehead. “Good morning, beautiful.” He holds you, letting you get comfort-

“Chris, I gotta pee so bad.”

“Oh!”

Almost an hour later, you’ve cleaned up with a warm shower. Chris didn’t join you but he stayed close just in case you needed him. When you were done, he helped you dress. Then dry, brush, and braid your hair. You were just finishing up brushing your teeth when Felix knocked on the doorframe of the bathroom.

So now you’re sitting on the bathroom counter, letting Felix check the front of your wound. He can see the back through the mirror and deems it healing well.

Chris is prowling in the hallway, his shoulders tense and his eyes narrowed as Felix has his hands on your chest. When your life was in danger, all he wanted was for the gentle handed healer to do was fix you with his touch but now, Chris wants his hands off you. When you gasp in pain, Changbin has to hold him from bursting into the bathroom and beating the healer.

“He’s helping her, Chan.”

Your eyes meet his, dark and stormy, from the other side of the doorway. “Chan?”

“It’s his middle name and how we met him.” Felix replies, cutting Changbin off. “You know him as Chris?” 

You nod and wince once more as Felix finishes removing the rest of the stitches. He goes to apply more of the ointment he has been mixing and applying to you on the daily, explaining to you that it is more active that way.

The ointment Felix mixes has some of Chris’s werewolf DNA that Felix collected by swabbing his cheek a couple times a day to make sure you got the most potent version. That allowed the healing process to speed up some. You still have an arrow wound that goes from your right shoulder through to the front where it exited just above your collarbone. Chris’s DNA has helped to mend most of the muscle back together as well as sealing it from the inside out. 

“Yeah. We never really discussed any other names. I mean, we know each other’s last names and stuff.” You exhale through your nose as the ointment stings a little. “Is this stuff supposed to burn?”

Felix nods as he pulls his gloves off and tosses them to the trash. “The active ingredient is mint to help fight infections. It should fade to a cooling sensation soon.” He leans down and gently blows on the wound without thinking. 

Quickly you’re off the counter and push Felix behind you. Your hand meets the hard muscle of Chris’s chest as his eyes glare at the man behind you. You feel the growl that is rumbling through him. 

“Felix, I’m okay. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Anytime.” He nods and skirts around you and Chris to exit the room, a flush on his cheeks. 

Changbin stutters through a “glad you’re okay” before he disappears as well. 

Within seconds of them disappearing from view, the front door opens and closes. You and Chris are the only two people in this house. He’s breathing heavily and you feel how much more heated his skin has grown since your hand has been on him. His eyes are black and you watch them take over your mostly naked frame. 

You’re in one of his hoodies, one he kept in the truck, and it is still unzipped to hang off one shoulder so Felix could tend to your wound. The growl that was rumbling under your hand now turns to a whine as Chris takes in your lush thighs and your strong legs. 

“What was that, Chris?”

“I need to hold you.”

“Not until you-“

“He put his scent on you.” When you raise an eyebrow, he rushes on. “Blowing on you. Removed some of me and replaced it with him. I have to fix it.” His eyes soften as his hands move like they want to rest on your hips but he waits for your consent. “Please baby, let me?”

Your hand moves and instantly you’re pulled up against his chest, his arms locking around you like vices. One hand is on your lower back, dangerously close to slipping down over the hem of the hoodie and the other is pressed between your shoulder blades. As your arms wrap around him, his nose goes into your neck and you feel him inhale. 

“Good god, you smell so fucking good.” He groans and he turns lean heavily against the wall, almost as if he is afraid his legs would give out. As if on a reflex, presses himself against you. The thick, hard line of his cock right against your stomach. 

Your eyes widen in surprise and you go to pull away to look at him but he holds you too tightly. “Chris, what’s going on?”

“I need to take you home.”

“You can. You heard Felix say it was safe now.”

He growls and grazes his teeth over your neck, where he will mark you once you let him. His hips roll against you, unable to help himself. The human part of his brain has shut off and all he can think about is you.

You’re alive. You’re breathing. You’re covered in him.

“Chris, take me home and we can keep doing whatever it is you want to do. But please, take me home.” He whines softly, his teeth sinking in a little harder, making you moan and grip the back of his jacket. “Please, Chris.”

Pulling himself away from you is a Herculean task that takes about three minutes longer than it should have. Eventually, he’s pulled back and has you at arms length. “I did it again. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Chris, I would let you take me in the middle of the forest. I just really want to be in our home. I want to be in our bed.”

His grip on your arms tighten slightly and he groans again. “Please, I’m about to lose my mind and I have things I need to tell you before we go any further.” He begs softly. “I can get us home but, god this is going to sound awful, stay on your side of the truck and please don’t talk or we won’t make it.”

You nod and turn to finish getting dressed. That movement shifted the hoodie revealing your slicked core and the unmasked scent of your arousal to him. He manages to let you get sweats on before grabbing your hand and dragging you towards the front door. 

“Take the truck and go. I’ll meet you at the cabin.” He puts the keys into your hand before dropping your wrist.

“Chris, what-?”

“Baby girl, please!” You go to protest but that is when seven men rush in and guide you out. The last thing you hear is a howl and you’re not sure if it was from outside Felix’s house.

