Emma

Jack Abbot is a lot of things; strong, intelligent, well-liked, level-headed, quick to react, reliable and good at his job. If you knew him well enough you’d find he’s pretty funny despite his dry sense of humor, very down to earth and has quite the sweet tooth. One thing you absolutely wouldn’t expect by just looking at him was his love for gossip.

With his sharp jawline and casually neutral face—grumpy in a way that was unfairly handsome—chin donned with grey stubble and hair to match. Sharp eyes that noticed everything. He’s an ex-army man with a night shift attending badge clipped to his pants pocket who only drinks his coffee black—he survived losing half his leg, and yet—Jack enjoyed using all of that to his advantage.

Any newcomer at the Pitt was quickly intimidated by him—almost choked to death anytime Robby or Dana, hell; even if Shen or Ellis picked on him or called him old. Desperately looking for a patient to tend to before they saw one of their coworkers die or get scolded. But it never came, just a small twitch at the corner of his lips that was quickly so uniquely Jack.

So no, looking at Jack you’d assume he probably kept to himself—and for the most part he did. But once you got to know him a little? It wouldn’t be long before the truth came out;

Jack Abbot is a big fat gossip.

He never started the conversations, he’d wait until someone else did and just…effortlessly slide himself right into them. But you could always tell when he’d heard something new.

Like now, as you’re walking in next to him for your shift; he’s practically vibrating. An extra bounce in his step, his hands closing and unclasping at his sides. He’s shifting on his feet way more than he usually does; and he keeps crossing and uncrossing his arms.

You try your best to keep your eyes on the board—an ever growing list of patients above you. You try to ignore him, try to start your shift and at least make an attempt to head towards your first patient; but when he leans against the counter with a rather obnoxious exhale through his nose and scratches at his scruff—you finally break.

“Alright Gossip Girl, what is it?”, You ask, crossing your own arms and lifting a brow.

Jack practically shoots off the counter, straightening up and stepping closer to you. He looks around once before speaking.

“Robby and Noelle are hooking up.”

He says it with both brows raised and eyes so wide you swear they’d pop out at any second.

Your mouth falls open before you can stop it; “SHUT UP—“

Eyes from every direction flick towards you, your reaction a little louder than you wanted it to be.

“Jesus kid-“, Jack shushes you quietly; nervously looking around before he gently pulls you into the empty break room.

His hand is still on your elbow when you speak up. You force the acknowledgement at the way your skin burns perfectly at his touch to the back of your mind; store it away for later.

“Robby and Noelle!?”

He nods; “Mhm.”

“How?? When?? Robby??”, All your questions tumble out at once.

Jack shrugs, slipping his hands in his scrub pockets; “Don’t know for sure, long enough that it set McKay’s alarm bells off.”

“…Oh this is too good”, You say, eyes focused on the floor as you comb through every thought that’s now popping into your head.

“It gets better”, Jack says, leaning closer; “Dana said Noelle told her Robby sleeps with the tv on.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. The smug smirk on Jack’s face does nothing to help you. Neither does the scrunch of your nose when you realize what you’re really hearing.

“That’s way more than I needed to know about Robby”, You say.

Jack grunts something close to a laugh; “You’d be surprised.”

“Wait”, You tilt your head; “Wouldn’t you already know that about him?”

Jack’s smirk deepens; “Well yeah, but”, He leans even closer; “How would she know that?”

The information hits you again, your brain swirling at a speed that’s too fast for before coffee.

“Oh my god”, You breathe.

Jack laughs across from you, actually laughs. You force yourself to ignore what that does to your heart.

“I don’t think I can even look at him now”, You say, “I’d laugh in his face, it’s too good. I’d-“

Jack’s hand on your shoulder stops you; “Woah, kid. Don’t go spiraling on me now.”

“I’m not…it’s just so?-“

“Strange? Weird? Bordering on haunting?”

“Well, yeah!”, You say, hands flying in the air.

Jack laughs again, you ignore what it does to your heart; again.

“Careful kid”, He says, leaning in way too close; “Gotta work on your poker face or I won’t be able to share with my favorite resident.”

Favorite resident.

Your heart does a somersault and the air leaves your lungs; heat rising to your cheeks.

His hand on your lower back lingers for a moment before he pulls away, leaving your skin cold and missing the contact.

“Cmon, gotta get back out there before Dana threatens to put us all in triage”, He says, that crooked smirk playing at his lips.

It stays there as you watch him push the break room door open with his shoulder, disappearing back into the noisy hum of the ED; leaving you standing there with your mouth parted and your heart beating way too fast to be close to normal.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

Three hours and too many patient charts later, you finally get a moment to sit down and let your feet rest. You take a drink of your water, crack your back once and lean back in your chair; letting your eyes close and hoping you get at least a few minutes.

That dream is quickly wrecked within seconds.

You feel him before you see him, not even having to open your eyes to know who’s standing next to you—the shadow of his strong frame blocking out the blaring fluorescent lights above you. The heat you can always feel radiating off of him. Warmth you so desperately want to sink into, wrap your arms around him and nose into his neck. You briefly wonder if his cologne would smell stronger against his skin like that, or if there’d be something you’d learn to be so uniquely and purely him.

You sigh, snapping yourself out of it. Eyes still closed as you cling to the last remaining bit of peace you’ll get before he speaks and resumes his mission to annoy you as much as he can. Not that you mind in the least bit.

“What Jack?”, You breathe, fighting the smile that’s trying so hard to creep onto your lips.

“How’d you know it was me?”, You can hear the smirk in his voice.

“You reek of antiseptic and annoyance.”

A noise escapes him next to you, something between a laugh and a sound of disbelief.

“Oh so you know what I specifically smell like?”, He juts.

You feel your face heat up immediately, air leaving your nose. You fumble to keep yourself composed, a string of muttered words leaving your mouth.

You peek your eyes open, peering up at a way too smug Jack. Enjoying how flustered he’s made you. His strong arms crossed over his chest; biceps bulging under his too tight scrub top. Freckles decorating his skin all the way up his arms; grey curls looking unfairly good and framing his face in a way that should be illegal—

“What do you want, Jack?”, You feign annoyance.

“What makes you think I want something?”, His answer comes from pursed lips.

“You’re hovering.”

“I’m standing.”

“You have a look on your face”, You throw back.

“My face always looks like this.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Hey—“, His mouth opens, but you cut him off.

“Jack.”

“Hm?”

“What”, you sigh; “Do you want?”

His mouth is crooked in the way it gets when he’s trying to hide a smile or the fact that he’s amused; but it always gives him away. You know that look and all of his looks too well by now. Unconsciously memorized and stored away for later with all the other information you’ve filed away about him. Normal, completely casual.

It certainly has absolutely nothing to do with whatever feelings flutter to life inside your chest and set your very being alight each time you seem him. That certainly wasn’t the case, even now; when he’s standing so close you can smell his cologne and something underneath it that’s just uniquely Jack—

You snap yourself out of it before the heat climbing up your neck once again can reach your face. Forcing yourself to stay calm—steady.

Jack, who hasn’t moved from where he’s standing; that ridiculously and frustratingly adorable crooked smirk still on his face—takes a step closer to you.

“Did you know Shen has a secret supply of free drink vouchers from Dunkin?”, Jack says.

You roll your eyes; “Did you know you and Robby have matching tattoos?”

Jack falters for a moment, mouth falling open before heat pinkens the tips of his ears; “We do not!”

