Emma

Jack stood in the empty staff room, jaw ticked a little to the side and tighter than usual. Robby’s open backpack sat on a chair in front of his locker. The white envelope in Jack’s hand suddenly felt very heavy.

A breath left his nose as he forced himself forward, heavy steps echoing against the linoleum floor. Jack ran a thumb over the envelope as he stared at it, looking it over one last time. Hesitation hit him suddenly—his mind racing of all the possible scenarios that could happen once Robby inevitably found what Jack was about to leave for him.

Jack forced himself out of his own head, sighing once before slipping the envelope carefully and quickly into Robby’s bag. It disappeared into the bottom of the backpack; sitting heavily in anticipation.

The door swung open behind him not a second later, Robby stepping in behind him. Jack almost jumped back, but forced himself to stay where he was—not wanting to bring any suspicion into the room. His fists opened and closed at his sides, brow furrowed slightly as Robby reached his bag.

He didn’t look in it, instead he shoved his hoodie inside, zipping the bag up and swinging it over his shoulder.

“You headed out?”, Jack asked.

Robby nodded; “Won’t ever leave if I don’t get going.”

Jack tilted his head just a fraction, looking over his friend with sincere eyes.

“You don’t have to do this, you know”, He offered, worry still pulling at his chest even after their talk earlier.

“I know”, Robby says; “But it feels like I do. Might be good for me.”

Jack couldn’t argue that a break would be good for any of them. Hell, he could probably use one himself. But he didn’t argue further—even if the idea of Robby out there in his own head for so long scared him far more than he wanted to admit.

Still he stepped forward, pulling Robby into another hug.

“You remember what I told you, if it gets dark or too hard—you call me. I don’t care what time. You call me”, Jack says, ducking his head a little to catch Robby’s eyes.

Robby sighs, shoulders relaxing a little as he offers Jack a small smile; “I will.”

The two words soothed something in Jack’s chest just a fraction.

Robby steps towards the door then, palm flat against the glass be fore he stops—looking back over his shoulder at Jack.

“Three months”, Robby says; “I’ll see you then, brother.”

Then he’s gone, stepping out of the staff room and leaving Jack in the silence he’d been standing in before. His chest still stung and felt tight, he still worried. But it wasn’t as strong now, knowing Robby had actually given him an answer this time.

Three months.

The time echoed in Jack’s head.

He could handle three months. Even if it would be the longest three months of his life.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

A month and a half later, Robby found himself far out west—somewhere near Arizona. He’d been to Alberta, and found himself seeing what he wanted to see in Canada pretty quickly. He hadn’t expected to end up out west—it wasn’t in any of his plans. But something about it pulled him towards it.

The canyons and red rocks made for a peaceful and scenic drive. He’d never seen a cactus that had grown somewhere naturally in his life. He was checking things off of his bucket list he hadn’t even put on it before.

The warm hue of the bedside lamp shone through his hotel room where he sat now, reaching for his bag from the end of the bed. The room wasn’t big or glamorous; just cozy and big enough for him. A small tv sat on a dresser in front of the bed, it had a mini fridge and a nice shower. It was enough for a few nights.

Robby reached down into his bag, looking for the journal he knew he’d put in there earlier; when his fingers brushed something thin and papery.

He furrowed his brows, gripping the object between two of his fingers and pulling it out. The white envelope stared back at him, heavy and loud in his palm. ‘Robby’ was scribbled across the front in a handwriting that was all too familiar to the man.

With his heart beating faster in his chest, Robby carefully opened the envelope; pulling out the white paper inside. His breath hitching in his throat as he read the first line.

‘Dear Robby; I hope this letter finds you in a place that’s good. Somewhere you don’t feel heavy. The Pitt’s still going, your kiddos are doing just fine. We’re all managing. As I write this you haven’t left yet; but tomorrow evening you will. It scares me to death to think about you being gone so long, to be on your own. I know you’re strong enough, I know you can do it. But please, for the sake of your old best friend; do it safely.

Don’t worry about things here, don’t let your demons or the darkness control you. Let it in your heart, but overcome it. We all need you back in one piece. Safe. It won’t be easy with you gone, I’ll notice. Dana will notice. You keep everything straight on day shift.

You make me want to be better, you make me want to work on myself and not stay in the hole I created for myself so long ago. Doing this without you for the next three months will be one of the hardest things i’ve ever had to do. But i’ll do it; and I wish you were here to see me. I know that’s selfish and naive; but it’s true. You keep me grounded. It’s safer with you here. But I know you need this, I know it will be good for you. Enjoy it, let it overcome you—and when you’re ready; we’ll all be here waiting for you. I’ll be here. Stay safe, Michael. I’ll see you soon.

Love, Jack.

Ps: A new pizza place opened up downtown, I think you’d like it.’

Robby stared at the letter, eyes glossy and a smile on his face. Leave it to Jack to sneakily let all his feelings out, to comfort him when he needed it most. Robby felt himself laugh lightly at the last line, setting down the letter and reaching for his phone on the bedside table.

He fumbled with the screen a little, before clicking on the contact his thumb found like second nature. It rang twice before the call connected.

“Hey.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

Back in Pittsburgh, Jack rolled over in his bed; sleep clinging to him on a rare night off. The tv was still on in the background, offering noise instead of deafening silence. His phone buzzed on the nightstand next to him—his thumb swiping to answer in one quick movement. He didn’t need to fully look at the contact to know who it was.

“Hey”, Jack breathed.

“Hey”, Robby said back.

Jack felt his shoulders relax a fraction. It had been almost two months since he’d heard that voice; two months of wondering where Robby was and if he was ok. Wondering if he was safe.

“So new pizza place, huh?”, Robby asked.

Jack chuckled, the sound rumbling through the phone speaker; “You called me at midnight to talk about pizza?”

“Shit, I forgot it’s later there. Sorry”, Robby says; “Seemed like you were raving about it though.”

Jack shakes his head, even though Robby can’t see it.

“How’s the trip?”, He asks.

“Good”, Robby tells him; “I’m in Arizona…wasn’t on the list but, I’m glad I came.”

“Sounds like you’re having a good time”, Jack says softly.

Robby hums on the other end; “Better than I expected. I needed this more than I thought I did. Nature apparently does wonders.”

“Well I could’ve told you that”, Jack says.

He swears can hear the upturn of Robby’s lips.

“I’m ready to be back though”, Robby says.

“Yeah?”, Jack’s voice comes softly.

“Yeah”, Robby says; “Gets a little lonely out here sometimes...”

Jack shifts in his bed, rubbing at his sleep heavy eyes.

“Plus you guys will fall apart without me”, Robby jokes.

Jack laughs; “You need to come take your kids back, this whole working while the sun is up thing is really harshing my mellow.”

Robby’s chuckle comes through the speaker; “Gonna burn in the sun now, dracula?”

“I might”, Jack says.

The sound of a soft chuckle from both of them mixes together, Jack’s sigh sits heavy in his chest.

“I think you should take a trip too”, Robby finally says; “Might be good for you.”

Jack tsks once; “I think Dana would have my head if I left now.”

Robby tilts his head on the other end, balancing the phone against his shoulder as he holds the letter in his hand again.

“I’m not saying you have to leave the second I get back, just…something to think about”, Robby tells him.

Something in Jack’s chest twists at the sincerity in his friend’s voice.

“Ok”, Jack says; “I’ll give it some thought.”

Silence falls on both ends, Jack staring at whatever old rerun is playing on his tv—Robby staring at the letter in his hand.

“So Arizona, huh?”, Jack asks.

“Yeah, been here about a week. It’s nice.”

“I expect a grand canyon souvenir when you get back”, Jack says, smirk evident in his voice.

“Done deal”, Robby laughs.

Silence beats through again, Jack’s breath brushing against his phone.

“I should probably get going, got an early day tomorrow. Gonna start heading back”, Robby says.

Jack can’t help the twinge of excitement at the words.

“Yeah, I should probably get some sleep too”, Jack tells him, playing with the string on his pajama pants; “Got another shift tomorrow.”

“I’m uh, I’m gonna be upstate at the end of the month, found a nice little cabin by the lake”, Robby says; “If you wanna come join me for a weekend.”

“I’d like that”, Jack smiles.

“Oh, and Jack?”, Robby says.

Jack hums in response.

“Thanks for the letter.”

Jack feels resignation sit warmly in his chest, his lips twitching to the side; trying to hide his emotion even though nobody else is in the room.

“Anytime, brother”, Jack tells him.

A beat of silence goes by, only the sound of sheets rustling on the other end can be heard.

“Goodnight, Jack”, Robby finally says, though he doesn’t really want to hang up.

“Goodnight, Robby. I’m glad you’re safe.”

The line on the other end clicks off, leaving Jack alone in his tv lit room. But it doesn’t feel so lonely now. He doesn’t feel as anxious as he had the last two months. He feels…relief in knowing Robby is ok. Now looking forward to the end of the month and a much needed weekend away.

In Arizona—Robby lays in the hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling; Jack’s letter lying against his chest as he shakes his head softly. Thinking about what keychain from the gift shop Jack would like best. On both ends of the country, a feeling of relief and contentment washes over both attendings. Sleep comes easier and more restful than it had since the older man left for his trip. Robby happy he called; and Jack? Well he was already planning to call Robby the next day—and every day after that until they met again upstate.

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He hums, reaching for his doublet. "Wasn't this bad with Arya."

"No, she was rather tame." A smirk pulls at her lips. "Seems it is only the Stark males that are uncontrollable."

He chuckles, "You think a boy?"

She shrugs, finally turning to him. "I surely hope so. I don't know how many times I can go through with this restlessness. So you had better pray it's a son, or your litter will be nothing but girls."

"Aye, nothing wrong with a few girls," he grins widely, coming back around to kiss her.

His large hand cups her cheek, a hungry look in his eye as he leans in. Almost as if he's imagining that litter of Stark pups.

The door crashes open with the voice that they know far too well. "Papa!"

Cregan keeps a hand around his wife, his attention shifting to the door Arya now runs through, straight for him.

He chuckles, barely leaning down to pick her up with one arm like it's hardly a chore. "There is my little hunter."

She holds up doll in her hand, carved by Cregan before her birth. "I had a dream that I had a dragon that could spin in the air! It was blue and purple, and it could breathe fire, Papa!"

He chuckles, bouncing her a few times. "Is that so? Well, we had better keep the sheep far away if this dragon comes near, ey?"

"It was a nice dragon. It wouldn't do that."

Cregan looks back to his wife, exchanging a knowing look before giving his attention back to the dark headed child. "That's good then. We need more kind dragons in the world."

She kicks her feet until he gets the message to put her down. She jumps a few times, entertaining herself in the way only children can, before leaving as if nothing happened. Her handmaiden runs after her with an apologetic look.

Cregan's thumb rubs a soothing circle on his wife's lower back. "Think a boy will have as much energy?"

"That and more, Cregan Stark."

…

One of Cregan's favorite parts of pregnancy was when his wife's brain would go fuzzy, forgetting  things or looking a bit lost. It made him feel important, another way to care for her.

And it came in odd ways.

"Darling?" Cregan questions as he watches her look around suddenly. He sits up in bed, his head tilting. "You alright?"

She looked up from her vanity, as if forgetting her focus entirely. "Hm? Oh, yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You look a bit lost. Are you looking for something?" He asks carefully.

"Looking for something? No."

He nods, not accepting the answer at all but letting her believe he has. 

It grows quiet as he watches her. 

She looks back into the vanity, reaching up to fumble with her hair again. She pauses, beginning to look around as she had before.

Cregan stands this time. "What are you looking for, love? I can help you if you let me."

"My brush. It's gone." 

"It's not gone," he eases, using his most calming voice. "Let me help you."

He reaches over her calmly, picking up the brush that laid on the wooden vanity in front of her. He held it up. "This one?"

Her eyes widened. "I… I looked there."

"I know, my love. How about I brush your hair, then?"

With a confirming nod, Cregan begins to gently run their brush through the soft white locks. "Your father has written to me."

She perks up at that. "My father?"

Daemon Targaryen knew of the brewing war between the black and the greens. And although Jace had come only a few moons ago to plead for the North's help, Daemon wrote consistently to Cregan. The letters varied on topic: war plans, well wishes, hopes for his daughter. 

It was on odd love, but he did truly love his daughter. 

"He was asking about your progression. He is worried I'll have to leave you before you've given birth."

"And?"

The brushing paused, his hand stilled. "I won't leave you while you are in this state. I have given them my graybeards. I'll march with others when the time is right."

"The time is never right for war."

He sighed deeply. "I know."

The silence settles as he begins to brush her hair again. The steady motion calms him, keeps him grounded. He can't help but admire his girl. She's a pretty thing, after all.

"Have you eaten?"

She blinks a few times. "Yes."

"Mm. What did you have?" It wasn't accusatory, but rather curious. He wanted to hear more of her voice.

"I had…" her voice trails off. "I had… something. Let me think."

"Take your time."

"It was… it was bread. With the red… sauce that I like so much?"

He chuckled softly. "The jam?"

She lights up in the mirror. "Yes. Jam. Thank you."

He hums. "And what tea have you had today?"

"The chamomile. Although…"

He stops. "Yes?"

"I have really been wishing for tea that has lemon in it. Do we have that?"

He chews on his bottom lip. "I'm unsure. But I can make sure you have it if you wish."

"Is that greedy of me?"

He laughs, setting the brush down and kissing the crown of her head lovingly. "There's nothing greedy about you, my girl."

…

Arya held the bow tight in her hand, the string drawn back far, the arrow clipped in.

Cregan was knelt behind her, gently adjusting her stance and giving her proper encouragement. 

The arrow flew through the air, missing the target completely. Arya visibly deflated. 

"'S alright," her father defended, reaching for another arrow. "You can only get better. Try again."

She pouts. "'S hard," her accent enunciates. 

"I know. But we'll do it again," he says, holding out the arrow.

She takes it reluctantly. 

When it's notched, Cregan gets closer. "You're too tense." His hands rest on her little shoulders, and she relaxes. "Let go on the exhales, when you breathe out."

She gains some confidence, shoulders straightening and a deep breathe—

"MY LORD!" A yell runs over the courtyard. 

Cregan shoots up in concern, his body shielding Arya naturally. 

"Lady Stark," the servant pants. "She's begun her labors. The midwives are readying her to—"

In a steady motion, Cregan scoops up Arya, bow and arrow long abandoned and begins running up towards the castle doors. 

He speaks lowly to her. "You will be with your handmaiden while I care for your mother. And when it's all done, I'll fetch you to meet your new brother. Alright?" When he doesn't get an answer, he holds her further out. "Alright?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Good girl," he breathes, leaving a heavy kiss to her forehead before setting her down outside her room. "I love you."

"I love you, papa."

"Good. Play with your dolls and I'll get you soon."

…

Cregan's hands apply steady pressure to her hips as she leans over the bed. It's been over six hours of labor with only slight progression. 

Her hands claw at the sheets when a new contraction hits.

The midwives all coo at her whine. "Lord Stark, perhaps if we adjust her."

He blinks a bit before nodding, "right, right." He leans in, whispering softly into his wife's ear. "A new position might feel better, eh? Get you up on the bed?"

"'M not ready," she cries, cheek resting on the cool bed.

He runs a hand over her forehead, pulling back sweaty white strands. Even like this, she looks ethereal. "Don't have to be ready to give birth, love. We're only moving. No one will make you do anything you are not ready to do."

She nods, letting Cregan help her stand. His hands prove steady and strong, a rest haven for her tired body. 

Slowly, he helps her up onto the bed. She sits on her knees, her shaky arms doing little to keep her balance. 

The midwife nearest helps her begin exercises to help ease the ache in her pelvis.

He takes a moment to rest and watch his most beloved treasure.

Her pain is his own, and a part of him regrets ever asking for another child. 

This will be the last, he tells himself.

His thoughts are ruined by a heavy whimper escaping her throat. His fists clench as he moves back to her. "What's happening?"

The maester finally speaks up. "I believe it is time to push. Perhaps my Lord would feel more comfortable waiting outside?"

"No," he answers immediately. "My place is with my wife."

The maester nods, knowing there's no arguing with the Wolf.

…

A beautiful white haired boy.

Cregan had shed a few tears in happiness.

But the recovery of his wife was far from swift. She was often bedridden with a constant need for help to do the things she used to do so easily.

He stayed by her side as often as possible. But somedays, it was just impossible for the North needed him too.

With a swift kiss to his wife— who already had the needy infant at her breast when he woke— he set out to finally go hunting.

He had sworn up and down that he didn't need a break from his family, but his wife insisted.

So here Cregan was, out in the woods on his horse, following the tracks of a large boar. 

He hated to admit that he needed the fresh air. 

He dismounted his horse, leaning down to the fresh tracks. "Headed east, the burly thing."

"Aye," one of his guards agreed, "heard tale of a few herds further that way."

"Then that's where we go," he stands, straightening his cloak. 

Little did he know of what would transpire in Winterfell while he was away.

…

She had finally made it up for the day, able to walk in a steady pattern despite the constant handmaiden or guard waiting for her on hand or foot.

She held the babe close to her chest, gently swaying him to soothe his full stomach after a feeding.

Her hand ran over his soft forehead, the Targaryen hair of their little boy easing an ache in her weary heart. 

Her sweet Rickon.

She knew her father would hate it. The name was too northern for a boy like this. But she didn't care. He was the heir to Winterfell. May he reflect that.

The babe hiccuped lightly, leaning in closer to the comfort of his mother.

She laid a soft kiss to his cheek before laying him in his crib (which Cregan had insisted on building himself). 

She turned to see her sweet Arya standing in the doorway. "Hello, my love," she smiled, bending down to the girl with open arms.

Arya quickly ran to her, clutching to her tightly. 

"Everything alright, darling?" She reached up to Arya's cheeks, gently forcing her head up to look her in the eye. 

Arya was crying.

