the blorbo place

Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldn’t name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.

The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.

He hopes you’ll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.

Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment you’ve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?

Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.

You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.

He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, won’t get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when you’re face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.

Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he won’t have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.

But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all you’ve lost; of all he’s made you lose.

It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.

Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.

The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.

But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.

He wishes he would’ve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesn’t feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He would’ve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.

Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.

If his promise would’ve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it would’ve knocked the air out of you both. He would’ve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing it’ll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like he’s your whole world.

May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.

He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys would’ve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldn’t. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.

And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?

Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.

So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure it’s real.

Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Don’t dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again and—

“I shall watch him,” your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you — “You need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.”

My Queen? Mother?

The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.

A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.

Were you crying? He couldn’t bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.

Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.

He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didn’t matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.

Please.

Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.

Please.

One last time is all he asks.

If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.

He knows he’s begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.

Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heart—

Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldn’t fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he must’ve brought you.

But he is wrong.

You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.

Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.

If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he could’ve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.

He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.

"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want to—"

Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then why—

"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.

Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?

Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."

The Maesters? What ever could you mean?

Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?

"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wake—"

And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.

It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"

His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.

But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."

Breathing life back into you.

Does that mean—

But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?

Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.

Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.

"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.

A laugh.

Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.

You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."

Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.

"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you again—"

He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.

And Gods, you do.

Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.

He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.

Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.

"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dārilaros ñuha."

Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.

He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.

"Avy jorrāelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrāelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, for—"

But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."

Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.

He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."

Oh.

In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.

"But I have—"

"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."

"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.

You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.

He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.

"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.

And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.

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ñuha jorrāeliarzy — my love

dārilaros ñuha — my prince

Winterfell was left in a generally stable state, aside from the fact that there was a greater need for livestock now that they not only had an additional mouth to feed, but also a fully grown dragon who resided in a make-shift dragonpit only a few minutes ride beyond the walls of the castle–a wedding gift that the Lord of Winterfell had prepared in anticipation of his new wife’s arrival. Otherwise, the North seemed to be in greater shape upon the dawn of this new summer than it had in all of Cregan’s years. 

The greatest of Cregan’s accomplishments, of course, was his new wife. At the beginning of the winter, he had not expected that he would be married by the end of it, but with the arrival of Prince Jaeaerys on his official tour of the realm also came his proposal of marriage between Lord Cregan and his own aunt, the youngest daughter of the late King Viserys I and his second wife, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower. He had been hesitant to consider this offer–he’d never met the woman, which was not uncommon for marriages of such high status, but he’d been fortunate enough to have been able to form some sort of friendship with his late wife prior to their union. Jace had brought along with him the terms offered by his mother, in her own hand, of course, as well as a portrait of the woman in question. 

Cregan was not above admitting how taken he’d been with the sight of the princess, even if it were only a recreation of her beauty on canvas. He’d heard of her beauty before, it was rumoured around the realm, but seeing it was entirely different, a sort of beauty he could not have imagined on his own.

“Tell me, my prince,” Cregan asked him, hardly drawing his crystal blue gaze away from the portrait, “you are her blood and have grown up with the princess, is this painting to her likeness?”

Jacaerys smirked, “Of course, Lord Stark. My aunt is known to be one of the most beautiful women ever to live.”

Cregan pursed his lips. He was aware of the strange customs of the Targaryens, having married brother to sister and uncle to niece for generations. Jacaerys could be speaking the truth, for he himself could hold some sort of affection for his aunt, but Cregan did not suspect as such. Intead, his greater question was whether Jacaerys could be lying to him out of political gain; as his mother’s envoy, it would do him no good to suggest that the artist had not accurately painted her. Her looks were of no concern to him, but he valued honour and truth over all else. If they were attempting to attract him to the deal by portraying the princess as such a beauty over anything else, he would be personally insulted to discover that he’d been lied to, a snub from the royal family would not be taken kindly by House Stark. 

“What say you?” Cregan turned to the group of men standing just to the left of the prince, all who seemed alarmed at Lord Stark’s attention being turned to them, “How do each of you vouch for the princess?”

The men, one at a time, attested to the princess’s beauty until he stood before the smallest and visibly youngest of the men.

“And you, lad?” 

“I’m afraid the portrait fails to depict the princess, milord,” The boy grew rosy in the cheeks as he imagined the princess in his mind, eyes drawing towards the portrait, “That is her, yes, but only as close as the Master Holbein could have made it, for I do not think it possible to recreate such beauty. She is gifted by the gods, surely, milord, both in beauty and manner. She is kind, brings food and toys to orphans in Flea Bottom and ev’rything, milord.”

Cregan, taken aback by the answer from the youngest boy, turned back to Prince Jacaerys, who seemed equally as surprised as he did pleased with the answers of his men.

“This is true, milord,” Jace said, “the princess is known among the people for her generosity, among her other talents and traits. It cannot be denied that her mother, the Queen Dowager, was not fond of my family, nor us of her, but the princess was raised better than any of us, I would say. Take the night to think on it, I would hope to send word to the queen before I leave Winterfell at noon.”

Cregan did as instructed, thinking on it long and hard. Her beauty had been their main selling point, something that could not be denied from the portrait sent of her. Lord Stark had half a mind to hang it upon the mantle in his bedchambers whether he takes her to wife or not, but it was not her beauty that had truly swayed his decision. Instead, he thought over the young lad’s words; a southern lady scarcely thrives in the North, a nation nearly as large on its own as all of the remaining six kingdoms put together. The weather was harsh, and the people were harsher, something he could not imagine a Targaryen princess handling well. However, he’d heard of Alicent Hightower’s assertiveness and ability to lead while her husband was incapable and Rhaenyra was in Dragonstone. If what Jacaerys had told him was true, the princess would be dutiful and loyal, and according to the prince’s men, kind beyond words. Beauty may have factored into his decision on a personal level, but he also met the prince the next morning with his acceptance mostly on the basis that he believed that the princess would be wholly capable of helping him rule the North.

He wrote to her a week after Jacaerys departed from Winterfell, certain that the news would have already arrived in the capitol and she would already be aware of their arrangement. He would have little time between her arrival in the north and their wedding to meet with her in private, so this was his best hope. He was pleased to receive a raven in return only three days later, neat handwriting befitting a princess scrawled across the parchment. It was not much, but Cregan was able to learn some things about her through the letters, making it seem like he was less-so marrying a stranger and more as if she were a distant friend. 

The month following, the princess would depart from King’s Landing in a procession he was told seemed a mile long. He waited with anticipation, Winterfell in a flurry of servants and guards to prepare the castle to house the royal family and their household, as well as for the wedding itself, and only one more month would pass before his bride had arrived within the walls of Winterfell.

Cregan had bowed respectfully to the Queen Dowager as she stepped out of her wheelhouse, then to the two silver-haired princes who arrived on their steeds. His eyes scanned the growing crowd for any sight of his betrothed, finally catching sight of her as she took the hand of a Dornish white cloak to balance herself as she exited the wheelhouse, a pretty white fur-lined cloak wrapped around her shoulders, almost blending into the pale blonde of her hair. She was, indeed, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had traditional Valyrian looks, but also held an aura of softness. 

She was nervous as she curtsied before her, but seemed happy enough with his appearance and manners as he greeted her with a kiss to her leather-gloved knuckle. The moment was broken apart by her mother’s level tone, requesting to be brought to her chambers for some rest before supper. That evening Cregan found the portrait of the princess that he’d received months earlier and personally hung it above the mantle in his bedchambers. He thought it was safe to say he was smitten.

The princess appeared bashful in his presence, though he was partially certain that her discomfort was brought on by her ever-present family, each looming nearby as if waiting to intercept his attempts of conversation with his betrothed. He could not decide who he had grown to loathe the most; Aegon had already drank a generous portion of Winterfell’s wine cellars even before the wedding, and often joined the conversation with the goal to tease his sister and see her shrink in embarrassment; Aemond was constantly looking to best anyone in his path, and seemed almost possessive over his sister’s attention; her mother had hardly allowed them a moment alone, constantly insisting on supervising any time that he would invite her for any sort of activity, or set one of her brothers after them instead. Alicent had a habit of speaking for her daughter, meaning that Cregan had no opportunity to truly know her while her mother was present, while her brothers made it impossible to even speak to one another at all. 

He was finally glad on their wedding night, when he’d arranged the head table to be broken into three, leaving the happy couple to sit above the rest and finally receive some alone time. She had been radiant in her gown of white furs and fleeces, meeting him beneath the weirwood tree with her eldest brother at her side to give her away. He’d been glad to tear away the cloak of red and black, intricately interwoven into a field of green and gold at the bottom–it would be unlike Alicent Hightower to allow her children to wear the Rhaenyra’s colours without her own as well. It would be hard to tell whether she looked prettier in the harsh colours of her maiden cloak or in the dull ones of his own, but he couldn’t help but note how greys and blues suited her better than he could have imagined. 

He could tell her family was less than pleased with this arrangement, making an effort to step in for every miniscule matter that caught their attention. Cregan watched her from the corner of her eye as she shakily took a long drink from her cup. He finally found time to chat with his wife, slowly watching in awe as her walls slowly began to come down as she found herself giggling along with him and whispering into his ear. 

“What of the leftovers?” She’d asked, breaking their previous conversation topic.

“Leftovers?” Cregan repeated.

She nodded, staring at him with wide eyes expectantly, “The food. There will be plenty of leftovers–they should be brought to the nearest towns.”

“Is that a command, princess?” 

She appeared bashful at his response, walls slowly building back up around her, “I-I- My apologies, Lord Stark, I–”

He grinned at her playfully, his large palm cupping her cheek affectionately, “If you wish it, you shall have it. I intend to make you very happy, my love.”

She smiled, her beauty shining through even stronger as she became more and more comfortable around him, “Thank you, husband.”

Cregan pushed himself to stand, the sound of his chair pushing back cutting through the chatter and music and laughter filling his hall, all eyes turning to him expectantly. 

“My lady wife has made her first official command as Lady of Winterfell,” his voice carried through the hall with stern ease, and the attention of the crows quickly turned to her, “Lady Stark has decided that all leftovers from our wedding feast will be donated to the people of Winterstown.”

The crowd had been quick to applaud, deafening cheers throughout the great hall, northerners seemingly pleased with her decision or, at the very least, just excited to have another reason to be celebrating. He caught the glance she sent to her mother, and the happy grin that covered her face as the Dowager Queen sent her a sign of approval. His lady wife was kind, and sweet, and he was certain that, once she gained her footing in the North, would serve as a strong and dutiful Lady of Winterfell, all of which he muttered into her ear as he had her for the very first time that night. 

Three years would pass, he’d been right to assume such things of his wife. He’d quickly discovered that she was able to thrive without the looming shadow of her mother and brothers. She had been slow to find her footing in the beginning, some of his bannermen even questioning his choice in wife, but she was determined to prove them wrong, and in doing so, warmed Cregan’s heart even more. 

They’d discussed children in the past, and both had decided that they were happy enough with Cregan’s son from his previous marriage for the time being. They were not trying, but they were also not not trying, which is how she found herself swelling with her first child just as winter came to an end. Her husband had been insatiable in their first year of marriage, but once he knew that she carried his child in her belly, there was scarcely anything that could stop him from having her each and every night. 

Summer brought a homier feeling to Winterfell. People were not quite so afraid or negative as the desolate conditions faded away. Summer in the North was nothing compared to the many summers she had spent in King’s Landing, where she had once enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her skin, exposed beneath her more revealing gowns than those she was able to wear in the North; the lords of the North had criticised her choice in dresses early on in her marriage, and she had no doubt that their wives spoke harshly about her in her absence. She was by far the youngest of them, and was also the only one who could afford to wear such fine silks layered over her thick fleece and fur underdresses. Cregan knew better than to try and argue against his wife’s will–Lady Stark or not, she was a Targaryen princess through and through, and now that he had helped her build up her confidence, there was no way he was about to take that away from her (especially when she looked so so beautiful). She was thankful that she was able to cut down on the layers she needed now that the weather had transitioned from inhospitable to frigid, though she knew it was coming time to transition her wardrobe as well now that her breasts and belly were beginning to swell. 

The change in season also brought a wave of new duties. Winter was undoubtedly the most difficult and busy season for the lord and lady of Winterfell, but the transition to summer also brought the beginning of the agricultural season. Farmers and fishermen alike flocked to Winterfell to speak their needs and wants to their liege lord and lady, and Cregan found himself busy with attending to the replenishment of all of the North’s resources for Winterfell, all of his bannermen, the Wall, and all of the towns in the North. He’d made his wife agree to take a lesser load of duties now that she was expecting, dealing with issues within their own household so he could instead focus on bearing the burdens of the North all on his own, though this meant there was less and less time that they were able to spend together. 

Each morning, Lady Stark was awake and on the move early enough to meet with the maester and stewards and advisors, sharing no more than a few sweet words and touches with her husband as he watched her dress before she was out the door. They would see each other in passing throughout the day, sharing loving glances across the courtyard as they attended their duties and occasionally catching each other in the corridors, and she was normally in a deep slumber by the time he came to her chambers every night. Both of them were growing restless in their time apart, especially with her ladyship’s heightened emotions and hormones. 

She had just finished speaking with the mistress of the orphanage in Winterstown when the maester came to her, a neatly folded piece of parchment in hand that bore her mother’s seal. She smiled to herself as she brushed her thumb over the thick spot of green wax, glad to have a response for her most recent letter to her mother to deliver the news of her pregnancy, along with a request for some new silks to be sent in order to accommodate her changing body. Breaking the seal, she scanned over the letter with her eyes, a small gasp leaving her mouth as she read over her mother’s words.

“My lady?” Maester Elryn asked, concern evident on his wrinkled features, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she smiled tightly at him, “My apologies for my reaction. Could you ask Lord Stark to come to me when he is free?”

“Of course, my lady. Anything else?”

“That is all, thank you, Maester Elryn.”

Cregan came to her two hours later, finding her seated at the small desk in the corner of her chambers. He paused to drink in the way she looked, having scarcely seen his wife for more than a moment all day. Her body was changing in the most glorious ways possible, and the bodices of her gowns were growing even tighter than before, her breasts threatening to spill over the neckline with every breath, and her belly growing firmer and rounder to accommodate his child. His smile widened as she turned to glance over her shoulder, her eyes softening as she finally took note of her husband’s figure in the doorway.

“You called, wife?”

“My love,” she greeted, pushing herself to stand with a gentle hand cradling her barely-there bump, “It seems it has been forever.”

His heart thumped against his ribcage at her action, chest growing warm at the sight of her maternal instincts already kicking in before she had even passed through her first few months 

He closed the door behind him, crossing the room to meet her before she was able to move too far. His palm cupped her cheek, the other finding its place over her own against her belly, “Longer than forever to me.”

She grinned, leaning up to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips, giggling to herself as he chased after her and grunted as she pulled away. He pressed small kisses to her cheeks, across the curve of her jaw, and down the column of her neck, leaving small nips in his wake. His wife pushed at his chest helplessly as she continued to laugh, the soft growth of hair along his own jaw tickling her with every brush of his lips on her skin. 

“I called you up here because I needed to speak with you,” she whispered to him, body slowly relaxing against him as she sank into his embrace.

“Speak, then,” he ordered, thick fingers tugging at the laces of her dress.

She shook her head, rolling her eyes at his antics, “I wrote to my mother a few nights ago, I need silk for new dresses. I’m sure you’ve noticed that my own are growing rather…tight.”

His mouth dropped to nip at the bulging flesh of her breast peeking over the neckline of her gown, “I certainly have.”

Her head tilted back, letting both a laugh and a breathy moan at her husband’s attack on her chest as he quickly laid her back on the bed, “She has written back to me. She says I shall have as much silk in as many colours as I wish.”

Cregan hummed in response, quickly peeling the layers of her gown away until she was left in only her thin white shift, her words going ignored as he tugged and pulled at her clothing until she was bare before him. He stared down at her, running his hand over his jaw as his eyes trailed over her breasts, heaving and swelling with milk, then down over her small bump, and finally to the place where her thighs clenched together. 

She pushed herself up to sit before him, her own hands reaching out to tug at his clothing. He was quick to help her, shucking off his layers and boots until he stood before her in only his heavy leather breeches. His wife grinned up at him, pressing a gentle kiss against his own belly, a layer of soft flesh over his firm, almost inconspicuous muscle. 

He pushed at her shoulder, chuckling as the mattress bounced beneath her as she was laid back again. He crawled over her, returning to mouthing over her neck, over her shoulders, and finally coming across her breasts.

“She says she will deliver them personally,” she uttered, whining in protest as he paused, pulling back to focus directly at her face. 

“Personally,” He repeated, more for his own sake than a question of clarification, “your mother intends to come to Winterfell.”

She pouted at him, fingers carding through his long hair as she attempted to soften him to the news, “She wishes to be here for the birth. I know she can be…difficult, but it would bring me comfort to have her with me as I bring our firstborn into the world.”

He sighed, his head falling into her shoulder, “If this is what you wish, then this is what you shall have. 

She smiled, remembering when he spoke the same words to her on their wedding night. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, winding her legs around his hips and hugging her tightly to her chest. 

“Thank you,” she smiled at him as he finally pushed himself up to gaze down at her once again, “my mother can be difficult, as I said, but I wish for her to know her grandchildren, as she does my niece and nephews. I promise you, she will be on her best behaviour.”

“I believe you,” He pressed a kiss to her lips, mumbling against her, “but I must ask that we do not speak any more of your mother at the present. I do not think she would appreciate what I plan to do to you.”

Cregan did not allow her another moment of peace before his kisses grew in intensity, tongue intertwining with her own while his meaty palms pulled her legs further apart and began to rock his hips into hers. He smirked at the whine that escaped her throat, pressing himself further into her.

“Cregan–” 

“I have missed you, my love,” he moaned against her lips, “you cannot possibly believe how much I have been longing for you.”

She chuckled, “I think I can. The maester told me pregnancy can bring on many side effects; discomfort, fatigue, desire…”

Cregan pulled back for a moment, “Should I be concerned about these conversations you have been having with Maester Elryn?”

She scoffed, “You are far too jealous for your own good, my love.”

“You might be too, if you were married to the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms–nay, the world.”

“Flatterer.”

“Can it be called flattery if it is the truth?” Cregan pushed himself to kneel between her legs, palms continuing to push her thighs upward to bare her completely to him. He let out a desperate groan as his eyes settled on her core, barely hidden beneath a neat patch of silver hair, “gods, have you ever been this wet?”

She snorted, raising her leg to press her foot flat to his chest, “It is the pregnancy, as I said.”

His long fingers wrapped around her foot, tugging it up to press his lips against the slope of her ankle, “Then perhaps I should keep you like this, eh? Would you like for your lord husband to fill you with his child, again and again?”

“I am already with child, my love,” she smiled at him, drawing a deep breath from his throat, “I’m afraid you will have to wait a few moons longer.”

“And I will spend every second I have with you perfecting the craft then.”

She sighed in relief as he finally reached between her thighs, fingers catching against her slick hole.

“Cregan, please,” she whimpered, “do something, anything.”

“Anything?” He asked, breathlessly, his own chest heaving in anticipation as she nodded excitedly. 

A loud gasp tore from her lips as he finally sunk his fingers into her, her wetness audible to them both as he began moving with slow but purposeful thrusts. His thumb settled on her sensitive bud, making slow, tight circles over the swollen bud, his free hand gliding up from her thigh to tug at her breasts. Her hips rocked in sync with his every movement of his thick fingers, stilling as another one easily slipped inside.

“My love,” she panted, “e-enough, I need you.”

He quirked one of his thick brows at her words, “Should I not prepare you, my heart?”

“I am pregnant with your child, and as we can both tell, I am more than prepared.”

Cregan snorted out a laugh, withdrawing his fingers with a small whine from his wife, “How should you have me then, wife?”

Lady Stark smirked to herself, legs wrapping around his back and forcing him to fold over her, “Take me as you did on our wedding night, only you do not need to be so gentle with me.”

He slipped inside of her easily, a strained hiss sliding between his teeth while her own teeth sunk into his shoulder. Cregan did indeed take her like he had on their wedding night, but against her wishes, was almost as gentle as he had been, out of respect for his child’s personal space, as he had muttered to her. In truth, he simply wanted to take his time with her as he pulled her apart bit by bit, not wanting to rush their first time lying together in the few weeks since summer had come. 

When they were finished, he remained inside of her for as long as he could, but the warmth of her and the air around them was far too much. His wife, despite the progress she’d made in the years of their marriage, was a southern woman and despised how frigid the castle could be, earning herself the warmest room in Winterfell and a required constant upkeep of her hearth. Cregan did not mind coming to his wife’s chamber when she needed him throughout the day or early evening, but there was a reason that they’d made a habit of sleeping in his personal chambers each night, where the air was cooler but he was able to keep her warm at night. He carefully pulled away, meeting her for a final kiss before he peeled himself off of the bed, slowly strutting across the room to haul the window open and feel the cool summer air against his burning flesh. 

She watched him through hooded eyes, gaze raking down his muscular back, over his plump ass, and down his thick legs. She pursed her lips, pulling one of the heavy furs around her shoulders as she padded across the stone floor to wrap herself around him from behind, fingers hooking together around his belly as her bare chest pressed to his back. After a moment, one of his hands came over to cover her own as she pressed her lips to his shoulder blade. 

“My mother wrote that she expects to be here in two moons,” she murmured against his warm skin, “I should begin preparations for them on the morrow.”

Cregan hummed, eyes scanning over the horizon for a moment before he comprehended her words, “Them. How many attendants does she plan to bring with her?”

He felt his wife tense behind him, “About that…”

Two moons later Cregan found himself standing tall in his own courtyard, jaw set as a procession of horses and wheelhouses began to file through the front gate of his ancestral home. He’d been a touch angry with his wife when she had finally revealed to him that it was not only her mother coming, but rather the entire royal family; the queen, her king consort, and all of their children; the dowager queen, the remaining four of her children, as well as Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena’s three children. Winterfell was about to be overrun with heads of silver hair, something Cregan had hoped would only happen as a result of his wife’s genes overcoming his own among their children. 

At his side, his wife nervously chewed her bottom lip–a nasty habit he’d grown to detest after she’d drawn blood one night. He knew exactly how her family could be from their short stay during their wedding festivities, and the way that her mother and two older brothers alone were able to affect her, let alone the entire living Targaryen dynasty. 