You shoot him a smirk, grabbing your drink and rising to your feet to walk around him. He’s following you half a stride later.

“W-Where did you even hear that?”, He gawks.

You shrug; “I’ve got my own sources.”

A second later he’s in front of you, arms up in defense as he shakes his head; eyes closing for a moment; “Woah. Woah—I—ok, you’re screwing with me, aren’t you?”

“How’s it feel?”, You muse.

You watch as his tongue peeks out to lick his bottom lip, a crooked twitch of his mouth as he rubs at the back of his neck; “You’re mean, kid.”

“And you’re a gossip”, You shoot back.

Jack pushes his hands into his pockets; “I might be.”

You can’t help rolling your eyes again; “Why would you even care if Shen’s was true? You hate Dunkin.”

“I’m nosey”, He shrugs.

“You’re something.”

But that only makes Jack’s smirk grow wider, twitching again in the way that sets your heart ablaze. God, he was gonna be the death of you.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

A few weeks later, you’re strolling into the hustle and bustle of the ED for another shift. Bracing yourself for the incoming influx of patients from the holiday. The Fourth of July was always busy with firework accidents and heat stroke—among other injuries you didn’t even want to ask about.

You hoped it would at least be relatively smooth—close enough to a regular shift; that unfortunately would soon become the furthest from the truth.

You slid up next to Robby with a few patients, following Dana’s directions; having opted to come in a little early to help out day shift. The ED was already busy, already bustling with patients of all different kinds. McKay had a firework injury, Santos had a nun with gonorrhea in her eye that she deemed an “immaculate infection.” Donnie had a priaprism, Mel and Langdon had set up a cool room and Javadi was helping a girl with glue in her eye. Not to mention the fact that a baby had been found in triage and was now being lovingly referred to as baby Jane Doe. Never a dull moment.

As if the shift couldn’t get any crazier—an hour later the ambulance bay doors opened and who came rushing through with a gurney but Jack Abbot. A Jack Abbot in uniform, nonetheless.

Camo fatigues hugged his body close, sweat already peaking through the fabric. Damp hair matched as he called out to Robby. SWAT team rushing in behind him. You can’t help but stare.

“Intubated neck wound, stats not great. Is there a trauma room open?”, Jack calls out.

You’re quick to snap yourself out of it—joining him at the other side of the gurney, rushing along side him; “What’s the story?”

“My buddy Hiro, neck trauma. Warehouse robbery gone wrong”, Jack fills you in.

He doesn’t say much after that, setting up immediately once inside the trauma room. You can see he’s tense by his shoulders and jaw—worried for his friend. You jump into the chaos, helping any way you can.

“Did you intubate?”, Trinity asks, working alongside you.

“Yeah”, Jack says, not looking up; “Under active fire.”

You don’t miss the way he looks back over his shoulder, eyes flicking down as if looking for something that isn’t yet visible—or the way he winces when he rolls his shoulders.

“That’s badass”, Santos says, smiling to herself as she assists Robby.

You on the other hand; only have worry clinging to the back of your neck—hairs standing on end as you look at Jack.

It doesn’t take long for all the hands working on Hiro to get him stabilized enough to send him up to surgery. The room clears out, leaving Jack and Robby the last two lingering inside. You’re pulled into another case before you can get to Jack, forcing your worry down for later.

When you finally get a moment, Jack is nowhere to be found. The ED settling back into its regular busy hustle before SWAT had rolled in. You pick up another chart, going to check on one of your patients. What you find however when you pull the curtain back isn’t a patient—but rather the man you’ve been looking for the past few hours.

Jack Abbot stands shirtless, back to you with a very visible bruise forming on the back of his left shoulder. He turns at the sound of the curtain being pulled back, glancing around the room.

“Oh! I—sorry!”, You blurt out, cheeks heating up; “I was looking for my patient.”

Jack continues moving, sitting down on the exam bed—sliding the tray of sterilized tools he’d already set up towards him. He sets his black tee down on his lap, maneuvering the supplies.

“No patient here”, He says; “Room was empty when I got here.”

You furrow your brows, but push the thought to the back of your mind. All you can focus on is Jack—the injured Jack sitting in front of you.

“Shit, Jack”, You say, mind rushing back to the present; “You’re hurt, what happened?”

You’re already reaching for the glove dispenser on the wall, making your way around him as he reaches for his back with a swab—failing to reach far enough.

“Bullet grazed my vest”, He says, waving a hand.

“You got SHOT?”, You blurt.

“Shot at”, He says, brows raised with a shrug; “Anyways, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

But you do worry about him; more than he knows.

You ignore his words, taking the swab from his outstretched hand and gently clean the wound on his shoulder.

“Thank you”, He sighs, voice going soft.

You can’t help the smile that breaks onto your lips, soft and gentle just for him; “Anytime.”

Knowing he’s ok and safe, your mind drifts now—focusing more on the fact that he’s sitting shirtless in front of you. Thick and strong body built and freckled; just enough healthy fat around his mid-section that it settles over his belt when he sits down. Broad shoulders that stretch each scrub top he owns. You want to explore them, connect all the freckles that etch his skin—press kisses to the paleness of him.

You feel yourself bite your bottom lip, willing the heat returning to your cheeks to climb back down. To act normal.

“You ok?”, Jack asks, noticing your quietness.

“Yup, perfect”, You say.

You don’t see his quirked brow, and whatever he’s thinking—he keeps to himself. Shuffling to grab his t-shirt off his lap when you finish patching him up.

“Thanks for keeping this off the books”, He says, offering you a crooked smirk.

You nod, bottom lip still between your teeth; “Sure.”

He eyes you suspiciously when you don’t move, even after his shirt is pulled back on; “You sure you’re ok, kid?”

“Yeah!”, You answer to quickly; “I better go see if Dana needs anything, uh…I’ll see you later? For your shift?”

Jack huffs a laugh; “Yeah, see you there crawler.”

With that you spin on your feet, rushing out of the room; leaving a smiling and curious Jack behind.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

You find yourself at the hub, hiding your face in your hands—elbows resting against the top of the counter.

“What’s got you so flustered?”, Santos asks, looking up from her charting beside you.

You groan; “I don’t even know if I can say.”

Princess perks up on the other side of you; “Ok, now we need to know.”

You groan again, looking around you once to make sure no one else can hear. Thankfully spotting Jack leaving through the ambulance bay doors.

Santos follows your line of sight; “Something happen with Dr. Abbot?”

You push your face back into your hands; “God. What didn’t happen.”

Both of them eye you with quirked brows.

“I saw him…shirtless”, You mumble.

Princess’ face lights up; “Oh you lucky girl!”

“And?”, Santos asks.

You can’t help but groan again; “He’s unfairly hot. Like, so built and fit it should be illegal. He has no business looking that good in an ER.”

The women next to you exchange glances, before bursting out into laughter beside you.

“Sounds like someone has a crush on Dr. Abbot”, Santos says.

“Who doesn’t?”, You quip back, like it’s common knowledge and not about you.

Princess sighs on the other side of you.

“He’s like the McDreamy of the Pitt…or the Clooney”, She sighs.

“He’s better than McDreamy and Clooney, he’s like…McClooney.”

Laughter erupts around you again.

“So you and Abbot, huh?”, Santos asks.

“God, I don’t know. I mean we’re friends yeah, but I don’t think he even knows how I feel. Or that he’d even feel the same”, You sigh.