"Oh, what could ever worry my girl like this? Tell me."

With sniffles and whimpers, Arya choked out a few words. "M…men in… in my room."

Her head tilted. "There are men in your room? Your guard? Ser Armend?"

She shook her head quickly, more tears coming.

"What is this, love?" She asked, reaching down to grab her daughter's hands.

Which she now realized are covered in blood.

Her mouth dries. "Arya? W-What is this?"

Before Arya can answer, a shadow overtakes the doorway.

The Lady Stark stands, albeit with a bit of trouble from her condition. She pushes Arya behind her. "Ser? May I help you?"

The shadow shifts before stepping inside. The man is large, as large as Cregan. But he seeps the warmth out of the air in a way Cregan never could even if he tried. 

"Please, leave," she tries again. 

The sunlight from the sunrise catches the man's face. Scarred and frightening.

The man continues to move into the room, pushing the woman and child further in, with them against the crib.

And he only says one word. 

"Move."

It's deep and rumbles through the room. 

The Lady shakes her head, a bit of determination to protect her children.

He sneers, reaching up and grabbing her by the throat. "I said move," he growls in her ear before throwing her to the ground.

Arya runs to her mother's side, her eyes filled to the brim with tears. 

What was supposed to be a peaceful morning for the Starks turned to ruin.

…

Cregan returned home to sound of crying.

He dropped everything in his hands, running to the nursery despite the guards and servants that tried to speak to him.

He ran up the stairs, his body moving on autopilot to get to his wife and children. 

But something made him pause.

A handmaiden. Frantically wiping up the blood from the stone floor of his children's corridor.

"Lord Stark," she stood, bowing her head. The red cloth in her hand drips down onto the floor.

For the first time in his life, Cregan felt cold.

His eyes began to sting with tears unshed in his waterline. His bottom lip trembled. 

And he felt frozen.

"Where is my wife?" His voice barely whispered. "Where is she?"

"She's with the maester, my lord. S-She and the girl…"

"She and…" his voice trailed off, his eyes wandering back down to the blood on the floor. He didn't have to question whose blood it was. "But my son…"

The handmaiden bowed her head and excused herself, leaving him to mourn. 

Cregan dropped to his knees before the blood stains. His boy. His sweet son. 

What did he do to deserve such a harsh fate?

A guard stepped into the corridor, metal armor clashing with each step. "My lord," his deep voice echoed. 

Cregan barely turned his head in acknowledgment of the man behind him.

"Lady Stark and the Lady Arya are with the maester. They are… they are alive. But the guards stationed outside of their doors were found dead. We are unsure of the culprit—"

"Unsure?" He growled. "Who do you think would do a thing like this? To me, to my wife? And to my children?" He stood with a new anger. "I want the Green's heads on spikes," his teeth clenched, a tear slipping down. "And I shall present them to my wife as a gift."

…

Not long after, Cregan dares to go to the maester's quarters. 

There's a part of him that can't look his wife in the eye. But another part of him needs to.

Just to see that she's alive.

He rounds the corner slowly, giving a curt nod to the guards that stand at the entrance before going in.

The maester looks immediately. "Lord Stark!"

His wife's head finally snaps up. She's sat on the table, Arya asleep in her lap. Her arms are tight around the girl, afraid to let her go. Her cheeks are still red and puffy, eyes somehow still watery. 

He wastes no time, moving to his wife and daughter and hugging them tightly. 

She cries softly against his chest as Arya clings to him. "I know," he soothes. "I know, my girls." With a fresh cry of his wife, his heart shattered. He held her closer. "I know, I know, I know. Forgive me. Gods, forgive me, please."

And there, the hardened man softens with his wife and child in his arms. He doesn't cry. He can't bring himself to do it. Not in front of them. He can do it later. He can do it another time. But he was the strong one. The fortress. The Warden. And he was failing. 

…

Once his family cried themselves to sleep, he had them taken to his chamber he shared with his wife. Four guards stood outside the doors, vigilant. He couldn't let this happen again. 

But Cregan? 

…

The Lords spoke over each other, one louder than the next. They all fought and argued on what to do, who to trust. 

Cregan entered the room, and none noticed, each too bothered to see their Warden walk in. 

His eye twitched in irritation. He moved to his seat, standing behind the intimidating carved wooden seat. 

And still nothing from his most trusted lords. 

"MY SON IS DEAD."

Silence. 

He took a deep, albeit shaky, breath. HIs tone quieted. "My son… is dead. And you sit here and argue like children."

Lord Bolton was the first to speak up, "My Lord, if I may—"

"You may not," he interrupted. "You expect me to sit and listen to you? To any of you? While traitors run through my halls as thieves and murderers? Quiet."

The silence continued. And when Cregan sat down, they all slowly found their seats as well.

"Write to the King Consort," he orders one of the men. "Tell him of what has happened. Of what my girl, his daughter, has become."

Lord Mormont nods, moving to get up and do his Warden's bidding.

"I wasn't finished," Cregan says lowly. "And I want you to write to the Greens."

Bolton squirmed in his seat. "My Lord, that could be dangerous. We're still not sure if it was one of them who orchestrated the m—"

"My family was attacked and my child dead. I'm not sure of many things, but I am sure of this. Write the damn letter," he growled.

"What shall I say, sir?"

Cregan took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling before he spoke. "Tell them 'Winter is Coming.'"

…

A few weeks later, Criston Cole held the letter in his hand, his jaw twitching with concern.

"I'm not sure what to make of this, your grace," he spoke up, eyes flickering to Aegon.

Aegon's face was frozen in worry. "Well- W-What can we do? Why has he so quickly turned to her side?" He turned to Aemond, who sat at the end of the table. "Have they begun their march already?"

For once, even Aemond looked confused and a bit frightened. "We must plan for anything, brother."

Alicent stayed quiet, not telling them of the visit from Lord Larys Strong the night before— when he'd admitted what he'd done to the Starks, the men he'd paid to ruin them. She couldn't tell her sons of it. Not without exposing the trade between her and the Lord Strong.

So, she stayed quiet, picking at her fingers even as the blood ran down her nails. 

.........................................................

you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“grey like the north, steady and strong.”

he chuckled, a sound that vibrated through you, grounding you.

“strong, aye. but they’ll have your fire, i reckon. that valyrian blood of yours, it burns brighter than any hearth.”

you wanted to hold onto that moment, to bottle it and keep it close. your hand found his, pressing it tighter against your stomach, where the babe stirred faintly.

“a wolf with dragon’s blood,”

you said, your voice teasing but laced with pride.

“the north won’t know what to make of them.”

“nor will i,”

he admitted, his grey eyes softening as they held yours.

“but i’ll love them all the same. as i love you.”

the words wrapped around you like a cloak, and you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. his heartbeat was steady, a drumbeat against the howling wind outside.

but the peace shattered when the doors creaked open, a servant stepping in with a hesitant bow.

“my lord, my lady… arra norrey has arrived. she’s in the great hall.”

the name hit you like a gust of winter wind, sharp and unyielding. cregan’s hand stilled on your stomach, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. you watched him, searching his face for a crack in the mask he wore so well.

“arra?”

you asked, keeping your tone even despite the sudden knot in your chest.

“i thought she’d settled in the mountains.”

“so did i,” he said, rising to his feet.

his voice was clipped, not cold, but distant like he was already halfway out the door.

“i’ll see what she wants. rest, love. i won’t be long.”

he pressed a kiss to your forehead, firm and fleeting, before he left. and as the door shut behind him, you felt it, the first splinter in the foundation you’d built together.

arra norrey was no stranger to winterfell.

she was a ghost from cregan’s past, a woman of the north with wild auburn hair and a sharper tongue. she’d been his companion in youth, a friend, a whisper of something more before you’d swept into his life like a storm from the south. the youngest daughter of a valyrian line, your black hair and fierce spirit had captivated him, binding him to you in a way that felt unbreakable. or so you’d thought.

you didn’t mind her shadow at first. you were secure in your place, in the way cregan looked at you, in the child growing inside you. but when she swept into the great hall that day, her presence was a tempest you hadn’t braced for. she was all sharp edges and familiarity, her voice cutting through the air as she greeted cregan with a smile that lingered too long.

“it’s been years, cregan,”

she said, her tone warm, almost possessive.

“the north hasn’t changed, but you… you’ve grown into it.”

you stood at the edge of the hall, unnoticed at first, watching as he returned her smile, not the one he gave you, but something softer, older.

“you’ve not changed either, arra,”

he replied, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes you couldn’t name.

nostalgia?

affection? it clawed at you, that uncertainty.

she barely glanced your way, her focus locked on him. and as the days bled into weeks, it only grew worse. she found reasons to be near him, of bringing tales of the mountains, offering to scout with him, brushing his arm as she laughed at some shared memory from a time before you. you told yourself it was nothing. you were his wife, carrying his heir. but every touch, every glance she stole, chipped away at the steel you’d forged around your heart.

one afternoon, you watched from a window as they stood in the courtyard, her hand resting on his arm as she spoke animatedly. he didn’t pull away. he laughed, a sound that once belonged to you alone and the sight twisted something deep inside you. your hand pressed against your belly, where the babe kicked harder, as if sensing your turmoil.

“i don’t know what to do, sara,”

you confessed one evening, your voice trembling as you sat with sara snow in the quiet of the godswood, the air was bitter. sara, with her dark eyes and gentle demeanor, had become an unexpected anchor in the storm. she carried no judgment, only understanding.

she tilted her head, studying you.

“you’re his lady, his wife. she’s a memory, nothing more. why let her haunt you?”

you pressed a hand to your belly, feeling the faint kick of the life within.

“because he doesn’t see it, the way she looks at him, the way she tries to pull him back to what they had. and i… i feel like i’m fading. like i’m not enough.”

sara’s hand found yours, her grip firm.

“you’re more than enough. you’re valyrian steel in flesh, stronger than she’ll ever be. but you’ve got to tell him, not me. he’s a man, thick as they come sometimes. he won’t know unless you make him see.”

“i’ve tried,”

you whispered, your voice breaking.

“but every time i look at him, i see her shadow behind him. i see the way he softens when she speaks, and i wonder… did he settle for me? did he choose me because i was here, because i was convenient?”

sara frowned, shaking her head.

“you think cregan stark, lord of winterfell, would marry a woman out of convenience? he chose you because you’re a force, a flame in this frozen hell. arra’s a spark that’s long gone out. don’t let her make you doubt that.”

you wanted to believe her, but the doubt had taken root, spreading like frost over glass. that night, when cregan slipped into your chambers, his hands cold from the yard, you couldn’t meet his eyes. he sensed it, kneeling before you as you sat by the fire, your hands folded over your swollen belly.

“what’s wrong, love?”

his voice was gentle, but it broke something in you.

“arra,”

you said, the name tasting like ash.

“she’s everywhere, cregan. every time i turn, she’s there, pulling you away. and you let her.”

his brows furrowed, confusion etching his face.

“she’s an old friend. she means nothing—”

“don’t,”

you snapped, your voice rising despite the tears burning your eyes.

“don’t tell me it’s nothing when i see the way she looks at you, the way you smile at her. i’m your wife, cregan, carrying your child, and i feel like i’m losing you.”

the silence that followed was suffocating. he reached for you, but you pulled away, the ache in your chest too raw.

“i thought i was your fire,”

you whispered, your voice cracking.

“but maybe i’m just the shadow she’s casting.”

he stood then, his expression hardening not with anger, but with something deeper, something pained.

“you think i’d choose her over you? over our family?”

his voice was low, strained, each word deliberate.

“i’ve been a fool not to see it, how it’s hurt you. but you’re wrong, my love. you’re everything.”

you wanted to believe him, but the wound was too fresh, too deep.

“then why does it feel like i’m fighting for you?”

the words slipped out, fragile and broken.

“why does it feel like i’m begging for a place that should already be mine?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft thud that echoed in your bones. you sank into the chair, tears streaming down your face as the fire dwindled to embers. the babe kicked again, harder this time, and you pressed your hands to your stomach, whispering apologies to the life you carried, for the fear, for the doubt, for the cracks in the love you’d thought unbreakable.

the next morning, arra was gone.

you heard it from the servants first, she’d been sent back to the mountains, her horse saddled before dawn. the news came like a cold wind and unexpected, and you stood in the courtyard, watching the empty space where she’d last been. the snow crunched under your boots, your breath clouding in the frigid air.

when cregan found you, he looked weary, his eyes shadowed with something you hadn’t seen before, regret, perhaps, or resolve. he stopped a few paces away, his cloak dusted with snow.

“she’s gone,” he said simply, his voice rough.

“i told her to leave. for you.”

you stared at him, your heart pounding.

“why?”

“because i saw it, how she looked at me, how it tore at you. i’d never dishonor you, never let anyone come between us. arra… she was a piece of my past, a friend i thought i could keep at arm’s length. but i was wrong.”

he stepped closer, his hands reaching for yours, and this time you didn’t pull away.

“i should’ve sent her off the moment she arrived. i was blind, and i’m sorry.”

tears spilled down your cheeks, hot against the cold.

“i thought… i thought you regretted me,”

you admitted, your voice trembling.

“that i wasn’t enough. that she was the one you wanted, deep down.”

he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears, his touch warm despite the chill.

“regret you? gods, no. you’re the fire in my blood, the steel in my spine. i’d burn the north to ashes before i let you doubt that. arra was a memory, a ghost i didn’t bury well enough. but you… you’re my life, my heart, the mother of my child.”

you broke then, a sob escaping as you fell into his arms. he held you tight, his warmth seeping into you, thawing the ice that had settled in your chest.

“i love you,”

he murmured against your hair, fierce and unwavering.

“only you. always you.”

you clung to him, the weight of your fears lifting, replaced by the steady beat of his heart against yours. the babe kicked between you, a reminder of the life you’d built, the love that held despite the cracks. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face as snowflakes caught in your dark hair.

“i’d fight the world for you,”

he said, his voice low but steady.

“every inch of it. you’re my lady, my wife, my flame. no one else.”

you reached up, your fingers curling into his cloak, pulling him down until his lips met yours. the kiss was desperate at first, all the pent-up fear and longing spilling out, but it softened into something tender, something sure. the cold faded, the shadows retreated, and all that remained was the heat of him, the strength of you, and the promise of what lay ahead.

as the snow fell silent around you, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the frozen air.

“i believe you,”

you whispered, and it felt like a release, a weight you hadn’t known you carried.

“i love you too.”

he smiled then, the one he saved for you alone, soft, unguarded, and full of the north’s quiet strength.

“good,”

he said, his hand slipping to your belly.

“because this little one needs us both.”

and in that moment, with the wind howling and the world vast and wild around you, you knew no shadow could dim the fire you shared.

———————

Ever since you were a child, you were always told you would have to be wed. But you didn’t expect that you’d be forced to move to the North to marry Lord Cregan Stark. Growing up in the South you were used to the warmth, flowing dresses, and southern customs but now you’d have to get used to the cold, heavy furs, and a whole new set of customs.

You had heard many stories of Cregan Stark, some said that he was cruel, others said he could shift into a wolf at night, and one person even said that he drinks animal blood.

Cregan was none of those things. When you had first arrived in your carriage it was clear that you were scared out of your mind and also freezing. But the Lord of Winterfell had expected those things and had a fur cloak made just for you. He gave you time to adjust to the new environment and it was clear that your favorite place was by the fire in either your personal chambers or the library. He was also sure to give you space, he didn’t want to crowd you. You enjoyed the new found freedom that you were experiencing. In the North, it didn’t feel as though you were being watched by a hawk at all times… you were watched by a wolf at times though.

Today you had decided to explore the gardens, making sure that you didn’t sit down. You feared if you did, a chill would enter your bones and you’d freeze solid. Cregan had finished business with some of his bannermen earlier than expected and sought you out. He asked to go for a walk with you which you accepted.

“I’ve never been on a walk without a chaperone before,” you comment absentmindedly as you look at the winter flowers on your way out of the garden with Cregan beside you.

He raises a brow, “Never?”

“Never.”

“Would you like me to get one? It’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

You stop walking, making Cregan stop as well. A genuine smile appears on your face, “No…I…” it’s then that you decide to hold onto his arm and begin to walk again, “It’s just different, but a nice different.”

He grins, “We are to be wed love, in the North, a chaperone is not necessary for those who are to be wed.”

You hum, feeling the firmness of his arm under your touch, “In the South, you always need one.”

“Even if you’re to be wed?”

“Especially then,” you say, looking up at him, “I had a friend, Abi, when she was betrothed, she and her now husband were not allowed to be alone.”

“Interesting,” he comments, as you approach the Godswood, “Do you still write to her?”

“No, sadly, her husband is…well he does not like me much.”

“I find it hard to believe anyone could dislike you.”

“Well I…” you stop yourself.

Cregan looks down at you, “Now you must tell me.”

“Oh you’ll think I’m terrible…”

“Impossible.”

“It’s…” you sigh, “He isn’t a very kind man, even when he was courting Abi…he made her cry more often than not and while Abi and I were alone, while I was dabbing her tears away I couldn’t take it…”

You look up to make sure he was still listening, which he was very intently. You hesitate for a minute before continuing your story, “I called him a toad.”

“A toad?” Cregan’s head falls back as he begins to cackle.

“It was a great insult!” you take your hand off his arm so you could cross your arms across your chest.

“Aye, it was.”

“You mock me.”

“No, no,” he laughs more before placing his hands on your shoulders, stopping you both in place, “I only think it funny you thought I would spurn you for calling a man a toad.”

“In the South you would.”

“Fuck the South, this is the North, and it is in the North that you’ll be my wife. I would never be angry with you for insulting an out of line man or woman.” Cregan says.

“Even if that out of line man is you?”

“Even if that out of line man is me,” he echoes.

“But how did he find out you called him a toad?” Cregan asks after a few seconds.

“Because Abi told him, or rather, she called him one as well and then told him.”

