windflower

Now war had broken out across the realm, and old promises suddenly mattered again.

You were being dressed by one of your ladies when the murmurs began.

At first it was only a low ripple through the castle, the sort of gossip that drifted along stone corridors and under closed doors. Then the sounds sharpened into urgency. Footsteps hurried past your chamber. Voices rose and fell in excitement. Somewhere beyond the window, beyond the walls of Storm’s End, a dragon had landed.

One of the servants came in looking breathless.

"My lady, your father is asking for you."

You did not turn from the mirror as the final ties of your gown were secured.

"Is the matter so urgent that I cannot be allowed a moment more?"

The servant swallowed, clearly uneasy.

"Lord Borros requests your presence at once. Prince Aemond is with him."

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to still around you. Then you let out a quiet, disgusted breath.

"Of course that wretched man would have the audacity to come here."

The servant lowered his eyes while one of your ladies froze with the brush still in hand. You finished adjusting the sleeves of your gown and looked at your reflection with a coolness you did not entirely feel.

"So it is true, then. The prince has come to Storm’s End."

"Yes, my lady."

You gave a small, humorless smile.

"Tell my father I am coming."

The servant bowed quickly and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, you remained where you were, staring at your own reflection. Beneath the calm face you wore so well, irritation burned hot and sharp. Aemond Targaryen had once cast aside your betrothal as though it had meant nothing at all. Not a proper explanation, not even the courtesy of regret. And now he had arrived at your father’s hall with his dragon and his demands, as if the past could simply be walked back into place.

You straightened your posture, lifting your chin.

If Prince Aemond thought you would greet him warmly, he was about to be reminded exactly who he had insulted.

You prepared yourself for what was coming next.

Every movement felt deliberate as your ladies finished the last touches to your appearance, smoothing the fabric of your gown and adjusting the fall of your sleeves until everything sat exactly as it should. You did not rush, though the tension in the castle made it difficult to pretend you were at ease. Somewhere beyond the chamber walls, your father was speaking with the prince who had once dismissed your betrothal as though it had been of no consequence at all.

Soon enough, you left the room and made your way through the corridors of Storm’s End.

The castle felt different today. Heavier. Quieter in some places, louder in others. Every guard you passed seemed to stand a little straighter. Every servant seemed to lower their gaze a little faster. Word of Aemond’s arrival had already spread through the keep, and with it the knowledge that something important was happening, something no one truly wanted to say aloud.

By the time you reached the great hall, your father was already there, and so was Aemond.

Lord Borros looked up first, his mouth curling with something that might almost have been approval if it had not been so openly self satisfied.

"My dear, I see you have made every effort to impress our guest with your beauty."

You stopped beside the threshold and gave him a glance that was equal parts obedience and rebellion.

"Sincerely, I thought it would be wise to receive our visitor at my best. Perhaps then he might regret the manner in which he once snubbed our former arrangement."

The words landed exactly as you intended.

Aemond, standing across the room with his hands folded behind his back, made the smallest sound of irritation. A discreet cough, almost a warning, though there was no mistaking the edge beneath it.

His eye slid to you with cold precision.

"Your effort suggests you still think of me, even after all this time."

The corner of your mouth lifted.

"Do not flatter yourself. I think of the insult far more than I think of you."

Aemond’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm in that infuriating way of his, smooth as polished steel.

"And yet you dressed as though expecting me."

You let your gaze drift over him slowly, deliberately, taking in the black leather, the silver chain at his throat, the hard line of his posture. He looked exactly as arrogant as memory had promised.

"Perhaps I simply enjoy seeing whether a man who once found me inconvenient can still be made uncomfortable."

That earned you the faintest flicker in his expression, something close to annoyance, though not quite enough to satisfy you.

Lord Borros let out a low breath, clearly enjoying the exchange more than he ought to have done.

"Enough," he said, though there was no true sharpness in it. "The two of you may kill one another with words later. For now, stand where I can see you both."

You obeyed, but not without giving Aemond one last look that made your meaning perfectly clear.

He had come here expecting a negotiation.

What he had found was you, and you had no intention of making this easy for him.