“I don’t know, I’ve seen him look at you. Seems like something’s there”, Princess says; “You should talk to him.”

Your face heats up way too fast; “I can’t do that! Are you crazy?”

Princess shrugs; “You never know what he’ll say.”

You sigh, nodding. You know she’s right, but you can’t push past the nerves or the fear that you might ruin a friendship you deeply value.

“He’s gone for a few hours anyways, I just need to get back to work”, You say, reaching for a new iPad.

You turn on your feet with another sigh.

“Go get your McClooney!”, Princess calls out behind you, making you shush her.

You shrink under all the glances your way, hurrying along to find Dana and focus on literally anything besides your feelings towards Jack.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

It’s a few hours later when Jack strolls back into the ED, camo backpack slung over one shoulder. Patients still bustle around him; Robby’s still forcing himself to work longer.

The hub is buzzing with a few staff; Princess, Santos, Nazely, Dana and Perlah all huddled together. Jack heads towards the staff room, but he stops when he hears your name.

“Oh she’s got it bad”, Santos says; “You should’ve seen her, she was absolutely flustered over seeing him shirtless. Poor girl can’t hide her crush if she tried.”

Jack feels his heartbeat pick up.

“Our girl’s got it for Abbot, huh?”, Dana says, smiling to herself; “Can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

Jack’s heart stops at the mention of his name—then quickly picks back up. A smile spreads on his face before he can stop it, ducking and shaking his head as he pushes the door to the staff room open. He knew how he felt about you, but hearing you felt the same way towards him? His entire shift just got a whole lot better.

He keeps it to himself during handoffs, even during his beginning of shift speech as everyone gathers around him. His eyes flick to you once; standing between Cruz and Ellis. His smile doesn’t falter, a warm feeling fluttering behind his ribs.

He lets you go about your shift, getting swept into a few cases of his own. It’s nearing nine when he finally comes face to face with you; a much needed silence in the break room.

He’s leaning up against the counter with a cup of coffee when you come in, stopping in your tracks when you see him.

“Oh! Sorry, didn’t know you were in here”, You say.

Jack scoffs a laugh; “What? You avoiding me now?”

“No”, You say, a little too quickly.

“Good.”

He watches you cross the room, opening the fridge and pulling out an energy drink. The noise of the can cracking open fills the room, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you lean up against the counter beside him—a little more space between you than usual.

Silence fills the air as you both drink, enjoying the few minutes of peace you might get before it’s interrupted. Jack, as if sensing your calm—decides now’s the time to get you all riled up.

“So”, He says, tracing the rim of his paper cup with his pointer finger; “I heard something interesting earlier.”

You scoff; “Of course you did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, He asks, brow quirked and faking offense.

“Jack”, You say; “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No”, He shrugs, smiling to himself as he sets his cup on the counter behind him.

You shake your head, doing the same with your can; “Lay it on me, Abbot.”

Jack juts his chin out, scratching at his scruff.

“I heard…someone that works here has a crush on me”, He says.

You feel your stomach drop, embarrassment rushing to your cheeks and ears.

“Something about ‘unfairly hot, so built it should be illegal’”, He says; “‘Hotter than McDreamy and Clooney?’”

“Jack I-“, You try to rush something out, but no words come out.

Your brain has shut down. You blink away the tears brimming your eyes.

But Jack just takes a step towards you, hands settling on your arms. His thumbs rub up and down, digging softly into your scrubs.

Then he hooks a finger under your chin, guiding you to look up at him. What he finds is a look he can only describe as guilty.

“Hey”, He says softly, ducking his head down to meet your eyeline.

“I’m sorry, Jack”, You rush out; “It’s highly inappropriate and I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, we can just forget this ever happened and go back to being friends. If you even still want to be my friend. I’m so sorry—“

“No”, Jack says.

You freeze; “What?”

“I don’t think I can do that”, He says softly.

“I’m so sorry Jack…”, You mutter, fearing the worst.

“I’m not.”

You look up at him fully then, finding him gazing back at you fondly—a soft crooked twitch of his lips taking over his face.

“You’re not…?”

“No”, He says; “Not when it’s you.”

Your breath catches.

“Sweetheart, I’ve felt the same way about you for so long.”

Your mouth falls open. This time you can’t will it to shut again.

“God, you drive me crazy, kid. It’s always been you”, He confesses, voice soft and deep.

Your chest is heaving by now, mouth dry and eyes wide.

But then you smile; “It’s always been you too, Jack. For so long.”

His smile widens to match yours; “Cmere.”

He pulls you in close, wrapping his strong arms around you. He doesn’t kiss you yet, not here; he doesn’t want the first time to be in the ED. Not when you deserve a real date, to be treated right.

He lets his lips ghost over your hair, pressing softly once against your crown. He rubs his hand up and down your back, before laying his cheek against your hair.

When he pulls away, his thumbs rest softly on your hips; digging in just enough to let you know he’s still there. His smile hasn’t wavered, if anything it’s only grown fonder.

“So we’re ok?”, You finally ask.

Jack laughs softly; “More than ok, kid.”

Quiet settles between you both again, comfortable and warm as you take each other in with new awareness on both sides. Then Jack shifts once; pushing himself off the counter.

“C’mon”, He says, pulling you with him.

“Where?”, You ask.

“The roof”, He tells you; “Gonna watch the fireworks. I know how much you like them.”

You feel your heart melt with fondness, before the lingering concern for him creeps up behind it.

“Jack”, You say softly, stopping him; “It’s ok, we don’t have to. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’m not”, He says, offering you a smile and a small squeeze of his hand; “I want to watch them, with you.”

So you follow him up the stairs to the roof, heart pounding loud enough to echo—letting him guide you with a steady hand on your lower back.

Most of the dayshift is already up there, gathered towards the railing of the roof. Jack finds a spot just in front of the doorway, leaning up against the brick wall. Away from the crowd and somehow seeming a little more private.

You settle in next to him, closer than you were in the break room. The first few fireworks go off, and for the first time; Jack doesn’t flinch. By the tenth, he reaches quietly for your hand; interlacing his fingers with your own.

Not out of fear or bad memories, just grounding himself. That makes you fold; you let your head drift down softly to rest against his shoulder—watching the sparkles of blues and reds paint the sky above you.

Jack brushes his lips briefly against your hair again, pressing once before he turns his head back—squeezing your hand softly. You stay like that; cuddled up against him in the back of the day shift crowd—a new, stronger feeling blossoming between you. Sweetly intimate and warm. Something existing just for the two of you.

“Happy fourth, Jack”, You hum, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

He squeezes your hand again, looking back at you as a sparkle of blue illuminates his face; “You too, sweetheart.”

And that was over a year ago.

He busied himself with his work, throwing himself head-first into company matters that he used to find tedious. Late nights were spent holed up in his office, head hunched over a mountain of paperwork, or eyes burning before his too-bright computer screen. He tried to go home as late as possible knowing you wouldn’t be there to greet him anymore.

One night, he wraps up at quarter to eleven at night. The city is still humming with life, but the sky is dark and shadows creep along the pavement as Baelor steps out into the cool air. He inhales a deep breath, smelling rain and cigarette smoke blown in from downwind. He walks out onto the pavement, preparing to call his driver, when he spots you.

A pretty dove fluttering out of the shadows. You have a thick jacket obscuring most of your figure, but Baelor would recognise you anywhere. His heart stops in his chest as you walk towards him, seemingly unaware of his presence as your gloved hands fidget with the canopy of—

A pram.