On her other side stood young Rickon, gripping her hand tightly as he struggled to compose himself. The boy was only six years old, but he already seemed to understand the importance of his role as the heir to Winterfell. He’d taken to his stepmother rather quickly, having been an infant when the fever took his own mother. He’d been in need of a maternal figure in his life, and her presence in Winterfell had done nothing but draw father and son closer together with every family supper and breakfast she had insisted on over the years. Seeing her welcome his son into her heart so openly only further pressed Cregan’s instincts to bring their own children into the world, wishing for nothing more than to give his boy dozens of siblings for him to play with. 

The procession finally came to a halt just as two large, intricately carved wheelhouses entered the gates, flanked by the king consort and all of the elder princes on their horses. Lady Stark’s nerves only heightened at the sight of the silver-haired men, particularly her elder brothers who almost immediately turned their gaze her way. The queen soon climbed out of her wheelhouse, followed by her own litter of children, Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya. The second wheelhouse opened, producing Dowager Queen Alicent and Princess Helaena and her own children Jahaera, Jahaerys, and Maegor. 

The queen came before them, regal as ever in her red cloak lined with black fur. She watched stoically as the three bowed before her. 

“The North is yours, Your Grace,” Cregan spoke loud and true, “my family and I are honoured to host you and your family in Winterfell.”

“Many thanks, Lord Stark. I commend you on leading the North through yet another winter,” a smirk tugged at her lips as her eyes turned to his wife, who lowered into another curtsy under her stare, “I hear that Lady Stark has taken to her role quite well. I believe motherhood suits you, sister.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Stark nodded in thanks. 

The next line of Targaryens filtered through the short lineup of Starks, first Daemon, who scarcely offered any of them a second glance (aside from his niece, who he stared at for a moment too long in Cregan’s opinion). Prince Jacaerys greeted Cregan like an old friend, clapping him on the shoulder heartily while he offered his aunt a polite hug, his younger brothers following, though with less familiarity. 

Then came her mother, who hardly offered Lord Stark a moment of her time before she began fawning over her daughter, hugging her tightly before pulling away and pawing at her swollen belly through her layers of fur. A tear escaped the red-haired woman’s eye as she pressed a sweet kiss to Lady Stark’s cheek, then offered a greeting to sweet Rickon, who had shuffled closer to his stepmother in his nervousness. Aegon skipped over Lord Stark altogether, though he certainly was not complaining as he could smell the stench of wine radiating from the eldest prince even before noon, throwing himself onto his sister. She’d stumbled in her attempt to catch him, sending her husband a warning glance as he moved to rip him away from her. Aemond, at least, was more courteous, offering Cregan a polite greeting and kissing his sister gently on the forehead. Helaena was soon to follow, her greeting to Cregan leaving him with a puzzled look as she moved on to place her palm to her sister’s cheek.

“I am so happy to see you, sister,” Lady Stark’s eyes welled with tears. Cregan had been aware of how disappointed his wife had been when her sister had not been able to travel with her for their wedding, but she had not blamed her for choosing to stay behind while she was in her sixth moon of pregnancy, not to mention the poor state of her mind.

Daeron was the most reserved of his good-siblings, showing both Lord and Lady Stark his respect, though he had no personal relation with either. He’d spent most of his childhood in Oldtown under the care of his grandsire’s brother, the Lord of Oldtown, and his own uncle Gwayne. He’d been rather hesitant to even return to King’s Landing after being away for so long; his own mother was a mere stranger, and his siblings had gone on to marry and produce their own children without even a second thought of their youngest brother. 

Winterfell’s hall was overflowing with Targaryens and those who served them. Cregan could hardly recognize any of the faces at the tables nearest to his own, his men being pushed farther back into the hall to accommodate the royal family. He, himself, had even been pushed one seat to the right to offer the queen the highest seat in the hall. He was not pleased to be doing this, far too used to southerners coming to the North with such entitlement, but he would take the treatment silently for the sake of his dear wife, who had been so excited for the arrival of her family and had been overtaken by anxiety of ensuring the visit went well. 

She sat next to him, dressed in a fine silk gown (new, a design brought by her mother), a deep emerald with golden stitching across the bodice and around the cuffs. Cregan hissed through his teeth when his wife entered the hall, a happy grin on her lips as she cradled her round belly over the dress of her mother’s house rather than her own, though he was eager to greet her and accept her gleeful kiss on the cheek, and he was glad enough to see that her hair had been braided among the stems of various flowers, all of which being indigenous only to the North. Her mother could try with all of her might to try and hold tight to her daughter’s familial tether to the South, but Cregan knew his wife had transformed into a woman of the North–she was no longer simply a Targaryen princess, a dragonrider, she was also his wife, Lady of Winterfell, and mother of his children. 

It never escaped Cregan’s watchful stare everytime the Dowager Queen gripped her daughter’s arm when her attention was not focused solely on her, or how she forced a smile each time he joined their conversation at all. If the woman had not been his wife’s mother, he would have gladly warded her away from his wife’s personal space. He understood well enough that his wife was bound to miss her family, especially her mother and sister, but he was afraid to see her begin to slip back into her shell, which had taken him a considerable amount of effort and care to bring her out from in the first place. 

He was quickly tiring from the responsibility of hosting an entire flock of Targaryen princes, all of whom considered themselves above the northerners and their laws, customs, and expectations. They most often gathered in the training yards, each more eager to prove themselves over the northerners and each other than the last, except for Aegon, of course, who would rather spend the mornings in his chambers before he would disappear into Wintertown, most likely gone to spend the rest of the afternoon in the only brothel within twenty miles of Winterfell. 

Throughout the two weeks to follow, they had barely found a moment to themselves that was not in the early hours of the morn or when the castle is alight with only the light emitted from torches and the moon itself, where Lady Stark was usually so worn out that she had barely enough energy to cuddle into her husband’s side and share a handful of words before her snoring would reach his ears. He made an effort to seek her out when he was granted a brief moment away from his duties, but there was hardly a moment when she could be found without at least one member of her kin at her side; in the nursery with her mother and sister, discussing her duties with the queen, reading with Aemond in the library, or comforting Aegon amidst another bout of alcohol-induced sickness. 

The one moment he did find her alone in her personal study, not wasting a single moment before he was hoisting her into his arms and kissing her breathless. He’d been pleased to find that she had no fight in her, easily melting into his embrace and winding her arms around his neck, smiling into the kiss as small mewls of pleasure vibrated against his mouth. He’d almost forgotten that the door to the study had been left ajar, making his good-mother’s entrance even more silent, though he likely wouldn’t have noticed even if she had knocked, fully taken with his wife’s affection. 

“Ehem.”

“Mother,” Lady Stark pushed away from her husband, face still with shock and, quite evidently, embarrassment, “I, we did not hear you come in.”

“Yes, as I could see.”

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Cregan nodded to the woman, though his tone was laced with his annoyance, “I’m afraid you’ve been subjected to a moment of weakness.”

“Nonsense,” Alicent’s lips tightened into a strained smile, a touch of tenderness on her face, “it comforts me to know that my daughter is cherished and loved, even so far away. We are not all so lucky to find love in these circumstances.”

His wife rounded the desk, meeting her mother with a tight embrace. For a moment, he felt a pang of sympathy for the red haired woman–it was true, most marriages of such caliber did not afford the couple any form of affection, and he was more than aware of the fortune that had fallen into his lap that day that Prince Jacaerys landed at his gate. The moment came to a crashing end all-too-soon as his good-mother once again dragged his wife away from him, not to be seen again until she was deep asleep in their shared bed.

He’d arranged for a hunt during the visit of the royal family, where he was forced to play the peacekeeper between the queen’s sons and their uncles, all while keeping his eyes peeled for the prize he’d been hoping for; his wife had mentioned more than once that she wanted to find the perfect blanket to gift to their first child, one that can be used again and again with each babe they brought into the world, so it seemed only fitting to him that he be the one to bring her the pelt. 

It would be weeks before the warmth in his chest subsided after witnessing her grin and laughter as he presented it to her, two rabbits of a similar white and brown pattern, drawing her away from the large elk that had been brought in for their supper that night. It was a brief moment of privacy amongst the crowd, where she curled her fingers beneath the neckline of his leather doublet and dragged him down to her height, pushing a soft kiss to his wind-bitten cheek, though he was thankful for every moment of it. Her mother stepped in a moment later, grasping her daughter’s hand and willing her to join her in the nursery, where she could continue to preach her wisdom and advice for the soon-to-be mother, though Cregan hoped his wife was smart enough to take it with a grain of salt. 

He’d spent the rest of the day both tending to his duties, which have seemingly doubled since the arrival of his wife’s kin, and also offering a hand in preparing the elk when he had a chance; his cooks could do wonders with elk meat, but the kitchen maids often made a fuss when such large animals were brought to whole or at least without being skinned first. He had barely even spared a moment to clean himself and change clothes before supper.

When he arrived in the dining hall, a smaller yet more formal area where he hoped he, his wife, and their many children would all dine together whenever they could. He was, however, miffed to discover the dining hall filled with princes and princesses and queens alike, only two seats left empty–his own, and his wife’s. 

His immediate thought was that perhaps she was still readying herself, perhaps she had gotten carried away in the nursery with her mother, and she would be there soon enough. Then, his eyes fell upon the red-haired woman a few seats from his own. 

He cleared his throat, drawing silence across his hall, “My apologies, I expect Lady Stark in only a moment.”

Alicent furrowed her brow, directing her words to the rest of the royal family rather than to Lord Stark, “I’m afraid she will not be joining us tonight.”

Cregan raised his own brow, “Why not?”

Alicent’s gaze flickered to his own, “She was unwell this evening–a pain many women know while carrying their children, all she needs is rest.”

“And why was I not made aware of this at once?” Lord Stark felt his blood beginning to boil.

She looked somewhat taken aback, “These pains are normal, they are expected for how far along she is. My daughter–”

Cregan’s heavy palm landed flat on the wooden tabletop, “My wife is my main concern. Any news concerning her or my children should and will be brought to me at once.” 

Alicent pursed her lips, appearing to have a few words of choice for her daughter’s husband, though he turned his attention to the queen opposite him on the other end of the long table and looked equally as surprised and amused at the altercation as she sipped her wine.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” he pushed himself up to his full height, “forgive my absence this evening, but if my wife is unwell I would prefer to be at her side.”

Rhaenyra smirked at him, nodding her head at him, “But of course, Lord Stark. I am honoured that you take such care of my sister. After all, family is everything, is it not?”

He ignored the way that her words seemed to have been aimed at the red-haired woman, who had slouched back into her own seat as a soft pink tinged at the apples of her cheeks, instead nodding at the queen and fleeing the room at once, his hurried and heavy footfalls carrying him through the castle and up to his wife’s personal chambers. He was disgruntled to find that they were empty, save for a servant girl who had been tending to the hearth and directed him to his own chambers.

The hinges creaked as he pushed his way inside, finding two handmaidens hovering worriedly over his wife as she hunched over on her hands and knees atop the plush bear-skin rug, back arched upwards like he’d only seen done by a cat. The two servants froze at the sight of the broad figure crossing the threshold.

“Lord Stark,” one of them rushed to him, “Lady Stark, she is alright, but–”

“Alright?” He scoffed, “She is on the floor in pain, she does not look alright.”

“Cregan,” Lady Stark glared up at him, voice strained with discomfort, “do not speak to my ladies like that.”

He let out a deep sigh, offering the servant a quiet but genuine apology, “Now please, just tell me what is wrong with her, and what I can do to help. Should I call a maester?”

The servant fought a soft smile, touched at the lord’s concern for his wife and child, “Lady Stark is experiencing little more than body aches. Normal for women carrying a child, especially their first. I’m afraid all the maester could do is offer milk of the poppy for discomfort, which could potentially do more harm to the child than good to the mother,” Cregan swallowed at the thought, “We’ve allowed the princess to soak in warm water, and the stretching helps while we prepare a hot pack over the fire.”

His gaze flickered to the small grate across the embers of the fireplace, holding three large black stones over them. He nodded, turning back to his wife, who had turned her face back into the rug while the other servant girl carefully massaged gentle circles into her lower back.

“What can I do?”

“The hot pack should help with the aches, but I’m afraid the best thing may be to keep Lady Stark as comfortable as possible, anything to keep her mind away from the pains.”

He nodded, “Leave us, I should care for my wife on my own.”

The door closed behind the two women as they hesitantly left their mistress’s side, loyal to the very end. Cregan wasted little time in removing his leather doublet and abandoning it on the plush bed, leaving him in only his breeches and thin linen shirt. He crossed the room, kneeling beside his wife and carefully laying his palm flat to her lower back, a small smirk appearing on his lips as she sighed from the relief brought by his large, warm hand. 

“If you were not so obviously in pain, I would guess that you were enjoying this, my love,” he chuckled as his hand copied the same circular pattern that the servant girl had applied.

“Shut up,” she turned her head to the side so she could glance up at him, “this is your fault.”

“My fault?” He scoffed, “As I recall, your current condition is the result of your uncontrollable desires.”

She pushed herself up onto her hands, “My what? It was you who was gone to the Wall for more than a moon!”

“And it was you who kept me from my duties until midday on the day after I returned.”

She pursed her lips, “Alright, next time I will allow you to go about your duties without a word. Then we will see which one of us is so insatiable.”

“Be that the case, I’m afraid you may be with child for the next decade or more, my love.”

“Just get the hot pack,” Lady Stark rolled her eyes, lowering her head back down to the plush rug, muttering to herself with a small grin, “a decade or more…”

He obliged, wrapping the stones in a thick woolen cloth before pressing them against the small of her back, a dusting of pink coating his cheeks at the sound she released, back curving inwards as relief overtook her body. 

They remained there for a long while, one of his hands holding the hot pack while the other smoothed over her silver hair, braided and still damp from her bath. The stones began to cool against his palm until they were no warmer than her own body heat, finally being tossed to the side.

“How do you feel?” He asked her, hands cradling her head and hip as he helped her roll onto her side.

“Better. Still plagued with discomfort, but better nonetheless,” She smiled softly at him, “I only wish someone may have warned me of the unpleasantness of pregnancy before I agreed to it.”

He barked out a laugh, remembering the many times she had pointed out the many ways pregnancy could ruin any romance in their marriage before it even began, hence their decision to wait before finally trying to conceive. 

“If only, eh?” He smoothed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

A twinkle appeared in her eye, “Well Maryssa did say that you should be doing anything to keep me comfortable…”

Lord Stark raised his brow at her words, “And what was it you only just said about me being insatiable? How have you gone from crippling pain to reaching for my breeches in such a hurry?”

She gasped, faux offense in her eyes, “I am not reaching for you breeches! What do you take me for?”

He quickly manoeuvred her onto her back, leaning down to press a slow yet meaningful kiss to her lips, “My very pregnant, very beautiful, and very impatient wife.”

She whined against his mouth, “I think impatience is quite appropriate given the circumstances. Your child has brought me the greatest joy and greatest pain of my life, and yet I constantly yearn for you, my love.”

“Constant?” He laughed.

“The maester warned me of it,” she kissed him again, “all a part of my hysteria, he called it.”

He hummed, “Which brings me to wonder why I was not made aware of this. I could have…relieved you of this suffering.”

She snorted a laugh, a sound he knew he could never grow tired of, “Cregan, if you do not take my clothes off now I would like to go to bed.”

“And what was it I said about your impatience?”

She pushed at his shoulder playfully, gasping as he grasped her wrist in his large hand and pulled her to sit up, moving to lift her and carry her to the bed when she pushed at his shoulder, shaking her head with a sly grin. 

“Here,” she insisted, “it is so warm, and this fur is so soft.”

He shook his head at her, rolling his eyes. Only his wife would be demanding enough as to where he had his way with her and choose anywhere except their marital bed. Only he would be so foolishly in love as to oblige her every whim and allow her to make such demands. 

Growing impatient, she began tugging at her own shift, struggling to lift her hips just enough to slide it over her hips and off completely, leaving her bare before her husband while the firelight flickered off of her soft, freshly oiled skin. His eyes fell from her own to her breasts, which had seemingly doubled in size through her pregnancy, then to her rounded belly; only a few moons would pass before she brought their first child into the world, and he could not be any more in love with her. He knew how excited she’d been over the last few weeks as her body developed with their growing child, spending much of her time with little Rickon, who was just as excited to become an older brother as she was to become a mother. 

“I am not simply here for decoration,” she growled, reaching up to begin tearing the linen shirt from her husband’s body, ignoring his laughter as she struggling to pull the fabric over his wide shoulders and causing his head to get stuck for a moment, “As I said, fuck me or let me sleep.”

His booming laugh echoed through the chamber, scarcely hearing his wife, a Targaryen princess and Lady of Winterfell, use such coarse language. It was the northerner growing within her, he decided as he obliged, kissing her with every ounce of desire he’d been forced to swallow throughout the duration of her family’s stay, pressing her back to lay flat against the dark brown fur. 

Cregan made quick work of kissing down her body, taking a few moments to kiss and suckle and squeeze at her swollen breasts, encouraged by her response to his touch on her sensitive skin as he continued further down. He pressed several playful kisses over her belly, whispering to their child to go to sleep so he could take care of his wife guilt-free. She giggled at this, causing a flood of heat to spread across his chest as he finally crested over the underside of her belly, coming face-to-face with the silver curls safeguarding her womanhood. 

Her legs fell apart easily, and he found no resistance as he eagerly began to feast upon her most intimate place. Her fingers curled into the fur beneath her as her whines and whimpers filled the room, unable to reach for his long dark hair with her belly in the way. He was pleasantly surprised to discover how much of her arousal had pooled between her thighs, two of his thick fingers easily slipping into her heat with practiced precision while his tongue massaged her sensitive pearl. 

Her body seemed more responsive than ever, thighs quivering against his shoulders as her peak crashed over her once, and then moments later, once more. 

He pulled away, noting how her hips had begun to pull away from him, her womanhood more sensitive than ever. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, watching through lustful eyes as his wife grabbed hold of his other wrist, taking the fingers that had brought her to bliss twice only moments before between her lips and sucking them clean. She stared up at him through her lashes, leaning up on her elbow to reach down and paw at the tent that had formed in his breeches, tugging at the laces until they fell open and allowed her to reach inside.

He let out a low growl at the sensation of her hand taking hold of his member, head falling back in relief. Cregan was quick to pull her hand away, shedding his trousers and boots as efficiently as possible so he could lay her flat on her back once more and finally press himself inside of her. 

They both let out long, breathy sounds at the stretch; no matter how many times they would lay together, she never quit got used to the intrusion of his thick cock inside of her, He remained still for a moment, regaining his wits as he willed himself not to finish far too early, though he could not guarantee that he would be able to fight his peak for very long after weeks without his wife’s intimate touch. 

“Cregan, please,” she whimpered, nails scratching down his arm as she planted his fist next to her head, bracing himself as he began to work slow, deep thrusts into her warmth, his own grunts and gasps of pleasure falling from his lips while her lips fell open to allow wails of her enjoyment fall from them with every punch of his tip against her most sensitive place deep within her. 

“My love,” he panted, “For-forgive me…I do not think–”

“Give yourself to me, my love,” she whined, “I need to feel you.”

He nodded, eyes tightening shut as he quickened his pace, chasing his release with grunts and growls and groans until his hips began to stutter, his release pumping deep inside of her until he was shaking. His release triggered her own, pleasure crashing over her for the third time that evening, soaking his length in both of their releases as she clung to his broad frame for dear life. 

She whined when he pulled out of her, sensitive from her three climaxes. He took a moment to stare down at her, stormy gaze trailing from her cunt, where their mix juices had begun seeping from her warmth, to her belly, where their child grew. His eyes then moved to her breasts, which heaved with every deep breath the escaped her parted lips, and finally to her face, which shone with a layer of perspiration as she pulled him down to lay next to her on the fur, turning to press her back against his chest and settling into his embrace as he trailed sweet kisses over her cheek, jaw, and neck. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, sleep threatening to overtake her at any moment. 

“Thank you,” Cregan responded. “I love you.”

“I love you too, husband.”

Silence overtook the room for a moment, only the sound of their slowing breaths and the crackling fire in the hearth could be heard before he finally shared his final thoughts of the night.

“I cannot bear to not have you all to myself for even a moment ever again,” he mumbled into her flesh, “we are never hosting your family again.”

A small chuckle vibrated through her chest.

His son would have grown and perhaps would not recognize him. Months were years to children that age, and their memories were fickle. He felt older than his years, a weariness in his bones, sitting heavily on his shoulders, dragging his spine down until he felt he might collapse to the floor.

Such were the duties of men, to shoulder the burden of bloodshed so that women and children could be safe, and older men could take a rest. Still, it burned deep in his chest, this aching loneliness. It was in those moments that he thought of Arra the most. While the pain of her passing would likely never fade, he had to admit he felt the call to marry again, and find comfort in the companionship of a woman.  

Cregan was pulled from his low musings by the sounds of footsteps coming from behind him—his closest friend, Cley Cerwyn, came to sit at his side with a groan. He leaned into his shoulder for a second, which Cregan responded to and the two men waited in silence until Cley found it appropriate to speak.

He cleared his throat, looking up at the high ceiling. “How long do you think we shall stay?”

“Are you in such a hurry to ride home?” Cregan answered, knowing of the harsh winter that awaited them, and that several of the wounded would need to remain in the capital for a while longer.

“Are you not?” Cley asked.

It was Cregan’s turn to clear his throat, slightly irritated at his friend’s attitude, fully knowing he had an argument to make. “Say your piece,” he ordered, meaning it to be biting, but instead it came as a sigh.

Cley rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, looking at him with a tired expression on his youthful face—he had started to grow a beard, much like Cregan, and it was rather an odd sight. 

“You have done your duty. You have done right by your friend, and that is more than most men can say in their life,” Cley said gently, perhaps gentler than he had ever addressed him. 

“I made a vow,” Cregan replied, looking away at the large doors of the throne room, almost expecting Queen Rhaenyra or Prince Jacaerys to cross them. 

“Now you may leave the throne to those it belongs to,” Cley continued.

“The king is a child,” Cregan said regretfully—it seemed a tragedy to leave such a fractured realm in the hands of a fractured person such as Prince Aegon, but the laws of Gods and of men agreed that he was the rightful ruler, for better or worse, and there would be dire consequences to go against it.

“And he shall have regents,” Cley replied.

Cregan sighed out loud, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the same ceiling Cley had been gazing at. “A hundred and thirty years of reign and now…” he murmured, unsure of what he really meant to say.

The size of the hall and of the throne at their back was almost dizzying, and yet its emptiness and coldness had robbed it of all its glory. It seemed a ruin now, even if it had not been destroyed during the battle. 

“If you wished to take it, I would bend the knee,” Cley said with humor, but there was a dark edge to it. 