Aemond’s gaze remained fixed on you a moment longer than necessary before he spoke again, his tone level but edged with something far less patient than before.

"It seems Storm’s End has grown colder since last we met."

You met his stare without blinking.

"And it seems Prince Aemond has not learned better manners since he last left it."

"Let me make this clear to you both. No matter what you feel for one another, if I agree to the proposal put forward by the Dowager Queen and the future King Aegon II, the two of you will be joined in marriage."

Your father's words struck you with enough force to make your expression falter for the briefest moment. You turned toward him, disbelief quickly giving way to indignation.

You had expected politics. You had expected negotiations, perhaps demands for soldiers and allegiance. You had not expected your own marriage to be placed upon the table so casually.

"I presume King Viserys is indeed dead, then," you said, your voice remaining remarkably composed despite the irritation rising within you. "You have my condolences, but nothing beyond that."

Your father frowned at your bluntness, but you did not lower your gaze. You had no intention of marrying a man who had once rejected you as though your family's offer were beneath him. Whatever crisis the realm now found itself in, you would not simply allow yourself to be traded like a piece upon a cyvasse board.

Aemond's expression hardened.

"Do you always allow your daughter to speak so freely?"

Lord Borros turned toward him immediately, his irritation becoming unmistakable.

"My daughter will speak with whatever freedom she is entitled to while she remains under my protection. Do not forget that, Prince Aemond."

The prince's jaw tightened.

Your father took a step forward, his voice growing firmer.

"Whether she marries you or not, my daughter will remain under my care. You may be a prince of House Targaryen, but you have not yet been given leave to command her."

For once, Aemond had no immediate retort.

You could not resist adding your own contribution.

"I am certain the manners of the grand Prince One-Eye must have been left resting somewhere in Reed Keep, Father."

The silence that followed was almost deafening.

One of the guards nearby looked down, clearly fighting the urge to smile.

Aemond slowly turned his head toward you.

His single violet eye fixed upon yours, and there was something distinctly dangerous in the way his expression had gone completely still.

"One-Eye," he repeated quietly.

You smiled sweetly.

"That is what they call you, is it not?"

Aemond took one measured step toward you.

"Careful."

Your father's voice cut through the tension before you could answer.

"Enough."

Aemond stopped, though his gaze never left you.

"You seem remarkably confident for a woman who has just been told she may soon become my wife."

You lifted your chin.

"And you seem remarkably confident for a man whose future bride has made it perfectly clear that she would rather marry a stable boy."

Something flickered across his face.

Annoyance. Pride. Perhaps something else you could not name.

"Then perhaps," Aemond said quietly, "you should pray your father refuses the Queen's proposal."

Your smile faded slightly.

"Perhaps you should pray he accepts it."

For the first time since his arrival, Aemond looked genuinely taken aback.

Lord Borros stared between the two of you, seemingly wondering whether he had just agreed to unite two houses or unleashed a war of his own within the walls of Storm's End.

"I will have to choose a side and decide whom I am to support in this new reign," your father said, his voice heavy with the responsibility now resting upon his shoulders. "Princess Rhaenyra has sent no representative to speak of the matter, but knowing all her sons are already promised in marriage, I am inclined to accept the union that has been proposed."

Your fingers began to fidget nervously in your lap. You tried to hide it by slowly twisting one of your rings, but your father knew you too well not to notice.

You did not want this marriage. You had made that abundantly clear. Yet this was no longer merely about your feelings toward Aemond. If war truly had come, Lord Borros Baratheon could not remain neutral forever. Storm's End would have to choose, and whatever side your father chose would determine the fate of your house.

Aemond remained silent for a moment before stepping forward, his attention shifting from your father to you.

"Then allow me to persuade you. If my refusal to honor the former betrothal offended your house, I shall be obstinate in proving myself worthy of being your son by marriage, and worthy of being your daughter's husband."

The words were delivered with such confidence that you almost laughed. He spoke as though your father's approval was the only thing standing between him and the marriage.

You looked between the two men.

"Forgive me if I find your words difficult to believe."

Aemond's eye immediately returned to you.

"I imagine trust is difficult to offer after being disappointed once."