He freezes to the spot, his breath curling around him in a cloud of white. You wheel a black pram in front of you, your eyes darting from the bassinet to the street around you. That’s when you spot him, and Baelor sees the shock pass over your face as you realise who it was standing beneath the streetlight ahead.

Baelor’s legs move before his brain has any time to catch up. You stop, and he watches steam coil from your breath as you sigh.

He calls your name, followed by a sincere, “Hello, pretty dove.”

You bristle a little, but not out of fear. It’s something like uncertainty as Baelor stands before you, his mismatched eyes soft, a light dip in his brow as he looks you up and down, gaze then lingering on the pram.

“Hi Baelor,” you greet quietly, watching the way his eyes rake down the pram’s facade. He looks up at you when you speak, his lips parted in surprised speechlessness. You chew your bottom lip thoughtfully, heart hammering in your chest. “This is… uh…”

“I’ve missed you,” he says gently, catching you off guard. You can’t help but shy away a little, hands gripping the handlebar as if to steady yourself. He continues. “You look good.”

You swallow, the tip of your nose cold. “Thanks. So… so do you.”

His eyes find the pram again, and then they find you. A silent question that you can’t avoid. You sigh, steeling yourself as you carefully pull back the canopy and reveal a sleeping baby, bundled heavily under thick layers of soft wool, tucked neatly beneath a warm blanket. Baelor’s eyes widen, leaning over the pram and tracing the lines of the sleeping baby’s face, finding it to be a complete mirror of yours.

“She’s six months old,” you tell him, his eyes flicking to you momentarily before returning to the baby. “She’s, uh, meant to be in the pushchair by now, but she couldn’t sleep. I used to walk her all the time when she was smaller, and it… well, it seems to have done the trick.”

Six months old.

Those words clatter around his skull almost painfully as he steps away from the pram and allows you to pull the canopy back in place. You look up at him, wanting to grimace at the pure confusion in his eyes.

“Baelor…” You say softly, and you let him reach for you. He places a warm hand over yours, skin searing even through the material of your gloves. His thumb strokes your knuckles as you rattle out a shallow breath. “I didn’t… It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”

“She’s mine?” He asks you, and you physically see the way his eyes light up when you give him a feeble nod. You catch them growing glassy too, but he blinks rapidly as he peers back down at the pram, his other hand smoothing over the vinyl of the canopy. “You… you didn’t tell me you were—”

“I didn’t find out until I was like three months along,” you confess, watching his hand brushing along the top of the pram. “We had just broken up, and I was upset, so I didn’t think—”

“You don’t owe me any explanation,” Baelor interrupts you, eyes finding yours. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

You laugh bitterly. “I wouldn’t have wanted you there.”

It came out harsher than intended, and you frown at yourself. Shaking your head, you corrected: “I wouldn’t have wanted you to worry about me, that’s all.”

“I worry about you everyday,” he says honestly, hand still atop yours. “Everyday since I last saw you. You’re all I worry about, pretty dove. You’re all I think about.”

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth just as you hear your baby begin to stir. You curse softly, and Baelor takes a step back as you attempt to push the pram on. You give him a sympathetic look.

“I better get her home. It’s getting colder.”

Baelor looks around. “You shouldn’t be walking around the city at this time. It’s not safe for you or for her.”

He says her so gently it almost makes you cry. You sniffle, blaming it on your cold nose, then shrug. Baelor approaches you and, with a silent question in his eyes, he slides his arm around your waist. You sink into it immediately, his familiar warmth heating you from the inside-out as the two of you fall into sync.

“Let me walk you home,” he says, and you nod.

He smiles, his hand a firm protection on the curve of your hip. Your walk home is filled with hushed conversation, and you find yourself giggling like a school girl. He’s saying all the right things; all the right things you remember made you fall in love with him to begin with.

When you arrive at your flat, he lets you go.

You offer him a sincere smile. “Thank you, Baelor.”

Baelor looks up at your flat. It seems a lot smaller than he remembers. Looks a lot colder, a lot emptier than the nights he spent here when the two of you couldn’t make it to his flat on the posher side of town.

“Let me help you,” Baelor says suddenly, and you look at him, puzzled. He gestures to the baby, now silent in the warmth of her pram. “Let me do what I was always supposed to do.”

You sigh. “Baelor…”

“I love you,” he whispers, and you can’t help the pained whimper that leaves your throat at the confession. He closes the distance and takes your hand in his. “I still do. I never stopped, pretty dove, I want you to know that. And I want you to know that I want to help you. I want to try us again.”

You withdraw your hand, and he swears his heart sinks into his stomach.

“Baelor, I don’t know…”

“We can go as slow as you need,” he tells you, his voice as smooth and comforting as you remember. A voice you couldn’t forget even if you tried. He takes another step forward. “I want to be there for you, and I want to be there for her.”

Your eyes dart across his, finding the watery sincerity that wells there in the low porch light. You sigh out, eyes flicking down to where your daughter—his daughter—sleeps soundly in the pram’s bassinet. You think of the overwhelming joy you felt when she arrived, bloody and screaming. You recall the time she opened her eyes, and you recall the moment your heart leapt into your throat when you realised they were two different colours.

“Slowly,” you mutter, eyes finding his again. “We can try again. Slowly.”

“I can do slowly,” he says with a nod, reaching up to place a hand on your warm cheek. You close your eyes and find yourself sinking into it. He wants to kiss you, but he doesn’t. Slowly echoes around his mind. He thumbs your cheekbone instead. “I’ve missed you so much, pretty dove.”

Then, he looks down at the pram.

“Baby dove,” he whispers, smiling to himself.

He has a baby dove.

Maekar

Maekar hasn’t seen you in well over a year, yet he keeps a framed photo of you on his office desk. It faces him, tucked below his computer monitor, and when his eyes stray from his work, they always find you.

It’s a moment he replays in his head when his bed feels too empty and his home feels too quiet. You’re not looking at the camera, you’re looking behind the camera, eyes gazing at Maekar as you hold a flower towards him. It’s candid, and it fills his heart with an unimaginably warm light that keeps him from spiralling.

Spiralling into the man he was before you.

Pessimistic, withheld. Grumpy, as you always used to remark, dragging one of your nails along the dimpled scars on his face, or passing the pad of your thumb across the frown lines on his forehead.

So he mourned the breakup like a widow.

You were moving away. Family. Work. Something that Maekar didn’t really care to listen to, because all he heard was the fact you couldn’t stay. You couldn’t stay with him. He said he’d come with you, but you couldn’t let him do that. He had children that needed him, a company that needed him, and this city had always been his home, and you weren’t willing to take him away from all of that.

So the last night you spent together had you coming three times on his mouth and another three on his cock, before he held you while you cried and then morning came.

And you left.

The months were long. His children comforted him the way children could, but he was a hollow man. He didn’t remove the photos of you from his bedside table, nor did he even take your toothbrush out of the cup in his bathroom.

A few months ago, he found a travel vial of your perfume under his bed. He keeps it in his pocket and rolls it between his fingers when he’s stressed.

So the next time he saw you, months and months and months since you had left him, he could have sworn he was dreaming.

He’s taking a walk on his lunch break, having successfully ignored his pestering assistant and finding solace in a leafy green park a block away from his building. He walks slowly down the pavement, eyes skimming across the shrubs of flowers as he nurses his coffee (fourth of the day, if he’s remembering correctly—and it was only midday). He rounds a corner, and there you are.