The fate of the whole world could topple so easily, it seemed to Cregan. It should all have felt like victory, and instead it all felt like ruin. He shook his head. “I have no wish for it.”

“What do you wish for, then?” his friend asked, almost too quiet.

“Respite.”

The moon was high in the sky that night, and you could almost swear the howling of wolves could be heard from the kingswoods. From the window of your chambers, turned holding cell, you watched the dark mass of the forest far on the horizon. The black of the bay did not bring you any more comfort, nor did the numerous lights from the city below.

Restlessness and grief were your only companions these days, since the passing of your sister and your mother, you were utterly alone at court, and in the world. The war had decimated your family, and you were now the last of your siblings.

Once, you would have thought you would have been furious, vengeful, but instead you found yourself utterly devastated, longing for quiet and reprieve from your grief. You found herself entertaining the thought of taking Jaehaera away, far from the capital and the court, far from the throne which had caused your family’s downfall, far from the young king who sat where your brother once had.

Lord Cregan Stark was holding court from the bottom step of the Iron Throne. You were surprised he had not seized the throne for himself, as he very well could have. His army held the city with an iron fist and all seemed to fear him, even the Rivermen—it could have been the start of a Stark dynasty, and some seemed to think it was, in all but name. 

You had been confined to your chambers on his orders, and you felt as though you were standing in ruins, waiting for your own end. You could hardly stand the sight of the red bricks anymore; this place was forever soiled. So you clung to your niece, the poor girl in dire need of motherly love, and in loving her you endeavored to keep your sister alive in memory. Keeping the girl safe was your utmost priority, and you feared she would not be until she was freed of this red-walled prison.

Morning came and brought no relief from your nightly torments. Instead a maid came to bring you tea and collect your linens, but you stopped her before she could leave you alone again. “I was wondering if I would be allowed to pay my farewells to my brother,” you inquired.

The maid hesitated, looking at you with obvious pity. “You are to remain confined to your rooms.”

“A sister cannot say goodbye to her own brother? My niece, who now finds herself an orphan, could not say goodbye to her father? Surely the lord that now rules this place isn’t so cruel,” you pleaded.

“I shall ask,” was all the maid replied before she left, still giving you a quick curtsy. 

In the end, and to your great surprise, your wish was granted. In the later hours of the afternoon, a pair of guards came to fetch you and Jaehaera, and the two of you were escorted to see your brother in the crypts, where the Silent Sisters were keeping watch over him. 

In the privacy of your own mind, and for only the Gods to hear, you vowed to his still and cold form that you would take his daughter away from this dreadful place which had eventually been his downfall. 

Cregan had been surprised to hear your request to see your brother, but had seen no reason to refuse you. No matter the fact that he had been his enemy, he resented that the man had been murdered with such cowardice. He could give him back some honor in death, and in allowing you and the young princess a farewell, restore some dignity to the whole tragedy.

As was your right, you had refused to see him upon his arrival in King’s Landing, remaining confined to your rooms in prayer. Cregan had honored your wish until now, and it was by chance that he came upon you in the Red Keep—if he had not known you resided here, he would have thought he’d come across a wraith, or any creature of the shadows.

You were dressed in a black gown void of any embroidery, with a veil upon your face, which made it impossible to see your eyes or the lines of your face in the darkness of the corridor. The only thing he could notice was that your grip on Princess Jaehaera’s shoulder tightened as he approached. As he came upon you, you bent to pick her up, carrying her on your hip, clutching the girl like a lifeline. 

“Princess,” he greeted with a small dip of his head. “Princess,” he said with a tilt of his head and the ghost of a smile for Jaehaera. The girl buried her face in your neck without a word.

“Lord Stark,” you said, sounding wary behind your veil.

“Might we have a word?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” you refused in a quiet tone, and when he frowned, explained. “I need to tend to my niece.”

“She will be safe with her nurse the time of a conversation,” Cregan assured you, but you refused him yet again.

“There is nothing for me to say, and nothing for you to say that would appease my torments,” you said, your arms tightening around the little girl. 

“It does not please me to have you a prisoner in your own home,” Cregan tried. 

Tears welled in your eyes at his statement, and you watched him for a moment before you answered. “At night, when she sleeps, then. I would not part from her.”

As agreed he came at the hour of the bat, finding the girl was curled up in your bed, under the covers, her white hair splayed on the pillow. It made Cregan long for his own son, wondered if he still refused to have his hair cut, intent on growing it long. He would write to his sister later, and promise a quick return.

You were the perfect picture of a Targaryen princess, and for a moment Cregan wondered how such a feat could have been accomplished when your mother was a Hightower. The blood of the dragon ran thick, he supposed, in most of its heirs.

Without your veil to hide your face, the way you were looking at him unsettled him—it wasn’t quite fear, and certainly not reverence. You seemed exhausted and he felt sorry for the state this whole war had put you in. You were a royal princess and it desolated him to see you so diminished. He regretted the downfall of this dynasty—now a child would rule and the women and children would suffer.

“She wakes in the night, crying,” you said, glancing at your niece.

“I am sorry.”

“You bring war to my doorstep, do not offer me apologies.”

“I only ever upheld the vows my father made. He bent the knee to his king and swore allegiance to the heir he had named. Words might be wind to you, but to me they mean life,” he explained.

At that you turned away, crossing your arms over your chest, and he thought he heard a shaky intake of breath that betrayed the presence of tears. “I shall see that you are settled, before I return to Winterfell,” he told you carefully, gently as he could, but it seemed you did not care for his consideration.

“Why do you care, my lord?” you asked over your shoulder, your eyes wide and glossy with unshed sadness.

There was a softness to you, even in anger, and his heart throbbed to witness such a sight. “Because you are my responsibility until I leave,” he replied as honestly as he could. “When I am gone, rest assured that the king will take care of you.”

Turning to face him again, you looked at him with a broken expression, anger hiding the deepest, most primal heartbreak he had ever seen. “The king is no king at all. There will be no caring for us here,” you hissed, and deep inside he feared you might be correct.

With one last bow he took his leave, afraid this conversation had not served any purpose but to upset you and unsettle him. 

When Cregan visited Aegon in his chambers the following day, it was only to contemplate the same ruin he had found when conversing with you. You had been right in a way—the king was no king at all, but a child with a crown and the weight of an entire dynasty on the verge of collapse. 

“I wish them no harm but I do not wish to see them, either of them. I should have them sent away,” the child-king told Cregan when asked about the fate of those who were now his wards. 

“It would be unwise to send them to the Hightowers. It would cultivate ill will and it might awaken the spirit of revenge,” Cregan offered. 

“Dragonstone, then, away from my sight!” came the broken cry, and Cregan realized that you had been correct in your fear that you would not find any care in the capital. War had ended but you were still prisoners.

“The council shall soon discuss the matter of your succession,” Cregan said, disgusted at the prospect of such talks when children barely older than his own son were concerned. “It might be well to consider the option closest to home.”

Aegon’s face fell, contorted in what wanted to be fury but could only ever be devastation, and Cregan left without another word, once again faced with the fact that this conversation had only served to upset all parties involved. Words would not resolve any of this, he feared.

In the hallway, a knight carrying a message was waiting for him. You had behaved in a barely disguised hostile manner when he had come to your chambers the night prior, so it was with the greatest surprise that he received your request for an audience, and after thinking on it for the better part of the afternoon, he relented to seeing you again in the evening. 

This time it was you who came to him, upon your suggestion, and he wondered why. As you stepped into his temporary quarters, which he had set in the Hand’s tower, he was struck with the image you made. 

While he had only ever seen you dressed in black, you had changed into a dark blue gown and forgone your mourning veil. Instead, your hair was falling in heavy weight about your shoulders, some of it tied at the back of your head. Your eyes stood out, darker than they ought to be for such a fair face, and rimmed with red. 

“Lord Stark,” you said, curtsying to the northern lord respectfully, and his nerves only grew at your sudden change of demeanor.

“You wanted to speak to me, princess,” he replied while pouring two cups of wine. The dark liquid looked almost black, but it was much sweeter than what he was used to in the North.

“I realize I am in no position to negotiate. However, I have seen you carry yourself with honor, I have come to the conclusion that you are just and fair and therefore I would respectfully make a request,” you said, taking a tentative step towards him, keeping her eyes low.

Cregan frowned, slightly displeased at your bold approach and obviously rehearsed words, when you had been so hostile towards him, all the way to the day prior. “I have heard that there are plans to betroth Jaehaera to Aegon. I have come to beg for her to be spared from that fate,” you said, her voice breaking. “She is but a child, a girl who has seen so much horror already. This will crush her.”

Cregan turned fully to face you, putting down the cup he was holding for you, sudden understanding dawning on him. “She has had to endure the massacre of her brother, then the loss of her younger sibling, then saw her mother succumb to grief,” you continued.

“The match is a logical and advantageous one. It would bridge the gap between Greens and Blacks once and for all,” Cregan replied.

“I am sure there are others that would do,” you retorted with a quiet strength that picked Cregan’s curiosity. “Please do not subject this girl to such an ordeal. I beseech you. You have a good heart.”

“You do not know me, princess,” he replied, solemn, and yet you did not falter.

Your eyes rose to him and held his gaze, and he was struck with the strength of your resolve, and how much you were sacrificing by coming to him, begging for your niece’s sake. “No I don’t, but I have seen how you treat your enemies,” you replied. “You gave my brother a proper burial. You told me my niece and I were your responsibility.”

Cregan sighed, appreciating the way you were ready to set some of your pride and resentment aside for the love of a child. “What do you have to offer me, in return?” he still asked. “In negotiations, one cannot make a request without a reward. What do you have to offer that I do not already possess?”

It seemed you had come here with determination, and had already prepared an offer, as your reply came without any hesitation. “While I am not exactly innocent, as some men aren’t as considerate, I remain a maid.”

Cregan was disturbed that your mind would take such a path, and his heart seized with sudden cold. “You would offer me your maidenhead, in exchange for your niece’s safety,” he clarified. 

“Yes, my lord.”

Cregan could admit feeling unsettled, faced with the desperation of a woman who had nothing to negotiate with but herself, and her own dignity. “What if I turned out to be cruel and decided to give you to my men? To be passed among them,” he challenged your proposal, his wariness making him crueler than he needed to be.

“Then I would happily submit myself as a spoil of war, my lord. I would please you now, if you wished," you offered, taking a few careful steps forward. “You could claim your spoils right this instant.”

Before he could add or ask anything else, you had gone to her knees in front of him, your trembling hands reaching for him. To his absolute horror, his loins stirred at the prospect of a woman tending to him—the nearly two years of war had been long and lonely, and he had hardly tended to his needs since the passing of his wife, upon the birth of his son. Little Rickon would soon be six of age.

However, to see royal blood so diminished made his own blood boil. “No,” he replied, harsher than he needed to be, which made you flinch. “This is beneath you, princess.”

“I thought—” you hesitated.

“It was but a moment of weakness.”

He reached for you, bringing you to your feet by the arm. The woman he was faced with in this instant, as you rose again with nothing gained for your niece and nothing else to offer, softened his resolve. He was tired of the schemings of war, of the plots and alliances that led only to ruin. He could not see a path where such choices ended peacefully and there you were, with an honest request and a brave offer, and he had to admit, he respected you all the more for it. 

“I will think on the matter,” he promised.

“Thank you, my lord,” you replied.

Cregan’s foul mood was still with him when he rose the next morning and presided over the day’s council meeting. He watched the proceedings with much on his mind, as each question was brought up and resolved, and he could not make himself take part in it. 

It was only when the Maester brought up your name that he finally decided to end his neutrality. “There is the matter of the princess. She might share blood with the traitorous king, but she is of royal descent, the last living child of King Viserys, and she is of marrying age,” the Maester said.

“She could perhaps be a good way to appease Dalton Greyjoy?” Tyland suggested. “Or to bring House Velaryon back into the fold. Lord Alyn is still unmarried as well.”

Without thinking on it further, his instinct taking the reins, Cregan stood up. “I shall take her.”

Lord Peake laughed as though the statement was ludicrous. “Surely if you’re in need of a woman to warm your bed, Lord Stark, any other would do,” he replied with humor. “A choice closer to home might be appropriate. Alysanne Blackwood is still unwed.” 

Cregan closed his fists on the tabletop, looming over the Council, and did not back down. There was an instinct in him that he could not quiet, much like the one that led him through battle, that he could not in good conscience leave you.

You might have been too bold for what you could afford, but once the shock had passed he had admired your determination, and your lack of fear. If he called himself honorable, then he could not watch idly as you were being sold to the highest bidder, and your niece used as an instrument for peace.

Perhaps it was arrogance, to think himself the lesser evil, but he knew himself enough to know.

“I have sacrificed enough for this realm. Prince Jacaerys was a trusted friend of mine. We made a blood pact that his first-born daughter would be joined in marriage to my house. His death doesn’t annul such a vow. House Targaryen owes me a daughter, and I shall take the princess.”

Unwin Peake looked unconvinced, but Thaddeus Rowan nodded his acknowledgement, and Cregan continued his argument. “If you are so worried about the Velaryons and their loyalty, there is an easy way to remedy this,” he explained. “I have looked at the prospects. Daeron Velaryon has already proposed the hand of his own daughter as wife to young King Aegon. Surely allying the two bloodlines on the throne would strengthen the realm.”

Peake scoffed, crossing his hands on the tabletop. “Lord Stark, I wonder about the justifications of this sudden campaign of yours—”

Cregan did not let him speak, uncaring that his change of mind was so sudden, and that such a demand he was making was perhaps not the most logical one. “It would do this Council well to remember that without my men, victory was impossible. The Crown owes a debt to the North, and I shall take that debt in flesh.”

His statement quieted them for a minute, and even the insufferable Peake looked uncomfortable. After a while, Tyland, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat. 

“How about we ask the king? Surely he will be glad to have the last child of Alicent Hightower out of his sight,” he remarked, and while it served his cause, Cregan loathed how easily he was swayed, and how he never stood his ground, only taking the side of the argument he perceived as favorable. 

“He is a child,” Lord Peake protested.

“Nearly the same age I was when mine own father passed. My uncle was appointed regent, but I was still well capable of having a mind of my own,” Cregan countered. 

“Let us not bother the young king with such matters,” the Maester reasoned. 

Thaddeus Rowan cleared his throat to silence the protest Peake was about to voice. “Your proposal is a sound one, Lord Stark. Perhaps it would be beneficial to take the remaining Hightower princesses away from the capital.”

“Princesses, plural?” Peake scoffed, and Cregan closed his hands into fists in annoyance at the man’s obvious self-interest. It was known to all that he had hopes for himself and his house that extended beyond the reach of a man of his position, and Cregan found a wicked sort of pride in taking the prize he coveted.

“Yes. I assume your marriage to the princess would include taking her niece as your ward?” Thaddeus asked, and Cregan was relieved that he would not need to elaborate on the matter.

“Indeed,” Cregan confirmed.

“Very well,” he said, rising in turn and putting an end to the negotiations. “It is decided then.”

All that remained to be done was to inform you, and Cregan knew that despite his insistence at council, he would not impose his will upon you. It was his intention to free you from the prison you were currently captive in, and he would not be able to live with himself if he was to imprison you in another, one of his own making.

It was true, his motive was partially selfish as Unwin Peake had suggested—he longed for the presence of a woman at his side again, the softness of married life, and he thought he could find it in you, just as you could find solace in him.

The way you had surrendered all for the sake of your niece had shown a quiet strength he admired, one that would surely benefit you as his lady wife in Winterfell, if you were to accept. Perhaps such was the path to the respite he longed for.

He came in the early afternoon, when he knew the young princess Jaehaera was asleep, and as predicted, found you in the nursery, watching over her as a mother would. “Princess,” he greeted from the threshold, suddenly hesitant.

Setting your embroidery aside, you rose, glancing nervously between him and the sleeping child. “You swore you would think on it,” you said, mistaking his hesitance for an omen of bad news.

“Fear not, your niece is safe,” he said, approaching carefully. “Daeron Velaryon’s daughter is currently on her way to the capital to wed the king. I would ensure your niece is kept away from the scheming of the court, until she is of age at least.”

Your shoulders dropped in relief, a heavy breath pushing past your lips, but your weariness had not abated. “Would?” you asked with a slight frown.

Cregan swallowed his sudden nerve and planted his feet firmly into the floor—while he was skilled and fearless on bloody battlefields, the quiet of a nursery and the expectations of a woman were somewhat more complex to face. “My offer is a proposal of marriage,” he said rather bluntly. “I would take you to wife, and Princess Jaehaera would come with us, as a ward in Winterfell.”

Cregan could not decipher the next exhale that came from you—it could have been relief, or horror, he did not know, as there was only surprise on your face. 

“I will not take you to wife against your wishes. If another prospect is more agreeable to you, then you may let it be known and I shall ensure it,” he promised.

For a moment too long you could not find your words, nor your breath. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest at the most unexpected offer, but you felt the Gods had answered your prayers. It was true, you knew little of the North, but you knew that this man, your enemy, had done more for you and your niece in mere days than your allies in months of war.

“Surely your offer comes with conditions,” you said hesitantly, searching his stormy eyes.

Cregan shook his head, his frown softening. “I already have a son and heir so it will not be required of you, but Rickon needs a mother,” he explained, his voice softer than it had ever been while addressing you, and it seemed for the first time that you were faced with the man rather than the warrior.

At that you nodded, looking at the crib once more, your heart aching. “Just as Jaehaera needs a brother, or a companion, at the least,” you admitted, wondering if you would ever see her smile again, hear her laugh, or if she was doomed to an existence of sadness and grieving without end. “I would still be expected to be a true wife, to perform my duties, wouldn’t I?”

Cregan took a step closer to you, but somehow you did not feel threatened—his shoulders were hunched forward, and he looked younger in the soft light of the nursery than he had ever. It was only now that you realized he was not wearing his usual attire. While his furs and leathers were still strapped across his chest, his sword was nowhere to be seen, and his hands were bare, the gloves tied to his belt.

“You would be the Lady of Winterfell, but as I said, I would not take you against your wishes,” he replied.

Grateful tears came to your eyes, and you wanted to fall to your knees again. The Gods were cruel in a way, making it so that you would owe such a debt to your enemy, but he had shown in these last few days that perhaps, the warrior had been your foe, and the man would be your salvation.

In three words, you sealed your fate, and that of Jaehaera.

“Then I accept.”

Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @/arcielee. Please ask in the comments if you want to be tagged in this series! Next chapter will be posted in two weeks, on July 8th.

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@elle-28 @hb8301 @flawroses @random-shit-i-like-2 @heavenly1927

@thegeminithrone @vixemi @rockerchick05 @maniccrystalhippie @melsunshine

@siimiasoi @mxtokko @thenameswinter99 @multyfangirl

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@blessedbymoon @deltamoon666 @writingjourney @still-jon-snow @vampzv

Eddie still remembers the day he first laid eyes on you. Summer, going into his third senior year at Hawkins, you walked into Larry’s Auto Body Repair looking like something pulled from the pages of a half-burnt gothic novel left to rot in an attic trunk.

The heat outside had been miserable; thick, wet Indiana air that made grease cling to skin and tempers run short, but you arrived untouched by it all. Draped in black despite the July sun, lace sleeves swallowing your wrists, silver rings glinting like tiny knives beneath the fluorescent lights. 

Your perfume smelled faintly of clove cigarettes, old paper, and rain. Long dark hair spilled down your back in soft waves, and your eyes, God, your eyes, looked mournful in the way stained glass saints did. Beautiful enough to make a man confess every awful thing he’s ever done, truth or not.

Eddie had nearly dropped an engine part directly on his foot.

You’d stepped into the garage like you belonged in another century entirely, gaze drifting slowly across the room with detached fascination, lingering on rusted tools and oil stains as if they were artifacts in a museum.

Then you smiled at him. Not sweet, not shy, but devastating. Like you already knew every terrible thing about him and adored him for it anyway. From that moment on, Eddie Munson was ruined.

Years later, the people of Hawkins still spoke about the two of you in hushed, bewildered voices. The Munsons of the Creel House. The strange family on the hill with wrought iron gates, tangled in dead vines and black roses that somehow bloomed year-round. 

Children swore candlelight moved through the windows at impossible hours. Neighbors whispered about organ music drifting through storms and the silhouettes dancing behind curtains long after midnight.

The truth was far less sinister, mostly. You simply loved beautiful things that others were too frightened to appreciate. And Eddie loved you enough to follow you anywhere, even the old Creel House.

At first, he’d refused to even step onto the property. Too many memories. Too much blood soaked into those walls. Vecna. Chrissy. The Upside Down. Every rotten thing Hawkins tried desperately to bury lived in the bones of that house.

But then you’d walked through the front doors for the first time, black dress trailing over dusty hardwood, staring up at the massive chandelier with wonder glowing across your face like moonlight.

“Eddie,” you’d whispered softly, almost reverently. “It’s perfect.”

And that had been it. Because you looked at the house the same way you looked at him, not with fear, but affection. Like ruined things deserved devotion too. So he rebuilt it for you.

Every creaking staircase. Every shattered window. Every rotted inch of wallpaper. Together, you turned the graveyard of Victor Creel’s legacy into something warm, strange, and terribly romantic. A home, your home.

Corvina, your eldest daughter, drifted through the manor like a tiny phantom in velvet dresses, all solemn eyes and unnerving intelligence. She collected moth wings in glass jars and read Poe beneath thunderstorms while Eddie watched with equal parts pride and concern.

Meanwhile, Edward Jr, though everyone called him Teddy, was chaos incarnate. Wild curls, scraped knees, and his father’s crooked grin. The poor kid had inherited Eddie’s dramatic flair and your complete lack of fear, which meant most afternoons ended with him attempting something mildly catastrophic somewhere on the property.

Eddie had been hesitant about naming him after himself. Truthfully, he was terrified.

He remembered sitting beside you in bed while rain battered the windows, your newborn son asleep against your chest. Candlelight flickered gold across your skin as Eddie stared at the tiny little thing wearing his name.

“What if he ends up like me?” he’d asked quietly. You’d looked at him then with that same devastating softness you’d always reserved for his ugliest thoughts.

“My darling,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his curls, “I should certainly hope so.”

And just like that, the fear dissolved. Because in your eyes, Eddie Munson had never been something to outgrow or overcome. He had always been something to cherish.

The Creel House came alive slowly in the mornings. Rain tapped softly against the tall windows that morning, the sky outside painted silver and gloomy in the way you adored most.

Eddie stood at the stove in silk pajama pants and a black robe hanging open over his tattooed chest, swaying dramatically to the music while making pancakes shaped vaguely like bats.