"You seem remarkably aware of the consequences of your actions for a man who took so long to acknowledge them."

Your father watched the exchange carefully before speaking.

"My child, your decision will be mine, but I want you to consider your next words carefully."

The meaning behind the warning was unmistakable. You could refuse him, but you could not pretend your refusal would have no consequences.

Aemond seemed to notice the same thing.

"The decision will be hers?"

You turned toward him, one eyebrow rising.

"Are you intimidated?"

A small, victorious smile touched your lips. Aemond stared at you for a long moment.

"I have faced dragons less troublesome than you."

Your smile widened.

"Then perhaps you should be grateful I am not the one breathing fire."

"I have heard enough," your father snapped.

The room fell silent.

Lord Borros looked between you both with the expression of a man whose patience had finally been exhausted.

"The two of you will not turn my hall into a battlefield. Prince Aemond is our guest, and he shall be treated accordingly."

You opened your mouth, but your father raised a hand before you could speak.

"Let the prince enjoy our hospitality tonight and leave Storm's End with a refusal in the morning."

Aemond's expression hardened, but he said nothing. You felt a small measure of relief.

"Gladly."

Your father gave you a pointed look. Then he cleared his throat.

"Show him to the guest chambers, dear. Even if you refuse the marriage, you will show our guest your best manners."

You stared at him.

"Of course."

There was a faint edge of amusement in your voice as you turned toward Aemond.

"This way, Prince Aemond."

He remained still for a moment before following.

As you walked ahead of him through the great hall, you could practically feel his gaze upon you.

You did not turn around.

"You may stop staring, you know."

"I was merely wondering whether your hospitality is always this welcoming."

You glanced over your shoulder.

"Only toward princes who arrive uninvited and expect to leave with a bride."

Aemond's mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"I begin to understand why your father thinks you difficult."

"And I begin to understand why your mother sent you here instead of keeping you at court."

"Following the Queen's orders, I see," he replied, his eyes lingering on you with the same knowing amusement he had worn years ago. "Though I confess, I had not expected you to take them quite so seriously."

There was a familiarity in his voice that made your chest tighten. Years ago, you and Daemon had shared something that had never been given a proper name. An affair, perhaps, though calling it that seemed almost too simple for what had existed between you. There had been stolen nights, whispered words and a closeness neither of you had ever dared acknowledge in daylight. Then Daemon had chosen duty, choosing loyalty and the path that would eventually place a crown upon his head. After that, he had disappeared from your life entirely.

Until tonight.

"Congratulations, by the way," you murmured, finally meeting his gaze. "I imagine becoming King, even if only King Consort, must have been a matter of great pride for you."

The faint smile on your lips made it clear you were provoking him.

Daemon's expression shifted, amusement settling more deeply into his eyes as he took a slow step toward you.

"Careful," he said quietly. "You always did have a talent for making congratulations sound like insults."

"What do you want here, Daemon?" you asked more sharply, the irritation in your voice no longer concealed.

He smiled as though he enjoyed seeing you angry, as though your temper were something he had missed.

"I already told you. Your company, and that you try to..." he began, but you cut him off before he could finish.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly. You want me to go with you after appearing here out of nowhere as though nothing ever happened?"

Your voice was filled with indignation now. You stepped closer, refusing to let him intimidate you.

"I was not sitting here waiting for you to return, oh grand Daemon Targaryen," you added, your gaze fixed upon his.

Something in his expression softened, though the amusement never quite left his face.

"Your emotions have always fascinated me, ñuha ilībio," he said quietly.

The words struck deeper than they should have. You had learned High Valyrian years ago, during the time when you had been Daemon's lover, when he had made you feel as though you were the only woman in the world who mattered to him. He had taught you words in his language, whispered them to you in the privacy of his chambers, until you could understand more than he ever realized.

You had once been his.

You were not anymore.

"Perhaps I am not yours anymore, but that does not mean I stopped being a person simply because I became a prostitute," you said, your voice quieter now, though no less bitter. "You do not get to walk back into my life and expect me to follow you simply because you have decided you need me."

Daemon's smile faded.

For the first time since he had entered the room, there was no teasing in his expression. He looked at you with something far more vulnerable, something you had rarely seen in him.