Perching on a nearby bench, a pretty smile split across your face. That pretty smile he still so often dreams of. When he moves closer, his feet carrying him instinctively, the shrubs surrounding the bench seem to melt away and reveal a fat, babbling baby bouncing in your lap.

As he nears you, he can hear you cooing at the baby. And the baby is giggling, chubby fingers reaching for your face, clenching weakly at the tip of your nose, at the curve of your jaw, sliding over your lips.

A lump forms in his throat. You looked happy.

He thinks about turning away. He thinks about disappearing before you can see him. He thinks about leaving you happy and unaware in your life without him.

But Maekar is a selfish man, and his feet don’t stop.

Within a few yards of you, he says your name. It was heaven to say it knowing it was going to land on the ears of the person he needed it to.

You look up, your cooing coming to an abrupt stop. The baby garbles some baby gibberish to you as Maekar approaches and your eyes widen.

“Maekar,” you say in disbelief. “I—wow, hi.”

“My love,” he says instinctively. He remains standing. “You’re… back.”

You nod bashfully, still bouncing the fat baby in your lap. “Yeah. I, uh, moved back a few months ago. My new job didn’t… didn’t give me the kind of maternity cover I needed.”

He looks down then. You smile, small and almost embarrassed, as you turn the baby in your lap. Maekar’s eyes narrow as he looks at the baby, appraising happy, healthy features and glistening eyes.

“You… have a baby,” he says slowly.

You nod, then pat the bench beside you. He sits like a trained dog, his movements immediate. The baby watches him thoughtfully.

“I do,” you say, leaning down to press a kiss to the baby’s head. “She’s about seven months. Only just started sitting up properly.”

Maekar looks at the baby. Despite her face being overwhelmed by your features, his heart clenches when he sees Rhae. He sees Aegon and Daella in her round face and gummy smile.

“She’s beautiful,” Maekar says, trying not to sound bitter. “She looks just like you.”

You laugh, and the sound is music to Maekar’s ears. He watches you and the pure joy that dances across your face. He squashes the urge to lean forward and kiss the smile from your lips.

“People’ve always told me that,” you tell him, cradling the back of the baby’s head as you hold her steady in your lap. She’s still watching Maekar with curious eyes. “But I think she looks a lot like her dad.”

Maekar sucks his teeth in thought. He tastes coffee in the grooves, and he has half the mind to pull your perfume vial from his pocket and spin it between his fingers. His hand clutches tightly around his nearly empty coffee cup instead.

He doesn’t want to ask, but you answer for him.

“Our last night together obviously went a little better than I expected,” you say around a laugh. The baby reacts to the sound, cooing up at you, eyes leaving Maekar for the first time in several minutes. Maekar watches the exchange with his heart in his throat. You continue, bouncing your leg slightly. “A month into the move, I thought my morning sickness was just nerves about starting a new job. Turns out—” you plant a kiss on the baby’s forehead, and she squeals with delight. “—you’d left me a present.”

Maekar stiffens. “What?”

You turn to him, a brow cocked. “Come on, Maekar. Do the math.”

He looks between you and the baby a few times before his brain catches up. He was a father. Again. And his baby, a baby he didn’t know existed, was perched in your lap right in front of him, glassy eyes boring into his soul. Slowly, he runs a hand down his face, and he hears you chuckle softly beneath your breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Was the first thing that left his mouth. “Why didn’t you call? Or text? I would have—I would have been with you that fucking moment.”

You shrug flippantly. “We never really talked about kids, and I’d moved across the country, Maekar. I didn’t want to interrupt your life—”

“If I knew you were pregnant, I would have wanted my life interrupted,” Maekar hisses, immediately regretting the annoyance in his tone. The baby makes a little gasp, and you shush her gently. He continues after calming himself. “I would have moved you right back home.”

Home. His home.

You frown sadly. “You knew I had to go—”

“Then I would’ve come to you,” he says. “My love, you should have told me.”

“I know, I know,” you whisper, looking down at your daughter. She’s staring at Maekar like she knows him. The thought makes you laugh through your nose, a small smile spreading back across your beautiful face. You turn to him. “You know, all she’s been saying is dada.”

Maekar’s heart clenches even tighter.

“Isn’t that right?” You bounce the baby in your lap, and she giggles. She might just be the happiest baby Maekar has ever met. Living with you does that to somebody, though. You nod towards Maekar, as if gesturing for the baby to look over at him again. “It’s never mama, is it? Always dada.”

You face him then. “Do you want to hold her?”

Maekar places his cup aside straight away. You nearly laugh at his eagerness as you hand the baby over to him, and he takes her naturally. He cradles her to his chest exactly how he remembers cradling Daeron, and Aerion, and every single one of his children. In that moment, he can’t help the hot press of tears that find the back of his eyes, and he gazes down at the smiling baby as she looks back up at him.

“Hi,” he says softly.

The baby blows a raspberry. But then, she reaches up, and wraps a few chubby fingers around the tip of his nose. His smile is beaming, and he doesn’t have to look over at you to know that you’re smiling too.

“Da…da…da…” The baby garbles, and Maekar has to blink away tears.

You laugh. “See? That’s all she says.”

“I’m here,” Maekar coos, and it’s the softest he’s spoken in a very long time.

After a long moment, the baby finally lets go of his nose and he can shift his head to look you up and down. You recline against the back of the bench, smiling happily, hands resting across your stomach.

“Can I take you out for lunch?” Maekar asks suddenly, the baby tugging on his tie now.

You purse your lips. “It’s a busy time of year for you. I don’t want—”

“I’m free for the rest of the fucking day,” Maekar interrupts.

You can’t help but smile now. “Okay, but I don’t have anyone to look after—”

“She can come,” Maekar says quickly.

You look him up and down. “Okay… yeah, okay, I’d love that. We’d love that.”

Maekar leans forward, almost out of habit, but he stops himself. His eyes go wide, as if he only just realised what he was trying to do. He wants to mutter out an apology, but you lean in and dismiss any doubt in his mind. You press your lips to his and everything feels right again.

You pull away, then giggle behind your palm. “Uh, she’s got your tie in her mouth.”

Maekar looks down, the baby—his daughter mouthing her gums against the triangular end of his navy tie. He looks back at you.

“It’s her tie now,” he says simply, and his heart soars as you smile at him.

Aerion

You and Aerion’s relationship had always been too complicated for you to really enjoy.

Sure, he could do the boyfriend things. He’d take you out on dates, remember the names of your friends, drive you to and from work, buy you flowers every other day. He’d buy you pads or tampons or chocolate or whatever the fuck else you needed when you were on your period (and he ignored the insults you hurled at him when his jokes didn’t land while you were dealing with cramps). He could be caring and attentive and loyal.

And yes, he was a good lover. He’d listen to the noises you’d make and listen to what you needed: faster, harder, slower, deeper. He’d break you apart on his tongue and his fingers, against his kitchen counter or spread out in the backseat of his Merc. He’d have you seeing stars and shouting his name until your voice came out hoarse.

But he was unpredictable. He was a complicated man.

Never toxic, never mean, but his mouth would get him into more trouble than he cared to admit, and there were a few times he felt a pang of guilt when he saw the sadness in your face as you bailed him out of jail. Literally and figuratively.