“Darling,” you called from your place at the kitchen table, long black sleeves draped elegantly around your coffee cup, “I do believe those are becoming progressively less edible.”

Eddie pressed a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Cruel. Wounded before breakfast.”

“You married me for my cruelty.”

“I married you because you looked at me like a Victorian widow cursed by the sea.”

You smiled over the rim of your mug. “And you looked like trouble wrapped in leather.”

“Mm,” Eddie hummed proudly. “Still do.”

Before you could respond, Eddie appeared beside your chair suddenly, dramatically dropping to one knee like a man overcome with passion. He took your hand delicately, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Then another to your wrist. Then another just beneath your sleeve.

You laughed softly, tilting your head as his curls brushed your skin. “Edward Munson,” you murmured. “The children are awake.”

“Good,” he replied against your hand. “They should witness devotion.”

Right on cue, Corvina entered the kitchen carrying three books against her chest, long dark braid hanging over one shoulder. She glanced once at the scene before deadpanning:

“You’re disgusting.”

“Thank you, my dove,” you said warmly.

Corvina moved to pour herself coffee like she hadn’t witnessed anything unusual at all. Then came the sound of slower footsteps, Teddy.

Edward Jr. appeared in the doorway wearing his Hawkins High hoodie, backpack hanging off one shoulder, curls sticking up wildly like he’d been running nervous hands through them for an hour.

And immediately, both you and Eddie noticed the expression on his face, and Eddie straightened a little. “Whoa. What’s with the funeral look, Theodore?”

Teddy hesitated, then slowly held up a folded yellow slip of paper. Your brows lifted slightly while Corvina sipped her coffee with the detached calm of someone witnessing an execution.

“It’s a summons,” Teddy muttered.

Eddie blinked once, then dramatically pointed the spatula toward him. “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“That’s exactly what I used to say,” Eddie nodded solemnly. “And I was usually innocent at least forty percent of the time.”

You extended your hand calmly. “May I see it, darling?”

Teddy crossed the kitchen and handed it over anxiously while Eddie abandoned the pancakes entirely to loom over your shoulder. His chin immediately dropped onto the top of your head while his arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind instinctively.

You unfolded the slip carefully:

REQUESTED PARENT CONFERENCE. PRINCIPAL HIGGINS. REGARDING: EDWARD MUNSON JR.

Eddie groaned immediately. “Jesus Christ. They started early this year.”

Teddy looked miserable. “Dad, I swear, I didn’t even do anything. It was those idiots from the basketball team—they kept messing with my stuff in gym, and one of them shoved me into a locker, and when I shoved him back, he started bleeding and—”

“Bleeding?” Corvina asked mildly.

“He ran into the trophy case!”

“Ah,” she nodded. “Natural selection.”

“Teddy,” you said softly, reaching for his hand. “Look at me.”

He did immediately.

And despite being nearly Eddie’s height now, despite the deepening voice and teenage awkwardness settling into his limbs, he still looked at you the same way he had as a child: like you could fix anything simply by speaking.

“You are not in trouble with us,” you assured gently.

Eddie nodded instantly. “Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“Nope.” Eddie waved him off. “Listen, kid, Hawkins High has been blaming Munsons for shit since before you were born. It’s practically a school tradition.”

Teddy huffed out a nervous laugh. You rose from your chair then, smoothing your hands over Eddie’s wrists where they rested around your waist. “We’ll attend the meeting.”

“Together,” Eddie added.

“And if your principal insists on being unreasonable,” you continued calmly, “your father does so enjoy making authority figures uncomfortable.”

Eddie grinned wickedly. “Baby, remember the vice principal in ‘89?”

You smiled faintly. “He looked moments from cardiac arrest.”

Teddy finally laughed properly at that, the tension melting from his shoulders almost instantly.

Without another word, Eddie reached over and grabbed one of the bat-shaped pancakes, shoving it onto Teddy’s plate. “Eat up, kid,” he said. “Nothing scarier than school administration on an empty stomach.”

Corvina glanced toward the stove. “Those are burnt.”

“They’re wonderful,” Eddie corrected.

You reached for his hand again, kissing his knuckles this time. “My talented husband,” you said softly.

Eddie practically preened under the affection, leaning down immediately to kiss you dramatically enough to make Corvina groan.

“Oh, my God.”

“Teddy,” Eddie said seriously against your mouth, “never settle for a love that doesn’t make your children physically ill.”

“Noted,” Teddy muttered through a mouthful of pancake.

By noon, rain had turned into a heavy mist that clung to Hawkins like a veil, which was the exact kind of weather you loved. The kind of weather Eddie insisted was “romantic as hell.”

The two of you walked through the halls of Hawkins High side by side like something entirely out of place amongst the fluorescent lighting and beige walls. Students slowed as you passed, conversations dipping into whispers almost immediately.

You floated through the hallway in a long black coat that brushed your calves, silver jewelry gleaming beneath the dim lights, while Eddie walked beside you in dark rings and leather, one hand firmly wrapped around yours, as if he physically couldn’t stand not touching you for more than a few seconds.

Which, truthfully, he couldn’t.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie murmured low enough only you could hear as you approached the office, “if Higgins pisses me off, are we thinking subtle psychological warfare or full public humiliation?”

You glanced at him calmly. “Let us see how brave he feels first.”

“God, I love when you threaten people poetically.”

The secretary barely looked up when you entered the office, though her expression tightened almost immediately at the sight of Eddie, still, after all these years. Eddie noticed too, squeezing your hand once before leaning casually against the counter.

“We’re here about Teddy,” he said.

The woman cleared her throat awkwardly. “Principal Higgins is expecting you.”

“Lucky him,” Eddie muttered.

You placed a gentle hand against his chest before he could continue, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his jacket. “Behave, mon amour.”

Eddie looked down at you like you’d hung the moon itself in the sky. “For you?” he said softly. “Always.”

The secretary looked deeply uncomfortable. Good.

Principal Higgins’ office looked exactly the same as it had when Eddie sat in it at seventeen; stale coffee smell, ugly filing cabinets, school banners hanging crookedly on the walls.

Only now, Higgins himself had more gray hair and less patience. He didn’t stand when you entered. Instead, he leaned back slowly in his chair, eyes moving between you both with poorly concealed irritation.

“Mr. and Mrs. Munson.”

Eddie sat down across from him casually, slinging an arm immediately across the back of your chair. “Higgins,” he replied. “Still alive, huh?”

You rested one elegant hand atop Eddie’s knee beneath the desk, feeling him relax instantly under your touch.

Higgins ignored the comment. “Teddy was involved in an altercation yesterday afternoon.”

“Involved,” Eddie repeated. “Interesting wording.”

“He assaulted another student.”

“He defended himself,” you corrected smoothly.

Higgins finally looked directly at you then, expression tightening slightly. “And how exactly would you know that, Mrs. Munson?”

“Because, unlike this institution,” you replied calmly, “our son tells us the truth.”

Higgins folded his hands atop the desk. “Mrs. Munson, with all due respect, Edward Jr. has inherited certain… behavioral tendencies.”

There it was. Eddie’s jaw tightened instantly beneath the lazy posture he wore like armor. But you? You simply tilted your head slightly.

“What an unfortunate thing to say aloud,” you murmured.

Higgins shifted faintly. Eddie watched you carefully now, eyes practically sparkling because he knew that tone and knew it well. It was the same tone you used moments before verbally disemboweling someone.

“The Munson family,” Higgins continued carefully, “has had a difficult history with this school. Your husband, especially.”

Eddie gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, because this town treated me like I was carrying the plague.”

“You developed quite the reputation.”

“And your athletes didn’t?” Eddie shot back. “Interesting.”

“Eddie,” you said softly, not looking away from Higgins. You folded your hands neatly in your lap, expression serene enough to be unsettling.

“Our son,” you said carefully, “was cornered by three boys larger than him.”

Higgins opened his mouth, but you continued before he could speak.

“One shoved him into a locker repeatedly. Another destroyed his sketchbook. And when Theodore defended himself after being physically provoked, suddenly, he became the problem.”

Silence, and Higgins shifted again. You leaned forward slightly then, dark eyes steady on his.

“And now you sit before two former students who know exactly how Hawkins High operates and imply there is some sort of inherited defect in our child because his last name is Munson.”

Eddie looked dangerously proud beside you.

Higgins cleared his throat. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“No?” you asked gently. “Then perhaps choose your words more carefully.”

The office went quiet except for the rain tapping softly against the windows. Eddie finally leaned forward himself, rings clinking against the desk.

“Look,” he said flatly, “I know exactly what this place thinks about me. Fine. Whatever. But you do not get to stick that shit onto my son because some meathead couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”

Higgins sighed heavily. “No one is suspending Teddy.”

“Very generous,” Corvina’s voice drawled suddenly from the doorway.

All three of you turned. Corvina stood there holding a hall pass and looking deeply unimpressed.

“She followed us?” Higgins asked incredulously.

“She’s observant,” you replied.

“And nosy,” Eddie added proudly.

Corvina stepped inside without invitation. “Also, for the record, Tyler Bennett admitted in chemistry that he started it because Teddy wouldn’t let them make fun of that freshman girl.”

Eddie blinked. Then slowly turned toward his son’s principal with the most insufferably smug expression imaginable. “Huh,” he said. “Would you look at that?”

You reached over then, brushing your fingers lovingly along Eddie’s jaw.

“My darling,” you sighed softly. “It appears our son inherited your unfortunate tendency toward heroics.”

Eddie practically melted into your hand. “Baby,” he whispered dramatically, grabbing your wrist to kiss your palm, “you say the sexiest things to me.”

Corvina stood near the doorway with her arms crossed, entirely too pleased with herself. Eddie lounged back in his chair again, one boot hooked over his knee while he admired you with open, ridiculous affection.

Meanwhile, you remained perfectly composed, which somehow made you infinitely more terrifying.

“Well,” Higgins said stiffly after a long silence, “I believe this matter can be considered resolved.”

“How fortunate,” you replied smoothly.

Eddie snorted under his breath, and Higgins ignored him. “I’ll speak with the boys involved.”

“You should,” you said. “Especially if the school wishes to maintain the illusion of fairness.”

The principal’s jaw tightened faintly. Then, as though remembering something unpleasant, his eyes flicked briefly toward a framed flyer hanging beside his desk. 

Hawkins High Arts Expansion Fund: Sponsored by the Munson Mortuary. 

Eddie noticed immediately, as did you. A slow smile touched your lips. “You know,” you mused softly, rising from your chair, “Edward and I have always cared deeply about the arts.”

Eddie stood the second you did, naturally gravitating toward your side like a shadow stitched to your heels.

“The theater department,” you continued thoughtfully, smoothing the sleeve of your coat, “the music programs, student scholarships…”

Higgins straightened slightly.

“Hell,” Eddie added casually, “the new ceramics kiln was us.”

You turned your attention back to Higgins, expression warm enough to unsettle.

“It would simply devastate us,” you said gently, “if the environment here became hostile enough that we no longer felt comfortable continuing such generosity.”

Higgins cleared his throat quickly. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

“No,” you agreed pleasantly. “I imagine it won’t.”

Eddie grinned beside you like the devil himself. God, he loved you. Loved the way you could flay someone alive without ever raising your voice. Loved the way people underestimated your softness right until the moment they realized it had teeth.

You reached for his hand, and he took it instantly.

“Well,” Eddie sighed dramatically, “this has been deeply irritating.”

As the four of you started toward the office door, Higgins spoke again. “Mrs. Munson.”

You paused, turning slightly. “I assure you,” he said carefully, “Theodore will be treated fairly.”

You held his gaze for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “I should hope so.”

And with that, you left. The halls quieted again as your family walked through them together.

Eddie’s hand remained clasped tightly with yours while Corvina drifted ahead in a sea of black fabric, entirely unbothered by the stares surrounding her.

The second the front doors shut behind you, Eddie turned toward you with outright admiration burning in his expression.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Marry me again.”

You looked at him calmly. “I would a thousand times.”

Candles flickered low throughout the house, golden light dancing against dark wallpaper while thunder rolled softly somewhere in the distance.

Dinner had long since ended, dishes abandoned in favor of the far more important activity of Eddie dramatically sprawled across the velvet chaise in the sitting room with his head in your lap.

“Darling,” he sighed as you lazily combed your fingers through his curls, “if I die right now, know that I died fulfilled.”

“You’re forty years old,” Corvina deadpanned from the armchair across the room. “Not a dying Victorian poet.”

Eddie pointed accusingly toward her without lifting his head. “Your mother encourages this cruelty.”

You smiled softly down at him. “I find it endearing.”

“That’s because you worship me.”

“Correct.”

Corvina physically recoiled. “Can you two act normal for ten minutes?”

“No,” both of you answered immediately.

Teddy snorted from the floor where he sat building something suspiciously dangerous out of spare radio parts. Then, the doorbell rang, and everyone paused. Corvina moved first, way too fast for her character. 

You noticed immediately. Eddie noticed immediately. Teddy noticed immediately. The three of you slowly turned toward her as she stood abruptly from the chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her black skirt.

“…Interesting,” you murmured.

Corvina narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”

Eddie sat up slowly now, a grin already forming. “Oh, my God.”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Corvina Lucille Munson,” Teddy gasped dramatically. “Are you nervous?”

“I will kill you.”

The bell rang again. Corvina moved toward the front door with all the rigid dignity of someone approaching their execution.

You and Eddie exchanged a look. Then, silently, both rose from your seats to follow.

The front door creaked open, and standing beneath the porch light was perhaps the least expected person imaginable. A boy. Tall, clean-cut, nervous beyond belief. Bright blue varsity jacket. Hair neatly combed. Holding flowers.

The poor thing looked like he’d wandered into the wrong horror movie. Corvina stared at him; the boy stared at Corvina. Then his eyes slowly lifted, and landed directly on you and Eddie looming behind her like two beautifully dressed vampires awaiting explanation.

His face drained completely of color. Eddie blinked once, then immediately leaned toward you and whispered with genuine awe:

“He looks like he says ‘yes ma’am’ unironically.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “How refreshing.”

“Mom,” Corvina warned.

The boy swallowed hard. “H-hi, Mr. and Mrs. Munson.”

Eddie lit up instantly. “Oh, I like him.”

Corvina closed her eyes briefly like she regretted ever being born. You stepped forward gracefully, gaze drifting over the bouquet in his trembling hands.

“How lovely,” you said softly. “Funeral lilies.”

“They’re her favorite,” he blurted.

Then you looked at Corvina slowly, while Corvina looked horrified. Eddie looked seconds from losing his mind entirely.

“Teddy,” he whispered sharply. “Your sister has a boyfriend.”

“I KNEW IT.”

“He is not my boyfriend,” Corvina snapped immediately. “He’s an experiment.”

The boy blinked. “An… experiment?”

“You’re studying social dynamics?” you guessed politely.

“Yes,” Corvina said quickly.

Eddie crossed his arms. “By holding hands with the quarterback?”

“Second-string quarterback,” Teddy corrected.

Everyone looked at the boy while he awkwardly raised one hand. “We lost regionals.”

Eddie burst out laughing. “Oh my God, sweetheart,” he wheezed to you. “She brought home a jock.”

“He’s not a jock.”

The boy tried to help. “I’m also on the debate team.”

You gasped softly. “How multifaceted.”

Corvina looked moments from throwing herself from the staircase.

Eddie grinned wickedly at her. “Baby bat’s got a crush.”

“I do not.”

“He knows your favorite flowers,” Teddy sang obnoxiously.

“I hate this family.”

The boy, still somehow standing there despite the obvious psychological warfare occurring around him, looked toward Corvina carefully. And to everyone’s shock, his expression softened.

“She talks about you guys a lot, actually.”

Corvina froze.

Eddie immediately clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh, my.”

“Dad.”

“She told me,” the boy continued nervously, “that her parents are… intense, but very in love.”

You smiled faintly. Corvina looked like she wanted the floorboards to consume her.

“And,” he added carefully, “that her dad still leaves dead roses on her mom’s pillow every morning.”

Eddie looked at you instantly, utterly smitten. “Baby,” he whispered emotionally, “our love is inspiring the youth.”

You reached up, smoothing your hand against his jaw affectionately. “We are deeply romantic.”

“You’re deeply weird,” Teddy corrected.

“Thank you.”

Corvina groaned. “Can we please go before they start kissing again?”

Too late. Eddie had already grabbed your hand dramatically.

“You wound me, little raven,” he said, pressing a theatrical kiss against your knuckles. “Your mother’s beauty simply overwhelms me.”

The boy stared. Teddy stared. Corvina pinched the bridge of her nose. And you, you simply looked at your husband with soft, endless devotion while thunder echoed gently overhead.

“Oh, mon amour,” you sighed lovingly. “You are still the most handsome thing this house has ever held.”

Eddie nearly died on the spot.

The house felt different when the children were gone. Corvina had vanished off to some poetry reading with her painfully polite almost-boyfriend, while Teddy was staying overnight at a friend’s house after aggressively insisting he was “old enough to survive one night without parental supervision.”

Eddie had looked personally offended by the statement. 

Now the evening rain had finally stopped, leaving the world outside soaked silver beneath the moonlight.

You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, fastening a pair of silver earrings, when Eddie appeared in the doorway, already staring at you like a man deeply unwell. His dark button-up hung half-open, curls still damp from the shower, rings glinting in the candlelight.

But his expression, my God. After all these years, he still looked at you like the first breath after drowning.

“Well,” he murmured, leaning against the doorframe, “there goes every coherent thought I’ve ever had.”

You smiled softly at his reflection. “You say that every time I wear black.”

“Because every time you wear black, I fall in love with you all over again.”

“You’re very dramatic.”

“You’re very beautiful. We all cope differently.” You laughed quietly as he crossed the room toward you.

The second he reached you, his hands found your waist instinctively, warm and familiar through the fabric of your dress. He buried his face briefly against your neck with a content sigh like “this—this right here—was the safest place in the universe.”

“Close your eyes,” he murmured.

You raised a brow. “Edward.”

“Please?”

Amused, you obeyed. You heard him moving around the room for a moment before something soft brushed across your palms.

Flowers. 

When you opened your eyes again, Eddie stood before you holding a bouquet of black dahlias and dead roses tied together with velvet ribbon, just like your first date.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Eddie suddenly looked shy beneath all the tattoos and bravado. “I know they’re a little wilted, but Gareth’s florist cousin said—”

“They’re perfect.”

The relief on his face was immediate. You reached up carefully, fingertips brushing his cheek while he melted into your touch on instinct.

“Do you remember,” you asked softly, “what you said to me the night you gave me flowers for the first time?”

Eddie grinned a little. “Yeah.” He leaned closer. “‘Most girls want roses. You looked like you’d appreciate something half-dead.’”

“And I nearly married you on the spot.”

“You definitely wanted me carnally.”

You laughed again and kissed him gently. Eddie hummed happily against your mouth, already chasing after another kiss before you’d fully pulled away.

“Come on,” he whispered. “I’ve got a surprise.”

The graveyard sat at the edge of Hawkins beneath enormous twisted trees, moonlight filtering silver across old headstones and damp grass. Most people found it unsettling, but you found it beautiful, especially tonight.

Your breath caught softly as Eddie led you through the cemetery gates hand in hand.

Because there, beneath the crooked oak tree where he’d taken you all those years ago, sat an entire picnic laid out atop black blankets and velvet pillows. Candles flickered inside lanterns. An old radio played something metal, low enough to blend with the wind.

Your favorite wine rested beside a basket overflowing with chocolate-covered strawberries and homemade pastries, which Eddie had very obviously burnt slightly. And in the center, a vase of black dahlias. Eddie rubbed the back of his neck suddenly, almost bashful. “I know it’s kinda stupid—”

“It isn’t.”

Your voice was so soft that it stopped him immediately. He watched as you stepped slowly into the little space he’d created, moonlight catching the emotion shimmering across your face.

“You remembered everything,” you whispered.

“Course I did.”

Eddie moved closer then, taking your hands carefully. “This is where I fell in love with you,” he admitted quietly. “Figured it deserved revisiting.”

Your chest ached. Because despite all his theatrics, despite the flirting and dramatics and endless teasing, Eddie loved with terrifying sincerity, always had.

You touched his face gently. “You never told me you loved me that night.”

“No,” he said softly. “But I knew.”

The wind moved through the cemetery trees around you, carrying the scent of rain and earth and candle smoke. Then Eddie suddenly dropped dramatically onto the blanket.

“Now,” he announced, patting the spot beside him, “come seduce your husband under the moonlight.”

You smiled helplessly and settled beside him. Immediately, he pulled you into his lap like gravity itself demanded it. You curled against him easily, fingers playing with the rings on his hand while his chin rested atop your shoulder.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You simply existed there together beneath the stars, wrapped in candlelight and old music and decades worth of devotion.

Eventually, Eddie pressed a slow kiss against your neck. “You know,” he murmured, “I was so scared to bring you here on our first date.”

You turned slightly. “You were?”

“Terrified.” He laughed softly against your skin. “Wayne told me if I took a girl to a graveyard, she’d think I was either a serial killer or possessed.”

“And instead?”

“You told me it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.”

“It still is.”

Eddie looked at you then. And suddenly he was twenty again; grease stains on his hands, heart beating too fast, staring at the most hauntingly beautiful girl he’d ever seen while wondering how someone so lovely could possibly want him back.

Only now, he knew, because you’d spent decades proving it.

His hand slid carefully against your cheek. “My sweet girl,” he whispered.

You kissed him before he could say anything else. Slow and loving, the kind of kiss built from years and years of choosing each other over and over again. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled softly again.

Eddie smiled against your mouth. “Think the kids are behaving themselves?”

You smoothed your fingers through his curls lazily. “Not our concern tonight.”

“God,” he sighed happily, pulling you impossibly closer, “I adore you.”

“Eddie,” you whispered, tilting your head as his lips brushed the side of your neck. “You’ve outdone yourself, mon amour.”

He hummed against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “Only the best for you.”

You laughed softly, and the sound made him tighten his hold, one hand sliding reverently down your side, tracing the black silk of your dress. 

Eddie loved pleasing you more than anything, maybe even more than breathing. He lived for the way your breath would hitch when he touched you just right, for the way you looked at him like he was the only man in any world worth having.

His fingers found the hem of your dress and slipped beneath it, warm palm gliding up your thigh. “Let me worship you here,” he murmured, voice low and rough with devotion. 

You turned in his lap, straddling him, your long dark hair falling around you both like a curtain. The cemetery was empty, the night yours alone. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, silver rings cool against his skin.