"I know you hate me now," he said, his voice lower. "But I need you."

There was something almost pleading in the way he said it, and that alone unsettled you more than any threat could have.

Daemon Targaryen did not plead. Not for anyone. Yet here he was, standing before you as though whatever had brought him to this place had stripped away his pride and left him with nothing but the desperate need for you to say yes.

"What makes you believe a dragon would allow me anywhere near it?" you asked, though your resistance was beginning to falter despite yourself. There was still distrust in your eyes, but Daemon could see the curiosity beneath it, the part of you that had never truly stopped listening to him. "You have not even told me why you need me."

"You know as well as I do that your father was a Targaryen," Daemon said, his tone low and certain, as though he were speaking a truth that needed no embellishment. "That blood did not vanish because you were raised far from Dragonstone, far from court, far from everything that should have belonged to you. With the proper training, and the right dragon, you could claim one."

He took another step closer, his gaze fixed on yours, not unkind but relentless.

"And if you can," he continued, "we strengthen Rhaenyra's side in this war. Every dragon matters now. Every rider matters. We cannot afford to ignore someone with the blood to bond and the will to survive it."

You held his stare in silence for a moment, your expression unreadable even to yourself. Part of you wanted to laugh at the audacity of it, to remind him that he had vanished from your life once before and had no right to return asking for loyalty. Yet another part of you, the part that remembered him at his most convincing, found it difficult to dismiss the urgency in his voice.

"So that is what this is?" you asked at last, your voice quieter now. "You did not come because you remembered me. You came because you remembered my blood."

Daemon's jaw tightened, though he did not look away.

"I came because I remembered both," he said. "And because unlike many others in this war, you may yet prove useful to the right cause."

That should have offended you. Perhaps it did. Yet his words were not entirely a lie, and that was what made them dangerous. Daemon never wasted time on flattery when he believed a sharper truth would serve him better.

You exhaled slowly, crossing your arms as you studied him.

"Useful," you repeated, dryly. "You always did know how to make a woman feel cherished."

A faint smile touched his mouth, but it did not reach his eyes.

"Come with me," he said, and now there was less command in his voice than before, more restraint, as though he knew he could not simply order you the way he once might have tried. "If you still have any pride left, let it prove itself before a dragon. If you still have any courage left, let me see it."

And despite the bitterness that had hardened in your chest, despite every reason you had to turn him away, you found that you were listening.

"We are not doing this again," you murmured, your voice quieter now but firm enough to leave no room for misunderstanding. "Whatever we had between us has been dead for a long time, and I have no intention of breathing life into those ashes."

You turned toward the door, knowing that the moment you stepped beyond it, this would become nothing more than another encounter between a nobleman and a woman who had refused his request. You could return to your duties, and Daemon could return to the war. Whatever history had once existed between you would remain buried where you had left it.

But before you could reach the doorway, Daemon caught your arm.

You barely had time to turn before he pulled you back, sending you onto the bed. His grip closed around your wrists, holding your arms above your head as he leaned over you, his expression far too calm for the situation.

"Forget our past," he said, his voice low. "Do this for your Queen."

Anger flashed through you. You struggled against his hold, glaring at him with a fury that made the old memories feel like an insult.

"Let me go before I kill you right here and give our Queen the opportunity to find herself a new husband."

For a heartbeat, silence filled the room. Then Daemon smiled.

Of all the reactions you had expected, that was certainly not one of them. He looked almost amused by your threat, as though your fury were precisely what he had been trying to provoke.

"You always were more frightening when you were angry," he murmured, clearly far too entertained by the prospect of you trying to murder him.

"You think this is amusing?"

"I think," Daemon replied, loosening his grip just enough to make it clear that he could release you, "that threatening to kill the King Consort is a rather bold way of telling me you have not forgotten me."

Your eyes narrowed. "Do not flatter yourself."

His smile only widened. "Then prove me wrong."

"Stop trying to control me with your challenges," you said, your voice sharp with frustration. "I am not going to risk my life trying to bond with a dragon, nor am I going to give up the place I have fought to earn here simply to serve you."