He never acknowledged it, but he knew you hated when he worked too late, when he came home in the early hours of the morning. He knew you hated it when he took too long to reply to your messages, or when he cancelled your plans an hour before.

He was immature and he needed time to grow.

Which is why you ended it.

At first, he refused. He’d grow with you, he’d said. He’d stop getting into fights and he’d stop working so late. He’d take you out more, post you more, buy you more flowers or jewellery. He’d fuck you better—

But that wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

So you left, and Aerion found himself with a brand new fist-sized hole in his bedroom wall.

And that’s when he promised to himself that he’d get better. That he’d stop being an absolute fuckwit and, as his dad had so often told him, get his fucking act together.

So he stopped drinking. He stopped clubbing. He stopped doing drugs.

He went to the gym more. Went for more walks. Spent more time watching shitty old movies from his childhood with Daeron, and helping Aemon with his homework. He spent more time with Daella, Aegon and Rhae, taking them on outings: taking them to the zoo, to theme parks, to museums. He started spending more time as their brother.

Hell, he even volunteered. Sure, maybe it started off as community service after he had found himself in a drunken brawl, but he actually enjoyed it. So every Sunday, he found himself a few blocks away from his flat, tending to the community garden and teaching kids how not to kill a fucking tomato plant. It really wasn’t that hard.

A few times over the last year, he’d tried to get in contact with you. You hadn’t blocked his number, but you didn’t reply either. So he found himself sending you the occasional message, updating you on his life. Pathetic, he knows, but it kept him grounded. And each time he turned on his phone—his lockscreen still a selfie of you and him—he waited to see if you had responded.

But you hadn’t.

Until one day, you did.

He sits on a park bench, watching Daella and Rhae sprint around the playground with Aegon chasing them with his sword (a stick), when his phone chimes in his pocket. He expects it to be literally anyone else but you, but when he sees your name light up, his stomach swoops in excitement. He opens your message so fast his knuckle cracks.

> I’m ready to talk if you are

That afternoon, he’s sitting outside his favourite cafe—your favourite cafe—when he spots you approaching. He leaps to his feet, a victorious smile split across his pale face. But the smile drops, and it drops hard, when he sees you’ve got a baby carrier strapped to your front.

A fucking baby. The thought is like a migraine in his head, and he watches you smile softly at him as you approach, one of your hands a sturdy support on the base of the carrier. You stop just far enough away that he can’t see the baby’s head, but he can see the covered arms and legs that poke out the side.

“Aerion,” you greet. You sound confident, not nervous, as you look him up and down.

He suddenly feels like he wants to shrink away. “Hi, baby.”

You sit down on the seat across from him, and he leans his elbow against the separating table as he stares at you. His eyes are intense, but there’s a softness there that you can’t remember. The lines of his face seem less sharp too, and even his white-blond hair appears softer as it flicks against his forehead.

“I thought we should talk,” you say earnestly. “I know you’ve been doing a lot better.”

Aerion nods. “So much better, baby, I promise.” He almost whines then as his eyes drift down your body, desperately ignoring the baby carrier. “Fuck, I’ve missed you so much, you have no idea.”

You can’t help but grow hot at his words. “I’ve… missed you too.”

“Then come back to me,” Aerion says, not missing his opportunity. “Come back to me. I… I need you back.”

“Aerion,” you slow him down with the gentleness of your voice. “It’s complicated.”

He deems it the appropriate time to address the baby-sized elephant in the room.

“Cause of the baby?” Aerion asks, flicking a casual finger in the carrier’s direction. “I don’t mind stepping up. I used to help dad and Daeron with Rhae when she was born.”

You shake your head. “Aerion—”

“I’m not mad at you,” Aerion continues. “I mean, I would’ve wanted you to move on. So, the baby doesn’t worry me—”

“Aerion!”

He stops.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” you say carefully, then slowly begin unbuckling the carrier. Aerion watches patiently as you undo the clasps and straps keeping the infant secured to you, before you’re plucking the baby out. You utter as you do this, “He’s five months now. Hates to be put down, which is a pain in the arse, if I’m honest. I brought this fancy pushchair and he fucking hates it.”

But Aerion’s not really listening. The little boy, groggy from his nap, blinks lazily up at the sky as you heft him in your arms. He looks a lot like you, but it feels like Aerion’s been shot through the heart, because the baby also looks like him. So much like him it physically pains him: a strip of white-blond through the texture of the baby’s short hair has him feeling sick with guilt.

“He’s mine?” Aerion questions, almost breathless, before you can say anything else.

You nod sceptically, unsure of how your ex will take the news. “Yeah, surprise. My birth control failed and, yeah, you have a son.”

“A son…” Aerion watches the baby carefully.

Bright eyes peered at the world around him. Probably so bright, so colourful, so busy. Aerion watches those eyes move—eyes that look so much like yours—until they come to a stop on Aerion’s face.

The baby frowns.

Aerion wants to scoff. “He doesn’t like me.”

“You’re a stranger,” you tell him.

That makes his heart sting.

“I shouldn’t be a stranger,” Aerion whispers. “I should be his dad.”

You suck in a steadying breath, looking at the pure, unbridled sadness stretching across Aerion’s usually cocky features. He does appear to be a changed man.

“I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to focus on… getting better,” you say honestly, your son lying content in your arms. He’s still looking at Aerion warily though, lips pulled into a frown Aerion has seen one too many times in the mirror. You continue. “You’ve done so well for yourself, Aerion, so I figured now was as good a time as any.”

He nods, more to himself than you.

“I’m not saying we’re ready to be how… we once were.” His heart stutters a little when you say that. “But I want you to be in your son’s life. I want you to be a dad, Aerion.”

Pride fills him.

You want him. That’s all he really hears.

“I want that,” he informs you like it’s the easiest decision of his entire life. Because it is. “But I want you back, baby.”

“Aerion…”

“Please.” Aerion reaches across the table and places his fingers against your forearm, your hands holding your son. “I’m better. I promise you I’m better. I’m a changed man, baby, I need you to see that. And I want to be yours again. I want to be a dad, and I want you in my life again—fuck, I want you both in my life. Please.”

His son is still staring at him.

But he’s not frowning anymore.

You release a shaky breath, and Aerion just wants to hug you. “If you even think about acting the way you used to—”

“Never.”

“—you’ll never see us again.”

“I know,” Aerion whispers. “Please, baby.”

Wordlessly, you hold your son out to him. Anxiety heavy in his gut, Aerion gently takes your son, his son, from your hands and cradles him to his chest, supporting his head with a warm hand. Aerion’s heart swells. The baby stares up at him, not making a sound.

“Look at that,” you mutter, pulling out your phone to take a photo. “You’re a natural.”

It’s the happiest he’s felt in a very long time

Dunk

Dunk had been your best friend for god knows how long.

He’d known you all his life. You’d practically grown up together. But it wasn’t until secondary school that he realised he liked you a lot more than he originally thought. That the way he looked at you became heavier, that his heart beat increased each time you hugged him.

He’d taken you to your secondary school’s last dance, and he’d spend the rest of the year subtly scaring off any boy that looked at you for too long. Because to you, Dunk was your gentle giant, your best friend. But to Dunk, you were his everything.

University is when things changed.

You started sleeping together.

It was a friends with a lot of benefits situation, but you were happy with it. And if you were happy, Dunk was happy. He cared for you like any good boyfriend would: his mass a solid protection, a warm comfort. He was chivalrous and kind and so, so sweet. You loved him endlessly, but it was Dunk who loved you in a slightly different way. But he would never tell you that, never admit to you that his feelings transcended the boundaries of your strongly built friendship. Not then, anyway.