“Then worship me, Edward,” you said softly, the command wrapped in velvet.

Eddie’s eyes darkened with hunger and endless love. He kissed you deeply, almost reverently at first, then with growing heat as your tongues met. His hands roamed, pushing your dress up around your hips. He groaned when he realized you’d worn nothing beneath it.

“Fuuuck me,” he breathed against your mouth, a crooked, adoring grin breaking through.

“Oh my love, I plan to.”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, then lowered you gently onto your back atop the velvet pillows. The cool night air kissed your skin as he peeled the dress from your body, kissing every inch he revealed. Your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he looked up at you with pure reverence.

He settled between your legs, curls brushing your inner thighs as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue found your center with devastating patience; slow, worshipful strokes that had your fingers tightening in his hair. 

He moaned into you like you were the finest thing he’d ever tasted, savoring every gasp and whisper of his name that left your lips.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against your slick flesh, voice thick. “Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

Your back arched as pleasure coiled tight inside you, and Eddie watched it all unfold like a man witnessing divinity. When you came undone beneath his tongue, thighs trembling around his head, he held you through it, kissing you gently until the waves subsided.

Only then did he rise, shedding his shirt and pants with reverent haste. His cock was hard and aching for you, but he took his time, crawling over you, kissing you so deeply you tasted yourself on his tongue.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, lining himself up. “More than life. More than death. More than anything in this fucking universe.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him inside you with one smooth thrust. Both of you moaned at the perfect fit; years together, and it still felt like coming home. 

Eddie moved with slow, deep rolls of his hips, savoring every clench of your walls around him. His forehead pressed to yours, curls falling around your faces as he gazed into your eyes.

“Look at me while I fuck you, baby,” he breathed, devotion dripping from every word. “Want to see those saintly eyes when you come on my cock again.”

The cemetery felt alive around you; the wind whispering through the trees, the distant hoot of an owl, the scent of earth and night-blooming flowers mixing with sweat and sex. Eddie’s pace gradually quickened, one hand sliding between you to circle your clit while the other pinned your wrist gently above your head.

You came again with a soft, broken cry of his name, pulling him over the edge with you. He buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as pleasure wrecked him. Even then, he kept moving; lazy, loving thrusts to draw it out, kissing you through every aftershock.

Afterward, he collapsed beside you and immediately pulled you into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine while your leg draped over his hip.

Eddie pressed a kiss to your hair, voice hoarse with satisfaction. “I’d desecrate every grave in Hawkins if it meant making you feel like that.”

You smiled against his chest, fingertips playing with the silver strands beginning to thread through his dark curls. “If we keep this up, Corvina and Teddy may have a sibling.”

“Would that be so bad? Another mini-Munson running around, raising hell?”

You rolled your eyes lovingly, planting a few peppered kisses along his chest and jaw. “Poor Principal Higgins wouldn’t know what to do with himself with a third Munson.”

Dinner in the Creel-Munson House was rarely quiet. Not because anyone particularly tried to be loud, it was simply impossible for four Munsons to exist in the same room without the atmosphere becoming theatrical.

Thunder groaned outside while candlelight flickered across the dining room, illuminating velvet curtains, silver dishes, and the massive candelabra Teddy insisted made “every meal feel like a vampire intervention.”

Tonight, Eddie had been suspiciously smug since five o’clock, you noticed immediately. Corvina noticed immediately. Teddy noticed immediately. Which meant all three of you spent most of dinner staring at him with increasing suspicion while he fought a grin behind his wine glass.

Finally, Teddy pointed his fork accusingly. “You’re hiding something.”

Eddie gasped dramatically. “What a horrible accusation.”

“You’ve been smirking for an hour,” Corvina added.

“You also called the garlic bread ‘historic,’” Teddy said. “That means something’s wrong.”

You smiled faintly from your seat at the head of the table. “Darling,” you said gently to Eddie, “are you planning a crime?”

Eddie looked delighted by the question. “No,” he answered proudly. “Something better.”

Then, with all the ceremony of a man revealing the crown jewels, Eddie reached into his jacket and slapped four tickets dramatically onto the table. Silence.

Teddy squinted. Then his eyes widened so violently you thought they might leave his skull.

“No fucking way.”

“Language,” you corrected softly.

“No FUCKING way.”

Corvina leaned forward slightly now, dark eyes narrowing in interest. Eddie sat back in his chair with unbearable smugness. “Iron Maiden,” he announced grandly. “Indianapolis. Front section.”

Teddy SHRIEKED, like actually shrieked. The sound echoed through the dining room while Eddie burst into laughter.

“Oh my God,” Teddy gasped, grabbing the tickets with trembling hands. “Dad—Dad, are you serious?!”

“Your old man still has connections, baby.”

Teddy launched out of his chair instantly. 

You sighed knowingly. “Brace yourself, mon amour.”

A second later, Teddy practically tackled Eddie backward in a hug. “There he is,” Eddie wheezed dramatically as Teddy nearly crushed him. “My son. My flesh and blood.”

“You are the coolest person alive.”

“I know.”

Corvina, meanwhile, carefully picked up one of the tickets with much more restraint. But you noticed the tiny upward twitch at the corner of her mouth immediately.

“Dickinson is still performing?” she asked calmly.

Eddie clutched his chest. “That sounded almost excited.”

“It wasn’t.”

“She got the Munson concert gene,” Teddy informed you loudly.

“She absolutely did,” Eddie whispered emotionally. Corvina rolled her eyes, though there was the faintest flush creeping into her cheeks now. You watched your family fondly from your chair, chin resting against your hand.

This. This was your favorite thing.

Eddie glowing with happiness while the children inherited every loud, passionate, ridiculous piece of him without even realizing it. Teddy flopped back into his chair, grinning wildly.

“This is literally the greatest day of my life.”

Eddie pointed at him immediately. “That’s exactly what I said when your mother kissed me the first time.”

“You say that about everything Mom does,” Corvina muttered.

“Because your mother is extraordinary.”

You reached over and touched his hand gently, as Eddie looked at you like he’d been shot directly through the heart.

Then, Corvina cleared her throat, causing everyone to look at her immediately.

“…What,” she said flatly.

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “You’re about to ask for something.”

“I’m not.”

“You did the voice.”

Teddy gasped dramatically. “She DID do the voice.”

Corvina looked deeply regretful. “I hate all of you.”

You smiled softly. “What is it, little raven?”

A pause. Then, with visible reluctance: “…Could I possibly have one additional ticket?”

The room went silent, and Eddie blinked once. Then slowly lowered his wine glass.

“…For who?”

Corvina stared at her plate. “No one.”

“Corvina.”

Another pause.

“…Damien.”

Eddie’s entire body reacted as if he’d just been informed the government had finally collapsed.

“THE BOYFRIEND?”

“He is not—”

“The assistant quarterback?!” Teddy shouted.

“THE DEBATE CLUB ONE?” Eddie cried simultaneously.

Corvina groaned into her hands. You, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to smile.

“He likes Iron Maiden,” Corvina muttered.

Eddie looked genuinely betrayed. “The clean-cut child likes Maiden?”

“He listens to metal with me.”

Eddie stared at her for a long moment. Then suddenly leaned back in his chair, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“She likes him.”

“I do not.”

“She’s sharing music with him,” Eddie whispered hoarsely to you. “Baby, that’s intimate.”

Teddy looked horrified. “That’s like… sacred.”

“Exactly.”

Corvina looked ready to walk into traffic. You finally spoke, voice warm with amusement.

“Perhaps,” you said carefully, “she simply enjoys his company.”

Corvina nodded quickly. “Exactly.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes immediately. “Have you held hands?”

“Dad.”

“HAVE you?”

“No.” Too fast.

Teddy slammed both hands on the table. “THAT WAS A LIE.”

Corvina pointed at him. “You are dead to me.”

Eddie suddenly looked emotional again. “Oh, sweetheart,” he sighed dramatically, “your first love.”

“It’s not love!”

You stood then, gliding around the table toward your daughter. Corvina visibly braced herself for teasing. Instead, you simply smoothed a strand of dark hair behind her ear gently.

And very softly, you said: “If someone makes our little raven smile enough to frighten her this badly… we should like to know him.”

Corvina froze. Because despite all the drama and teasing, your family loved hard. Openly, and without shame, just like Eddie always had.

The house had long since gone quiet. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock groaned past midnight while rain tapped softly against the windows of your bedroom. Eddie lay sprawled across your chest like an oversized cat, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist while you lazily played with his curls.

This had always been his favorite place to exist, right here, with you.

Even after all these years, he still sought you out instinctively. Every night, somehow ended the same way: his head in your lap, or tucked against your chest, or buried into your neck while he mumbled half-asleep nonsense against your skin. Tonight was no different.

“You know,” Eddie murmured sleepily, eyes closed, “I think Corvina gets scarier every day.”

You smiled softly, carefully winding one silver-threaded curl around your finger. “She is your daughter.”

“Exactly why I’m concerned.”

“You cried when she said she held his hand.”

“I did not cry.”

“You absolutely did.”

Eddie cracked one eye open. “I became emotional.”

“You gasped loud enough to frighten Teddy.”

“That was fatherly grief.”

Your laugh came soft and quiet in the dark. God, he loved that sound.

Eddie tilted his head slightly against you just to hear it again. Then your fingers paused suddenly in his curls, a tiny thing, barely noticeable. But Eddie felt it immediately.

“What?” he murmured.

You said nothing at first. Instead, your fingers carefully separated one curl from the rest, then another. Eddie finally looked up slightly, finding your expression softened by something achingly tender.

“My darling,” you whispered.

“Hm?”

You gently pulled something free: a silver strand, then another.

Eddie blinked once. “Oh,” he said.

There was no fear in his voice, just surprise. You held the strands delicately between your fingers, studying them beneath candlelight like they were precious threads of moonlight themselves.

Eddie suddenly looked sheepish. “Well,” he muttered, “guess I’m getting old.”

You looked almost offended by the statement. “Edward Munson,” you said softly, “you have survived.”

You slid from beneath him carefully, crossing toward the antique vanity near the window while Eddie watched you in sleepy confusion.

Then you reached for the little silver locket resting beside your jewelry tray, the one you wore nearly every day, etched with the letter ‘E’.

Eddie pushed himself upright slightly as you opened it carefully. Inside rested tiny fragments of your life together.

A pressed black rose petal from your wedding bouquet. A piece of the guitar pick Eddie used the first time he played guitar for you. A photograph so faded it barely showed two young people grinning in a cemetery beneath storm clouds.

Eddie went completely still.

You placed the silver strands gently beside them, like they were treasures. Then you closed the locket softly and climbed back into bed.

Eddie stared at you for a long moment after you settled beside him again. “…You kept all that?”

You looked genuinely puzzled. “Of course I did.”

“Baby, there’s literally a piece of an old guitar pick in there.”

“The broken corner because you were nervous while playing for me.”

His expression cracked instantly. “You remember that?”

“You dropped it three times before speaking to me,” you replied calmly. “You were adorable.”

Eddie let out a weak laugh, suddenly overwhelmed in the way only you could overwhelm him. Because no one had ever looked at the broken, embarrassing, vulnerable pieces of him and treated them like sacred things before you.

Your fingers slowly returned to his curls. “You know what I see,” you murmured softly, “when I look at these?”

Eddie shook his head once.

“A life.”

His eyes burned immediately, so you kissed his forehead gently.

“The silver only proves you stayed long enough to grow old with me,” you whispered.

And that nearly destroyed him. Eddie suddenly pulled himself over you completely, burying his face into your neck while holding you tight enough to make you laugh softly again.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled against your skin. “How are you real?”

You stroked your fingers through his curls carefully, silver strands and all. “I might ask you the same thing.”

“No, seriously,” Eddie groaned dramatically. “You put my gray hairs in a locket. That’s insane behavior.”

“You married me willingly.”

“I’d marry you in every lifetime.”

Your expression softened instantly. Eddie lifted his head, then just enough to look at you through the candlelight; older now, yes, lines at the corners of his eyes and silver threading through dark curls.

But still the same boy who fell hopelessly in love with a gothic girl in black lace all those years ago. Still yours, always yours.

“You know what the worst part is?” he murmured sleepily.

“What’s that, mon amour?”

“I still get nervous around you.”

You smiled. Then pulled him down into another kiss while rain whispered softly against the windows of your haunted little home.

AGH I HOPE YOU ALL LOVED ITTT:)))

Hell of a Summer pt.2 is currently in the works, GET EXCITEDDDD YUHHH

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She let out a laugh as she put the flask back to its place – under her eye.

"Yeah, you're right." she said. "For some reason I have this strange gut feeling that Billy won't take it too well."

Eddie joined in on the laugh. "Really? I wonder why."

"Oh, I don't know. Really, I have no idea."

Yeah, it’s not like she witnessed her boyfriend’s overprotective nature or jealousy firsthand…

Billy might’ve changed a lot since the Starcourt incident – hence why the two of them got together in the first place –, but there were times when his old habits came back like a strange force and destroyed everything what was in its way. And if there was one thing which brought the old Billy back, then it was assholes who dared to mess with the person he loved the most: his girlfriend.

She still remembered when she was dropping Max off at school with Billy, and the stupid Hawkins Tigers decided to ask Eddie about his freak girlfriend. Nothing would’ve come from it really if they didn’t choose to explain whom they meant by ‘freak girlfriend’. It was safe to say that Billy was out of the car in seconds and she’d lie if she said that blood wasn’t flowing from the Tigers’ face. And afterwards, well, no one dared to look at her the wrong way or mess with her favorite kids in all of Hawkins – meaning the Hellfire Club finally had a few weeks of peace and quiet. And Eddie – Eddie finally approved her relationship with that ‘piece of shit Hargrove’.

"Well, I won't be the most wanted man in Hawkins anymore at least." Eddie added as he grabbed the stolen walkie from the side of his belt and playfully threw it up in the air and caught it. "It'll be kinda funny. Them hunting us as Hargrove hunts them."

She snorted, which made her nose hurt. She just hoped it wasn't broken.

"I wonder if Jason has a place to hide from him."

"From Hargrove? No way. I don't think a place like that exists yet."

She laughed again and this time it made her bruised left side sting.

Eddie gave her a look. A look she understood well, since she had time to learn how to read him like a book since the beginning of high school. She understood the reason for the attempt to make her laugh as well. And though she appreciated it, they had things to worry about.

"Have you tried contacting them yet?" she pointed at the walkie in his hands.

"I was about to." he said as he stopped playing with it and took a serious look at it. "I might as well tell them to bring us a six pack on their way here. I could really use one of those."

She handed him the metal flask with a smile. "I think this might have something stronger. And I don't know about you, but I could really use something stronger after that night."

"I like the way you think."

She smiled although it turned into an accidental frown.

God she really hoped her nose wasn't broken because then Eddie won't be the only one wanted for murder in Hawkins. But then again – Billy might go on a murder spree anyways. This was strike two for the Hawkins Tigers in his book. Who is she kidding – she already knew this would end bloody for all those dumb jocks.

●●●

She’d never forget the look on Billy’s face. The look of silent relief that she’s alive, that he’s finally standing in front of her – then, that look turned into something else. It changed entirely as soon as he noticed the dark, angry spot under her eye and the dried blood under her nose.

A storm was building in Billy’s eyes. She could see it, and she swore she could feel it too. His muscles stiffened, especially the ones in and around his shoulders. He seemed sharp, ready to jump on someone as soon as she mentioned a damn name. And she was thankful that Eddie was smart enough to take a few steps back and welcome Dustin, because there was always a slim possibility that the person Billy would jump will be Eddie himself.

It only took Billy a few seconds to contain that wrath in himself, a trait he learned for her, then he was all over her: hands holding onto her so fiercely she felt like couldn’t move – not like she wanted to at all –, fingers combed through her hair as she pressed the uninjured side of her face into his chest. She breathed in his cologne and God did she miss it even if it was once again mixed with the cigarettes he must’ve smoked. When he pressed a rough kiss on the top of her head, she felt lighter – then she frowned at the realization that in comparison to his cologne, she probably smelled like damp clothes and fish.

I missed you, she thought. I really missed you. Yet she knew that the moment when they’ll really show any kind of ‘emotional’ emotion, will be when they are alone – especially when Harrington isn’t around.

Billy pulled away first, his hands landing on her jaw. His fingers shook from anger as he tried to hold her as if she was a piece of glass. Her eyes met his as he took a close look at her injuries.

“Jesus Christ…” Steve exclaimed as he finally managed to take a good look at her. “What the Hell happened to you?”

Every pair of eyes turned toward her, looking at the angry area on her face with a shocked expression. It was Max and Steve who eyed Billy nervously, waiting for something – the something they all collectively knew would happen.

“You see, Harrington, that’s what I’d like to know as well…” Billy’s voice had a strange, dangerous undertone as he talked. Eddie sent an ‘I told you so’ look her way.

She just smiled shyly. “A paddle happened.”

Billy raised an eyebrow as his thumb touched the dark purple area under her eye.

Robin, probably from the stress of the situation or from the sight of the dried blood under her nose, started to tell a story from her childhood, about how she accidentally hit herself with a paddle when she was very young. But Steve stopped her before she could really get into the rambling.

She found it kinda funny and overly cute how every single one of her friends was worried about a tiny little blood and black eye, when they had much bigger things to worry about. Hell, even Steve looked like he was ready for war. Even though it wasn’t the right time, she appreciated their worry.

“A paddle happened, you say?” Billy asked, and Eddie decided it was right time to give some context.

“More like Jason Carver and his goons – with a paddle.” he explained.

Billy’s fingers stiffened under her jaw – right, just like she thought: this was strike two for the Tigers and judging by his reaction, the very last strike they’d have in life.

Maybe Billy would’ve taken it more… lightly – if it wasn’t for the fact that his girlfriend has gone missing for a full day. She left the Wheelers’ basement yesterday, not long after noon to make sure Eddie wouldn’t starve in that boathouse. And Billy stopped her multiple times. She thought it was just his protective side showing again, but thinking back at it, it must’ve been this strong feeling in his guts, a feeling she herself knew too well, to stop her because something bad would happen. And that something bad did happen.

He must’ve been full of worry, which meant he got angry and frustrated – probably, most likely. He must’ve given Steve Hell until they arrived, and Max must’ve been tired of always having her brother around.

Yeah, they were all collectively pissed at Jason Carver. He chose the wrong people at the wrong time.

“Well would someone finally tell me, what the fuck he did to my girlfriend?” Billy’s words came out harsh – and she understood that they were meant for Eddie.

But she gently wrapped her hands around his wrists – she gave them a small squeeze as she did so – and pulled them away from her face.

“So, I left to bring Eddie some food, right?” the others nodded all at once as if they were somehow synchronized. “Well – that part went quite swiftly actually. I brought the food, we ate and then Jason showed up with his goons.” Billy seemed like someone who couldn’t wait for the story to be over, so he could finally go and break some noses as revenge. “They had these bats and everything, and they looked through Rick’s house… And they stayed. We couldn’t leave without being spotted. My car was out front anyways either way. Then Jason noticed the boathouse, so we tried to leave with the boat. But the motor went to shit so we had to paddle and those fucking idiots decided to swim after us. Anyways, Jason grabbed my paddle, and I really didn’t want to let go, and that’s how he gave me this--” she pointed at her eye and nose. “--with that stupid paddle.”

All heads turned to look at Billy again – and judging by his eyes and tight muscles, he must’ve heard enough and was ready to be charged for attempted murder. She really didn’t think it mattered that her getting hurt was most likely an accident. Accidents didn’t happen to her in Billy’s book.

Dustin really chose the best moment to avert his gaze and find his compass much more interesting.

“I’ll kill them.” him saying that – it sounded like a plan. “They are so fucking dead.”

Eddie hissed as he took a quick sip from that metal flask. “Yeah – well one of them is.”

Billy seemed to like the verdict the guy has gotten.

“Right – we saw the cops around Rick’s house.” Nancy added.

“Yeah, after Carver’s amazing attempt to stop us, we fell in the lake and this – this guy, Patrick, I think – just got up in the air and his bones—” Eddie swallowed. “He went out like Chrissy.”

She still felt the cold run through her at the memory. Jesus Christ – to go out like that. It seemed worse than getting eaten by a Demogorgon. And she swore to God, she’d never ever let it happen to Max. She was one of her kids and nothing bad will happen to her as long as she’s alive.

“Why didn’t you call us?” Steve asked with a slight scolding undertone – and desperate times called for desperate things, because the look on Billy’s face meant that he agreed with Harrington. “We could’ve gotten here hours ago.”

She held onto Billy’s arm as she felt the tension in him getting very close to snapping.

“Yes, well we swam to the shore and we tried, we tried for a long time, but the walkie was busted.”

“So – we did the thing I always do now, apparently – we ran.” Eddie added with a nervous smile.

She frowned – it’s not like they had any choice. The two of them are wanted criminals, since Jason has seen the both of them in that boat. Yet she knew Eddie felt guilty – he felt horrible about what happened to Chrissy. But nothing could’ve been done differently. The Upside Down can’t really be messed with – Billy was proof of that, and she shuddered at the thought of her boyfriend barely making it out alive.

The others didn’t notice it – they started to collect all the information they had, they started to piece things together as Dustin was still examining his compass. They didn’t notice it, but Billy did. He always noticed everything.

His hands were on her again in mere seconds once again – an occurrence which wasn’t foreign at all. Billy wasn’t shy at all to show any kind of physical affection – well, he wasn’t afraid to show the hugging, kissing, hand-holding and borderline groping kind – the emotional kind was for her eyes only. Really, the only time she had seen Billy being hesitant about showing his love for her in public was at the beginning of their relationship, when he was still in and out of hospitals or when he was quite stressed about being back out in public – especially without his shirt on around the pool because of the long scars which ran along his waist.

Billy’s thumb ran along the left side of her face as Eddie thew his busted watch at Nancy. She could read the silent question in his gaze which still had an angry undertone: ‘Are you okay?’

“I was just worried about you is all.” she said, knowing the question in front of an audience would come out easily.

His lips trembled as he tried to hold back a smile – or a smirk, but his signature affectionate one.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“It fucking stings.” she laughed. “But I’ll live.”

He cupped her jaw, his fingers settling against her neck. He pulled her slightly upwards to make sure she’d look him in the eyes.

“Carver fucking won’t when I get my hands on him.” he didn’t have to use the words ‘I swear’ to say that he meant it. “He thinks he’s some kind of king now – now that I’m gone. He’s always licking the soles of my fucking shoes when he has an upcoming match to get the crowd’s respect, but behind my fucking back he lets his idiot friend group talk shit about my girlfriend – and he himself decides to hurt my girlfriend...”