Daemon's expression hardened slightly, the amusement in his eyes fading as he realized you were not simply being difficult. You had built a life for yourself in the only way you knew how, and whatever he was offering could take it away as easily as it had once taken him away from you.

"You think I am asking you to serve me?" he asked.

"Is that not what you came here for?"

"No." His answer came without hesitation. "I came because the war has already begun, and you have a choice to make before it reaches you."

You scoffed, turning your face away from him.

"I have already made my choice. I survive."

Daemon was quiet for a moment. Then he finally released your wrists and stepped back, giving you the space you had demanded.

"Then survive," he said. "But do not mistake the walls you have built around yourself for safety. Now that the war is here, it will not care whether you are a noblewoman, a dragonrider, or a woman working in a brothel."

His gaze remained fixed on you.

"And if you truly believe you have nothing left to lose, then perhaps you are the very person who should be willing to claim a dragon."

"Find someone else," you replied, your voice cold as you moved toward the door. "And if you have any respect for your own wife, do not come back here."

Daemon regarded you for a long moment. The words seemed to strike somewhere beneath his usual confidence, though he quickly concealed it.

"She and I are at odds," he admitted. "Bringing you into this would be another risk to my marriage, not a benefit."

You looked at him incredulously.

"And yet you still came."

"I did." His gaze did not leave yours. "Because I would rather take every risk necessary to help the Queen win this war than do everything in my power merely to keep my wife happy."

There was something almost bitter in the way he said it. You knew Daemon well enough to understand that this was not simply about duty. Whatever quarrel existed between him and Rhaenyra, whatever had driven him to seek you out after years of silence, he had chosen to place the war above the comfort of his own marriage.

"You have a strange way of showing loyalty," you murmured.

"Perhaps." He reached for the door. "But I have never claimed to be a good husband."

"At least you are honest about it."

The corner of his mouth lifted faintly, but this time he did not answer. He simply left.

You remained where you were, staring at the doorway long after his footsteps had disappeared. You told yourself you had made the sensible choice. You had survived without him before, and you could survive without him again.

Yet the longer the silence stretched, the more his words returned to you.

The war had already begun.

You thought of the dragons. Of the possibility that your blood might truly be enough. Of Daemon riding away from you once again, this time carrying your refusal back to Rhaenyra. You had spent years telling yourself that you wanted nothing to do with him, and yet the thought of never seeing him again felt strangely unbearable.

"Damn you, Daemon," you whispered.

You moved before you could change your mind.

By the time you reached the courtyard, Daemon was already beside his horse, one hand resting on the saddle as he prepared to mount. He looked toward you at the sound of hurried footsteps, surprise briefly crossing his face.

You stopped a few paces away, breathless from the run.

"I will try."

Daemon stared at you.

You swallowed, suddenly regretting every step that had brought you there, yet unable to take them back.

"I will try to claim a dragon," you repeated. "But if it does not work, you will never come looking for me again. Do you understand?"

His expression softened, though he made no attempt to hide the satisfaction in his eyes.

"You have my word."

"No," you said firmly. "I want more than your word. If the dragon rejects me, you leave me alone. You return to your Queen, your war and your marriage, and you never come back here asking me to risk my life for you again."

Daemon studied you for a long moment before nodding.

"Very well."

You hesitated.

"And Daemon?"

"Yes?"

"If I die trying, I will haunt you."

A quiet laugh escaped him, the first genuine amusement you had heard from him that night.

"I would expect nothing less from you."

He mounted his horse, but before he turned away, his eyes remained on you.

"Get yourself ready. I will return for you."

You blink. "Seriously?"

"Well, there were pavements involved. Crosswalks too. It was a whole journey."

You let out a big sigh, feeling very annoyed.

"You know, you're not as funny as you think you are."

"I get that a lot. Usually right before people decide they secretly like me," he doesn't seem confident or sound arrogant when he says that.

"I don't think that's going to happen." You don't want to be cruel, but honestly, your day is going from bad to worse and whatever kindness you have left is fading away.

"Ouch." He puts his hand over his chest as if you have really hurt him. "I barely survived the subway encounter and now this? Tough crowd."