It was a few years later, he remembered, when the words slipped from his mouth. A drunken night with his mouth between your legs, your graduation ceremony a happy memory in both of your minds. He had licked you through your second orgasm when it slurred out of him: he loved you, he loved you so much it hurt.

You sat upright then, and he had rested his head against the plush of your thigh. You told him you loved him too, and he believed you. He believed you so much that he surged up the bed to kiss you, and then took you again and again until he was sure you’d both disappear between the springs of the mattress.

But a few months later, you were leaving him. You were saying goodbye to him.

Why would you leave him if you loved him?

You’d cupped his face on the doorstep of his flat, your bags packed behind you. Your thumbs wiped the tears from his cheeks as you cooed at him that everything was going to be okay. That you’d be back one day. That your time across the sea, in a completely different country, on a completely different continent, would be over before he knew it. You’d be back.

You promised him.

It was hard. Your absence was far-reaching in every little crevice of his mind. It was a hole in his heart, or a cavity in the ivory of his teeth. Empty.

You called him every night. Told him about your day, about your new job, about the friends you had made. You always asked how he was doing, and you always asked a million questions about him. So much so that some nights guilt plagued him as he lay in bed, realising he had talked so much about himself. But you seemed to like it. So he learned to live with it.

As the months ticked by, calls came less and less. You were busy, he understood. Less video calls became no video calls, and phone calls became shorter and shorter, often in the wee hours of the morning. Dunk didn’t mind. As long as he got to listen to your voice, listen to the way you hummed out his name as you bid him goodnight, he would be happy.

A full year came and went, and then some. You called him every so often, apologising. Changes in your schedule, new demands at work. He would shush you, tell you that everything was okay, and then listen to the day you had and how beautiful the weather was.

Exactly 449 days since Dunk had last seen you—yes, he was keeping count—his world shifted on its axis. You told him you were coming home. Told him that the tenure at whatever job you were at—a stupid job, Dunk deduced, because it had taken you away from him—had come to an end, and now you were miserably homesick and were moving home at the end of the month.

So now, here he was.

Dunk waits impatiently in the living room of his flat, pacing the space that has always been just a little too small for him. You had landed a few hours ago, and had informed him that once you were settled with your family, you’d come to visit.

His mind is racing. He gets to see you again.

When his doorbell rings, he leaps over his couch and sprints down the hall. He throws open the door with such excitement that it bangs against the wall, and he all but tosses himself at you. You yelp as he engulfs you in a crushing hug, and you return it as best you can. When he pulls back, he can’t help himself: he presses his mouth to yours, and he delights in the way you squeak and kiss him back.

When you pull away, he cups your face in his hands just as you had done to him all those months ago.

“Dunk,” you say, almost giddy.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he replies, pressing his mouth back to yours. You kiss, then part with a chuckle. He whines and attempts to chase it. “My sweet girl, I’ve missed you so much, you have no idea.”

“I have some idea,” you say humorously. You manage to wriggle yourself out of his arms, then step to the side with a bashful smile. “Dunk, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Dunk hadn’t noticed it. You step aside and reveal a pushchair behind you, a little mobile hanging from the canopy. And he sees then a pair of little hands reaching for a plush yellow star that bobs just out of reach.

Dunk’s stomach drops. “Oh my god.”

You fidget with the hem of your shirt. “Yeah… surprise.”

“This is your baby?” Dunk looks from the pushchair to you. “Yours?”

“No, I stole her,” you joke, then snort out a laugh at Dunk’s shocked face. “Yes, she’s mine, Dunk. She was born a couple months early, but she’s mine, and she’s healthy—”

Dunk was trying to order numbers in his head. He was having a bit of trouble.

You stop yourself, catching sight of Dunk’s frazzled expression. Gently, you take his hand and lead him over to the pushchair, pulling back the canopy at to reveal the baby. Dunk gapes: the little girl tucked amongst a myriad of pink and purple blankets is big and chubby, with round cheeks and a full head of hair. She makes a noise of surprise—a soft “hoo” when Dunk’s head fills her field of vision—and then starts wriggling under the blankets, kicking her feet.

“She was eight pounds,” you tell him. “If she had been born on her due date, she would have ripped me open. I s’pose that’s what I get when her dad is almost seven feet tall.”

Dunk snaps his head to you. “So—?”

“Yeah.” You hold his hand, as if you were scared he’d run away. But you know he’d never run from you. You peer down at your daughter. “She’s yours, Dunk.”

Dunk gapes down at the little girl. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I know this is a lot,” you begin nervously. “I found out I was pregnant in the airport bathroom when I arrived, actually. I thought about telling you, but I knew you would’ve worried too much for your own good, so I thought it’d be better to just… let it happen and I’d tell you when the time was right.”

Dunk didn’t know what to say.

But then he heard you sniffle. His eyes were on you that very second.

Tears well in your eyes. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you. I just… I was so far away from home, and I was so scared, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you being mad at me—”

Dunk cuts you off by bringing your face into his chest. He holds you tightly, face pressing to the top of your head.

“I would never be mad at you,” Dunk whispers. “Oh, my sweet girl, I’m so sorry you had to do this alone.”

You sniffle against him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Dunk says, firm but still gentle. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I just wish I could have been there for you. I would have gotten on the next flight over.”

You chuckle dryly into his chest before pulling away. “That’s what I thought you would’ve done, but it was… better for me to do it alone. I didn’t want to burden you.”

He cradles your face like you were the most fragile thing in the world. “You would never be a burden on me. Ever. But it’s done. It’s behind us now, okay? Now I have you home—” he looks down at his daughter. “—and we’re a family.”

You smile. “We should probably get married then, huh?”

Dunk’s eyes widen and he stares down at you desperately. “Seriously?”

You laugh. “No, Dunk, I’m kidding.”

Dunk huffs. “But I will marry you one day, just so you’re aware.”

“Sure, Dunk.”

“I mean it.”

You smile, standing on your toes to press your lips to his, your daughter babbling happily to herself beside you. “I know.”

Dunk pulls back and sticks a hand into the pushchair. His little girl immediately wraps her hand around his index finger, and she looks so tiny next to him.

A tear rolls down his face and he smiles, whispering to the little girl, “Hi, sweet baby, daddy’s here.”

Daeron

Daeron had been a great boyfriend for a considerable amount of time.

He was incredibly attentive, you’d give him that. He knew you better than he knew himself it seemed, and he always, no matter what, went out of his way to spoil you. Gift giving and acts of service were his love language, and day after day he’d find something new to give you, or something new to do for you. He brought you anything your eyes lingered on for too long while out shopping, and he took you across the world on lavish trips you could have only dreamed of when you were younger.

But he was a tormented man. Always told you it was in his genes. That generations before him were much the same.

And that’s how it descended towards its end.

Daeron fell into a pit of bad habits, the walls steep around him, and you watched as he didn’t even try to dig himself out. He simply dug further and further: alcohol, drugs, anything to make his brain shut up. You tried your best to help him—his perfect girl, his special girl—but there wasn’t much you could really do except clean him up after a rough night, pluck glass and debris from wounds across his hands, and kiss him on his dewy forehead as he toppled into an unsettled slumber.

It was a cycle you struggled to keep up with.