“Billy…” she began as she held onto his wrists gently, to try and get through to him – gentle touches always seemed to work on Billy, not like she minded, because she liked giving them. “I don’t care about him or his stupid team…”

“Well I do!” he pushed on. “He almost broke your nose—” he suddenly stopped and held onto her face a little tighter to take a better look at her face. “Did he break your nose?”

“Billy.” she tried again. “I don’t care. I’m fine, okay? We have other things to worry about – bigger things – but I promise you that after we deal with those, you can do whatever the Hell you want to him. And I’ll watch from the first row.”

She wouldn’t let her – no way. She’ll make sure Billy and the Tigers won’t ever meet again. She’ll do her very best to keep her boyfriend out of jail. But until then he doesn’t have to know that.

His lips finally curled upwards – and she loved the moments when it happened, God damn her but she lived for those… When he wasn’t playing pretend, when it was an honest to God smile and his eyes lit up with the force of it as well. How he showed his teeth as he playfully licked his upper lip – an act she was sure he did unknowingly as a reflex, yet a thing she found extremely hot, but he didn’t need to know that either.

“Boom!” Dustin shouted out of nowhere and she jumped a little – so did the others – except Billy, who just chuckled.

He leaned in as Steve and Dustin started to argue – a usual occurrence she liked to laugh at – and pressed a long and careful kiss to her forehead.

“Billy…” she began again with a warning undertone. “Promise me.”

“Promise what, dollface?”

“That you won’t bury him six feet under until all of this is over.” she explained. “Promise me, Hargrove.”

His smile turned into a full-on smirk, and she knew his true answer – he won’t try at all.

“I’ll try.” he said instead.

His momentary anger was gone. She knew him well enough to see that. The need for revenge took its place. Her boyfriend was out for blood and there was no way anyone could stop him hunt the Tigers down – or Jason at the very least.

Billy was about to lean to try and shut her up about whatever smart-ass remark she’s got for that, she could already feel breath on his breath on her lips, when Steve Harrington out of all people ruined the moment.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Jesus fucking Christ, Harrington, don’t you have a will to live? “You coming or what? Henderson has this amazing theory to prove me wrong and—”

“We’re coming!” she shouted back before either Dustin or Billy could get into a heated discussion with him. “Let’s go, we have work to do.” she smiled.

Billy groaned as he pressed his forehead against hers and she had the nerve to let out a giggle.

He missed her too, the thought made her smile. Yeah, he missed her a whole lot.

“They are so damn annoying together, those two…” he complained with a barely audible whine.

“Please tell me you didn’t pick on them too much while I was gone.” she laughed as she pulled on his arms to get going – his right one immediately finding her waist. His hand landed on the curve of her midsection, keeping a firm hold on her as if to not let her disappear like that again.

Billy didn’t answer – he just gave her a look, a look which explained everything, and pressed his fingers into her skin, holding onto her arms when she tried to hit him for how ticklish it was.

But she asked Max about it. And yes, Billy gave them Hell, all of them. Steve might’ve been threatened a few times, Eddie was cursed to Hell and back, Max and Lucas didn’t get a single break, but… It was—oddly endearing.

Yes, according to Max Billy was a mess. And judging by her voice she didn’t mind. At least her idiot brother cared for her, like really cared for her, and was much less of an asshole than he used to be.

And surprisingly Billy was able to keep his focus on the mission ahead – finding that gate Dustin theorized about, getting out of the Upside Down, taking down Vecna…

That is, until she ran into Jason at War Zone… Until the jock decided to mess with the shotgun she wanted to buy… Until Billy appeared behind her and without a single word slammed his stupid face into the counter…

●●●

『••✎••』

The first thing you notice is the noise.

Juke Box Hero is blasting so loud the car doors rattle with it, bass thudding through the seat and into your ribs like a second heartbeat. The second thing is the smell: cheap pine tree air freshener battling with stale cigarette smoke and something else, something sharp and metallic that you think is just… him. Billy Hargrove.

You’re staring at your hands, clenched so tight in your lap that your knuckles are white. Your jean jacket feels scratchy against your skin, your t-shirt suddenly too thin. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to get out, to throw the door open and roll onto the pavement, but you’re doing at least fifty down Maple Street, and that seems like a poor life choice.

"You gonna hyperventilate all over my passenger seat?"

His voice cuts through the guitar solo, low and rough. You flinch, a full-body jerk you couldn’t stop if you tried. You risk a glance at him. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other propped on the windowsill, tapping a cigarette against the door frame. He’s not looking at you. His profile is sharp in the dashboard lights, the curve of his jaw, the way a stray curl of blond hair falls against his forehead. He’s wearing that worn denim jacket over a black t-shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the wiry strength in his forearms.

"N-No," you manage to get out, the word barely audible over the music. You clear your throat. "I’m fine."

He scoffs, a quiet, humorless sound. He finally turns his head, just for a second, and his blue eyes catch the light. They’re not angry, which is somehow worse. They’re just… assessing. Cataloguing. Like you’re a bug he’s thinking about crushing.

"Right."

That’s it. He looks away, back at the road. The silence, other than the rock music, stretches. It’s thicker and heavier than any quiet you’ve ever experienced with Steve. With your brother, silence was comfortable. It was a shared space, filled with unspoken things. This silence with Billy Hargrove is a void. It’s a void where you’re pretty sure you’re about to fall in and disappear.

You hate that you’re in his car, not that you had much choice. When Billy Hargrove pulls you away from the wall you were using as a lifeline at the party Steve had warned you to never go to, you hadn’t exactly been in a position to argue. The guy who'd been cornering you had looked like a predator, and Billy… Billy had just looked bored. But he’d looked at you, a flicker of something in his eyes you couldn't read, before he’d stepped between you and the other guy. "She's with me," he'd said, his voice leaving no room for argument. And then he'd grabbed your wrist, not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that you knew it wasn't a request, and led you out to this monstrosity of a car.

He flicks the cigarette out the window, a brief orange comet in the dark. He reaches forward and turns the volume down, just a notch. Not enough for conversation, but enough that you can hear yourself think again. It feels like a concession, and you have no idea what to do with it.

"Which way to King Steve’s castle?" he asks, and the nickname is laced with that same familiar venom you’ve seen him aim at your brother a hundred times.

You swallow, your throat suddenly tight. "Left on Jefferson. Then… It’s the big house on the corner. The one with the stupid birdbath."

A small, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips. "Stupid birdbath. Got it." He takes the left a little too fast, and you’re pressed against the door. You don’t make a sound. You just brace yourself, your fingernails digging into the worn vinyl of the seat.

You can’t help it. Your mind replays every interaction you’ve ever witnessed between him and Steve. The shove in the hallway. The sneering comments at basketball practice. The way Billy looks at him with a kind of focused, predatory glee, like a wolf that’s picked the weakest-looking sheep from the flock. And yet, here you are. Steve’s little sister, in his car. A contradiction that makes your head throb.

You risk another look at him. The streetlights paint stripes across his face as you drive. There’s a tension in the set of his shoulders, a rigid line to his spine. He’s driving like he has somewhere better to be, but he’s the one who offered. He’s the one who pulled you away from that creep at the party. Why? The question hangs in the air, unanswered and unanswerable. You’re not stupid enough to ask it.

"It’s… It’s just up here," you murmur, pointing a shaky finger toward the familiar silhouette of your house. The lights are on in the living room, a warm, welcoming glow that feels like it belongs to a different planet.

He slows down, the engine of the Camaro rumbling ominously as he coasts to a stop a few houses down. He doesn’t pull into the driveway. He just idles at the curb. The silence now is absolute, the radio turned down to a low hum.

You fumble with the door handle, your hands shaky. "Thanks. For the ride. And… you know." The and you know hangs there, a clumsy offering of gratitude for whatever it was he did back at that house. You still don’t have a word for it.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks straight ahead, at the illuminated window of your house. "Your brother know you’re out playing dress-up with the Hawkins High rabble?"

His tone is flat, back to that dismissive, acidic edge. It’s almost a relief. This you understand. This is the Billy Hargrove you watch from a distance, the one who makes Steve’s jaw clench and his hands fist at his sides.

"I’m fifteen," you say, a little more heat in your voice than you intended. "I don’t need his permission."

Billy finally turns to look at you, and the intensity of it pins you to the seat. In the dim light, his eyes are like chips of ice. "Fifteen," he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue like it’s a joke. He leans over, not close enough to touch, but close enough that the smell of him—smoke and something warm and spicy—invades your space. He braces one arm on the back of your seat, boxing you in. "You know what guys like that—the one I pulled you off of—do to fifteen-year-old girls who play dress-up?"

Your breath hitches. You can’t look away from him. The air in the car feels thick, charged with something you can’t name. You shake your head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

"Call yourself lucky I was bored tonight," he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur that’s more terrifying than any shout. He’s so close you can see the faint stubble on his chin, the way a vein pulses in his neck.

Then, just as quickly, he pulls back. The spell breaks. He slumps back into his own seat, the casual indifference snapping back into place like a rubber band. He turns the music back up, Foreigner wailing through the speakers once more.

"Get out," he says, staring at the steering wheel.

You don’t need to be told twice. You practically fall out of the car with how eager your trembling body is to escape. You almost trip on the curb, your sneakers scraping against the pavement. Before you can reach the passenger door and slam it shut, you risk one final glance over your shoulder. He’s already watching you, not in that predatory way from before, but with something that looks almost like… expectation.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice barely audible over the music. You freeze, your hand on the cool metal of the car door.

He doesn't look at you. He just reaches into the glove box, and for a terrifying second, you think he's going for a gun. But instead, he pulls out a slightly crumpled pack of Marlboros and taps one out. He sticks it in the corner of his mouth, but doesn't light it.

"Don’t let me see you at a party like that again," he says, the words muffled by the unlit cigarette.

You have no idea how to respond. Are you being warned? Threatened? Saved? All three at once? You just nod, a jerky, uncoordinated motion. You suspect any word you try to form will just die in your throat.

He gives a short, sharp nod back, a dismissal. That's it. The conversation is over. You turn and walk away, not looking back again. You can feel the Camaro's engine rumble as he revs it once, a final, aggressive roar that seems to echo in your bones. Then the tires squeal as he peels away from the curb, leaving a cloud of acrid smoke and the fading sound of rock and roll.

You stand there on the sidewalk, in the space where he just was, and you can still feel the thrum of the bass in the soles of your feet. You watch his red taillights disappear around the corner, a final streak of color in the otherwise dark, quiet street.

Your legs feel like jelly as you make your way to the front door. You fumble with your keys, your fingers refusing to cooperate. When you finally push the door open, the warm, familiar smell of your house hits you—the clean, simple smell of home you didn’t realize you missed. It feels like stepping into another world.

Steve is in the living room, sacked out on the couch. The TV is on, some late-night movie playing silently, the screen flashing blue and white light across his face. He's half-asleep, head lolling to the side, but he stirs when he hears the door.

He squints at you, one eye still mostly closed. "Hey. Where'd you sneak off to?"

Your brain goes blank. You can't exactly say, Oh, you know, just got a terrifying, tension-filled ride home from your mortal enemy after he threatened some sleazeball at a party I wasn't supposed to be at. That's a conversation you're not equipped to have. Ever.

"Just... learning a lesson in humility, I think," you finally say, the words coming out in a rush.

He snorts, pushing himself up to a sitting position, scrubbing a hand over his face. "God, you sound like Mom. You get stuck talking to Mr. Clicks?"

Mr. Clicks was the history teacher with the prosthetic hand. A fate worse than detention.

"Yeah," you lie, the lie feeling smooth and easy. "After-school special in the making."

Steve seems to accept this. He's sleepy, and the world is simple for him right now. He flops back down. "Well, you're home. He can’t force you to write an essay about the Teapot Dome Scandal from here. Night."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Night, Steve."

You turn and head for the stairs, your feet silent on the plush carpet. But as you put your foot on the first step, Steve's voice, clear and sharp this time, cuts through the quiet.

"Hey."

You freeze, your hand tightening on the polished wood banister.

"What's that smell?"

Your heart drops into your stomach. Pine. Smoke. Something else.

"Smell?" you ask, trying for innocent and probably landing somewhere near 'caught with my hand in the cookie jar.'

"Yeah. Smells like... a forest fire in a cheap bar."

You force yourself to turn around, to face him. He's sitting up again, fully awake now, his brow furrowed. He's looking at you, really looking at you, and you feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"I passed some guys smoking," you say, another lie, another brick in the wall you're frantically building between you and him. "The wind must've blown it my way."

Steve squints at you, but he seems to let it go. He's too tired to connect the dots that are screaming at you. The dots that spell H-A-R-G-R-O-V-E. But you know. And the knowing is a heavy, cold thing in your gut.

"Okay. Well. Go wash it off. It's gross."

You nod, mutely, and flee up the stairs. In the bathroom, you lock the door and lean against it, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You look in the mirror, and it’s at least half a minute before you recognize the person staring back at you.

Your hair is a mess. Your eyes are wide, a little wild. And when you lift the collar of your t-shirt to your nose, you smell it. The pine tree, the stale smoke, and that other thing, the sharp, clean scent of Billy Hargrove’s cologne, clinging to you like a ghost. You feel a dizzying sense of unreality, like you've been to another planet and brought back an alien artifact.

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

Chapter 9: Too Close to Call It Nothing

Chapter 10: Part One

The rest of the day drags.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just slowly enough to make every hour feel deliberate.

Like time itself has decided to punish you personally.

You spent the rest of history pretending to take notes while being painfully aware of the empty space beside you.

It shouldn’t matter.

It’s just a desk.

Just a few feet of distance.

And yet your eyes kept drifting toward the other side of the room anyway.

Toward him.

Billy barely looked at you the entire class.

And it twisted a knife deep in your chest. 

Not because Billy was being cruel.

Because he wasn’t. 

That’s the problem.

There’s no anger in it.

No sharpness.

No performance.

Just distance.

Careful, deliberate distance.

Like he’s trying very hard to give you exactly what you asked for.

People continue to whisper behind you throughout class changes. 

You hear your name twice.

His four.

Then muffled laughter.

Your stomach twists.

By last period, the rumors have mutated.

That’s how Hawkins works.

Something happens once and suddenly everyone’s an expert on it.

A girl in trig whispers, “I heard she dumped him.”

Someone else, “No, he dumped her.”

Another, “They were actually dating?”

You keep your face neutral through all of it.

Or at least you try to.

But every comment feels like someone pressing against a bruise.

Because none of them should matter.

None of them should get under your skin like this.

And yet, the idea of people thinking Billy’s done with you makes something low in your chest ache in a way you absolutely do not want to examine too closely.

Because truthfully, you’re not scared of people talking.

You’re scared they might be right.

The final bell eventually rings, shrill and echoing through the halls.

Your stomach drops instantly.

This is it.

You suddenly feel nauseous.

Students flood into the hallway around you, loud and restless in that end-of-day way that always feels slightly chaotic. Lockers slam. Sneakers squeak against tile. Somebody shouts across the hall about basketball practice.

You move slower than everyone else.

Deliberately.

Like maybe if you take long enough, the decision will get made for you somehow.

It doesn’t.

The walk to the nurse’s office feels longer than usual.

Every step gives your brain another opportunity to spiral.

He’s not coming.

No, he probably will.

But what if he doesn’t?

What if he does and says he’s done?

What if—

Stop.

You push open the nurse’s office door.

The familiar scent of antiseptic and stale coffee hits immediately.

Mrs. Carter looks up immediately from her desk. And the moment she sees your face, her expression softens.

“You talked to him?”

You shake your head once, setting your bag down carefully beside the chair near the wall.

“I asked him to meet me here after school.”

Mrs. Carter studies you for half a second longer than necessary.

“And?”

You swallow.

“He didn’t answer.”

That earns a quiet little, “Oh.”

Not mocking.

Just sympathetic enough to make your chest hurt worse.

Mrs. Carter glances toward the clock on the wall.

Then back at you.

“Well,” she says gently, “I guess we’ll find out.”

You nod once.

Sit down.

And wait.

The office slowly empties as the school quiets around you.

The distant noise of students leaving fades little by little until the halls feel strangely hollow.

Every time footsteps pass the door, your chest tightens.

Every time they keep going, it sinks again.

Five minutes pass.

Then ten.

Your knee starts bouncing before you realize it.

Mrs. Carter notices, but chooses not to say anything.

Which somehow makes it worse.

You stare at the clock again.

He’s not coming.

Of course he’s not coming.

Why would he?

You told him it was a mistake.

You shoved him away.

You made him feel stupid for caring.

Your chest twists painfully.

God.

You really ruined this.

You exhale shakily, standing before you can think too hard about it.

“I should probably just—”

The nurse’s office door swings open.

Your breath catches instantly.

Billy steps inside.

And the relief that hits you is so sudden and overwhelming it almost makes your knees weak.

Billy pauses just inside the doorway.

The late afternoon light from the hallway catches around him for a second before the door swings shut behind him with a soft click.

Your pulse hasn’t settled from the relief yet.

It’s still hitting you in waves.

He came.

Billy’s eyes flick toward Mrs. Carter first.

Polite.

Guarded.

“Mrs. Carter.”

“Well,” she says lightly, looking between the two of you with entirely too much awareness. “Look at that.”

Heat crawls immediately up your neck.

“Can we—?” you start awkwardly, glancing toward the back room.

Mrs. Carter waves a hand immediately. “By all means. I suddenly remembered I have paperwork literally anywhere else.”

You make a strangled sound somewhere between embarrassment and gratitude.

Billy huffs a quiet breath through his nose that might almost be amusement.

Almost.

Mrs. Carter disappears through the back door a second later, leaving the office painfully quiet.

and suddenly—

It’s just you and him again.

The silence stretches immediately.

Not hostile.

Not easy either.

Billy breaks first.

“Can you make this quick?” he asks, voice carefully neutral. “Max is waiting on me.”

The words hit harder than they should.

There’s no teasing in his voice.

No Bambi.

No softness wrapped around the edges.

And somehow that makes this feel infinitely more terrifying.

Your fingers twist together instinctively.

You had speeches prepared earlier.

Half-formed sentences.

Plans.

Now your mind is completely blank.

Billy notices immediately.

Of course he does.

His expression softens just slightly around the edges.

“Bambi.”

Your breath catches instantly.

The nickname lands deep in your chest, sharp enough to hurt.

Because it’s the first time he’s called you that all day.

The first time since yesterday.

And hearing it again after hours of distance and silence feels dangerously close to relief.

Like something inside you unclenching without permission.

Billy seems to realize he said it too.

His jaw tightens faintly afterward, like the word slipped out before he could stop it.

But he doesn’t take it back.

Your throat tightens painfully.

“I didn’t mean it,” you blurt out.

Billy stills instantly.

You exhale shakily, pushing forward before you lose your nerve.

“What I said yesterday. In the parking lot.” Your fingers tighten together harder. “About it being a mistake.”

Billy watches you quietly.

Unreadable.

You force yourself to keep going.

“I panicked.”

The words feel too small for something that’s been sitting this heavily in your chest for almost twenty-four hours.

“You panicked,” Billy repeats slowly.

You nod once.

“Yeah.”

A heavy silence settles briefly between you.

Billy’s expression stays careful.

Guarded enough that it hurts to look at.

You swallow hard.

“I know that sounds stupid,” you admit quietly. “Because it’s just a kiss and normal people don’t completely spiral over stuff like that, but—”

Your voice catches slightly.

You force yourself to keep going anyway.

“I panicked because it stopped feeling casual.”

Billy stills again.

Your pulse stumbles hard in your chest.

Because there it is.

The truth.

“I kept telling myself none of this was serious,” you continue, voice quieter now. “That you were flirting because it was fun. That I could keep pretending it didn’t actually matter.”

Your fingers tighten together harder.

“But then you kissed me and—”

You stop briefly, exhaling shakily through your nose.

“And it mattered.”

The room feels painfully quiet.

You can hear the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

The faint tick of the clock on the wall.

Billy doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t look away either.

So you keep going.

“I saw your face after,” you admit softly. “I realized you actually cared and it scared the hell out of me because suddenly I cared too.”

Billy’s jaw shifts slightly.

You can practically see the moment the words land.

“I didn’t know what to do with that,” you whisper. “So I said the worst thing I could think of to make everything feel less real.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“But it wasn’t a mistake.”

That hangs there between you.

Bare.

Honest.

Terrifying.

And for the first time all day, something in Billy’s expression finally cracks.

“You really had me thinking you regretted it.”

There it is.

The wound.

It lands cleanly.

No defensiveness.

No sarcasm.

Just the truth.

Your chest aches immediately.

“I know,” you say softly.

Billy laughs once under his breath.

Not because anything’s funny.

More like he doesn’t know what else to do with the feeling.

“You kinda crushed me there for a second, Bambi.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Because he says it lightly.

Too lightly.

Like he’s trying to make it easier for you.

Like he’s still being careful with your feelings even after yesterday.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Billy finally looks back at you fully.

And something in your expression must give you away because the guardedness in his face shifts immediately.

Softens.

Just a little.

Enough to see past the armor again.

“I didn’t regret it,” you admit quietly.

The words settle between you.

Real.

Terrifying.

Billy goes very still.

Not frozen.

Focused.

Like every part of his attention just locked onto you at once.

You force yourself not to look away this time.

“I think that’s what scared me,” you say softly.

Billy watches you like he’s afraid to interrupt.

Like one wrong move might make you retreat again.

“You became important to me before I realized it was happening.”

Billy’s expression shifts immediately.

Small.

But unmistakable.

You swallow hard and keep going anyway.

“You pulling away today…” You laugh weakly, shaking your head once. “I didn’t think it would bother me that much.”

Something flickers across his face at that.

Small.

Hopeful.

Painfully so.

You step a little closer before you can overthink it.

“I missed you,” you admit.

And that finally breaks him open.

His shoulders loosen slightly. The tension in his jaw eases for the first time since he walked in.

“You missed me,” he repeats quietly.

You nod once, feeling embarrassingly vulnerable now.

“Yes.”

Billy looks at you for another long second.

Then drags a hand over his face with a quiet exhale like he’s trying to recover from something.

“You have any idea what you do to me?” he mutters.

The words hit low in your stomach immediately.

Because he sounds wrecked.

Not smooth.

Not cocky.

Just honest enough to make your chest hurt.

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you.

Watery.

Relieved.

Billy’s eyes flick back to yours immediately at the sound.

And there it is again—

that look.

The one from the library.

Only this time you don’t run from it.

You don’t panic.

You just let him look at you.

He watches you openly now. Careful. Hopeful in a way that feels almost dangerous.