“I see.”

“Marriage, at least in the South, is not usually good…it is rare for a woman to get a good husband. In fact, a good husband in the South is a husband that ignores his wife. I’m afraid that Abi was not so lucky, she got a cruel one.”

“I will not be cruel to you,” Cregan says softly, taking your soft hands in his rough ones.

You smile softly before a more playful look appears on your face, “Well that is one rumor disproven.”

“Rumor? You have been listening to gossip about me?” he raises a brow, “Tell me, what do the Southern Lords and Ladies say of me? Other than that I’m cruel.”

You had worried for a moment you had angered him, but when you realized he had the same playful look you laughed.

“Well, I was told that at night you switch between a man and a wolf…that…” you trail off.

“That?” he asks, and with the teasing glint in his eye, it was obvious he knew what you were going to say.

“That… as a wolf man you’d be rough in the marriage bed…”

“And you believed that one?”

“No…yes…I don’t know! I didn’t know what to expect, I suppose I still don’t know what to expect from the marriage bed,” you laugh.

“Well there is a second rumor disproven, I will never be rough with you outside of the marriage bed… and I will not be rough in it either, unless you ask for it to be.”

Your face flushes, making him chuckle, “Other rumors?” he asks.

“Well…one man in particular told me that you drink the blood of animals…”

“Oh that one’s true,” Cregan deadpans.

You freeze, “What?”

“How else do you think I maintain these rugged good looks?”

There’s silence before he begins to laugh again making you scowl.

“Oh come on! Now that’s just mean!” you push at his chest softly but he doesn’t move a bit.

“I only jest,” he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close to his chest, you let out a sigh when you feel the warmth that admits from him, “by the God's woman, you’re freezing.”

He pulls away only to unclasp his cloak so he could drape it over you even though you already wore your own. His was much larger, it touched the ground and practically swallowed you whole. You sighed contently, not only was the cloak warm from his body heat but it smelt of him as well. Pine mostly but also a touch of smoke.

Cregan admires you for a moment before scooping you up in his arms making you squeal, “Back home now, I can not have you freezing…I will show you the weirwoods another day, your hands are already so cold and I would hate for you to get cold feet.”

You laugh at the double meaning of his words as you snuggle further into his chest. It was then you decided that the North and even marriage wouldn’t be so bad, as long as it was with Cregan.

You can tell that Jack is nervous even though he’d never admit it, you can tell by the way he’s smoothing his hands incessantly against the fabric of his pants, expression darker than normal and attention set on the stage, on a fixed point never wavering. Jack never likes to admit that he’s a normal human, that he feels nervousness like everyone else because for so long he wasn’t. He couldn’t.

            He’s told you this, how showing nerves could sometimes be the difference between life and death. A steady grip on a rifle was needed when someone’s life was in the balance. But you’ve also reminded him that nerves about things like this, awards, are different. They are by their nature, self-directed things, no one else is relying on you for anything. 

            It doesn’t mean he listens. 

            “Jack,” you whisper, reaching over and lifting one of his hands, stopping his ceaseless rhythm of rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, Adam’s apple bobbing, bobbing, bobbing. “It’s going to be fine.”

            “Hm…what?” he asks you, tearing his eyes from the stage, the movement looking pained as if the stage is the only thing that really exists, the only thing holding him together, right hand still rubbing, left held in yours, palm sweaty, clammy, cold. 

            “It’s going to be okay,” you tell him, the words said slow and calm and enunciated clearly. You do not want the ringing in his ears, the one that gets worse when he’s nervous, when his blood pressure is high, to drown out what you’re telling. To drown out your assurances. 

            “I know,” he says, the words fast and bitten out, his eyes shifting, roving over your face, taking in every detail as if he’ll forget, as if he needs it all to bring himself back for a moment. “I know,” he says again, slower this time, less believing. 

            “No, you don’t,” you say and his eyes flick up from where they’ve settled on your lips, the eyes like sun through fall bare branches fixing on yours. “But it’s okay because I do. You are going to win this award and go up there and give your speech and everything will be. Okay.”

            “You just can’t stop being a psychiatrist, can you?” he asks with a broken kind of laugh, a cracking, breathy chuckle, deep and dark and bitter. 

            “Do you want me to give your speech a read through before they call the winner? You haven’t let me see it so…” you pause, but he shakes his head, simply squeezing your hand with his left, his right stilling its ceaseless motion. 

            “I’ll be okay,” he whispers, lips curving into his crooked grin as the announcer steps up to the podium, feedback crackling from the microphone, the kind of staticky sound echoing, squealing around you, fading slowly, slowly, slowly. 

            “You’ll be better than okay,” you tell him as the announcer’s voice cuts through the last of the feedback, calling up the award for PTMC Doctor of the Year. 

            “…Jack Abbot, everyone! Can we please put our hands together for Dr. Abbot, our new Doctor of the Year!” Jack is frozen, every muscle rigid, the paper on which he wrote his acceptance speech by hand crumpling in his fist. You teased him about the old-fashioned writing of his, the speech he wrote in between traumas and consults and cases, but really you loved that he wrote it by hand, on paper, the way you love to do everything. 

            “Jack, honey,” you whisper, your free hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades, shaking him awake from his frozen, dazed stupor. “You won. Go up there.” And he does, albeit shakily, his body seeming to move on muscle memory alone, programming from the time he was a toddler, learning to walk, learning control over the intricate network of his skelature. 

            He looks dashing, silver curls glinting in the gleam of the overhead lights as he steps onto the stage, his movements wooden, but the grin on his face anything but. He shakes hands with the announcer, accepting the engraved glass plaque and stepping up to the podium, setting the award on it along with his speech, his hand smoothing away the creases from his previous clenching of it. 

            “Good evening, everyone,” he says, voice low and sultry even without trying, his voice quiet but amplified without feedback, just perfect. Like him. “I would like to start off by saying thank you for the award. It means so much to me to know that I have helped people and that I have helped enough, well enough, to be…well, doctor of the year.

            “But I would not be doctor of the year without the rest of the dedicated staff at PTMC. Even if you don’t work in the ED, I rely on you for consults and beds and patient help so I would not be the doctor that I am without all of you. Most importantly, I want to acknowledge the most important person in my life,” you know it’s not you, you know what’s coming, your hand fidgeting with your engagement ring, waiting for her name even as the people around look at you, smiling, mistaken. 

            “My late wife, Regina. She was everything to me, my supporter and my partner and the one who held me when I couldn’t hold myself up. She gave me enough to keep going so that I could keep everyone else going. She was my opposite, preferring to stay at home and keep it and that’s what she did. She told me that I could save the world and she would save me so even though I’ve been missing her for years, I still want to thank her. Losing her was the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but…” you wait, thinking now. Now he’ll address you, but I was lucky enough to find love again. Not a replacement, that’s not what you are, but someone else. 

            “But I was not alone, my best friend, Robby, helped me through it. He kept me going and told me that the ED needed us, that we needed to keep it running. So, I stayed. Because he reminded me that it needed me. I also want to thank,” me, you think. Me, “Dana Evans, Parker Ellis, John Shen, Crus Henderson and Lena Handzo. My team. And again—”

            You can feel the tears in your eyes, a burn and sting that echoes in your throat, so bitter a taste that it spreads through your mouth as your throat thickens and tightens, seizes with a sob you can’t let out. Even through your blurring vision, you can see that he’s not looking at you and so you rise from the table, feeling just a bit unsteady, feet burning in the heels you bought, torso feeling squeezed by the dress’s tight bodice. The dress you bought for him, for tonight. 

            It’s a familiar pain, one that you know. The feeling of inadequacy, the one you have every time you’ve been forgotten, like you are not enough. Never enough for anyone. That’s how it’s been your entire life, but you thought Jack was different. You thought he saw you, but apparently he didn’t. 

            You didn’t even warrant a single line in his thank you address, not even thank you to my fiancée. Not even thank you to Y/N. You didn’t even warrant a single fucking mention. And that hurts. It hurts because of the mention of Regina and Robby, the way he twined the two and left you out. It’s like the four years you’ve been his have never mattered at all. What were you? Just some warm body in his bed?

            Some Barbie doll replacement for the wife he lost? Were you just something he thought he should have? 

            Did he ever see you at all?

            You don’t want to know, you realize, as you leave the hall, flagging down a taxi, your hands gripping your clutch so tightly that your knuckles feel stiff, fake, wooden. False. Your nails are bending from the way they’re digging into the fabric and the clasp, but you don’t care. Pain is good. 

            Pain is a distraction from the image in your head as you climb into the taxi, whispering your address, the vehicle screeching away from the curb, tire tracks no doubt left behind on the damp asphalt road. Pain distracts you from the image of Jack, finishing his speech and walking back to the table, sitting down, unaware of your empty spot at all.

            Almost like you were never there at all.

            You’ve forgotten how many material things you seem to acquire over a life, things you can’t let go of even when they’re stupid, silly, materialistic. Like the mug Parker got you back when you were in med school, the one with a picture of a pipe and the Freud quote Sometimes a pipe is just a pipe. They always did like to tease you about your profession. 

            Or the wooden car you picked up at a flea market when you were abroad, the one carved and painted by hand to look like a Corvette, your favourite type of car. Or, even, the stuffed snake Parker got you when you held one for the first time even though it scared you. 

            Stupid things really, but all pieces of a life. But everything Jack is staying here, like the hoodie he brought you one day when you came in for a consult, the one he gave because he noticed you were cold the last time you were down. Or the Lego bouquet of flowers that the two of you spent a rainy afternoon assembling together. 

            Those are pieces of the life you’re leaving. You wish you could say that you were just overreacting to a one-time event of being forgotten, but you’re not. Because this wasn’t the only time. 

            You knew when you fell in love that he had already been in love and you do not begrudge him that or hate that or her. You hate that he has expected you to be her. When you get home late and he asks why you weren’t already home and you explain for the millionth time that you have work, patients, your residency and he makes some off-hand comment about Regina always being home. 

            You hate the comparison that’s always drawn between you and her, her and you, but it’s so automatic, that’s the worst part. You don’t even think he’s noticing it, as if he’s just hard-wired to compare everyone to her. And you keep coming up short. 

            “What are you doing?” you hear Jack say from behind you, his voice confused, but not broken. It’s like he’s just curious and doesn’t even wonder why you left the ceremony. He just wonders why you’re packing your bags, the suitcases your parents gave you when you graduated high school. 

            “I’m leaving,” you tell him, your voice thick and pained and broken. You can hear him stepping into the room, pulling open the closet door, the wood squeaking just a little along the metal tracks. 

            “Where? Did you get called away for something?” he asks, his voice seeming distracted, the sound of him undressing, shirt unbuttoning and being pulled from his body enough to make you turn around, the ever present tears burning away, evaporating as you look at him with anger. 

            “I’m leaving you,” you tell him and that’s enough to have him pause, muscles frozen mid-flex, the shirt half-off, half-on. You can tell by the slight shift in his head, the slight cant to the right that he sees your missing clothes, missing shoes and everything else. 

            “Why?” The question sounds broken now, his voice cracking into that huskier register he has, the one you know from when he wakes you at night with screams caught in his throat, mind on rains of bullets and cold, limp hands, beeping medical monitors and all his other demons. 

            “In your entire speech,” you say, your voice flat, broken no longer breaking, “you never once thanked me. Not that I need it, but you thanked Shen and Parker and Lena and Dana and Robby and Regina, but I never warranted a mention aside from everyone at PTMC.”

            “You knew my wife was important to me,” he says, turning around, his face set like stone as you shake your head, the exhale sounding more like a whispered cry as you haul your first suitcase off the bed. 

            “That’s not the problem, Jack,” you tell him, pulling the second one, the last one, the others in your car already except for these two. “The problem is the fact that you spent time waxing poetic about Robby and the ED, but I, your fiancée didn’t get a single line. I didn’t get anything and that hurts.”

            “Then let’s work through this,” he says, stepping towards you, shedding his shirt in one fluid motion and reaching for your hands in another, “instead of just leaving.”

            “You didn’t mention a fiancée, Jack,” you whisper, wrenching your hands from his and pushing him away with both hands flat on his chest, “so you don’t have one.” The back of your throat is stinging with tears, thick and pained and your skin is drawn is too tight. 

            “No,” he says, his hands taking yours from where they’ve been resting on his chest, left ring finger bare except for a faint line from where the ring had been. “No, you’re not leaving.”

            “Yeah, I am,” you say, but he shakes his head, jaw tense as he pulls on your hands, tugging you towards him, his head canting, lips pressing against yours in a kiss that burns, a kiss that tastes like fire and pain and ash. Like everything broken. 

            “I don’t want you to go,” he whispers against your lips, the vibrations of his words echoing through you, down your spine, shivers in its wake. His hands tighten on your wrists, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough that you can feel it, feel him.

            “You don’t really want me to stay either,” you reply, pulling back and taking in the way his eyes are heavy-lidden and pupil-blown, lips swollen from the kiss, from the way it was each side taking, a sheen of saliva lingering on his bottom one. 

            “I do,” he whispers, stepping towards you, pushing you back until you fall back onto the bed, the springs bouncing underneath you as he stands over you, his hands still holding your wrists, “let me show you how much.”

            He lifts your hands to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss against each one, that look in his eyes that you know well shining through, the one that says he wants you, the one that looks for all the world, like he’s hungry. Like he’s the predator and you’re the prey. 

            “What are you gonna do to change my mind?” you whisper, that feeling of burning inside of your skin taking over because even though you feel invisible, you cannot deny that sex with Jack Abbot is perfect. Kind and gentle and rough and explosive in equal measures. 

            “You know what,” he whispers, letting go of your hands and smiling that roguish smile he has at you, the one that promises fun and good times for a little while. Until reality decides it’s time to come back, but you don’t care now. 

            You want the good times, the fun. You can handle reality’s crash-landing after. Because you’d rather not feel right now. 

            He looks at you, right now, with desire and want and love, but the burning in your body is only lust and hate. Because a part of you does hate him for the you that you are becoming. He reaches for your hands, drawing you up from the bed again, hands drifting to the hem of your shirt as he presses his lips against you, hands sliding underneath the t-shirt and up your stomach, fingers trailing across, inching towards your breasts while his lips move against yours. 

            It’s an open-mouthed kiss, desirous and destructive and the way his tongue slides against yours, the feelings it elicits, should be illegal. His hands are cool against your fevered skin, your one hand on his back, fingers digging in, the other twining in your hair, the two of you moving, shifting your back slammed against the bedroom wall. 

            “I hate you,” you whisper as he pulls back from your lips, a kiss-drunk expression on his face as he trails his lips over your jaw, the hot press of his mouth causing the ache in your stomach to grow. 

            “No, you don’t,” he whispers against you, his hips grinding against yours, hands roaming over the expanse of your lace-clad dress. When you got home, climbing out of the taxi with tear-stained cheeks, you stripped out of the dress, pulling on boxers and an old t-shirt, perfect for leaving and crying on a warm summer’s night. 

            “I do,” you whisper, your breath hitching as he sucks on the sensitive skin of your neck, the spot just below your ear, your back arching, pressing you deeper against him, wetness pooling between your legs as his hips continue to move against you. “But I also love you.”

            You’re rewarded for that admission by a pinch of both your nipples, the ones covered only by the thinnest expanse of lace. 

            “Good girl,” he whispers, pulling back from you, hands sliding back down the expanse of your stomach, fire burning in your skin with every trail of his fingers on your skin. “I don’t like it when you lie.” You hate the way your body reacts to his good girl, the way he says it in that raspy voice, his hands now at your t-shirt hem, pulling it up in slow drags along your body. “Arms up, baby girl.”

            You hate how you listen, lifting your arms as he lifts the shirt up and over your head, along your arms, tossing it aside, his hands on your waist, hot and firm and possessive. His pupils expand even more when he takes in your body, in your breasts, a sight that every time seems to short circuit him. 

            That’s the worst part of this losing because he likes you, he just can’t love you. He sees your body not your soul and you can’t stay with someone who is only a spark and not a fire. A bonfire over a blaze. In truth, you want water over fire, something essential and lasting and life sustaining. 

            His mouth is hot on your chest, the touch bringing you back here and now, the way he trails his mouth across the lace, pressing kisses along it as your breath hitches, breathing changes and a throbbing begins to take place with vigor between your legs. His hands trail up from your waist to your bra, unhooking the strapless number, the material falling away in the space between one breath and the next, his mouth instead on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting at his touch. 

            “God, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your breasts, eyes flicking up to you, dark and pupil blown, “the things you do to me.” One hand is steady on your waist, but the other dips below the waistband of your boxers (his boxers, actually, ones he gave you, but they were too comfortable not to keep in the leaving) finding your folds, stroking them, taking in the feeling of your pussy, your arousal. 

            “Fuck,” you breathe as he dips one finger between them, the tip of it touching your entrance, pressing against it but never entering, rather teasing you with the pressure and the presence.

            “Do you like that?” he whispers, thumb straying to your clit, circling it and pressing on it at the same time. 

            “I hate you,” you hiss at the same time that he pushes a singular finger into you, the stretching feeling not too much, but he curls his finger inside, dragging it along your walls before pulling back out and pushing back in, the sound of skin in slickness dulled by the layer of cloth still covering you. 

            “Really, sweet girl?” he asks you, his lips back on your neck. “Because it doesn’t feel like you do.” He plunges two fingers into you, his other hand rising from your waist, trailing along the side of your body, your ribcage, his fingers drumming a rhythm on your skin as he inches towards your breasts. 

            He flicks your nipple as he plunges a third finger inside of you, curling and drawing out, curling and drawing out, curling and drawing out, the coil in your stomach drawing tight, tight, tight as his thumb circles your clit in lazy gestures. 