Good days dwindled, and you slowly watched the Daeron you knew, the Daeron you loved, crumble away from you before your very eyes. So, when you found out you were pregnant one stormy evening, Daeron passed out in the living room, you couldn’t help the sobs that tore from your throat. You had no one to comfort you then, which is why you decided to leave.

You told him that next morning, and he had cried.

His arms had reached for you, clutching at the material of your shirt, the cuffs of your trousers, the bend of your ankle as you backed towards the door. You begged him to get help, that you would take him back when he was better. But you couldn’t give him what he needed, which is why you turned without a glance back and left his high-rise flat.

So, he changed.

He got sober. Fuck, it was hard, but he did it. He poured everything he had down the sink, and the smell of it tipping down the drain made him want to throw up with guilt. He blocked his dealer, blocked the number of his favourite bartender, and got better. Hell, he even went to those stupid AA meetings his dad had set up for him—which, by the way, were fucking boring, but he stayed. He sat in that circle of people and he stayed. And he listened.

And he did it for you.

It wasn’t a quick fix. Days trudged by slowly, and months even slower after that. It seemed as though time was dragging itself through quicksand, drawing out every little hurting part of Daeron and stringing it up for everyone to see.

But he got better.

Over a year after he started, he truly felt better. His soul seemed to sit lighter in the hollow of his body, and his eyes were brighter, could see further. He saw then a future with you, a future where everything was normal again. Where he could spoil you rotten, take care of you, smother you with love in every way he thought possible.

He wanted to buy you a big house and a nice car. He wanted to slip a flashy rock onto your finger and he wanted to hear you say “I do” at the altar. He wanted to see you grow round with his child and he wanted to see you chasing a gaggle of toddlers around the house.

He wanted to see and hear you.

He wanted you.

You had blocked his number, but he didn’t see that as an obstacle. You had moved out of your old flat and seemingly vanished, but that wasn’t an obstacle either. He was a Targaryen, after all.

Now, present day, he peruses through the aisles of a clothing shop in the middle of the city. He pauses by a rack near the window, ignoring the triple-figure price tags as he flicks through the items. Over the metal pole of the rack, he spots a flash of movement, his eyes immediately drawing upwards to follow it.

It’s you.

He swears the heavens have opened for him. Here you are, walking slowly past the window of the shop he’s in. He didn’t even think twice before he was dumping the clothes he had already accumulated and hurrying outside.

He catches you just as you pass the door, and he calls your name.

You turn and god you look as beautiful as ever.

Daeron’s knees nearly buckle. “Hi.”

You step to the side of the pavement to let other pedestrians walk by, and he does the same. That’s also the exact moment he notices you’re pushing a covered pushchair. His heart just about drops out of his arse as he stares at it.

“Hi Daeron. It’s been a while,” you greet, looking him up and down. “Wow, you look great.”

Daeron faces you head-on, taking a deep breath. His heart is beating so fast. He’s nervous. “It has… and thank you. I’m sober.”

You smile. “That’s great! I’m so proud of you.”

Daeron fidgets anxiously with his fingers as he checks your own fingers for a ring. No wedding ring, good.

He looks back up. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’m, uh, over a year sober.”

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day,” you say with such sincerity that tears threaten to well in his eyes. He watches you smile then, your hand running up and down the handle of the pushchair. “I’m so happy you got better, Daeron. Really.”

He takes a step forward, a small dent in his brow as he speaks around a subtle pout. “My special girl, I did it for you. I got better for you.”

You peer up at him. “I know.”

“Then you remember what you said?” Daeron has to physically stop himself from getting on his knees to beg. “You said you’d come back to me. You said if I got better—”

“I know,” you repeat, sucking your bottom lip nervously between your teeth. Your eyes wander back down to the pushchair, and Daeron feels his heart sink. He waits for you to continue, and you do. “Things aren’t the same as they used to be, Daeron.”

He frowns. “Are you in a relationship?”

You shake your head.

He continues. “Then what’s the problem? I’m here now, sweetheart, I got better. For you.” He points at the pushchair then. “You have a baby? Is that the problem?”

“My baby is not a problem,” you grumble, giving him a pointed look.

Daeron’s eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s the father that’s the problem,” you say, leaning back against the wall of the shop. You rock the pushchair gently back and forth. “I never told him I was pregnant, and I never told him I had the baby. I don’t want him to be mad at me.”

Daeron swipes a hand through the air, trying to be nonchalant. “Don’t worry about that. If he loves you, he would never be mad. This should be amazing news, right?”

“I guess,” you say quietly.

“Tell him.” Daeron reaches for you then, placing a warm hand against your arm. “I can help you, if you want? I always thought my mitigation skills were pretty good—”

“Daeron?”

“Yeah?”

“This is your baby.”

He freezes.

You suck your teeth, gesturing to the pushchair. His eyes find it, the blood draining from his face. God, he’s always wanted this, he always wanted this with you, but not like this. Not knowing you did this all on his own. Not knowing he wasn’t there with you.

“My… baby?” Daeron breathes out.

You nod, then bring the pushchair around. Daeron’s heart squeezes tightly beneath his sternum as a gleaming-eyed baby is revealed to him, perched up in the pushchair with a pair of chubby hands gripping the neck of a soft dragon plushie.

“He’s eight months at the end of the week,” you tell your ex, pulling the canopy of the pushchair back so Daeron could get a clearer look. “Fifteen hour labour. I wanted to fucking die, but it was worth it.”

You squat down beside the pushchair and press one of your fingers to your son’s squishy cheeks. He giggles as you coo at him: “It was worth it, wasn’t it, baby?”

The baby continues to giggle as you stand back up, and in his excitement, he tosses his dragon onto the pavement. Daeron bends to grab it, feeling the silky-soft fur and the slight rattle of plastic beads in its tail. Gently, he approaches the pushchair and squats before it, holding the dragon out to the little boy.

The baby looks at him with a straight face—as straight a face as a baby can have—as the dragon is offered to him. A beat passes where Daeron feels he might burst into tears before a wide, gummy smile spreads across the baby’s fat face. He giggles again, reaching for the toy, taking it from Daeron. Daeron smiles as the baby takes one hand and clutches five tiny fingers around one of Daeron’s.

“I found out I was pregnant the day before we broke up,” you tell him, watching your son squeeze your ex’s finger. “I figured you needed to focus on your sobriety. I was planning to unblock you eventually, by the way. He wouldn’t have been kept a secret for too much longer, I promise.”

“My special girl,” Daeron whispers to you, still letting his son hold his finger in one hand and the little dragon in the other. “You owe me no explanations. That was the right thing to do.”

You clear your throat. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry that—”

“And you don’t owe me apologies either.”

You shut up.

Daeron gets to his feet, slipping his hand into yours. He looks to you with teary eyes that seem so much brighter than the last time you saw him. His skin is clearer, his hair is neater. He looks good.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he tells you softly. “Can… will you let me show you how much I’ve changed?”

You look down at your son for a moment. Then, with a shuddering exhale, you grip Daeron’s hand in return and nod before you can have any second thoughts.

“I’d like that,” you utter, and then let your ex wrap you in a tight hug. You listen to your baby giggle as you return the hug, and when you part, you reach up to wipe a tear from Daeron’s cheek. He smiles shyly, then you gesture at your son. “His middle name’s Daeron, by the way. And he’s a Targaryen.”

Daeron’s heart could have exploded right there

———

fern not writing smut is a rarity lol quick take a picture while it lasts

tags 🌿