Like he’s waiting to see if you’re going to pull away again.

You don’t.

For once—

you don’t.

The realization settles quietly somewhere deep in your chest.

Not fear.

Not panic.

Just certainty.

Small.

Fragile.

Real.

Your eyes flick briefly toward the floor before finding him again.

“I really hated today,” you admit softly.

Billy lets out a quiet breath through his nose, something almost amused flickering there. “Yeah, me too.”

You smile a little at that.

Tiny.

But real enough that his expression shifts immediately the second he sees it.

God.

You’re starting to understand just how much power you apparently have over this boy.

That realization should probably terrify you more than it does.

Billy takes a small step closer.

Slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to.

You don’t.

“I didn’t like ignoring you today,” he says quietly.

Your chest tightens. 

Billy glances away briefly, jaw shifting like he’s annoyed with himself for admitting it at all.

“And I definitely didn’t like sitting across the room from you.”

That earns a soft laugh from you before you can stop it.

Billy’s mouth twitches slightly at the sound.

“But,” he adds, voice gentler now, “you walking over to me today?”

Your stomach flips instantly.

“You noticed that, huh?”

“Bambi.” He looks genuinely offended for half a second. “Half the school noticed that.”

You groan softly, dragging a hand over your face.

“Oh my God.”

Billy laughs quietly this time.

Actually laughs.

The sound loosens something in your chest completely.

Because there he is.

The version of him you’ve missed all day.

The version you were terrified you’d lost.

Your eyes linger on him for a second too long again.

Billy notices.

Of course he does.

But this time, instead of spiraling, instead of panicking, you let him.

Something softer settles into his expression immediately.

Like that alone means something to him.

“C’mere,” he says quietly.

Your heart stutters.

Not because of the words.

Because of how gentle they are.

You hesitate anyway.

Old instincts.

Old fear.

Billy sees that too.

And instead of pushing—

he waits.

Patient.

Open.

Giving you room to decide.

That affects you more than all the flirting ever did.

Not the teasing.

Not the smirking.

Not even the kiss.

This.

The way he keeps placing the choice in your hands.

The way he keeps letting you walk toward him instead of dragging you there.

Your chest tightens painfully around the realization.

Then you cross the remaining distance between you.

Billy’s hands settle carefully at your waist like he’s still not entirely convinced you won’t change your mind.

You can feel the hesitation in him.

That hurts a little too.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again.

Billy’s gaze searches yours for a long second.

Then he shakes his head slightly.

“You don’t gotta keep apologizing.”

“I kinda do.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Maybe a little.”

You laugh softly, the sound muffled immediately by the way he pulls you just slightly closer.

Not enough to overwhelm.

Just enough to feel.

Warmth blooms low in your chest.

Steady this time.

Not frantic.

Not terrifying.

Just there.

Billy studies your face for another second before speaking again.

“So,” he says carefully, “where does that leave us?”

The question hangs between you.

And strangely—

it doesn’t scare you the way it would’ve yesterday.

You glance down briefly, suddenly aware of how close you are. His hands resting against your waist. Your fingers curled lightly against the front of his jacket without realizing it.

The fact that you’re standing here at all.

Then you look back up at him.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit honestly.

Billy’s expression stays soft.

Waiting.

“But,” you continue, your pulse jumping slightly, “I know I don’t want you sitting on the other side of the classroom anymore.”

Something in his face breaks open then.

Relief.

Real relief.

And it hits you all over again that he wanted this too.

Wanted you.

Billy dips his head slightly, forehead almost brushing yours now.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips again.

Hopeless.

You smile despite yourself.

And Billy Hargrove looks at you like that smile might actually ruin him.

The nurse’s office door suddenly swings open.

You jump apart so fast your hip nearly catches the edge of the desk.

Mrs. Carter stops short in the doorway.

A beat passes.

“Well,” she says finally, entirely too calm, “this seems significantly less emotionally catastrophic than earlier.”

Heat floods your entire body instantly.

“Oh my God,” you mumble.

Beside you, Billy coughs once into his fist, very obviously hiding a laugh.

Traitor.

Mrs. Carter sets a folder down onto the counter, looking far too pleased with herself.

“I assume we’ve stopped self-sabotaging?”

You stare very hard at the floor.

Billy, apparently having absolutely no survival instincts whatsoever, answers, “Seems like it.”

You make a strangled sound.

Mrs. Carter smiles serenely. 

“Wonderful. Then please take your teenage emotional turmoil somewhere else. I’d like to go home.”

Billy’s shoulders shake slightly beside you.

You glare at him weakly.

He grins.

There he is.

Warmth blooms instantly in your chest at the sight of it.

Mrs. Carter waves a dismissive hand toward the door. “Out. Both of you.”

You move toward the exit together, still warm with embarrassment.

Still too aware of him beside you.

At the doorway, Billy reaches for the handle before you can.

Automatically.

Your chest tightens softly at the gesture now instead of startling around it.

Funny how quickly something can become familiar.

Billy falls into step beside you as you head down the front steps of the school.

Close.

Easy.

Like the distance from earlier never happened at all.

And maybe it didn’t.

Not really.

The parking lot glows gold under the fading evening light, rainwater still caught in shallow cracks in the asphalt. Halfway across the lot, his hand brushes yours.

Tentative.

The movement is almost cautious.

You glance sideways.

Billy keeps his gaze forward, but there’s something careful about the gesture. Like he’s still asking.

Still making sure.

Your heart melts a little.

So this time—

you’re the one who closes the distance.

Your fingers slip between his.

Billy goes completely still beside you.

Then he looks at you.

And the expression on his face—

Soft.

Stunned.

Hopeful enough to hurt.

Like he still can’t quite believe you’re choosing him back.

You feel yourself smile before you can stop it.

Billy shakes his head once like he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with you.

Then his fingers tighten around yours.

And together, you keep walking.

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

Chapter 9: Too Close to Call It Nothing

Chapter 10: Part Two

Billy doesn’t look at you. 

Not once.

It’s the first thing you notice as you walk through the parking lot. 

It shouldn’t feel strange.

A few weeks ago, it wouldn’t have.

But now—

Now it lands like something physical.

Nancy notices it too. You can tell by the way her eyes flick between the two of you.

The morning air is cool and damp from last night’s rain, the asphalt still dark in uneven patches beneath everyone’s tires. Students drift toward the building in loud clusters, jean jackets damp at the shoulders, sneakers squeaking against wet pavement. Somewhere nearby, a car stereo blasts tinny synth-pop before someone slams the door hard enough to cut it off.

Usually, Billy’s impossible to miss.

Too loud. Too confident. Too present.

Even when he’s pretending not to pay attention to you, you can feel him there somewhere — leaning against the Camaro, your locker, the cafeteria table — tracking your movements beneath half-lowered lashes, smirking whenever you inevitably get flustered.

But today…

Absolutely nothing.

Like you don’t even exist at all.

The Camaro’s there. Right in its usual spot.

Billy’s there too, leaning near the hood while Tommy H. talks at him about something neither of them seem particularly invested in.

But Billy doesn’t look up when you walk by his line of sight.

Doesn’t track your movement.

Doesn’t straighten slightly the way he always does when you come into view.

Nothing.

And somehow that feels worse than if he’d glared.

Nancy goes quiet beside you.

You hate that she can tell immediately that something is wrong.

You hate even more that part of you is almost glad she does — wanted her to, even.

“Did you two have another fight?” she asks carefully

Too carefully.

Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag. “No.” 

The answer comes too fast.

Too defensive.

Nancy hears it immediately.

You do too.

You hate how obvious this is.

“Why would you say that?” you ask her.

Nancy glances at you.

“Well,” she says cautiously, “you look like you didn’t sleep at all, and Billy looks like he’s actively pretending you don’t exist, so—”

“He’s not pretending I don’t exist.”

Nancy gives you a look.

You hear how pathetic that sounded approximately two seconds too late.

Heat crawls up your neck immediately.

“I mean— we just…” You shake your head quickly. “It’s not a big deal.”

Nancy studies you for another second.

You can feel the exact moment she decides whether or not to push.

Unfortunately for you, she pushes.

“What happened?”

You look away immediately. “Nothing happened.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nancy.”

“What happened?”

Your jaw tightens.

Because, embarrassingly, you actually want to tell someone. Want to tell Nancy all the horrid details of yesterday’s events. The memory of it has been sitting under your skin all night long, restless, and sharp, and impossible to settle around.

You barely slept.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Billy leaning across the table. Saw him hesitating. Saw him kissing you like he meant it.

Then you saw his face after you called it a mistake.

Your throat tightens painfully.

Nancy notices.

Her expression softens immediately.

“Oh my God,” she says quietly. “You kissed him.”

Your eyes widen. “Keep your voice down!”

Nancy looks genuinely scandalized. “You absolutely kissed him.”

“It wasn’t—”

“You kissed Billy Hargrove?”

You glance instinctively across the parking lot.

Billy’s still standing beside the Camaro.

Tommy says something.

Billy nods once without really reacting.

He still hasn’t looked at you.

Your stomach twists harder.

Nancy catches the look. Then turns back at you slowly.

“…And something went horribly wrong afterward.”

You groan softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Can we not do this right now?”

“No, absolutely not,” she says immediately. “You have been losing your mind over that boy for weeks. You don’t get to suddenly drop ‘we kissed’ into conversation and then act like that’s normal.”

Your face burns hotter.

“We did not—” you lower your voice further, “—we did not kiss.”

Nancy stares at you.

Then deadpans, “So he tripped and fell directly onto your mouth?”

Despite everything, a startled laugh almost escapes you.

Then the weight of yesterday settles back over you all at once.

Heavy.

Immediate.

Nancy watches it happen in real time.

The amusement fades from her expression.

“What happened?” she asks again, quieter this time.

And somehow that version of the question is worse.

Because there’s no teasing in it anymore.

Just concern.

You swallow hard.

“We were at the library,” you admit finally. “Working on the project and…”

Your voice trails off.

Nancy waits patiently.

You stare down at the wet pavement instead of at her.

“He kissed me,” you say softly.

Even now, saying it out loud makes your pulse jump.

Nancy goes very still beside you.

“And?” she asks carefully.

You close your eyes briefly.

“And I kissed him back.”

The words leave you in a rush, fast and uneven, like ripping off a bandage before you can lose your nerve.

Nancy exhales slowly through her nose.

“Oh boy.”

You immediately fold your arms tighter across your chest.

“It just… happened.”

“Okay.”

“And then I left.”

Nancy blinks. “You left?”

“I panicked.”

“You panicked after kissing Billy Hargrove?”

“I know that sounds stupid—”

“No,” Nancy says quickly. “No, actually, that sounds extremely on brand for you.”

You glare at her weakly.

She ignores it.

“What happened after that?”

Your chest tightens instantly.

Because now you’re getting to the part you don’t want to say out loud.

The part that keeps replaying in your head since yesterday afternoon in awful, perfect detail.

Billy’s face.

Billy pulling back.

Billy going quiet.

You stare at the parking lot for a second too long before answering.

“I told him it was a mistake.”

Nancy stops walking so abruptly you almost keep going without her. 

She stares at you in open disbelief. “You said what?”

You wince immediately. “I know.”

“No, seriously— why would you say that?”

Because it mattered too much.

Because he mattered too much.

Because the second he kissed you, it stopped feeling harmless.

Stopped feeling hypothetical.

Because the look on his face afterward felt real in a way you weren’t prepared for.

And that terrified you.

But trying to explain all of that out loud feels impossible somehow.

Too messy.

Too honest.

So instead, you shake your head helplessly.

“I didn’t know what to do.”

Nancy’s expression shifts slightly at that.

Less frustration.

More understanding.

Your throat tightens immediately.

Because now she gets it.

Not just what happened.

Why.

“This is what I was worried about,” she says quietly.

You frown slightly. “What?”

“Him getting too close to you.”

Your stomach twists painfully.

Because there’s no judgment in her voice now. Only concern.

“Nance—”

“I’m serious.” She folds her arms against the cold, denim jacket creasing at the elbows. “At first I thought it was harmless, okay? I thought he was flirting with you because you getting flustered was entertaining to him.”

Your face heats immediately because—

Yeah.

That’s exactly what you thought too.

“But then he kept showing up,” she continues.

That lands somewhere deep.

You stay quiet.

“And you started looking at him differently,” she continues carefully. “And then suddenly he was looking at you differently too.”

Your throat tightens again.

A group of freshmen passes nearby laughing too loudly, sneakers splashing through shallow rainwater near the curb. The sound feels strangely far away.

Nancy exhales softly through her nose before looking toward the parking lot again.

“I just didn’t want you getting hurt.”

The words settle heavily in your chest.

Because the awful part is—

you understand what she means now.

A few weeks ago, Billy Hargrove was just a complication. A distraction. Something reckless and temporary.

Now the thought of him pulling away feels like something physically missing.

Your throat tightens.

You look away quickly.

“And now he hates me,” you mutter.

Nancy snorts softly. “I seriously doubt Billy Hargrove hates you.”

You glance toward him again before you can stop yourself.

And this time — like the universe personally enjoys humiliating you — Billy looks over.

Your breath catches instantly.

For one horrible second, your eyes lock across the parking lot. 

His expression doesn’t change.

No smirk.

No warmth.

No teasing flicker of recognition.

Just cold indifference.

Careful in a way that feels infinitely worse than anger.

Then he looks away again.

Your chest drops so hard it almost hurts.

Beside you, Nancy sees the entire thing happen in real time.

“…Oh,” she says quietly.

The word landing heavier than it should.

And suddenly you wish you never told her anything at all. 

-*-

The rest of the morning only gets worse.

By second period, people started noticing.

Not because anyone actually knows what happened.

But because Hawkins High thrives on pattern recognition and gossip, and for the past couple of weeks, Billy Hargrove orbiting around you has apparently become part of the school’s daily landscape.

People noticed him waiting outside your classes.

Noticed him leaning against your locker like he belonged there.

Noticed the way he started sitting beside you in history instead of across the room.

Noticed you getting into his Camaro after school while half the parking lot pretended not to stare.

You hadn’t realized how visible it all became until now — when suddenly it’s gone.

And apparently people are very invested in that.

You hear your name whispered at least twice between classes.

Once followed by, “Maybe she finally got sick of him.”

Then, “No way. He’s totally the one ignoring her.”

A sophomore girl near the drinking fountain actually says, “I give it a week before he’s flirting with somebody else.”

Your stomach twists so sharply you nearly miss a step.

You walk faster immediately, adjusting your bag higher on your shoulder like that’ll somehow make you less visible.

Heat crawls up your neck.

God.

You hadn’t even considered that people were paying attention.

But now that you know, you can’t stop seeing it.

The looks.

The whispers.

The way people glance between you and Billy whenever you end up in the same hallway.

And the worst part?

Billy never looks back.

Not once.

By lunch, your appetite is completely gone.

The cafeteria smells like burnt pizza and grease, loud with overlapping conversations and the constant crack of lunch trays slamming onto tables.

“Where’s Jonathan?” you ask Nancy, taking in the empty seat beside her.

“He’s helping the yearbook club develop film,” she says absently. “Apparently they almost set the darkroom on fire.”

Normally that would make you laugh.

Today you just nod distractedly, pushing fries around your tray without actually eating them. Nancy watches you over the top of her soda can with increasing concern.

Your eyes flick across the cafeteria to Billy’s usual spot — the table near the windows — his shoulders slouched back in his chair while Tommy talks animatedly beside him.

Your stomach twists.

“You need to stop looking at him every thirty seconds,” she mutters quietly.

“I’m not.”

Your eyes bounce back over before you can stop them.

“You literally just did it again.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “I did not.”

Nancy just stares.

“You’re doing it right now.”

Heat creeps up your neck as you drop your gaze to your tray.

Across the cafeteria, Tommy says something that makes half the table laugh loudly enough to turn heads.

Billy doesn’t.

He’s slouched back in his chair with one elbow hooked against the table, spinning a set of keys loosely around one finger.

Detached.

Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

And maybe he is.

The shadows under his eyes are darker today. His split lip still faintly visible every time he shifts his jaw.

He looks tired.

Not angry.

Not smug.

Not victorious.

Just tired.

Something guilty twists low in your stomach.

Because yesterday, part of you expected him to push back harder.

Expected teasing. Arrogance. Defensiveness.

Not this.

Not him quietly pulling away like you actually managed to hurt him.

Nancy notices your expression immediately.

Her face softens despite herself.

“Do you regret kissing him?”

The question lands directly in your chest.

You open your mouth automatically.

Nothing comes out.

Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You don’t.

You regret panicking. Regret what you said after. Regret the look on his face when he stopped trying to explain himself.

But the kiss itself—

Heat rushes into your cheeks immediately at the memory.

Billy leaning toward you slowly, giving you time to stop him. The hesitation in him. The way he kissed you like he actually cared whether you wanted him there or not.

No.

You definitely don’t regret that.

Nancy watches the realization happen across your face in real time.

And suddenly she looks almost sympathetic.

Which somehow makes this worse.

“Oh,” she says softly.

You stare down at your untouched lunch tray.

“I really thought he was messing with me,” you admit quietly.

Nancy doesn’t answer immediately.

Because the thing neither of you wants to say out loud is that he wasn’t.

A heavy silence settles between you.

Across the cafeteria, Billy finally laughs at something Tommy says.

The sound hits you instantly.

Your eyes lift before you can stop them.

And for the first time all day, Billy glances in your direction too.

Not lingering.

Not soft.

Just enough to catch your gaze for half a second before looking away again.

Your chest aches immediately afterward.

Like something physically pulling tight beneath your ribs.

Nancy notices that too.

“Well,” she says with a quiet sigh, leaning back in her chair, “you’re gonna have to talk to him.”

Your stomach immediately flips.

“I know.”

“And preferably before one of you dies from unresolved sexual tension.”

“Nancy!”

She shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Am I wrong?”

Unfortunately, no.

Not even a little.

-*-

By the time your shift in the nurse’s office starts, your nerves feel scraped raw.

The hallway outside is quieter now — most students already settled into fifth period.The occasional locker slams somewhere in the distance, sharp enough to make you flinch anyway. Fluorescent lights buzz steadily overhead, mixing with the faint smell of antiseptic and stale coffee that permanently clings to the office.

You hate this feeling.

The waiting.

The thinking.

The constant awareness of Billy somewhere else in the building.

Not beside you.

Not looking for you.

Mrs. Carter notices something is wrong almost immediately.

Of course she does.

“You look pale,” she says the second you step behind the counter. “Again.”

You blink, caught slightly off guard.

“I’m fine.”

Mrs. Carter gives you a look over the rim of her glasses that very clearly says:  you are absolutely not fine.

“You said that yesterday too,” she points out.

Right.

Yesterday.

Your stomach twists immediately.

You busy yourself setting down your bag, organizing papers that absolutely do not need organizing, straightening a stack of folders that are already perfectly aligned.

Mrs. Carter watches the entire performance quietly.

“Is this about that boy again?”

You freeze, slowly looking up. 

Mrs. Carter’s expression remains perfectly calm as she reaches for her coffee mug. “Billy, isn’t it?”

Your jaw nearly disconnects from your face.

“How do you—”

“Honey.” She takes a slow sip of coffee. “This is a high school.”

Right.

Fair.

Still—

Your face burns instantly. “People have been talking about us that much?”

Mrs. Carter gives you a dry look. “People in this school talk when somebody gets a new haircut.”

Mortifying.

Absolutely mortifying.

You turn away immediately, pretending to reorganize a tray of tongue depressors because at least they can’t judge you.

Behind you, Mrs. Carter sighs softly.

“For what it’s worth,” she says, gentler now, “I don’t think the rumors are mean-spirited.”

You stare very hard at the countertop.

“That doesn’t really help.”

A small huff of amusement leaves her.

“No,” she agrees. “I suppose it wouldn’t.”

Silence settles briefly between you.

Somewhere down the hall, a teacher raises their voice at somebody to stop running. The sound echoes faintly through the office before disappearing again.

You tell yourself not to say anything else.

You especially tell yourself not to ask questions.

Unfortunately, you’ve never been quite good at listening to yourself.

“You really noticed?”

The words leave before you can stop them.

Mrs. Carter glances up from the paperwork in front of her.

“The way you looked at each other?” she asks simply. “Yes.”

Your stomach drops.

Oh God.

You immediately busy yourself with absolutely nothing again, wiping down an already clean section of counter with entirely too much focus.

Because apparently every adult in Hawkins has been watching your emotional collapse unfold in real time.

Wonderful.

Mrs. Carter watches you for another second before speaking again.

“You know,” she says carefully, “for two people trying very hard to pretend nothing was happening…”

You look up despite yourself.

“…you weren’t exactly subtle.”

Your entire soul leaves your body.

“I need to move to another state.”

“What happened?”

And maybe it’s because you barely slept. 

Maybe it’s because Nancy already cracked you open earlier. 

Maybe it’s because the nurse’s office has quietly become one of the safest places in your life lately.

But this time, you answer.

“We kissed.”

Mrs. Carter goes still for exactly one second.

Then, “Hmm.”

Not shocked.

Not scandalized.

Just thoughtful.

Which somehow makes you want to crawl directly into the floor.

“And now he’s ignoring me,” you finish miserably.

Mrs. Carter hums softly under her breath like she’s piecing things together.

“And why is he ignoring you?”

You hesitate immediately.

Mrs. Carter notices that too.

“Oh no,” she says.

Your face burns hotter. “I panicked.”

“What did you say to him?”

You stare at the countertop.

“…That it was a mistake.”

Mrs. Carter closes her eyes briefly like she physically felt that sentence hit her in the chest.

“Oh, honey.”

You groan softly, covering your face with your hands. “I know.”

“No,” she says gently, sounding painfully similar to Nancy from this morning, “I don’t actually think you do.”

You peek at her through your fingers, already dreading whatever comes next.

“That boy looked at you like you hung the moon.”

Your head snaps up instantly.

“What?”

Mrs. Carter looks genuinely surprised by your surprise.

“You didn’t notice?”

Your brain fully stalls out.

Because—

what?

Billy?

Billy Hargrove looked at you like that?

Mrs. Carter leans back slightly against her desk, studying you with the calm patience of someone watching a teenager solve a math problem three steps too late.

“Billy comes in here all the time bruised half to death and barely lets me clean the cuts properly,” she says. “But you walk into the room and suddenly he’s sitting still.”

Heat floods your face instantly.

“Oh my God.”

“And when you touched his hands?” she continues calmly, like she isn’t actively dismantling your entire emotional stability piece by piece. “I thought the poor boy might stop breathing.”