            It’s when he puts four fingers inside of you, curling one and pulling out, followed by another and another, the last one dragging lazily down and out of you that you can feel your orgasm coming, can feel it when he slips his index finger back in, applying pressure to your clit, just enough to have you shattering around him, his smile growing as he waits out your aftershocks before withdrawing his fingers and popping them into his mouth, the mouth that was previously on your neck, the one that has left hickeys on your skin for sure, the mouth curving into a smirk as he releases his fingers with a pop. 

            “Don’t think you hate me, sweetheart,” he whispers, hands bracketing you on the wall as he leans forwards, aiming to give you a kiss, but you turn your head, removing your hands from where the nails have dug into his back, the back of his neck, planting them on his chest and pushing him back and away until he falls onto the bed. 

            “I do,” you whisper, kneeling before him, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs, your hands going to the waistband of his pants where a noticeable bulge sits. “I just like fucking you more.” You help him out of his pants and boxers, his lower half free, cock up, hard, a vein on the underside prominent as your hands find his prosthetic, releasing it and pulling it off, setting it aside. 

            “Sweet girl,” he whispers, watching as you stand, stepping out of the boxers, letting them fall to the floor, now as naked as him. You step over, lining yourself up with the head of his cock, teasing him as you move back and forth, his hands flying to your hips, gripping them tight. He makes a small noise, one from the back of his throat as you move back and forth, back and forth, teasing him. “Stop teasing me.”

            “Why?” you ask him, your voice breathy as you stop, just hovering over him. “How badly do you want it?”

            “Badly,” he growls, pushing down on your hips, pushing you down on his cock. You give a surprised cry as he pushes you down, down, down until you’re sitting on him and he seems to be everywhere, stimulating every inch. “You started this game,” he whispers, leaning forwards, his lips inches from your own, “now finish it, sweet girl. Ride me.”

            And you do, pushing up, swirling around the tip before sinking back down. He lets out a noise, another one from deep in his gut, a dark, deep sound that echoes through the room as you build a steady rhythm, up, swirl, down, over and over. 

            “That’s it,” he praises. “Good girl.” You hate how much his words effect you but it is what it is and you like how he is as you ride him, the noises he makes, the praise he gives, the way he kisses your neck and your breasts and your lips. The way his eyes darken even more when he takes in the sight of you bouncing on him, using him like his good girl. 

            It’s not long before your release is close, your legs shaking from the pose, from the feelings. You know that Jack is close too, can tell by the way he groans, his head falling forwards into your chest. “Keep going,” he urges, his hands on your hips, helping you up and down, but then you’re orgasming, your walls clenching once hard around him, enough to pull his own from him too, his cock twitching inside of you as your walls flutter with the aftershocks of your release. 

            “I finished the game,” you whisper, your voice tired but teasing as he leans forwards, pressing a soft kiss against your lips, helping you up and off of him. 

            “That you did,” he replies, watching as you walk around, legs shaking as you fall beside him in the bed. Already you can feel reality crashing into you, but you’ll let Jack think he’s won. That you’re staying, but you can’t. 

            You wait until he falls asleep, his breathing heavy and even and then you climb from the bed, dressing quietly, taking the last two suitcases and slipping from the bedroom, from the house, out to your car. 

            You dump your suitcases into the trunk, climbing into the driver’s seat, your phone waiting for you, a text from Parker glowing on the screen. 

Parker: Your room’s waiting, bestie Parker: Come home.

            “Jesus!” you whine at the bright white light shining through your curtains. Your suspiciously drawn-back curtains. “PARKER!”

            “Get out of bed,” they say, arms crossed and lips pursed as they look at you. You know what they see. Someone who hasn’t gotten out of bed all weekend, who changed their number just to avoid seeing messages from their ex. Someone who is falling apart because they weren’t enough. 

            “I don’t wanna,” you whine, pulling your comforter over your head, but they’re there already, pulling it back off. 

            “We’re going to the farmer’s market,” they tell you. “And if I have to drag you kicking and screaming from this bed into a shower and into clothes, I will. Do not doubt me. I have dealt with worse.”

            “Why can’t you let me mourn in peace?” you grumble, pushing yourself up to sitting as they sit down on the edge of the bed, holding out one hand to you which you take, their palm calloused against yours. 

            “Because you’re not mourning,” they say, “you’re self-deprecating, okay? You may not have been enough for that fucker Jack Abbot, but you are more than enough for me, okay? You’re my best friend and I don’t hang around with losers.”

            “You hang out with Shen,” you point out, your eyebrows rising and they roll their eyes, standing up from the edge of the bed, pulling you along with them. Your feet land on the cold hardwood floor, the rough unsanded finish scraping against the soles of your feet. 

            “He’s not that bad,” they tell you and you shrug. 

            “Just saying.” They roll their eyes at you, their hands going to your shoulders as they peer at you, their gaze unrelenting, warm, steady and familiar. 

            “You. Are. My. Best friend. And, you know what? That is not nothing, that is everything, okay? You are more than enough for me so let me be enough for you right now, okay?”

            “Okay.”

            “There’s an ED consult,” Nurse Gia says, knocking on your office door, you look up from your computer, from the file open. 

            “You know I’m not taking those,” you tell her and she sighs, scuffing one sneaker on the carpeted floor. Only Psychiatry has carpet floor and you will never understand why. Blood flows out of everyone, this floor is no exception to that rule. “Pass it onto Caleb.”

            “You know,” she says, thick black eyebrows arched as she takes a step backwards, out of your office, “you tell your patients to confront their demons, yet…have you?” She wiggles her brows and you shake your head at her. 

            “Go nurse the patients!” you tell her, but your voice is teasing and she laughs as she closes your door, the consult onto Caleb while you sit at your desk, feeling the familiar, ever-present thickness in the back of your throat. 

            You have felt hollow, relentlessly, endlessly hollow since you left Jack, since you left him when he was sleeping, the rings left on the dresser, right on top with the note, the one where you told him sorry. The one where you told him that you felt like you were never enough for him because you were not Regina. You were not a stay-at-home wife. You were a career woman, building her life, her name in psychiatry and you felt like that was not right for him. The one where you told him that you needed to feel seen, something you had never felt before. 

            The one where you told him that you wanted to feel enough for someone and you weren’t for him. 

            You feel hollow though, that loss of him even knowing that it was right, that now you can heal. 

            You just wish it didn’t have to hurt so bad.

            You see a glimpse of Jack’s back in the parking lot and you duck down, breathing fast as you crouch behind your car, heart rate elevated, ears ringing from the increase in your blood pressure. Just the sight of him is enough to hurt you. 

            You wish it didn’t, but it does and as your breathing continues to stay fast, heart rate elevated, you realize that you’re crying, tears slipping down your cheeks, silent tears, silent cries. 

            “Oh, babes,” you hear Parker and you look up at them, noticing the hand they hold out to you, one which you take. “Go home.”

            “I was—going to,” you hiccup and they draw you against them in a tight hug, tears falling on their black scrubs.

            “You saw him, right?” they ask and you nod against them, their arms tightening in response. “Well, fuck him, okay? Not actually,” they say, drawing back, holding you at arm’s length, your tears having dried and stopped now. Breathing even. 

            “I’m good,” you tell them and they nod. 

            “You’re better than good,” they say and you can feel a smile growing on your face, cutting through your sadness as you say, “hell yeah, I’m badass.”

            “Kicking ass and taking names, right?” they ask, holding out a pinky for you and you respond, linking your pinky with theirs, the two folding down. 

            “Right,” you tell them, “kicking ass and taking names.”

            “You up for Backrooms?” you call out to Parker and they step out of their room, dressed in a Black Sabbath concert shirt the two of you found when thrifting and plaid pj pants—a matching outfit to yours. 

            “Does it look like it?” they ask, striking a dramatic pose, one hand waving down their body. 

            “Hell yeah!” you reply, holding a hand out which they slap, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the house, a stinging, burning feeling in your hand. “That was at least an eight of ten,” you say.

            “I would go a solid nine on the high-five scale.”

            What can you say about this year without Jack?

            Well, it was long and hard and painful, but you’re here, you’re present. You hear his name and see his back and you don’t cry anymore. 

            And yesterday…yesterday you noticed the sunrise. 

            It’s hard, but it’s not worthless.

            You hate award ceremonies, you truly do and you would not be here if you had not been nominated for the same award that ended with your heart in tatters one year ago today. But this time, you’re not wearing a dress, rather a dark emerald green suit, Parker as your guest in a matching suit, navy to your emerald green. 

            “And now,” the announcer says, as the applause for the last award dies down, “our second last award of this evening, PTMC Doctor of the Year. This year the award goes to a doctor who is strong and smart and willful. She is known for her recent publication on the systemic prejudice in the healthcare sector against those with schizophrenia. Please give a warm round of applause for Dr. Y/N L/N!”

            You rise from your seat, a little light-headed as you smile, waving at people, walking up the stage to the sound of applause, your acceptance speech tucked into your suit jacket pocket. You shake hands with the announcer, their palm sweaty against yours; you accept the plaque and then you stand at the podium, pulling your speech from the inside pocket and laying it flat on the wooden surface of the lectern. 

            “Thank you, everyone. It means so much to be recognized tonight for my achievements in a room full of my peers who are just as accomplished, if not more, so thank you for this honor. I truly did not expect to win so my speech is a little bare bones, I apologize. I want to thank everyone at PTMC, doctors, nurses, social workers, all the staff. I want to thank my colleague, Dr. Caleb Jeffereson in particular for balancing a floor with me, which I do not believe is easy. And I want to thank my best friend, Dr. Parker Ellis, who refused to let me fly solo to this and insisted I needed to use that plus one ticket. Thank you, bestie, for never letting me fly solo. Um…yeah, thank you, everyone!” You wave again, taking your award and stepping off stage, feeling the burn of eyes upon you, eyes the colour of sunlit fall bare branches. 

            “Now,” the announcer says, their voice echoing behind you as you sink back into your seat at the table, double high-fiving Parker once you’ve set the award on the table, “the final award of the evening. The award of Most Integral PTMC staff member. This award goes to a very familiar face, known for winning Doctor of the Year just last year. Let’s give a round of applause for Dr. Jack Abbot everyone!”

            You can feel the blood drain from your face, throat tightening at the sound of his name, but you are better, you are better. Seeing him will not hurt you like before. Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

            You watch him with blurry vision, tears just lining your eyes, just a hint if you look down, enough to make his form blurry until he steps out onto the stage and you blink your eyes, blinking away the last of the pain, the last bit of tears, two slipping down your cheeks, framing from each eye. Your tears the frame for the portrait of your pain. 

            “Hello, everyone,” you hear him say and god, his voice is just like you remembered it. Deep and dark, but light in a way too, the sound singing in the marrow of your bones, that masochistic part of yourself that doesn’t mind being invisible. 

            Honestly though, they say psychiatrists become psychiatrists because they’re broken inside and trying to fix themselves and yeah that fits you. You so badly want to fix yourself and you had thought you had plastered up all your cracks, but the sound of his voice is enough to have them breaking all over again. 

            “Last speech I gave, I messed up. I forgot someone who meant everything to me and it was the last straw for her and she…well, she left. And I can’t blame her. I did at first when I woke up alone, but in her absence, I realized that I messed up because she felt like she was never enough for me because I forgot to tell her something. 

            “I forgot to tell her that she is ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. I lost her because I forgot to tell her that, I forgot to tell her that I saw her, every inch of her, that I still do. That I still wait for her and always will because no one has fit me like her,” you lift your gaze from where you’ve had it trained on the tablecloth to meet his eyes, those sun dappled branches in brisk autumn light. It’s steady and warm and clear and you know. Oh, you know, he’s telling the truth. 

            “I forgot and I will regret it every day of my life but this award is only because of her. So, every thank you I have goes to her and only her. Always and forever. Thank you.” He steps back, confused applause sounding as he steps back, eyes never once leaving you. 

            And as you leave that night, walking with Parker, away from the man who left your heart in tatters but who is also repairing those same cracks, you feel more confused than ever.

            “Jack Abbot!” you hiss, marching across the ED floor towards where he stands at the nurse’s station, his cocky grin set on his face as he watches you march towards him, heeled boots clicking on the tiled floor. You love psychiatry because you don’t have to wear scrubs, rather whatever you want, shoes always announcing your presence. 

            “What’s up, sweet girl?” he asks and you grab his arm when you reach him, electricity sparking across your skin at the contact. You pull him off to the side, into a small nook, jabbing a finger into his chest. 

            “I hate you,” you tell him, but your words lack the conviction, rather sound like a wish. His words of ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough having rung through your head all night. 

            “No,” he whispers, stepping closer, the cocky smirk fading away to a pensive, mournful expression as he reaches one hand beneath his scrubs, fingers hooking on a chain, “you don’t.” He pulls the chain from underneath his scrubs, revealing the ring you left behind, the simple, classic one with the diamond set in the solid gold band. 

            “You’ve been wearing that all year?” you ask him, your voice squeaking a little as he lets the ring hang there, his hands finding yours, fingers interlacing. 

            “Yeah,” he says, “because I’ve been waiting.”

            “For me?” you clarify and he nods, a soft smile breaking across his face as he steps closer to you, his forehead pressing against yours. 

            “Always for you,” he whispers, “because you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. Now, can we try again?”

            “Yeah,” you whisper, looking into those eyes that you love, eyes that look at you like they see you. “I think so.”

            “…I vow,” he says, “to always remind you that you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough every day. I vow to never make you feel unseen. I vow to listen when you speak because you’re everything. Because you understand me. I vow to you the rest of my life.” You can’t fight the tears that slip down your cheeks as you smile, laughing just slightly, a watery laugh that makes him smile at you, tear tracks on his own face from when he watched you walk down the aisle in your dress. 

            “Then,” Robby says, his voice thick and happy, “if there are no objections, I now pronounce you woman and husband.” You can’t help but laugh at Robby’s word choice, stolen from Enola Holmes 3, the movie you made him and Jack watch when it came out. “You may now kiss the husband.”

            And you do, stepping forwards and placing your hands on his stubble covered cheeks, drawing him down into a kiss.

            And this kiss doesn’t taste like fire or ash or burning. It tastes like love and light and second chances. The kind that work. 

            “God, I love you, sweet girl,” he whispers when you pull back and you smile at him, a happy one. 

            “Ditto, Jack.” And in this moment, with the way he’s looking at you, you know that he’s been speaking true. 

            Never again will you feel never enough. 

He smiles. That shy, lopsided thing that doesn't belong on Bobby's face because Bobby never smiled like that; Bobby's smiles were teasing and self-aware and loaded, and this one is open and unguarded and a little bit terrified that you won't like it.

“You do? You like it?”

You lift your eyes toward him, and smile. “I love it.”

The yellow warms toward gold around you. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.

You hold out for months.

That's the part that's going to eat you alive later, the part you'll turn over and over in your head. The part where you knew. 

You knew what kissing him did to you from the first time, that clumsy mortifying moment in the blankets when he'd come in his shorts and watched himself discover his new body. The look on BB’s face had carved itself into you like a brand.

You knew because kissing BB isn't kissing. Kissing BB is a substance. It enters your bloodstream through the point of contact, and within thirty seconds, you can feel it spreading. Warm and heavy and stupid, a fog that settles behind your eyes and at the base of your spine. 

The longer his mouth is on yours, the worse it gets. Or better. You can't tell anymore which of those words applies. The two collapse into the same sensation when BB is touching you because his version of pleasure isn't built on the human axis where good and too-much are different categories.

His skin is cool when he isn't touching you. That's one of the things that took getting used to. The temperature of him. His hands when they find your wrist in the dark, his chest when you lean against him in the nest. Cool like marble or water from a deep well. 

There's warmth underneath the surface, banked and dormant, waiting, but it only comes alive when he touches you. The warmth bleeds through contact, drawn out by your body heat, rising to meet you and then surpassing you. And once the warmth is going, it does things. It sinks. It reads. It feeds information back to him through his palms, fingertips, and mouth, a living scan of your nervous system in real time through his skin.

So you hold out. You let BB kiss you sometimes. Short, careful, your hand on his chest when it threatens to become more. His immediate compliance every single time, pulling back to press his forehead to yours. Just breathing even though he doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, hands shaking on your waist, always mortifyingly patient.

For months after the first kiss. Just that.

“Do you dream?” BB asks one evening, his fingers working over your hair. 

You're lying with your head in his lap. The yellow hum is low tonight, and the ghost-flowers on the wallpaper have settled into stillness for once.

“Sometimes,” you tell him honestly.

“What about?”

You almost say Bobby. You catch it in your teeth. “Home, mostly. The apartment. My side of the bed.”

BB's fingers pause over your hair for half a second. Then they resume, slower.

“Do you miss it?”

You think about that. Really think about it, while his cool fingers stroke over your hair and the hum fills the silence with its tuneless drone. Do you miss it? Do you miss the apartment where Bobby's camera equipment colonised every surface? Do you miss the kitchen where he stopped looking at you? Do you miss your side of the bed, which was your side because Bobby took the other side and the middle and left you the edge.

“I miss what it used to be,” you say quietly. “Before it went bad.”

BB's hand settles on your temple. Warm now, from the contact with your skin. His thumb traces the curve of your eyebrow.

“Tell me about before,” he says softly.

Before was good. That's the thing, the thing that makes the after so unbearable. Before was so good.

Bobby in the early months was a revelation. Bobby with his camera aimed at you across a crowded room, lowering it to grin at you with his whole crooked face, saying the light's doing something crazy on you, babe and meaning it with every fibre of his skinny sun-browned body. 

Bobby who kissed you in parking lots and edited footage with his head in your lap and rolled joints on the kitchen counter while telling you about his day in that low lazy drawl that made your stomach flip even when he was talking about lens caps.

Bobby who touched you like you mattered. Hands on the small of your back in a crowd, arm around your shoulder or waist, always. Fingers laced through yours during movies. His mouth on the back of your neck while you were doing dishes, warm and idle, a press of lips that said I'm here and I like being here. Bobby in bed in the early days, Bobby with his chain tangled between your bodies, looking at you with those pale eyes and saying come here, baby, let me feel you with a softness that undid you every single time.