Or if it came from inside. 

There was a series of loud snarls, shouts, and what sounded like furniture breaking coming from the house. Running to the truck at the animalistic sounds, you throw yourself into the truck and take off. The only reason you left Chris behind was the look in his eyes when they met yours. It pained you to hear him and to see him like that. You also couldn’t help to feel like you might have been the cause.  

You might have been less than 30 minutes from the cabin when a streak of black races by the truck. Your eyes widen as your adrenaline spikes. Your eyes search for it but instead, they land on the largest wolf you have ever seen standing in the middle of the road. 

Slamming on your breaks, you throw the truck into park and look over the animal. Beautiful, silky looking midnight fur, so long it flows when the wind comes through the trees. It’s probably as tall as the hood of the truck, maybe more. Its ears are pinned low over its head and that’s when you notice seven other wolves in the trees around it, all in various shades. 

A low rumble comes from the wolf in front of you and you notice the way its lips curl to show off its canines. Your eyes take in the features, all stunning but incredibly lethal;  from its ears, to its jaw, up to its eyes, you freeze. 

Amber.

You throw the door open and hop down out of the truck. A soft gasp leaves you as the landing jostles the wound on your chest making the wolf sink low, his tail whipping behind him. You expected another growl but you got a soft whine instead. 

“Chris?” Slowly, you walk closer, your eyes pinned to the beautiful wolf in front of you. The wolf lowers itself to its belly when you’re an arms length away, bowing its head for you. 

He’s submitting to you, not fully but hopefully enough to make you more comfortable. His amber eyes are trained on you and when you move to sit in front of him, pulling your legs beneath you, he crawls forward to lay his big head in your lap. Your hands stay up, unsure of what to do with them before they settle on the wolves fur. 

“What happened to meeting me at the cabin?”

The wolf whines and nuzzles himself deeper into your lap.

“How about I make you a deal?”

Amber eyes turn up to meet yours.

“Return to me at dusk. I’ll be waiting and we can talk.” You lean forward and press a kiss to the plush fur atop the wolf’s head.

You hear his footsteps on the porch. Turning to look out the window, you can see the last of the sun has set. “Right on time.” Your heart pounds as you set the last plate of dinner on the table and straighten just as he pushes open the door. You smooth your hands over your jeans but freeze when your eyes meet. 

He nods and closes the door before stepping deeper into the room. “It smells amazing.”

“I made your favorite. Well, not lamb but steak.”

He walks over and smiles. “I’m starving but first, I have to do this or I’m going to drive myself mad.” He cups your jaw softly with one hand, the other wrapping around your waist. He brings his face close to yours, giving you a chance to tell him no, but you cup his face in your hands, move to your tiptoes and press your lips to his.

It’s everything you thought kissing Chris would feel like. His soft lips, his big hands, the strong body he holds you against. His scent is so much stronger but it only makes you want him more so you press your lips harder to his, moaning as he opens your mouth with his tongue. 

The kiss was intended to be a sweet, simple thing but of course anything that involves you, Chris can’t help himself. You moan into his lips and he’s moved both hands to your ass, gripping as he lifts you with ease. Your back doesn’t meet the mattress like you expected but the hardwood of the cabin wall. 

Chris finally breaks away from the kiss only to trail his lips down your jaw and your neck. He nuzzles the spot under your ear and you feel his chest rumble. “You always smell so goddamn good, baby girl.” 

Without second thought, he’s dragging his tongue over your neck and groaning at the way you taste. “Fuck, I know we’re supposed to have dinner and talk but I don’t think I can wait anymore.” His teeth graze the spot and you arch against him, crying out his name when he bites a little harder. 

“Please let me make you mine, baby girl.” His lips trace up to your ear where he nips at your earlobe softly. “I’ve wanted this for so long.” His tongue traces the shell of your ear. “Please baby girl, please let me have you.”

You gasp as you feel his tongue slide over your skin but at his groan, the way he sounds lost and fucked out already makes you want to squeeze your thighs together. “I’m yours, Chris. No matter what.” You manage to catch his eyes once before adding, “I love you, too.”

You watch as his eyes shine before they fall closed. “You heard?”

“I thought it was a fever dream until earlier on the road home. We can talk later if you want but we should still talk.” Your fingers play with the ends of his hair. The same silky texture and midnight shade as the wolf from earlier. You can feel his indecision so you make it for him.

Using one of your fingers to tilt his chin up, you lean down and kiss him. With you leading the kiss, Chris completely submits, whining into your mouth as your tongue sweeps into his mouth to taste him. Your fingers now fully thread into his hair, tugging softly to angle his head just right so you can slow the way your lips meet and tease him more. His whimper as your tongue rolls against his makes your core clench. On reflex, your hips rock against his and that is when he snaps.

His hand moves to your throat and Chris breaks the kiss, pinning you in place. A wicked grin comes to his lips and it’s your turn to whimper under his gaze. “You’ll let me fuck you in the middle of the forest?” The pressure on your throat spikes your arousal and it makes Chris’s mouth water at the smell. 

“One night, I’ll let you hunt me.”