You fold your arms. "Were you following me?"

His joking expression softens just enough for you to notice.

"What? No." He shakes his head immediately. "I live a couple blocks from here. This neighborhood's on my usual route."

Your eyes narrow, unconvinced.

"That's an awfully convenient coincidence."

"I know. My timing's kind of incredible."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"No." A grin spreads across his face. "I was just hoping you'd give me the benefit of the doubt."

You look back at the battered building and rub your temple.

"I don't even have enough energy to argue with you."

"I'll take that as progress."

"It isn't."

"So... acquaintances?"

"No."

"Neighbors?"

"...Unfortunately, that one might actually be true."

His smile widens. "I'll take what I can get."

You shake your head, unable to tell whether he is genuinely this persistent or simply incapable of letting a conversation end naturally.

"So... why are you here?"

He gestures toward the building behind you.

"I was actually hoping to rent an apartment."

You stare at him.

"Here?"

"That sounded judgmental."

"It was."

The two of you stand there for a beat, both looking at the building like it personally offended you.

Then he points at the bent railing near the stairs.

"Okay, I am not an expert, but I feel like that should be attached to something."

"It used to be."

"And the window?"

"It used to be glass."

He nods slowly. "I see the problem. The building and reality have separated."

You give him a flat look. "Are you always like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like you woke up this morning and decided everyone around you deserved a headache."

He gasps, offended. "I am genuinely helping."

"You have not helped a single thing."

"Emotionally, I am here for you."

That gets a reluctant huff out of you, which seems to please him far too much.

You reach into your bag, pull out the key your lawyer gave you, and stare at the lock for a moment before trying the door. It sticks halfway open with a shriek of metal.

He winces. "Yeah, that sound did not inspire confidence."

"No, it did not."

You shove the door harder, and after an embarrassing amount of effort, it finally gives way. The hallway inside smells like dust, old paint, and something you are pretty sure should not be alive. One of the ceiling lights hangs crookedly. There are water stains climbing the walls, and a pile of mail is spilling out of the mailbox slots like nobody has touched it in weeks.

He peeks in behind you.

"Wow."

You look over at him. "That was not a compliment."

"I was trying to find the right word."

"And?"

"And wow is still kind of winning."

You step inside anyway, ignoring the way your stomach tightens. "Great. So we both agree this is a disaster."

He follows you in, hands in his pockets, gaze moving over the cracked tiles and peeling paint. "Do you live here?"

"Starting soon, apparently."

"Bold choice."

"I did not exactly have a lot of options."

He gives you a quick sideways look, and for a moment the teasing eases off.

"Sorry."

The simple sincerity in his voice catches you slightly off guard. You glance away first.

"Do not apologize. It is not your fault the building looks like it lost a fight with a truck."

"Noted. For the record, I think it could still be kind of cool."

You snort. "You think this is cool?"

"I think it has potential."

"That is a generous word."

"I am a generous guy."

"You are a nuisance."

"That too."

You shake your head, then continue deeper into the hallway. One of the apartment doors hangs slightly open, and you push it wider, revealing a unit in even worse shape than the entrance. The floorboards creak under your weight. The kitchen faucet drips steadily into a rusted sink. The curtains are torn. One wall has a patch of plaster missing the size of your forearm.

He leans in the doorway and whistles under his breath.

"Okay, wow. This place is rough."

"I am aware."

"No, I mean rough rough."

"Thank you. That really clarified things."

He looks around, then back at you. "So why are you taking this on alone?"

You hesitate for just a second before answering.

"Because it is mine now."

He studies you, and for once he does not crack a joke immediately. "Your family owned it?"

You nod. "My parents did."

Something in his expression softens again, small and careful.

"That is a lot to inherit."

"It is also a lot to fix."

"Yeah." He glances around the apartment once more. "Definitely a lot."

You cross your arms. "I was about to tell you that you should go."

He lifts both brows. "Wow. We are really getting close already."

"I am serious."

"I know." He nods toward the broken kitchen cabinet. "But before you kick me out, can I ask one thing?"

"What?"

"Are you looking for a tenant?"

You blink. "A tenant?"