The good was so good it spoiled you for everything that came after. 

The good taught you what Bobby was capable of, what he contained, and that knowledge made the withdrawal so much worse. Because you knew. You knew he could be tender. You'd seen the inside of him, the soft unguarded core he showed you, and then he'd locked the door.

You'd tried to get back in. That's the part that hurts the most now. 

You'd asked him what was wrong. You'd asked him if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, if he needed space, if you'd done something. You'd tried every key you could think of, and the door stayed shut. And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you could hear him on the other side. You could hear him breathing. He was right there, your Bobby, the real one, the one who filmed you sleeping because the light was good, and he wouldn't open the door for a reason you didn’t know.

That hurt more than the silence. More than the grunting. More than the nights he turned his back. Because the silence you could have explained away. You could have told yourself he'd changed, that the tenderness was a phase, that you'd imagined the depth of it. But you hadn't imagined it. You'd been inside. You'd touched the walls. And knowing what was in there and being locked out of it was a cruelty so singular it felt designed.

You tell BB some of this. Not all. You tell him about the parking lot kisses and the kitchen touches and the way Bobby used to look at you through the viewfinder. The way he hugged you with his whole body every time he saw you, nuzzling into your shoulder with a muffled sigh. You tell him about the door closing. BB listens with his head tilted, his fingers still in your hair, his pale eyes fixed on your face with that total, unwavering attention.

“He had all of that,” BB says quietly when you finish. “And he put it behind a locked door and won’t even tell you why.”

“Yeah.”

“And you kept knocking.”

You force a breath over the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”

BB is quiet for a long time after that. His thumb traces your temple. The yellow walls warm around you, trying to bleed toward gold again.

“I don't have a door,” he says softly, quietly. “I don't know how to build one. Everything I have is right here. You can see all of it.”

You close your eyes, and the purr starts low in his chest.

You don't say anything. But you reach up and press his hand against your cheek, keeping him there, close. BB's breath catches, and he holds perfectly still, and the yellow turns gold.

You hold out for months, and the guilt sits inside you like a stone. 

Guilt for wanting it. Guilt for not wanting it enough. Guilt for thinking about real Bobby while BB's mouth is on you, and guilt for not thinking about real Bobby enough. Guilt for the fact that some traitor part of you has stopped flinching at BB's touch and started anticipating it, leaning into it. 

You go to bed with your back to him and wake up curled into his chest, because your body made a decision before your conscious mind could.

And you didn't leave. 

That's the thing you can't explain to yourself, the thing that damns you. 

You didn't leave because after what happened with Bobby, after months of being invisible in your own space, being wanted felt so good. Being needed felt so good. BB looked at you every single day like the sun rose and set in the shape of your body, and that kind of attention was a drug more potent than anything his kiss could do to your bloodstream. 

You were terrified of how much you liked it. You were more terrified of losing it. 

The nest also changed. You don't remember when. You'd been asleep, and BB had been out, doing whatever BB does when he leaves the territory, and you'd woken to find your apartment.

Not exactly. A yellow-tinged approximation of it, laid overtop the warm patch of carpet. The blankets rearranged into a bed with your bedspread from Santa Clara, the one with the faded blue flowers. The pillows you'd left in the apartment when the wall took you. The little side table with the lamp from the yard sale in Sunnyvale. Even the pattern of the wallpaper had shifted, not away from yellow but around it, a suggestion of the flowered paper you'd hung in the bedroom, ghosted through the buttercup background.

BB had been sitting cross-legged beside the nest when you woke, watching your face for the reaction, hands twisted together in his lap. He'd looked at you with such raw nervous hope that you'd started crying before you understood what he'd built.

“I heard you,” he'd said, voice unsure, small. “You said you missed home. So I—” He gestured at the room, his hands shaking. “I don't know if I got the pattern right. I only saw vague glimpses in your mind. I could change it, if it's wrong.”

You'd crawled into his lap. Buried your face in his neck. His cool skin had warmed slowly under your cheek.

That was weeks ago. Months ago. Time is soft here. It's before you started noticing the flowers on the wallpaper moving when you weren't looking directly at them. Before you noticed the lamp doesn't have a cord. Before you noticed that when BB is happy, the yellow warms toward gold, and when he's worried it cools toward green, and the whole territory has become an extension of his mood.

None of it scares you the way it should. That's the part that actually scares you.

“Baby?”

BB is sitting on the edge of the bed. He's holding a blanket he found somewhere, a thick, dark green wool one, and he's folding it with careful absorption. His long fingers crease the edges. He’s already gazing at you when you glance his way. His eyes are Bobby's blue today, human-shaped, the entity safely tucked away behind the mask.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?” he asks carefully. 

You nod. “Of course.”

He visibly hesitates, his head lowered. “Do you want to go home?”

Your chest tightens. “BB—”

“You don't have to answer.” He folds the blanket smaller. His voice is steady, and his hands are also steady, but neither of those things is true underneath. “I just… I've been thinking about it. About whether you're staying because you want to or because you don't know how to leave. And I want, baby, I want you to know that if you—” He swallows. “If you need to go... I won't…”

He stops, staring at the blanket in his hands. 

“I won't stop you,” he finishes, practically choking the words out. 

You gaze at him. At the green blanket folded in his lap. At his hands, which are familiar and gripping the wool hard enough to dimple the fabric. At his face, which is Bobby's face and isn't, which is the face of a thing that heard you crying through a wall and built itself a body to hold you and is now offering to let you go because it loves you more than it loves having you.

“I don't know,” you say honestly. “I don't know, BB.”

He nods, keeps folding. You sit together in the quiet, and the yellow is the palest green you've ever seen it, almost grey, and BB's hands are shaking slightly around the blanket, and he's pretending they're not.

That night you lie awake in the nest that looks like your old apartment with BB's arm across your waist, and you think about going home. Really think about it. You think about the apartment in Santa Clara and the kitchen and your mug on the drying rack and your shoes by the mat. You think about Bobby. You think about whether Bobby is sitting in that apartment right now, or if he moved on without you there to nag him.

You think about going back to him, walking through the wall and climbing the stairs. Finding him. And you try to feel what that would be like, the reunion, the homecoming, and what you feel is—

Grief. You feel grief. 

Because going home means going back to Bobby, and going back to Bobby means going back to a man who locked the door. Who might open it now, might fling it wide, might weep and hold you and swear he'll be different. But you've spent months on the other side of that door. Months knocking. Months making yourself smaller and smaller to fit through the crack underneath. And even if Bobby opens the door now, you know what it's like when it's closed. You know the sound of his back turning. You know the weight of his indifference. You carry it in your bones.

The relationship was over months before you left. You know that now. The wall in Clark's basement didn't end your relationship with Bobby. Bobby ended it. Quietly, one day at a time, one turned back at a time, and you'd stood in the wreckage pretending it was still standing because the alternative was admitting you'd been alone for months in a room with someone who used to love you.

You're only here because you're finally letting the ghost of going home go.

Because letting BB in means choosing the yellow. Choosing the hum. Choosing a place with no sky and no weather. No yard sales on El Camino with golden retrievers named Mango. Letting BB in means letting the real world go, and admitting that the girl who fell through the wall in Clark's basement is not the girl sitting in this nest. 

That girl was going home. That girl was holding on. 

This girl has let go of everything except the creature beside her, and she doesn't want to pick any of it back up. 

It means letting Bobby's ghost go, too. 

The real one, the Bobby who exists in Santa Clara, the one who grunts at your goodbyes, that Bobby has been a ghost to you for longer than BB has been real. And the Bobby you've been holding onto, the candle in the draft, the one who filmed you sleeping and called you my girl, that Bobby is a memory. 

A beautiful, aching, preserved memory of a man who doesn't exist anymore. 

Loving a memory is not the same as loving a person. A memory can't change. A memory can't hurt you, can't grow, can't learn. A memory just sits in your chest, glows, and keeps you warm, and slowly, slowly starves you because you're using it to feed a hunger it was never designed to fill.

BB is not a memory. BB is real. He’s flawed in his own inhuman ways, learning in real time, and holding you right now, his cool arm across your waist, his purr a low vibration you can feel through the mattress. BB is the one who brought you a red button because your mom had a red mug years ago. BB is the one who offered to let you leave even though it would destroy him.

You love him. Not as a replacement. Not because he wears the right face. You love the thing behind the face. The thing that has no door, that never had it.

You turn over. Press your face into BB's chest. His arms tighten around you at once, his skin warming under your cheek.

“I'm staying,” you tell him in a tender whisper.

BB goes still.

“You—”

“I'm staying, BB,” you tell him again, pressing closer, tucking yourself close. “I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.”

The purr cracks. Breaks apart. Reassembles into something so deep and so full it vibrates in your skull. BB's arms crush you against him and his face buries in your hair, and he's shaking, shaking, his cool body warming everywhere you touch him, and the yellow floods gold. 

The whole room, the whole level, gold as sunlight, gold as the thing inside his chest that has waited longer than time itself for someone to say those exact words.

You kiss him the next day.

He's beside you in the nest, cross-legged, telling you about a level he found that loops back on itself, and you're half-listening, more focused on the shape of his mouth than the words coming out of it. You lean over and press your lips to the hinge of his jaw. Just there. A small, warm press between his ear and his chin. 

BB falters mid-sentence. A stutter, a swallow, his eyes flicking to you and away.

“—and the walls change texture right where it loops, which is, um. Interesting because—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. Lightly. Barely there. And your hand finds the back of his nape.

BB stops talking.

His neck is cool under your palm. Smooth, the tendons shifting as he swallows. Your fingers curl into the short hair at his nape. The change is immediate: his skin warming under your touch, temperature rising from mild to warm in three heartbeats. 

“Baby,” he says carefully, his voice dropping half an octave. “What are you—”

You kiss him again. On the mouth. Full. Your lips part against his, and you make it different. You don't hold back. You don't keep your hand on his chest as a brake. You kiss him with your whole body leaning into it, and your hand on his nape tightens, pulling him closer.

BB makes a sound against your lips. Small. Startled. His hands come up to your waist on instinct, and you can feel them warm against your skin in real time, heat blooming where you're connected. He's bracing himself for the pull-back. He's already preparing to be patient about it.

You press forward instead. Your weight shifts, your knee coming up onto the blankets, your body tipping into his. BB's hands tighten on your waist. You can feel the exact moment he realises you're not stopping, his fingers digging in, his breath hitching, his mouth opening wider for you. And you push him.

Gentle but firm, both hands on his chest now, and BB goes where you push him. 

His back hits the wall. The ghost-flowered wallpaper presses against his shoulder blades, and you're in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, chest against his chest. You kiss him fully. Mouth open. Tongue sliding against his. Your fingers in his hair and your hips pressing down against him and every last ounce of restraint you've been maintaining for months dissolving into the heat flooding through you.

The heat. The fog. It hits you the second you stop fighting it. Months of buildup pouring through. Your head swims. Your skin goes electric. BB's warmth blazes against you, drawn out by your body, his cool skin going hot wherever you touch him.

BB moans. Deep, ragged, pulled from somewhere below his chest, vibrating through his ribs into yours. Hungry and wanting. The sound of a creature starved, weak with wanting you so much. 

His hands move. They stop being still on your waist, and they move. Both of them, everywhere at once, kneading. His fingers grip the fat of your hips. His palms slide up your ribs. His hands cup your breasts through your shirt, fingers pressing and kneading with a desperate, tactile hunger. He needs to touch all of you at once, and two hands aren't enough.

His tongue slides along your lower lip, longer than it should be, and you open your mouth wider and let him in. BB groans desperately, his hips rolling up against you.

The sound is wet. BB’s tongue slides against yours in a coil that tightens and releases in eager pulses, saliva building between your joint mouths. The kiss is messy and open, drool collecting at the corner of your lips because you can't swallow around the thickness of his tongue filling your mouth.

You roll your hips against him again, harder. BB makes a broken sound, and his head drops back against the wall, his throat baring. You kiss it. The spot his pulse should be, his Adam's apple, the hollow at the base. His skin is warm now, fully warm, almost hot.

You pull back, your face inches from his. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slamming against your palms. BB’s eyes are half-black. His mouth is swollen and wet, gaping open. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his whole body trembling.

“I want you,” you gasp against his lips.

BB goes still. Every muscle in his body locks, his hands freezing on your hips. His breathing stops. His eyes search your face with an intensity that has nothing to do with Bobby and everything to do with the ancient thing behind the mask.

“You—” His voice trembles, going thin. “You want—”

You press your forehead against his. “I want you, BB.”

“Do… do you mean—”

“I mean all of it,” you rasp, your hand slipping into his hair. “I mean you."

BB’s face cracks open. His expression unravels completely, and what's underneath is raw and enormous and terrified and so, so joyful. His eyes go fully black, the entity surging to the surface, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the universe.

“You want me,” he whispers desperately, testing the words, faint with disbelief.

You cup his face with both hands. Your palms on his jaw, your thumbs on his cheekbones. His skin is burning under your hands.

“I want you,” you repeat, and you kiss him. Deeper. Slower. His tongue coils around yours, gentle, trembling, the grip shaky because BB is shaking, his whole body is.

He pulls back a centimetre, forehead nudging against yours. Eyes black and wet as they drink you in.

“I waited so long,” he whispers, his voice pained. “I waited so long for you. You don't know how long I was alone. And there was nothing. Just the hum, and the yellow. And then there was you. I heard your voice and I—”

His breath hitches, a wounded sound vibrating at the back of his throat.

“I'd rarely heard anything except the hum and the things in the dark, but then you were on the other side of the wall, and you were talking. Your voice… it was the first beautiful thing I ever heard. I built this—” He touches his own face. Bobby's face. His hand trembling. “I built all of this for you. Because I heard you crying and needed hands because you were sad. And I… I wanted to hold you, and I didn't have anything to hold you with.”

Tears burn your eyes. BB's thumbs trace your cheekbones lightly, wiping the tears as they threaten to escape.

“You were born for me,” he breathes, fierce and tender all at once. “I know that now. I was in the walls for—I don't have a number. But then you came along, and I knew. I was waiting for you this whole time. You were always going to be mine. I just had to learn how to deserve you.”

“I love you,” you choke out. “BB. I love you.”

He makes a broken, needy sound, pressing kisses to your face, your cheek, your jaw, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. “I love you. Let me touch you. Please. Baby, please. I've waited so long.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Take me to bed.”

He carries you. Two steps, three, his inhuman strength on casual display, and he lays you down on the bedspread with the faded blue flowers. 

His hands are shaking. The purr starts in his chest, a deep warm vibration you can feel through the mattress. He kneels between your legs and looks at you, just looks. His mouth swollen and wet. His chest heaving.

“I don't know how to. I've never—”

“I know.” You reach up and cup his face. His cool skin warms immediately under your palm. “I know, baby. I'll show you. I've got you.”

He drops down against you, his weight settling along your body, his face burying in your neck. His mouth opens against your pulse, and you feel his tongue, just the tip, tracing the vein under your skin. His lips close over your pulse point, and he sucks gently, the purr vibrating through his mouth into your neck.

“You're so warm,” he breathes against your skin. “Baby. You're so warm. I've been cold forever. And you're like a fire. I can feel your heartbeat through your skin. You're so alive. You're the most alive thing I've ever touched.”

His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt. His palms drag over your ribs, warming as they travel, and you can feel each finger pressing independently, the cool-to-warm transition happening in streaks along your skin. He pushes your shirt up and off, and his breath catches.

“Oh,” he exhales. Awed. “Oh.”

His hands hover an inch above your body, fingers spread, trembling. He looks at you like touching might break him entirely.

“It's okay,” you whisper. “BB. Touch me.”

Both hands settle on your breasts. Cool palms cupping you, and his temperature spikes, warming fast from the centre of his palms. His thumbs drag across your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, shivering.

“There,” he breathes. “Look at you. You're so soft. I've been touching concrete and monsters forever, and you're, you're so—”

He ducks his head and presses his mouth to the swell of your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. His tongue slides out, the tip tracing the curve of you in a wet drag, and you gasp. BB makes a hungry sound against your skin, half moan, half purr.

“You taste alive,” he murmurs between greedy, slick licks. “I don't have a word, baby. You taste like everything I was missing.”

His mouth finds your nipple. His tongue coils around it, wrapping and squeezing gently, and he sucks. The purr intensifies, vibrating through his lips and his tongue into you. You cry out, sharp and broken, cupping his head to keep him there.

BB's hand kneads your other breast, fingers gripping, the wrong-textured pads of his thumbs dragging across your nipple. Between the attention to both at once, your head swims, your hips lifting off the bed. He murmurs praise into your skin, pulling off with a wet pop to press his open mouth to the underside of your breast, licking the crease there, nosing into the soft skin desperately.

“So beautiful. You have no idea what you look like. I didn't even know what this body was for until I saw you.”

He sucks a mark into the inner curve of your breast, suckling greedily. Then his mouth moves lower. BB’s tongue draws a long, unbroken line from between your breasts to your navel. He presses his mouth flat against your stomach and breathes in, eyes fluttering shut.

“I could stay here forever,” he mumbles against your belly. “Just breathing you in. You smell warm. I didn't know warm had a smell until you.”

BB’s fingers hook into your underwear and pull them down gradually. His breath catches as he bares you. His eyes go wide and fully black, fixed between your thighs. He's looking at you with such naked reverence it steals your breath.

“You're wet,” he says, hushed. His thumbs trace the crease where your thighs meet your hips, slow even as you sense the shaking still quaking his fingertips. “So wet, baby. Is that for me?”

You shiver at the touch, squirming. “Yes. All for you, BB.”

BB’s whole, borrowed body shudders at the confirmation. His tongue slides out, long and sinuous, and he licks his lips with it. The hunger on his face is staggering.

“Let me taste you,” he begs quietly. “Baby, please. I've never… please.”

Heat floods through your veins, molten and thick, at the pleading note in his voice. “Yes. God, yes.”

BB drops down immediately. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee. Cool lips warming as they drag up your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the soft skin there. His tongue traces the path, licking long wet stripes up your thigh. He pauses an inch away. Breathes. His breath is hot and damp, and your hips jerk toward him.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs. “And you're hot. I can feel it on my face.”

His tongue makes contact. Long and wet, dragging flat from the base of you all the way up. You sob, and your hands fly to his hair. BB makes a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through his tongue and into you, the purr kicking up so hard it vibrates the bed frame. His fingers dig into your thighs, and his mouth opens wide, and he licks you again. Slower. Longer. The tongue lingering at the top, the tip curling and pressing between your folds curiously.

“Baby. Baby. You taste… you’re dripping for me and so alive. I can't stop, I can't—”

He buries his face in you. His mouth open and his tongue extended to its full impossible length, lapping and stroking and coiling with the desperate, artless hunger. The sounds are obscene. Wet, squelching, sloppy. Saliva and your own arousal mix and drips down his chin. BB’s moaning into you with a continuous low vibration, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer, pressing his face deeper, taking more.

“More,” you gasp through a breathy moan. “BB, more. Please.”

His tongue extends further. Longer. Longer. You feel it pressing inside you, and your hips buck, and BB growls against your clit then keeps pushing. The muscular length of it curls and coils inside you, filling you, reaching deeper than fingers could reach. Deeper than anything human could, and you feel it pressing against the back of you, the very deepest place, and your whole body seizes.

“BB, that's, oh God, that's—”

His tongue presses against the mouth of your womb. The tip of it, delicate and hot, nudging that innermost barrier, and the sensation is so deep and so foreign that your entire body goes rigid and your hands yank at his hair and you make a gasping, yelping sound. High and ragged, pitching toward half a scream.

BB moans into you. The vibration travels through the full length of his tongue, from your clit where his lips are sealed to the deepest place where the tip is pressing. Stimulation at both ends simultaneously and all through the middle, his tongue moving, coiling and uncoiling, massaging places that have never been touched. His lips close over your clit and suck, hard, and the tongue is so deep you can feel it in your stomach.

You're thrusting into his face. Your hips rolling, grinding against his mouth, and BB makes a pleased sound and holds you tighter to him, delighted. Then his hands clamp on your thighs, and he pins you. Presses your hips flat to the mattress with an inhuman grip you couldn't break if you tried, and the sudden loss of control makes you writhe.

Your sounds don't belong to you anymore. You're gripping his hair with both fists. BB is purring so hard the vibration sits at the back of your throat, and his tongue is touching places that have never been bordered. His chin is soaked, and you can hear the wet, filthy sounds, and you're sobbing, thrashing against his grip.

“You're gonna come for me,” he mumbles against you, his mouth never fully leaving. “I can feel it. So close, baby. Give it to me. I want to taste you when you come.”

You come. Hard. 

Your whole body arches against BB’s grip, thighs clamping around his head, hands pulling his hair. BB moans into you and holds you down and licks you through it, his long tongue working inside you as you clench and spasm around him. 

He's swallowing, sucking, drawing every last drop into his mouth and gulping it down hungrily. His lips close over your swollen folds and he laps at them, slow and thorough, licking you clean with long flat drags. Each pass over your over-sensitive skin makes you twitch and whimper, and he keeps going. Collecting every trace of wetness, every last drop, his tongue dragging through the mess of you with a patience that borders on worship.

“Every drop,” he's murmuring, practically slurring. “I want every drop. My perfect girl.”

His tongue retracts gradually, inch by inch, and you can feel every inch leaving you. The emptiness when it's gone is aching.

BB presses a kiss to your cunt. Right there. Soft. His swollen lips against your swollen folds, gentle and lingering. He pulls back just enough to breathe against you.

“I'll be inside here soon, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throbbing core as he speaks. “Right here. Right where my tongue was. I'll be so deep. I'll fill you up.” Another kiss. Softer, absent. Like he has no idea what his words and actions are doing to you. “I'll take good care of you. I promise.”

He crawls up your body. Wet open-mouthed kisses up your stomach, between your breasts, on your throat. He tastes like you. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses your mouth, wet and deep, and the intimacy of it, tasting yourself inside his kiss, makes your whole body clench.

“I need you,” he pants against your lips. “I need to be inside you. Please. I need—”

You peck his lips, breathing against them, “Go on. Need you, too. But I want you to show me. Show me what you really are.”

He goes still. The fear rises behind Bobby's eyes. His whole body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on your hips.

“It’s fine.” His voice quivers. “I can keep the shape. You don't have to—”

You trace his cheek, outlining the ridge of his cheek. “I want to.”

“I don't—” He swallows hard. “I don't want you to see me and—” His jaw pulses from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. “What if you can't look at me after? What if I'm—”

“BB.” You cup his jaw, the constructed bones trembling under your palms. “Whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever you want to show me. I'm not going anywhere.”

He gazes down at you. Black-eyed and trembling, searching your face for the lie, for the flinch, for the moment you take it back. He doesn't find it.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Just, just a little. Let me just…”

His jaw sharpens under your hands. Just slightly. The line of it going harder, more angular, the bone shifting beneath his skin. He watches your face the whole time, ready to snap back at the first sign of revulsion.

You stroke your thumb over his newly sharp cheekbone. “Beautiful,” you exhale.

BB makes a low, choked sound. His eyes go wider, blacker. The pupils elongate slightly, going vertical. He's shivering. Genuinely shivering, full-body tremors, and you can feel his skin gaining a faint iridescent sheen under your palms, cool and smooth.

“More?” he asks, barely audible.

You take him in, all of him. “More, baby.”

His shoulders lengthen. His neck gains an inch. The proportions of his face slide further from Bobby, the mouth too wide, the cheekbones too high, and you trace the new angles with your fingertips and press your mouth to his jaw and lick the iridescent skin and BB whines. High and desperate and pleased.

“You're… you're not—” He's stammering, trembling in your hold. “You're not scared?”

“I'm not scared, BB. Keep going.”

He gives you more. His spine gains extra vertebrae you can feel through his skin, his torso gaining a sinuous quality. The ghost of a diamond pattern moves beneath his skin, the suggestion of scales. His fingers lengthen slightly, extra articulation appearing in the joints.

You run your palms down his chest, trace the diamond pattern. You press your mouth to his collarbone, where the iridescent sheen is strongest, and kiss the skin there, open-mouthed, tasting the chilly smoothness of him.

BB drops his face into your neck. Hiding. He's hiding, his too-sharp jaw pressed against your shoulder, his shivering intensifying, and you can feel his features still shifting against your skin. He's giving you more, but he can't watch you see it.

“Hey,” you coax, putting your hand under his chin. Tip his face up. “Hey. Look at me.”

He resists for a second. Then he lets you lift his face.

He looks alien. His eyes are polished obsidian, no whites. His jaw is too defined. His mouth is too wide. The iridescent skin catches the yellow light in shimmering refractions. He looks terrified. He looks beautiful.

“There you are, baby,” you whisper, and lean up and kiss him.

BB produces a broken, grateful sound against your mouth, and the purr comes back so hard the walls vibrate.

He adjusts his position, still kissing you as he settles between your thighs, and you understand, immediately, that he’s not a copy.

The mimicry that he's maintained for months falls away the second BB pushes inside you. He's BB. A creature in a body he built to love you, figuring out what it can do in real time.

The shape of him inside you is not human. It's close enough that the entry works. But once he's seated, the texture is wrong, and the temperature is wrong, cool at first then warming fast, and he fills you in ways men don't. His anatomy is adjusting, learning you, reshaping moment by moment. Ridges where there were none. Swells of pressure in places human anatomy couldn't produce. The length of him moving with a sinuous quality. And it's still changing, adjusting his shape to hit exactly what makes you cry out.

“Oh baby,” he breathes, his voice cracking, ragged. “I can feel everything. I can feel your heartbeat through your—” He shudders, his back arching like it’s too overwhelming. “How do humans survive this?”

“BB, you feel so good, right there, don’t stop, baby—”

You press your hips up against him, taking him deeper, squeezing him with your inner muscles, and BB makes a choked, groaning sound, his whole body going taut above you. 

You can feel the fullness of him shifting inside you, the ridges dragging, his cock reshaping in response to the pressure of your squeeze. Where you tighten, he swells. Where you release, he fills. It's a feedback loop made flesh, his anatomy learning yours in real time, and the sensation is so foreign and so full that your eyes water.

“Yeah? Is that good?” His voice breaks. His hips roll again, deeper this time, and the ridges snag and drag on the withdrawal, a slow slick pull that makes an obscene dripping sound. You both gasp at it. You both hear it. The slick, filthy evidence of how wet you are, how aroused, and BB's eyes go glassy, his mouth falling open. “Tell me. Tell me I’m good.”

You adjust your thighs again, opening even wider, hooking your ankles behind his back and pulling him in until he's nestled so deep you can feel the cool-turning-warm base of him flush against you. The fullness is immense, a stretch that borders on too much, and you squeeze him again and BB's arms buckle. His elbows hit the mattress on either side of your head, and his face is inches from yours. 

His mouth opens, and the sound he makes is a raw, ruined whine.

“Y-You're perfect, BB. Don't, ah, stop.”

He rolls his hips again. Slow, sinuous, that serpentine wave he can't suppress anymore, and the motion drags his cock against you, every ridge and swell and shifting contour lighting up nerve endings you didn't know you had. The slick sounds between your bodies are continuous now, a gushing symphony between your joint flesh. You can feel your own arousal dripping down onto the sheets below, and you don't care because the fullness is extraordinary, and every roll of his hips makes the ridges snag against your walls and catch and pull, and each pull sends you closer to the edge.

You push your hips up to meet his next stroke. The impact makes you both groan. You do it again. Finding a tempo together, his wave and your thrust, the wet lewd sounds getting louder, and BB is panting against your mouth, his breath hot and damp, his eyes half-closed.

“You're so tight,” he gasps. “Baby, every time you squeeze me I can feel your whole body, I can feel everything tighten, you're gripping me so hard, and it's, it's—”

You squeeze him harder. On purpose. Clench around the shifting shape of him and hold. BB's eyes fly open, and his mouth stretches wide, and a sound comes out of him that’s pure entity, a harmonic moan that vibrates through his cock and into you and through the walls. His hips stutter out of the wave and slam forward, involuntary, and the ridges catch deep inside you and your back bows off the bed.

“There,” you gasp, your eyes burning from burning pleasure ravaging through your body.

“There,” he echoes, awed. “I can feel what that does to you. I didn't know anything could—”

He shudders, and his features shift with it. His jaw sharpens a degree. The iridescence pulses brighter on his cheekbones. He ducks his face into your neck, hiding.

“No,” you say, breathless, your hand tangling into his sandy hair. “Let me see you.”

He resists. His jaw pressed against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your throat.

“BB. Let me see.”

He lets you lift his face, his features having slipped further. Cheekbones too high. Mouth even wider. The iridescence brighter. His eyes are completely black and wet, and he's so scared, you can see it. You look directly into them and say, “Don't hide from me. You're beautiful.”

BB makes a strangled sound, his hips stuttering. The purr cracks and reforms. His features shift more, right in front of you, and you watch them move, watch his face rearrange itself in real time, and the intimacy of it makes you reel. Because it’s more intimate than the sex. He’s literally coming apart in front of you and letting you watch.

“Good,” you moan, stroking his shifting jaw. “That's it, BB.”

The pleasure isn't building in a line; it's accumulating in layers. 

His hand under your back, lifting you. His mouth on your throat, usually cool lips searing. His thumb at the hinge of your hip, longer now, bending where thumbs don't bend. The appendages emerging one by one, warm and tapered, gripping your thighs, holding your legs open at an obscene angle. Each one a new layer feeding into the one beneath it.

His hips slam deeper, and your breasts ripple with the force. BB is watching, his too-wide mouth lolling open, and his eyes are glazed, his features shifting faster now, responding to pleasure the way a human face flushes. His jaw sharpens then softens then sharpens again. His pupils dilate and contract in pulses seemingly against his control. 

“Look at what I do to you,” he pants, his voice hitting a deeper register that’s decidedly not Bobby. “I can't stop touching you. Your skin is so soft, every part of you is burning for me, and you're—” His voice fails him. He ducks his face into your neck again, his features shifting against your skin, and you feel the rasp of scales that aren't quite scales, there and gone.

You pull him back up again, hold his face. He's whining, high and continuous, his eyes wet.

“Stay with me,” you say. 

He moans loudly. His features ripple again, even further from Bobby, and his mouth is trembling, and BB looks destroyed, open, the ancient thing behind the mask laid bare while he fucks you, and the vulnerability of it makes your chest ache.

“You're incredible,” he breathes. “You're so wet for me, all of this is for me. I can f-feel how close you are. I can feel it building. Baby, please. Come for me."

Your orgasm rips through you, and BB snarls at the sensation, his features sharpening, the entity surging to the surface, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His hips keep working ruthlessly. The shape of him inside you keeps shifting with each thrust. The appendages grip your thighs tighter, and your orgasm rolls into another one immediately, pinned down, taking whatever he gives you.

“That's it,” he purrs against your ear, nuzzling. “My girl. I can feel you fluttering around me. I've never felt anything like you.”

His tongue slides out, longer than it should be. Drags up the side of your neck. His teeth catch your earlobe, too sharp, and the tiny sting makes you gasp. His hand kneads your breast, gripping, his ridged thumb dragging across your nipple.

“You're so perfect,” he mumbles against your ear, his hips still working, the wet squelching symphony filling the room. “Every time I push in, I can feel you opening and closing around me, and it's—baby, it's the best thing I've ever felt, it's better than anything, you're better than anything—”

His length adjusts on every stroke, swelling and contracting, ridges rubbing against your sensitive walls. The sheets are getting damp beneath you. BB is moaning with every thrust now, layered over the purr, and the purr is vibrating through his cock and into you.

You can't control the sounds coming out of you. You're moaning and sobbing continuously, mindless, drool on your chin, tears on your face, your nails clawing at his back and leaving furrows in the iridescent skin.

The third hits. Your whole body seizes with it. BB cock swells inside you, expanding impossibly, and the stretch shoves you over again, a fourth on the heels of the third. 

“That's it,” he gasps. “You're taking me so well. You're the first. The only one. There's never been anyone except you.”

The truth of those words hits you straight in the heart. He made this body for you. It has never known anyone else, and likely never will. 

By the fifth round, you can't produce words anymore. Your mouth is open, and nothing's coming out. BB is murmuring into your skin, his tongue licking the tears off your cheeks, tasting your throat, your sweat, every available inch of skin. Your body is nothing but sensation. He's whispering, awed and dazed: “I've got you, baby. So brave. So warm. You're everything, my everything.”

Around the sixth, your hands go limp. Your whole body goes slack except for the involuntary tremors. You're drooling freely onto the pillow. Your eyes are glazed and half-open. You’re conscious but only just, held in a state of continuous pleasure that has dissolved every boundary between your body and his.

BB feels himself getting close. His breathing changes. His hips lose their fluid wave and become harder, urgent, perfectly ruthless. The purr breaks into a low keening sound, and he pulls back.

He cups your ass. Both hands, those long wrong-jointed fingers gripping the flesh of you. He raises your hips off the mattress, tilts you up toward him. Holds you there, suspended.

And he peers down. At your stomach.

You follow his gaze through the fog. You look down at your own body.

You can see him. The shape of him moving inside you. A subtle bulge beneath the skin of your lower stomach, pressing outward with every thrust, the length of him shifting and adjusting. The bulge presses up and recedes in time with his hips. Your stomach ripples with each motion.

BB is staring, transfixed. His black eyes are nailed to the sight of himself inside you, his mouth parted. 

“Look at that,” he purrs, and this time you see and hear the predator underneath, satisfied with what he’s seeing. “Look at that. I can see myself inside you. You're so full of me.”

He presses deeper, and the bulge pushes higher. You moan, a thin broken sound, and BB makes a soft noise back, almost soothing, and his hips work faster, holding you up, watching himself move inside you.

“You're taking all of me,” he remarks appreciatively, head cocked. “Every inch. Look at what you're holding.”

His tongue extends, slipping to wrap around the spot where his cock keeps sliding into you, and you moan when the tip prods almost playfully at your swollen clit. 

He thrusts into you twice more, hard and deep, finishing inside you with a pleased sigh.

Warm. Impossibly warm. It pulses in time with the harmonic, filling you, filling and filling, overflowing, spilling out around him. The faint gold glow. Pale and luminescent, pooling on your inner thighs, gushing down onto the sheets. Puddles of it. The bed soaked. His release casts a soft light upward onto both your bodies. BB is still inside you, still shaking through it, his mouth on your neck, licking slow grateful stripes up the column of your throat now. 

You’ve never heard the purr going louder. 

“You did so good, baby,” he rasps affectionately, peppering small kisses behind your ear. “Look at what you took. All of me.”

You can't answer. You can barely breathe. Your whole body is a limp pile of limbs beneath him. You’re boneless against the pillows, drool on your chin, tears drying on your face, hair plastered to your forehead.

BB pulls back to examine you. His face is a mess, too, half-slipped, jaw too sharp on one side and human on the other. Black eyes and swollen mouth, chin still dripping with you. He's grinning. That dark pleased grin, all predator, the purr rumbling on in his chest cavity.

His hips roll again. Slow, testing. Still hard inside you.

“Again, baby?” Low, dark, almost mocking. “One more for me?”

You don't have one more in you. You’re empty, wrung out, incapable of forming sentences.

You nod anyway.

BB whines, high and pleased, and drops his mouth back to yours and starts moving all over again.

He fucks you until you black out.