"Yeah." He shrugs, suddenly a little less cocky. "I have been looking for a place. Nothing fancy. Just somewhere I can actually afford without selling a kidney."

You stare at him. "You want to rent here?"

"I mean, not at this exact moment. That stove looks like it has seen things."

"Do not say things like that in my building."

"My building?"

You catch yourself, then narrow your eyes. "My potential building."

He smiles. "Right. Your potential disaster zone."

You should be irritated. Instead, you almost laugh.

"And you think I am just going to hand over an apartment to the guy who ambushed me on the subway and then followed me here?"

"Followed makes it sound creepy."

"It was at least a little strange."

"It was efficient."

You look at him for a long moment. He seems genuinely interested, though not in the way people usually are when they pretend to be helpful and are really just trying to get something out of you. He is annoyingly casual about the whole thing, but there is something sincere under it, something that makes you pause.

Then you glance around the apartment again and sigh.

"I cannot believe I am even considering this."

"That is not a no."

"It is not a yes either."

He grins. "We are making progress."

You rub your forehead. "You said you were looking for an apartment."

"That is correct."

"And you are somehow comfortable living in a place that looks like it was abandoned during the apocalypse."

"Also correct."

"You know how to fix things?"

He tilts his head. "A little."

"A little?"

"Okay, more than a little. Enough to be useful."

You eye him suspiciously. "Useful how?"

He gestures at the apartment, then at the hallway, then at the broken building outside.

"I can help you clean it up, patch things, move stuff, paint, probably wrestle a few bad decisions into submission. In exchange, I get to live here. Free."

You fold your arms tighter. "That is a pretty bold proposal."

"I try."

"You are seriously offering to help me renovate this entire building just so you can live here for free?"

He shrugs like it is the most natural thing in the world. "Well, when you say it like that, it sounds less heroic."

" It doesn't seem heroic at all from where I'm standing."

"No, but I'm going with the story where I heroically help you renovate that building."

You huff a laugh before you can stop yourself.

He catches it immediately, pointing at you. "There. That. You just smiled."

"I did not smile."

"You absolutely did."

"You are imagining things."

"I am not. I have very good eyesight."

You shake your head and look back at the apartment, trying to think this through. You need help. That much is obvious. You are one person, one very broke person, with a building that looks like it lost a war against gravity. Hiring a crew would cost a fortune you do not have. Yet here he is, a random guy from the subway, offering himself up like a solution to a problem you did not even know had one.

"Why would you help me?" you ask, more quietly this time.

He pauses.

The joke is still there on the edge of his mouth, but it does not quite make it out.

"Because," he says, "you look like you are about five minutes away from pretending this place does not intimidate you, and I respect stubbornness."

You stare at him.

Then he adds, "Also, I really do need a place to live."

That gets another reluctant laugh out of you, this one unmistakably real. He smiles like he has been waiting for that.

You sigh and glance toward the door. "You are unbelievable."

"And yet, still available."

"Do not push it."

"I would never."

You turn back to the apartment, scanning the damaged room, the crooked frame, the cracked walls, the dripping sink. It is a mess. A massive one. But not impossible. Not if you had help.

And despite absolutely everything in you that says this is a bad idea, you hear yourself speak.

"Fine."

His head jerks up. "Fine?"

You point at him. "You help me fix this place up."

He blinks. "Okay."

"And you can stay here."

He opens his mouth, probably to celebrate too early, so you cut him off.

"Free, if you actually help."

His face lights up. "That was the best part of the sentence."

"Do not make me regret this."

"I would never."

"You already said that."

"And I meant it both times."

You give him a long, suspicious look. "Do you even know your name yet, or should I keep calling you disaster boy?"

He looks offended again, but only for a second.

"Wow. First subway guy, now disaster boy. This is getting serious."

"Answer the question."

He straightens slightly, offering you a hand like this is some formal business arrangement and not an incredibly questionable deal made in a wrecked apartment.

"Peter."

You glance at his hand, then back at him. For a second, you consider not taking it. Then you do.

"Fine, Peter," you say. "Congratulations. This is our problem now."

His grin turns sharp and bright, full of mischief.

"Honestly? Could be worse."