You lose consciousness somewhere in the middle because your body cannot sustain the amount of pleasure being poured into it and your brain, mercifully, shuts down. The last thing you're aware of is BB's purr vibrating through both your bodies and the faint gold glow pooling under you and his mouth against your temple whispering I love you, I love you, I waited so long, I love you.

When you come back, you have no idea how long it's been. You're clean. He's cleaned you. The bed is dry. You're wrapped in the blankets, wearing one of his shirts. BB is curled around you, human-shaped again, mostly, his face buried in your hair, his arm heavy across your waist. He’s purring. Low and pleased and constant. His skin is cool again, warm only where you're pressed together.

You stir. He notices immediately.

“Baby,” he calls out, his mouth finding your temple. “You're awake. Are you okay? Did I… was I too—”

“Perfect,” you slur, your throat aches from the sheer amount of moaning and screaming you’ve done. “You were perfect, BB.”

He goes still. Then he shudders, his arm tightening around you. He presses his mouth to your hairline and holds it there for a long time. The purr deepens into something so full it borders on mournful, loving, perfectly content.

“I love you,” he says, his voice small, shy again. “I love you more than anything.”

Your eyes burn, but for a different reason now. “I love you too, BB.”

He shivers at the words, a full-body reaction. Under the blankets, one of the appendages, not retracted all the way, probably never fully retracting again, curls around your thigh. Possessive. Settling. Warming as it holds.

“Again later,” he murmurs against your temple. That cocky dark satisfaction layered underneath the tenderness. “We're going to do that again.”

You should be terrified.

But you’re not. Because you’re finally home.

You fall asleep to the sound of BB’s purring, and his whispered I love you in the yellow light of a nest that looks like your old apartment, in the arms of an ancient lonely being that has finally, finally been chosen.

The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"

He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.

"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."

And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"

The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.

"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.

You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.

He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.

"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.

"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.

He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.

"You want me to fuck you."

It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.

His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"

The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.

"That's the idea, sweetheart."

So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.

But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.

You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.

His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.

He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.

It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.

Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.

"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"

A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."

Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."

But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.

You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."

Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."

The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"

He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"

"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"

His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"

"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"

The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.

"No."

Your heart plummeted. "What?"

"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.

You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"

His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."

"Wait?"

"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."

The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.

"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."

You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.

Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.

He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.

"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.

You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.

"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.

"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."

You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"

"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."

He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"

You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."

He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.

"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."

Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.

You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.

"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.

"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."

He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.

He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.

He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.

He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."

"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."

He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"

You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."

He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.

While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.

"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."

"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."

His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.

He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.

"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.

The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.

He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.

You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.

You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."

His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."

You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.

"Your turn," he grunted.

You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."

You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.

You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.

"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."

You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.

"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."

You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."

"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.

He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.

"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."

"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.

He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.

"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."

You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.

He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.

You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.

"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"

His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.

You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.

Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.

You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.

The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.

You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.

That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.

It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.

You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."

He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."

"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.

You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."

His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.

Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.

He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"

"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."

He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.

"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."

He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."

You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.

The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.

You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.

"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."

His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."

"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."

That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.

His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."

He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.

"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.

He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.

You run your hand across the steamy surface of the water watching the ripples flow along after one another. Leaning your head back further against the edge of the tub you let out a pleased hum, the warmth seeping into your bones a welcome reprieve from the winter raging beyond the walls. The thick wooden door opens with a creak and Cregan steps through the threshold.

He takes a moment to look upon your figure resting in the tub before toeing off his boots. “You look relaxed, my love.”

You hum again, happily. “I am.” You tilt your head to look at him. “Are you going to join me, husband?”

He smiles, throwing his cloak onto the wooden table carelessly before coming to stand at the edge of the tub. “Is that what my lady wife wants?”

“Mhm. The day has been long, I have missed you.” He strokes over your damp hair with one hand and works on the laces and buckles of his clothes with the other.

“Then I shall not deny you.”

After shedding his many layers you sit forwards to allow him room to slip in behind you, lying back against his thick chest and finding his hand beneath the hot water. His body provides a much more comfortable rest than the hard edge of the tub and has the benefit of pressing soft kisses over your face.

“How was your day been?”

Cregan just sighs. “Long, but its much better now.”

“I agree. There are oils in the water, they should help to loosen your muscles. You are far too tense.” He wraps his arms around your waist drawing you impossibly closer to him as you speak.

“They will only be the same again on the morrow.” He grumbles, the sound vibrating against your back.

You pinch his forearm. “That is no way to think about it Cregan. A short rest is better than none at all.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Aye, I have much to learn in the way of rest.”

You turn your head so you can look at his face fully, dwelling on his steely blue eyes. You press your lips to his softly, holding them there for a long moment and breathing in his presence. “You are handsome.” You say, words slurring as if you were drunk. “I am lucky.”

“As am I.” Youre not sure how long you spend in the bath. The water remains warm for a long while, your eyes flutter slowly shut as your head rests against his chest. He holds you there for as long as steam rises from the water, only waking you to move you to the bed where will happily join you in a rest of his own.

The gates of the Red Keep creak open allowing the flag bearers at the front of your group entry so they may announce your arrival.

"Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of The North, and his lady wife Princess Y/N Targaryen." You and Cregan ride in time with eachother and pull your horses to a stop just beyond the gate. He slides off the saddle before making his way to you to place his large hands on your waist and lift you from your own. You grunt as your boots meet the dirt of the courtyard and squeeze his arm in silent thanks before turning to see the group gathered to greet you.

"Daughter." Your mother Rhaenyra says with a warm smile that crinkles her eyes.

"Mother." You respond, walking to her where she meets you half way, embracing her in a crushing hold.

She pulls back and holds your face letting her eyes remember the face she hasnt seen in years. "It has been so long."

"I know, the journey is difficult- and long. Even by dragon. And is a miracle that Cregans duties have allowed him to come here." You turn slightly to face him. Hes stood behind you, slightly awkwardly for the Warden of the North, you think, but you dont blame him- he sticks out like a sore thumb here.

"Lord Stark, I trust the journey went well by all accounts." Rhaenyra says.

"Aye Your Grace. Your daughter is right, the journey is not forgiving, but she is tough."

"It would be quicker if someone would ride Cannibal with me." You jest and he just grunts.

"Come, let us get you inside."

The Red Keep was different than you remembered. Granted it had been many, many years since you had last been here, but it lacked the soul you recalled thrumming through every hall so vividly. Your grandsire had summoned the whole family here in celebration of his nameday. Instead of a grand tourney or hunt he had one wish: a dinner with his family. You were prepared to make the journey alone but Cregan had insisted on accompanying you after ensuring all his duties could be handled in his absence and truthfully you were thankful for his presence.

The staff showed you to your old bedroom where your belongings were already being unpacked by the handmaidens. You were thankful that your room seems to have been left untouched and didnt match the drab interior of the rest of the castle.

"Thank you, leave us." You softly receiving a sea of nods from the maids before filing out of the room. After the tell tale click of closing doors you walk over to your bed and flop down on your back with a huff.

Cregan leaves his place by the window and sits on the mattress next to you. "How are you feeling, love?"

You huff again. "Relieved. Stressed. Suffocated. Warm. Im feeling everything." He chuckled and laced his fingers with yours, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing the back of it tenderly. "And- gods-"

"You know you can speak your mind around me, wife." His voice is lower than usual as he watches you turn over the thoughts in your mind.

"Is it wrong of me to say I miss Winterfell? I have not even been here an hour and- I dont know. I am so happy to see my family again, but this place, its so different." You fiddle mindlessly with his wedding ring as you finally air out your feelings.

"You have lived in the North for a while now, I like to think it has become a home to you. It is normal to miss it." You hum, sitting up on your elbows to look at him properly. The movement causes a strand of hair to fall into your face which he swiftly tucks back behind you ear, leaving his hand there to stroke over the soft strands. "And this place did not give you the fondest of memories. I do not blame you for feeling stressed." It was no secret you struggled with your station. And then to add the constant insults and threats about your parentage, from your own family no less, it was no surprise you became overwhelmed and shut yourself away. You were thankful that Winterfell had lifted that stress from your shoulders.

"And its so warm." You say with a pout and headbutt his side.

He chuckles softly. "Aye, it is."

Viserys greets you with a hug and a pleased sigh of your name. "My word, you have grown so much. You look well, im glad the North is treating you as such."

Your heart hurts at his words. You wish you could say the same to him but time has not been kind to your grandsire. "Cregan takes good care of me, and the food up north is hearty."

He smiles, revealing a few decaying teeth but they do not dampen the sincerity of it. "And you are happy?"

"More than I have ever been."

"That is all I could hope for." He looks to Cregan who stands just behind you. "And Lord Stark. I am very appreciative that you made the journey here in spite of your duties. And equally for your care of my granddaughter."

"Of course, Your Grace." He nods politely. The Kings attention is whisked away somewhere else leaving you to look around the candle lit hall. Your eyes land on Alicent and Cregans follow. "Do you wish to greet her?"

"Not particularly, but it might be a matter of just taking the bull by the horns." You finish your glass of wine in one big gulp. "You must do your best to hold your tongue."

"Mm." He grumbles.

The dinner came and went without trouble. For once your family seemed to behave and refrain from sending eachother ceaseless insults over the meal. You enjoyed watching Cregan speak with Jace. Despite their differences they had formed a sort of friendship through Jaces occasional visits to the north, and it warmed your heart to see him fit so seamlessly into this part of your life. Aside from one unsavoury comment from Aegon about northerners prowess in a certain area, the evening went smoothly.

You ended the night with your head rested on Cregans chest in a bed that was far less cozy than your one back home. But you didnt mind, the wine moving through your veins settled you into a deep sleep as soon as you were in his arms.

The sun filtered through the net curtains far too easily, waking you much before you desired. The first thing you felt was your husband turning in the bed with a sleepy groan followed by a gruff, "Mornin'.”

"Morning my love." You kissed him softly noting the way his stubble felt against you. "Did you sleep well?"

"No." His voice is muffled by the pillow he buries his head in. Your lips move over his cheeks, down his neck and over the muscular plains of his shoulder. "Do not start something you cannot finish."

"I think you know full well that I can finish it." You say with a teasing lilt to your voice. You squeal when Cregan grabs your wrist and moves himself on top of you, brushing his nose against yours. You lift your head to kiss him deeply, whining into the kiss and fighting against his hold on your arms desperate to get your hands on him.

"Youre trouble, wife." He groans against your lips.

"You wouldnt have me any other way." He kisses your smiling mouth and finally releases your hands in favour of gripping harshly at the fat of your ass. He grinds his hardening cock against your cunt forcing you legs open wider to accommodate him which you do without complaint.

"I need you," You say between kisses. "Please Cregan."

"Shh, you have me." He blindly pulls up your night gown over your hips while his mouth works over the peak of your nipple through the silken fabric. He sits up slightly, fisting his leaking cock before lining it up with your entrance. As much as you loved foreplay, there was something so special about desperate, needy sex on a quiet morning- all hands and teeth and groping. He pushed into you slowly, the stretch sending a thrum of pleasure through you and only made you need him more.

He thrusts his hips deeply, the thick patch of hair surrounding his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit. Your nails dig into his broad shoulders and pulled him closer needing his body pressed up against yours, needing to feel all of him. His mouth moves back to your chest which was now exposed by the flurry of movement and nibbles gently sending your hands flying to his hair and pulling at his long hair. He smiles as you whine and tug harder, growling against your tits and picking up the pace of his hips.

"Daughter, I-" Your mothers voice rings out through the room and both you and Cregan freeze. So lost in the feeling of eachother, you hadnt heard the doors open- only becoming aware the intrusion when she called out to you.

"Gods! I- I am so sorry," Rhaenyra covers her eyes and spins around lightning fast giving you a chance to separate from your lover and pull the covers over anything indecent. She speaks again, still facing away with a hand firml over her eyes. "I am so used to just- walking in. I forget that now my daughter is a woman grown. Please, forgive me."

Your cheeks couldnt be hotter as you stutter over your words. "I- Is everything okay?"

"Yes, nothing urgent. I was simply going to ask if you wanted to join me for a walk in the gardens. But it seems you have already decided your morning plans."

You let out an anguished whine and bury your head in your hands.

"Im sorry, im sorry," Your mother fights a smile as she moves towards the exit. "I will leave you to your… relations."

And with that she exits your bedroom leaving you a puddle of embarrassment next to your husband who sports a slight blush of his own.

"I can never look her in the eyes again."

"Come here." He pulls you into his side and rubs over your back. "It could be worse."

"Could it?" You query.

"Yes, but ill spare you the thoughts." He kisses your forehead softly and smiles, settling back into the bed bringing you with him. The warmth of his embrace somewhat scrubbed the mortification from your body. You were grateful you had found eachother, even more grateful that you were betrothed.

He found a spot at the back of the room, arms crossed, pretending not to care about the stream of children singing off-key and performing magic tricks with plastic wands. You were near the front, sitting next to Maegor's teacher—a man named Dunk who was tall, too tall, with an easy smile and kind eyes and the kind of patience Aerion could never fake.

You laughed at something Dunk said, your head tilted back just slightly, and Aerion felt his jaw clench.

The man handed you a program, which, of course, resulted in your hands touching, and you smiled in that way you did when you were being polite but also genuinely charmed. Aerion hated that smile. Especially when it wasn't directed at him.

He told himself he was imagining it. That you were just being friendly. That this wasn't anything.

But then the talent show ended, and instead of leaving right away, you stayed to talk to Dunk. You laughed again, touched his arm when he said something about Maegor being "a real character," and Aerion had to physically stop himself from walking over there and dragging you away.

He waited, arms still crossed, watching the way Dunk leaned in just a little closer than necessary. The way you didn't move away from him.

When you finally said goodbye and walked toward Aerion with Maegor beside you, he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"What the fuck was that?"

You were confused, genuinely. "What was what?"

"You and that... him." He jerked his head toward the door Dunk had disappeared through.

"Aerion, it was nothing. He's just Maegor's teacher."

"Yeah? He teach you how to flirt, too?"

"I wasn't flirting. Don't start this."

He followed you out of the building, Maegor chattering away about his performance, completely oblivious to the tension between you. Aerion wasn't oblivious. He could see it in the way you avoided looking at him, the way your shoulders were tense.

"You gonna see him again?"

"What? No. I mean, probably at school events—"

"So you're gonna keep laughin' at his jokes, lettin' him touch you—"

"He didn't... God, Aerion, why do you care? We're not together. You don't get to be jealous."

"Fuckin' watch me."

He stormed off to his truck. Maegor called after him, more confused than anything because he didn't say goodbye. You sighed, scooped up your son, and carried him to your car.

Aerion sat in his truck, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles cramped up and turned white. He told himself he was being ridiculous. That you weren't his anymore. It didn't matter.

But the image of you smiling at someone else stayed with him. Burned into the back of his eyelids like a brand.

The next time he saw it was worse. He'd offered to pick up Maegor from school because you'd mentioned needing to drop off pastries for the bake sale. He didn't mind. Really. He liked seeing Maegor in his element, showing off his classroom, talking a mile a minute about his day. But when he walked into the classroom, you were already there.

And so was Dunk.

You were leaning against the wall, holding a plastic tray, talking to him in that soft voice you used when you were comfortable. When you were happy. And the teacher—Dunk, whatever the fuck his name was—was looking at you like he wanted to memorize every detail of your face.

Aerion's blood ran hot. Boiling up his spine; just that nasty kind of heat that settled uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. He walked straight to Maegor, picking him up and ruffling his hair, but his eyes stayed on you. On how your face lit up when you saw your son, the way you reached out to smooth down Maegor's hair.

Dunk said something to you; it was too low for Aerion to hear, but he saw that you laughed again. And Aerion swore he'd never hated a sound more.

"C'mon, bug, let's get your stuff," he said, his voice gruffer than he intended.

Maegor squirmed, eager to show off his cubby and the "super cool rock" he'd found at recess. Aerion let him talk, but he kept glancing back at you. At the two of you.

It wasn't until Maegor was back in his arms that you finally walked over.

"Hey. Thank you for picking him up. I should be done here in an hour or two; you can bring him to the house before his bedtime."

Aerion's jaw was clenched so tight it probably would've locked if he moved, but he managed a nod. "Yeah. Fine."

"Are you okay?"

"Great. Why wouldn't I be?"

You tilted your head with a frown. "You're acting weird."

"I'm actin' normal. You're the one actin' different."

You sighed, clearly done with the conversation before it even started. "I don't have time for this. I'll see you later."

At the house was where things really boiled over. Aerion had planned on leaving after helping you put Maegor to bed, but he couldn't. He stayed, pacing the living room while you cleaned up the kitchen, his mind racing until he couldn't take it anymore.

"Are you fuckin' him?"

You froze with a dish in hand, the other covered in soap suds. You turned slowly to face him, your expression shifting from confusion to disbelief to anger in record time.

"Are you serious right now?"

"Dead fuckin' serious. You and that teacher... you been fuckin'?"

"That is none of your business."

"Bullshit it isn't. You're the mother of my kid. I don't want some random asshole around him—"

"He's not a random asshole! He's Maegor's teacher, Aerion! He's a good person—"

"Yeah? He lookin' to be a good stepdad too? 'Cause that's the fuckin' vibe I'm gettin' from him."

You threw the dish into the sink, causing the water to splash up onto the counter. "You are out of your mind! We've barely spoken outside of pickup or school events. You're jealous of a man I barely know because you can't stand the idea of anyone else being nice to me."

"I don't give a fuck who's nice to you! I give a fuck about who's tryin' to move in on what's mine!"

The laugh that tore from your throat was bitter and humorless. "I'm not yours, Aerion. I made that very clear three years ago. You don't get to show up now and act like you still own me!"

"I never fuckin' stopped ownin' you!" he roared, the words bursting out of him before he could stop them.

The room went silent. You stared at him, both your chests rising and falling rapidly.

Aerion never meant to say it. He never even let himself think it. But there it was, raw and ugly and true. He'd never let you go. Not really. No matter how much he pretended he had.

"Get out," you whispered.

"Baby—"

"Get out of my house, Aerion."

"No." He stepped closer. "I'm not leavin' 'til you tell me you ain't seein' him."

"You have no right to ask me that."

"Maybe not. But I'm askin' anyway."

He was right in front of you now, close enough that he could feel your breath against his skin. But you didn't back away. Even when you were angry, even when you hated him, you never backed down.

"What do you want me to say, Aerion?"

"I want you to say you ain't fuckin' him."

"I'm not fucking him."

"You been thinkin' about it?"

"No."

"Why not? He's fuckin' perfect, ain't he? Tall, nice, patient—"

"Stop it."

"Bet he'd treat you good. Better'n I ever did."

"Aerion."

"Bet he'd be a good dad, too. Maegor already loves him, right? Talks about him all the fuckin' time—"

"Shut up!"

You shoved him, hard, but he barely moved. He just caught your wrists, holding them tightly as he crowded you against the counter.

"You're so pretty when you're mad at me, baby. Always have been."

The logical thing would've been to really kick him out, but your breath had already hitched. And he saw it. He always saw it.

"Let me go."

"I don't wanna."

You struggled, but it was half-hearted at best. Because you knew as well as he did that this was inevitable. That all the anger, all the jealousy, all the times you pretended you were over each other—it all led here.

"Turn around, baby."

"Why?"

He released your wrists to slide his hands down to your hips. "You know why."

You tried to hesitate but you'd already started turning and gripping the countertop.

And Aerion? He was on you in an instant, his body pressed against yours, his hand tangling in your hair as he tilted your head to the side. His mouth found your neck, hot and demanding, his teeth scraping against your skin in a way that made you gasp in "protest" until they sank in, and your hips pushed back into his.

"Good girl," he rasped against your ear. "That's it."

His free hand slid around your waist, pulling you even closer, grinding against you in a way that left no doubt about how much he wanted you. His other hand tightened in your hair, holding you still as his lips moved up to your jaw, your cheek, finally capturing your mouth in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and saliva, desperation.

You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, like he'd been starving for the sound. When you tried to turn around to face him, he held you in place.

"Uh-uh. Stay right there, baby. Just like that."

His hand left your hair, sliding down your back, over your ass, gripping the hem of your dress. He pulled it up slowly, exposing your thighs and your hips, the lace trim of your panties.

"Fuck," he groaned, his fingers tracing the edge of the lace. "You wearin' these for me?"

"No," you lied. Your voice was breathy. You knew he could hear it. He knew you knew. Because the same way he was never good at sharing, you were never good at hiding the way you felt about him. And your body was your biggest traitor.

"Liar." He hooked his fingers into the waistband, pulling them down just enough to slip his hand between your legs. "You're so fuckin' wet. You miss me, baby? Miss this?"

You couldn't answer, couldn't think, not with his fingers teasing you, circling your clit just the way you liked. Your head fell back as your body arched against his.

"Tell me you ain't been thinkin' 'bout this. Thinkin' 'bout me."

"I haven't—"

He slid two fingers inside you, cutting off your words with a cry of pleasure. "Liar," he repeated, pumping his fingers slowly. "You been thinkin' 'bout me just like I been thinkin' 'bout you. Every fuckin' night."

He pressed his palm against your clit as he fucked you with his fingers, his other hand still gripping your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you. You were moaning now, your body trembling, and he knew you were close.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged. "Does my girl want to come?"

"Yes," you gasped, your hands clutching the counter so tight your nail beds hurt.

"Too bad." He pulled his fingers out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching and frustrated.

You whined in protest, trying to turn around again, but he held you in place. Again. "Patience, baby. I gotta remind you who this belongs to."

He undid his jeans with one hand, pushing them down just enough to free his cock. He pressed it against you, sliding it through your wetness and coating himself in your arousal. You tried to push back, to take him inside you, but he just chuckled darkly.

"Greedy. Just like always." He positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you with just the tip. "Tell me who y'belong to."

"You," you whimpered, trying to take more of him.

"Louder. I can't hear you."

"You, Aerion. I belong to you. Please..."

He finally pushed inside you, both of you moaning at the sensation. He gave you a moment to adjust before he bottomed out, his hips pressed flush against your ass. "See? That wasn't so fuckin' hard, was it? Now, let me hear you say it again."

"I'm yours," you gasped as he pulled back, only to thrust back in harder. "Aerion, yours."

"Damn right you are."

You weren't the one to tell him. He found out from Maegor, who was two at the time and was talking about some dog he referred to as "Gwin" because a two-year-old can't pronounce Grey Wind. At first, Aerion didn't think much of it. Then Maegor mentioned the man who brought the dog. The only words out of his little mouth were "Mama laugh" and "'Ob" not Robb, because again, he was two. And Aerion lost his goddamn mind.

He showed up at your house a week later, after smoking half a pack of cigarettes and driving around town until he cooled off enough not to break something. It was well past two in the morning when he knocked on your door, or rather, slammed his fist against it until you opened it. You were wearing one of his old t-shirts, which only made him angrier.

"What the fuck is this about Maegor talkin' about some other guy and a dog?"

You blinked up at him, confused and still half asleep. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't fuckin' play dumb with me. Maegor's been talkin' about some asshole you're datin'."

"Aerion, it's two in the morning—"

"I don't give a fuck what time it is! Are you seein' someone?"

It was the first time since the breakup that he'd asked you something like that. Like you owed him an answer. You should've told him it was none of his business, but you were tired, and you wanted him gone so you could sleep, so you just sighed and said, "I went on a couple of dates. It's not serious."

The look on his face told you that to him, even one date was too many. "A couple? How many is a couple?"

"Three. Maybe four."

He slammed his fist against the doorframe before walking down and back up your driveway with that same fist pressed against his browbone. You wanted to close the door and go back to bed, but you knew him well enough to know he wouldn't leave until he'd said his piece.

When he came back to the door, his voice was lower, more dangerous. "What's his name?"

"Aerion—"

"What's his fuckin' name?"

"Robb. It's Robb, okay? It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal," he repeated like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're bringin' some stranger around my son, and it's not a big fuckin' deal?"

"He's not a stranger! He's a nice guy! He just—"

"If he's so nice, why hasn't he come around to meet me? Huh? Why doesn't he know me?"

"Why would he need to?"

"Because I'm Maegor's goddamn father!" His voice was getting louder, and it would only be a matter of time before Maegor woke up. "You think I'm just gonna let some random fucker into my son's life without even meetin' him?"

"It's not like that..."

"It's exactly like that! You're replacin' me, just like I fuckin' knew you would."

"I'm not replacing you!" You hissed, stepping outside and closing the door behind you. "Jesus, Aerion, I'm not trying to replace you! I'm just trying to move on!"

"With him?" he demanded, gesturing vaguely toward the street as if Robb might be hiding somewhere nearby. "You think this...this fuckin' perfect guy is gonna be around when things get tough? When Maegor's screamin' his head off at three in the morning? When bills are due, an' you're too tired an' overworked an' underpaid to give a shit? You think he's gonna stick around like I did?"

"You didn't stick around," you snapped before you could stop yourself.

That silenced him. The hurt on his face was raw, but it was quickly replaced by something harder, angrier. "I'm here now, aren't I? I've been here for every fuckin' thing that matters. But you're too busy tryin' to pretend you don't need me anymore to see that."

"I never said I didn't need you. But I can't keep... this isn't healthy, Aerion. We're not together. We haven't been together for a long time. I deserve to try to be happy with someone else."

"You were happy with me," he said. "Before I fucked it up. You can be happy with me again."

You shook your head. "It's not that simple."

"It is that simple. You're just too stubborn to see it."

It was an argument you'd had a hundred times before, and it wasn't going to get resolved at two-thirty in the morning on your front porch.

"I'm not doing this with you right now. I'm going back to bed. You should go home before you wake Maegor."

But Aerion didn't go home. He stared at you with his jaw clenched, and you could practically hear his teeth grinding. "You gonna keep seein' him?"

"Yes, Aerion. I'm going to keep seeing him. Because he's nice to me. He doesn't make me cry. He doesn't show up in the middle of the night yelling about things that aren't his business."

"So that's it? You're just done? With us?"

"There is no 'us,' Aerion! There hasn't been for a long time."

"Bullshit," he spat, stepping closer until you could feel the heat coming off him. "You're still wearin' my fuckin' shirt. You still call me when Maegor's sick. You still look at me like you want me to fuck you against every wall in this house. Don't stand there and tell me there's no 'us'."

"Maybe there is. But there's also Robb. And he doesn't make me feel like I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill him. Just wait."

"No, you're not. You're not going to do anything except pick up your son on Saturday morning. And maybe by then, you'll have pulled yourself together enough to act like an adult."

Aerion didn't kill Robb, but he certainly made an impression. Robb moved back up North within the month. He was polite about it, called to say he'd accepted a job offer, that the distance was too much. You didn't blame him. He'd asked once if Aerion was someone he needed to worry about, and you'd said no, because you genuinely didn't think Aerion would do anything to him. But you couldn't blame Robb for deciding it wasn't worth finding out.

Aerion didn't bring it up again, but for weeks afterward, he looked smug every time he came to pick up Maegor. Like he'd won something.

Aerion's attempts at moving on were more sporadic and more public. You heard about them from everyone else, never from him. There was the redhead from the bar who'd lasted about two weeks before Aerion got bored. There was the girl from the gas station who he took out a few times until she realized he wasn't interested in anything serious. There was a woman named Cerelle who worked at a salon in King's Landing and lasted just over a month and a half before she got tired of his constant talk about his kid and his kid's mom.

The only one that truly bothered you was Jynessa. Some Dornish girl from the next town over who came to work in the garage while one of the Targaryens was on medical leave. She was pretty, confident, and had no problem making it clear she was interested in Aerion. They went out a few times, and you had to hear about it from Egg, who thought it was hilarious that his brother was "finally getting laid again."

It was a weird feeling because you'd told yourself you didn't care who Aerion dated. At first, you didn't care. Truly. You figured he deserved to move on as much as you did, even though he'd made it a point to interfere with anyone you tried going out with. But Jynessa was different. She was the first woman since you that he seemed to genuinely like. The first one he brought around his family. The first one you had to see at the grocery store, looking at him like he hung the moon while your son sat in the cart talking to you about frogs.

You didn't say anything. She didn't even know who you were. But it felt like a punch to the gut every time you saw them together. It wasn't exactly jealousy. It was the fact that he could be like that with someone else. That he could smile like that, laugh like that, look at someone like they were the only person in the room. And you wondered if you'd ever actually had that version of him, or if you'd just been too young and too in love to notice you were getting the broken one.

Aerion didn't introduce her to Maegor right away, which you were grateful for. But eventually, it happened. And you thanked every god you could think of that you didn't have to be around when it did, because hearing about it from your son was bad enough.

Despite that sharp pain in your chest, you were glad he sounded happy about it. And naturally, you were glad for Aerion. You really were.

So the realization that you were as hung up on Aerion as he was on you came slowly, creeping up on you like fog over the Blackwater in the early morning. At first, you told yourself it was just because Maegor was involved. You'd always be connected through him. But then you caught yourself thinking about Aerion at random times—when you heard his favorite song on the radio or you drove past the garage, when you saw a blue pickup truck that wasn't his. You found yourself saving leftovers after dinner, forgetting that he wasn't coming around as often, if not to drop Maegor off. You'd catch yourself smiling at something and your first instinct was to tell him, before remembering he wasn't there to listen.

What solidified it for you was when Aerion had texted that he couldn't pick Maegor up for his weekend because he had to leave the truck at the shop and asked if you'd be willing to drop him off. You said yes, no problem. Because you really had no problem with it. No problem with Jynessa being there either, because you knew she would be. The actual problem was that every pickup, every drop-off, you'd hang around for a while until Maegor settled down. Or Aerion would, if it was happening at your house. It was an excuse to see each other. And everyone knew it.

On that particular Friday, Jynessa answered the door. She was sweet, smiled at Maegor, but when she saw you, her expression changed just slightly. She'd clearly been told about you. She said Aerion was just getting out of the shower, told Maegor to go find Daddy, and then stood in the doorway with her arms crossed.

"You're Maegor's mom, right?"

"Yeah. Just dropping him off for the weekend."

She nodded, but she didn't move aside. "He talks about you a lot. Maegor, I mean."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He's a great kid. Really smart."

Aerion appeared then, fresh out of the shower, his hair still damp, pulling a clean shirt over his head. Maegor was a few paces ahead of him, and he'd opened his mouth to start telling you about the "super cool new toy" Aerion must have given him when Jynessa cut him off.

"Mommy, look at this! S'a dragon that lights up! Daddy says we can go to the river tomorrow and—"

"Maegor, remember, your mom's gotta go now. Why don't you go put your new toy in your bin?" Jynessa's voice was bright, but her eyes were on you.

The speed at which Maegor's little face fell broke your heart. He looked from her to you, confused. "But I'm not done showing Mommy—"

"Fuck did you just say?" Aerion's voice cut through the room like a knife. Maegor was already on his way to the back room with his head down, but Aerion was staring at Jynessa like he'd never seen her before.

"I just thought—"

"You'd tell my son to stop talkin' to his mother? In my fuckin' house? Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"She was about to leave, I just thought—"

"You thought wrong. You don't ever tell my kid what to do. Especially not when it comes to his fuckin' mother."

It was the first time you'd heard Aerion defend you to someone else in years. It was also the first time you'd seen him defend you against someone he was sleeping with. You wanted to leave. You should've left. But you were rooted to the spot, watching the whole thing unfold.

Jynessa looked like she'd been slapped. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was such a big deal."

"It is a big deal," he snapped. "She's his mama. She'll stay as long as he damn well wants her to. You got a problem with that, well you're already standin' at the fuckin' door, yeah?"

You couldn't breathe. You wanted to walk out, but you couldn't leave Maegor like that, thinking you were upset with him or that he'd done something wrong. Aerion must've seen your hesitation because he sighed, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had come. He walked over to you; he spoke lower then, gentler.

"You ain't gotta go yet, baby. He's got a million things to show you. I'll be right back."

You shook your head. "No, I should go. I've got a shift in the morning. But I can just put him to bed before I go?"

"Yeah. 'Course you can."

Jynessa stood there awkwardly, the picture of someone who'd overstepped and knew it. She mumbled something about going to get groceries, but Aerion didn't even look at her as she left. His focus was on you, on the way you kept looking at the hallway Maegor had disappeared down.

When you were alone, you turned to him. "I didn't mean to cause problems—"

"You didn't cause shit. Don't be stupid. She knew what she was doin'."

"She didn't. She was just... trying. I get it."

"You don't gotta defend her, baby. She was wrong."

You didn't know what to say to that. So you went to find Maegor, who was sitting on his bed with his new toy and watery eyes. You sat beside him, let him show you every feature of the dragon, promised him you'd play with him next weekend, and tucked him into bed. Aerion watched from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed as usual.

When you walked back out to the living room, he followed you all the way to the front door. At that point, he caught your wrist to stop you before you could leave.

"You don't gotta worry about her. I ain't bringin' her 'round Maegor again. She made it clear she don't like you bein' here. And that's a problem for our son. So it's a problem for me. End of."

After that, Jynessa wasn't around anymore. Aerion never said what happened, and you never asked. But two weeks later, when you ran into him at the grocery store, he was alone. And when he saw you, he smiled like he was genuinely happy to see you. You didn't realize until later that it was the first time in ages you'd seen that smile directed at you.

You thought about him most nights afterward. Thought about the way he'd stood up for you, the way he'd looked at you like you still mattered, and always would. And you realized that no matter how many dates you went on, no matter how many nice, stable men you met, none of them would ever be Aerion.

None of them would ever know you or love you the way he did. Even when he was an asshole. Especially when he was an asshole.

He didn't see you buying it, of course. But he did overhear you on the phone with Margaery a few days later, thanking her for the ticket, saying you'd had a "nice time." He was dropping off Maegor at the time, leaning against his truck, pretending not to listen while his son ran to show you his new jacket. At that time, he didn't think anything of it. He'd even told you he was glad you did something fun. It wasn't until he went to the drug store for cough drops and Tylenol that he heard the cashier telling her coworker that you and Aerion must be back together because you were buying a morning-after pill.

Aerion had stood there with his blood running hot and cold at the same time. He didn't buy the cough drops. He got in his truck and drove to Daeron's and drank himself stupid. He didn't confront you about it, not after Robb, didn't even bring it up. Because what could he say? He wasn't your boyfriend. He didn't get to be angry about you sleeping with someone else, even if the thought of it made him want to smash something. So he just swallowed it down.

But every time he looked at you after that, he couldn't help but wonder what you'd done, whose hands had been on you. And it drove him insane. It was something you had no knowledge of, which was rare when it came to Aerion and the things you got up to. He made sure you knew about every drink he had, every woman who looked his way. But this? This, he kept to himself, let it fester. And it made him even more territorial. Because now he knew you were capable of moving on, and that terrified him.

You didn't find out that he knew until he got himself arrested after a bar fight. He hadn't been able to stop himself from taking a swing at some guy who'd mistakenly picked up his beer. When you bailed him out, he was still drunk, angry, still bleeding and talking to himself. It was when you asked him why he'd been so reckless when he had Maegor to think about, he just looked at you with sad eyes and said, "Because I don't want you to forget me, baby. I don't want you to leave me behind."

You were stunned into silence. You weren't sure what he meant at the time, and he didn't explain. But later, when you put the pieces together, you realized he must've found out about that night in King's Landing somehow. You didn't apologize—there was nothing to apologize for—but you stopped seeing anyone else. You didn't want to; that wasn't the reason. But you didn't want to hurt him either. And you knew Aerion. You knew that if he thought you were moving on, he'd make his own life a wreck just to punish himself.

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