You make a strangled sound of absolute horror.

Mrs. Carter laughs softly.

Not meanly. Just knowingly.

“You really didn’t see it.”

“No,” you say immediately. “No, because Billy flirts with everyone.”

“Yes,” she agrees easily. “But not everyone makes him nervous.”

That lands somewhere deep enough to hurt

Hard enough that you have to look away — eyes dropping instantly to the counter.

The room suddenly feels too warm.

Too small.

Too bright beneath the fluorescent lights overhead.

Mrs. Carter’s voice gentles slightly.

“You know,” she says, “sometimes boys like him get a reputation for being careless because it’s easier than letting people know they actually care about something.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

Because suddenly every moment from the past few weeks starts rearranging itself in your head.

Billy showing up outside your locker.

Billy sitting beside you in history.

Billy keeping the bandages on his hands.

Billy walking away from a fight in the hallway

Billy hesitating before kissing you.

Not because he was playing a game.

Because he was scared too.

Your chest aches sharply.

“Oh,” you whisper.

And this time the word feels like grief.

Mrs. Carter watches your expression carefully. “You should probably go talk to him.”

Your stomach immediately flips.

“I know,” you groan. Hearing the exact same advice from Mrs. Carter doesn’t make the thought any less terrifying. “What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”

Mrs. Carter smiles slightly over the rim of her coffee mug.

“Honey,” she says gently, “that boy has been walking around this school looking like a wounded animal all day.”

Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.

Because despite everything—

despite how hurt he looked this morning—

despite how badly you handled yesterday—

he still came to school devastated over you.

And suddenly the idea of doing nothing feels unbearable. 

-*-

Your stomach feels like it’s been tied in a knot by the time you get to history. 

You were supposed to leave the nurse’s office ten minutes ago.

Mrs. Carter eventually stopped pretending not to notice you reorganizing supplies for the third time and leaned against the counter with her arms crossed.

“Honey,” she said gently, “at some point you do actually have to face him.”

You laughed weakly at that.

Then didn’t move.

Mrs. Carter only gave you that look.

The soft one.

The one that somehow made hiding feel childish instead of safe.

So here you are. Standing outside Mrs. Langford’s classroom with your hand still curled around the strap of your bag, heart pounding hard enough to make you feel slightly nauseous.

You can do this.

Probably.

Maybe.

You exhale once through your nose and push open the classroom door.

The room is already half full. 

Voices overlap in uneven waves. Chairs scrape loudly against tile. Loose papers pass between desks while somebody near the windows laughs too hard at something that probably wasn’t funny enough to deserve it.

And as soon as you walk through the door, you feel the shift. It moves through the room almost instantly.

Conversations stutter to a halt.

Heads turn.

The subtle current that moves through a room when people think something interesting is about to happen.

Because apparently Hawkins High has collectively decided that whatever is happening between you and Billy Hargrove is public entertainment now.

Heat crawls up your neck at the realization that something this personal somehow stopped belonging only to you.

That people noticed.

Noticed Billy waiting for you.

Noticed the way you looked at him.

Noticed the way he looked at you.

And now they’re watching the fallout unfold in real time like it’s just another piece of hallway gossip to pass between classes.

The humiliation of that settles hot and heavy beneath your skin.

Because whatever this thing between you and Billy became—

it mattered.

And apparently everyone in Hawkins saw it before you were ready for them to.

You look to your desk, finding the seat behind you empty. 

Of course it is. You don’t know why you were expecting anything different. 

Still—

the sight of it hits harder than it should.

Because for the past couple of weeks, his desk has been beside yours. Close enough that you got used to hearing the scrape of his chair next to yours before class started. Close enough that you stopped thinking about the space between you. Close enough that his presence beside you had begun to feel normal.

Expected.

Now the empty space beside you feels glaring.

Wrong.

Your gaze drifts farther across the room until you find him. 

Third row from the back. Opposite side of the classroom.

Far away from you.

The sight of it hits harder than it should.

Billy’s slouched low in his chair, one knee stretched out beneath the desk, attention fixed somewhere vaguely toward the front of the room.

Not looking at you.

Not acknowledging you.

The distance between you feels deliberate now.

Sharp enough to cut on.

Like a line drawn straight through the middle of the classroom.

A few people glance between the two of you openly now, not even bothering to hide it anymore.

Tommy H. is sitting near Billy, leaning toward the guy beside him with a grin already forming like he can smell incoming drama from three rows away.

Billy doesn’t react.

Doesn’t join in.

Doesn’t look at Tommy.

Doesn’t look at you either.

And that feels worse than the fifteen pairs of eyes watching you. Because his are the only eyes in the room you actually care about.

You hover near the front of the room for half a second too long.

You could still walk away.

Go sit in your seat. Pretend none of this matters. Let the room settle. Let Billy keep pretending he doesn’t care either.

It would be easier.

Safer.

Your pulse pounds hard against your ribs.

Nancy’s voice echoes unpleasantly in your head: He kept showing up.

Followed immediately by Mrs. Carter’s: That boy looked at you like you hung the moon.

Your throat tightens painfully.

Because you believe them now.

You believe Billy cared.

You believe he was trying.

You believe you hurt him.

And that makes this infinitely more terrifying instead of less.

You should sit down. 

You should absolutely sit down and leave things alone.

Let the awkward silence settle and the unfinished feelings rot quietly until they eventually stop hurting so much.

And Billy would let you. Which is what hurts the most. 

He wouldn’t stop you.

Wouldn’t chase after you this time.

The realization twists painfully somewhere low in your stomach.

Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you start walking.

The room goes quieter with every step.

Not fully silent.

Just noticeably less loud.

Like everyone’s trying to hear without looking like they’re listening.

The squeak of your shoes against the tile suddenly sounds deafening.

Tommy’s grin widens instantly as he looks between the two of you. “Oh, this oughta be good.”

Billy shoots him a sharp look without even fully turning his head.

Tommy raises both hands in surrender, still looking thrilled by the possibility of incoming disaster.

You stop beside Billy’s desk.

And now that you’re actually here—

your courage threatens to abandon you completely.

Up close, he looks tired.

The shadows under his eyes are darker today. His jaw tight in that familiar way that tells you he’s holding something back hard enough to hurt.

Billy leans back slightly in his chair, clearly caught off guard despite himself. His brows pull together faintly, blue eyes tracking your movement like he’s not entirely convinced this is happening.

“Hi, Billy,” you say after a moment. 

His brows lift slightly, like he genuinely wasn’t expecting to hear you say his name after yesterday.

“Hey,” he replies carefully.

You notice immediately the missing Bambi. The missing teasing drawl that usually wraps around the nickname like it belongs to him.

Something small and painful twists low in your chest.

Because he always calls you Bambi.

Always.

And hearing him not say it somehow makes the distance between you feel even wider.

Your gaze flicks briefly at the desks around you.

Too many people.

Too many ears.

Too much pressure pressing in from every direction.

Billy notices your hesitation immediately.

Something in his expression shifts again.

Careful now.

Wary.

Like he’s bracing himself against whatever comes next.

“Can we talk after school?” you ask softly.

The words barely leave your mouth before half the room reacts.

A chorus of exaggerated “Ooooooh” erupts from somewhere behind you.

Someone whistles.

Tommy looks seconds away from levitating out of his chair from excitement.

Billy’s head snaps sideways instantly, glare sharp enough to cut glass.

The room quiets immediately.

Then his attention turns back to you.

And there it is again—

that guarded look.

Like he wants to believe this means something but doesn’t trust it yet.

“About what?” he asks.

Your stomach flips violently.

Because you know exactly what he’s doing.

Making you say it.

Making you be the one to reach this time.

And he deserves that.

You glance away briefly, suddenly hyperaware of every person pretending not to stare.

“You know what,” you mutter.

Billy’s jaw shifts slightly.

Not enough.

“Do I?”

You stare at him.

He stares right back.

Stubborn.

Hurt.

Waiting.

Your chest tightens painfully.

Because underneath the attitude, underneath the defensiveness—

he’s asking if you meant what you said yesterday.

If he imagined all of it.

If you’re about to hurt him again in front of an audience this time.

Before you can force yourself to answer, Mrs. Langford’s voice cuts across the room.

“If everyone’s done with their soap opera for the morning, I’d like to start class.”

Heat floods instantly into your face.

A few people snicker under their breath.

Tommy looks delighted beyond comprehension.

You ignore all of them, eyes snapping back toward Billy one last time.

“Please?” you say more quietly this time. “Meet me in the nurse’s office after school.”

Billy’s expression doesn’t change.

That somehow makes it worse.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Unreadable.

The room feels painfully quiet again despite all the noise around it.

Then Mrs. Langford clears her throat sharply.

You swallow hard.

Right.

Class.

You nod once like this conversation happened normally — like your heart isn’t currently trying to beat its way out of your chest — and force yourself to turn away.

Every step back to your desk feels wrong.

Too aware.

Too exposed.

You can feel people staring.

Whispering.

The entire classroom buzzing with the aftermath of something they don’t fully understand but are dying to dissect anyway.

But all you can think about is the fact that Billy never answered you.

And that terrifies you. 

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

Chapter 8: Bandages That Stayed

The final bell rings — loud and tinny — echoing down the halls like it’s bouncing off every locker at once. The entire school seems to exhale at once.

Lockers slam. Voices rise. Sneakers squeak against tile. The hallway floods with movement.

You take your time.

Not because you’re trying to.

Just… because you are.

Books stacked carefully. Papers aligned. Bag zipped slower than necessary.

Dragging it out.

Like if you move slow enough, you won’t have to think about what’s waiting outside.

About who’s waiting.

You tell yourself that’s not why.

It doesn’t make it less true.

By the time you step into the hallway, the worst of the chaos has thinned out. Students drift toward the parking lot in loose clusters, laughter rising and falling in waves.

Nancy finds you near your locker, knowing exactly where you’d be.

“Ready?” she asks.

You nod, adjusting your bag on your shoulder.

You fall into step beside her, pushing through the last of the crowd. The late afternoon air hits cooler than it was this morning, carrying that faint metallic smell of coming rain.

The sky over Hawkins has gone darker — clouds thick and low, pressing down like they’re waiting.

Neither of you says anything at first.

But you can feel it.

Nancy thinking.

Watching.

Waiting.

“So,” she says finally, casual in a way that’s not casual at all. “Are we going to talk about whatever that was this morning?”

You don’t look at her. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Right,” Nancy hums. “Because Billy Hargrove walking past three girls throwing themselves at him to follow you down the hallway is super normal.”

You huff a soft breath. “We have a project.”

Nancy hums a response, but you can tell that excuse has run its course. 

“It didn’t mean anything, Nance,” you add, a little sharper than you intended. “He apologized and we moved on. And I guess you can say we’re friends now.” 

Nancy’s brows lift slightly.

No argument. No pushback.

Just that look.

That thinking look — the one that means she’s already ten steps ahead of whatever you’re saying.

You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, suddenly restless.

The parking lot stretches out ahead of you — rows of cars, faded paint and chrome catching what little light breaks through the clouds. A few engines turn over, headlights flickering on early under the heavy sky.

You spot the Camaro immediately. 

Of course you do.

You didn’t even have to search for it.

It sits slightly apart from the others, angled just enough to stand out. Like it doesn’t belong to the same world as the rest of the lot. 

Billy’s leaning against it.

Same as always.

One boot crossed over the other, shoulders loose, like he’s been there long enough not to care who notices.

His head lifts the second you step into view.

Like he felt it.

Your gaze drops away just as quickly, stomach flipping in that same predictable, frustrating way.

Annoyingly consistent.

Nancy notices the interaction because of course she does. You feel her attention sharpen, taking in the shift, the timing, the way neither of you even pretends not to notice the other.

“Well,” she says lightly, “I guess it’s a good thing you two are friends.”

You grimace. “Don’t say it like that.” 

Billy straightens when you get closer.

Not fully.

Just enough that it’s noticeable. Enough that Nancy notices.

“Hey,” he says.

It’s directed at you.

Then his eyes flick to Nancy.

“Wheeler,” he nods.

“Hargrove.”

Nancy’s tone is even. Neutral in a way that very much isn’t.

Billy pushes off the car, hands sliding briefly into his jacket pockets as his gaze flicks between the two of you.

There’s a second.

A small, almost imperceptible second where he looks like he’s trying to figure out what the right move is.

“You heading out?” he asks Nancy, landing on something safe.

Casual.

Normal. 

Nancy studies at him for a second longer than necessary.

“Yeah,” she says. “I am.”

Another beat passes.

You can practically hear her thinking.

Weighing.

Deciding.

Then she looks at you.

Then back at him.

Then back at you again.

Slow.

Measured.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, but she doesn’t move right away.

She lingers just long enough to lean in slightly, her voice dropping just under the noise of the parking lot.

“Don’t let him drive like a maniac.”

You elbow her lightly. “Go.”

She smiles — sharp, knowing. Like she’s not done with this conversation.

Just postponing it.

She steps back, but not before giving Billy one last look.

Not unfriendly.

Not warm either.

Just… aware.

Then she turns, heading toward her car, keys already in hand.

You watch her go for a second longer than necessary. Long enough to pretend that’s what you’re focused on.

Because turning back means—

Him.

You exhale quietly and face Billy again.

He’s already watching you.

Of course he is.

There’s something quieter in his expression now. Less guarded than earlier. Less performative. Like he left that version of himself somewhere inside the building — under fluorescent lights and buzzing lockers — and didn’t bother picking it back up.

“Ready?” he asks.

Simple.

No edge.

No game.

Your grip tightens slightly on your bag strap. Just for a second.

Then you nod.

“Yeah.”

He reaches for the passenger door, pulling it open without thinking.

The gesture is so automatic it almost doesn’t register—

until it does.

You pause. Just for a fraction of a second.

Billy notices.

His hand stills on the door.

“What?” he asks.

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing.

You slide into the seat, the familiar scent of leather and faint cologne wrapping around you as the door shuts with a solid click.

Billy rounds the front of the car, climbing into the driver’s seat a second later.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The world outside hums — engines sputtering, voices fading, tires crunching over gravel.

Inside, it’s quieter. 

Not uncomfortable.

Just… aware.

Billy starts the engine.

The car vibrates lightly under you, the low hum filling the small space. He flips the radio on; the static crackle before settling into a classic rock song — something steady, driving, faintly distorted through the speaker.

He glances at you once.

Quick.

Checking.

Then looks back at the road.

The Camaro rolls out of the lot, tires gripping the asphalt. The road ahead stretches out like it always does.

Familiar.

Predictable.

And yet, it feels… different.

-*-

The library is quieter than usual.

Or maybe it just feels that way.

The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, casting everything in that same dull, even glow. Rows of books stretch out in neat lines — worn spines, faded labels, the faint smell of paper and dust hanging in the air. Somewhere, a cart squeaks softly as it’s pushed along tile.

A couple of students linger near the back, heads bent together, whispering over something that doesn’t sound important enough to carry.

It’s the same as always.

And not.

You step inside first.

Billy follows a half-step behind, the door clicking shut softer than he ever allowed it before. You can’t help the way your brows shoot up at his active choice not to be a menace. You don’t say anything. 

You move toward the table in the corner — the one you always use. Tucked just far enough away to feel separate from everything else.

Safe.

Or it used to.

Something about it feels… closer now.

Not physically.

Just—

Smaller.

Quieter.

Like the space between you matters more here.

It’s stupid.

It’s just the library.

You’ve been here before. Sat at the same table. Had the same project spread out between you.

Nothing about this should feel different.

It does.

You set your bag down, pulling out your notebook, your pencil, your folder. Familiar motions. Repetitive. Something to anchor yourself to.

Across from you, Billy does the same.

Less precise.

But not careless.

Not anymore.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Same table. Same project. Same quiet.

You’ve done this before.

There is no reason for your chest to feel tight. No reason for your thoughts to keep snagging on small things—

The way he pulls his chair in slower than usual.

The way his hands rest on the table for a second before he reaches for his notebook.

The way he looks at you.

Not quick.

Not casual.

But like he’s trying to understand something he doesn’t have the words for.

You drop your gaze to your notebook, flipping open your notes a little too quickly.

For a second, you both just look at the page.

Not speaking.

The quiet stretches.

You clear your throat lightly. “We should probably go over the sources again.”

Billy nods once. “Yeah.”

A beat passes.

Neither of you moves.

You exhale softly through your nose, tapping your pen once against the paper.

Focus.

You turn the page toward him slightly. “I reorganized this section,” you say. “It flows better if we—”

“I saw.”

You pause.

Look up.

Billy’s already watching you.

Not your notes.

You.

Your chest tightens.

“You did?” you ask.

He nods, leaning forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. “Yeah. It’s better.”

Simple.

Direct.

No edge.

No sarcasm.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You look back down at the paper, tracing the margin with your pen like you need something to follow.

“Okay,” you say.

Your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

You shift slightly in your chair, angling your notes so he can see better. Your fingers brush the edge of the page—

—and his hand is already there.

Not touching.

Close.

Too close.

Your breath catches.

Just for a second, you feel it.

The space between your fingers.

The almost.

You don’t pull away.

He doesn’t either.

It lingers.

Long enough to notice.

Long enough to mean something.

Then you both move at the same time — subtle, almost imperceptible — like neither of you wants to be the one to acknowledge it.

You clear your throat again, softer this time.

“Number four,” you say, a little too quickly. “We should probably connect that back to the thesis.”

Billy nods, but his eyes don’t drop right away.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now.

He looks down.

You both do.

The tension doesn’t go away.

It just… settles.

Lower.

Heavier.

Minutes pass like that.

Working.

Actually working.

Trading notes back and forth, quiet comments, small corrections.

It’s easier than it should be.

That’s the problem.

Because every time it feels easy—

You wait for it to break.

It doesn’t.

“You always this organized?” Billy asks after a while.

You don’t look up. “Yes.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Figures.”

You glance at him briefly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

He leans back slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You read into things a lot.”

You still.

Just for a second.

There’s no bite in it.

No accusation.

But the words land anyway.

Because he’s not wrong.

You look down at your notes again, slower this time.

“Sometimes,” you admit.

It’s quiet.

Honest.

Billy doesn’t immediately respond.

When you finally glance up, he’s watching you again.

That same look from earlier.

Careful.

Like he’s trying to figure out where the line is.

Like he doesn’t want to cross it.

Your chest tightens.

Again.

You hate that it does.

The quiet stretches again.

But it’s different now.

Full.

Heavy.

You pick your pen back up, but your focus is gone.

Your thoughts drift—

Back to the car.

To the hallway.

To the way he walked away.

To the bandages still wrapped around his hands.

You glance down at them now.

Still there.

Still slightly crooked.

You feel it more than you see it.

That restless energy again — quieter than before, but still there. Like something under his skin won’t settle.

You glance up without thinking, studying the shape of his mouth, still split slightly at the corner. On the faint shadow blooming along his jaw. On the way his hair falls like it always does — careless in a way that isn’t actually careless at all.

He looks—

You swallow.

He looks beautiful.

Even like this.

Maybe especially like this.

There’s something raw about it. Unpolished. The edges of him a little more visible than usual.

Then he catches you staring.

Of course he does.

His mouth quirks automatically, something easy and familiar sliding into place like muscle memory. “What?” he says lightly. “You gonna keep looking at me like that or—” 

“Number six,” you cut in quickly. 

Heat spikes up your neck before you can stop it. You drop your gaze fast — too fast — pen moving before your brain catches up.

“We can probably cut it,” you continue, forcing the words out evenly despite the tightening in your chest. 

Because he noticed.

Not just that you were looking—

but how.

 “Yeah,” he says after a moment of silence.

You nod, crossing it out, pen pressing harder than necessary.

You try to focus on the simplicity of the action.

The line.

The control of it.

Not on the way your pulse hasn’t caught up yet.

Not on the way you can still feel his eyes on you, even after you’ve looked away.

But your thoughts don’t follow.

A few seconds pass.

Then Billy leans in.

Close enough that you feel it before you register it.

His arm brushes yours as he reaches across your paper, finger tapping near the margin. 

“What if we flipped this?” he says, voice lower now, more focused. “Like— use this source first instead of second. It’d make the argument hit harder.”

You blink, tracking what he’s pointing at. You follow his thought process, piecing it together as he explains — quieter than usual, less sure of himself in a way you’re not used to seeing.

“And then it kinda… builds into the thesis instead of just dropping it,” he finishes, like he’s bracing for you to shoot it down. “I don’t know. Might be stupid.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

“That’s not stupid,” you say.

He hesitates.

You shake your head slightly, more certain now. “That’s actually really good. I wouldn’t have thought to do it like that.”

Something shifts in his face.

Subtle.

His brows pull together just slightly, like he doesn’t quite trust what he heard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat passes.

Then — there it is.

Not the smirk.

Not the swagger.

Something quieter.

Pleased.

It flickers across his face before he can cover it, and it does something strange to your chest.

You don’t look away fast enough.

Neither does he.

And suddenly—

You realize how close you are.

His arm is still near yours. His shoulder angled toward you, your chair turned just enough that your knees almost brush under the table.

You can feel the heat of him.

You don’t lean away.

The space between you is smaller now.

You’re aware of everything.

The table edge pressing into your ribs. The sound of your own breathing. The way his eyes don’t quite know where to land anymore.

This is a bad idea.

You know that.

You should move.

You don’t.

Billy exhales slowly.

Like he’s trying to steady himself.

Or talk himself out of something.

Your heart stutters.

“Bambi,” he says.

Quiet.

Not teasing.

A warning.

Or maybe a question.

You don’t know.

You don’t answer.

That’s the problem.

Because silence, with him—

It’s never empty.

It fills.

Fast.

Your eyes drop to his lips. 

You don’t mean for them to.

But you don’t stop it either.

And he sees that.

You know he does.

Because his breath catches — just slightly.

Because his hand stills against the table like he’s bracing.

Because he doesn’t move away.

The space between you tightens, like something invisible just pulled it closer.

Your pulse is too loud.

You could stop this.

You should stop this.

You don’t.

Billy hesitates.

Actually hesitates.

And for a second it looks like he might pull back. Like he’s giving you one last out.

You don’t take it.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in — slow enough that you feel every inch of it.

And then—

He kisses you.

It’s not smooth.

Not practiced.

Not the kind of kiss you’ve seen him give other girls in passing like it means nothing.

It’s careful.

Like he’s still not sure you won’t stop him.

Like he’s waiting for you to.

You don’t.

Your brain lags behind your body.

Because your first instinct isn’t to pull away.

It’s to lean in.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And that’s all it takes.

Something shifts.

His hand presses a little firmer against the table. Your breath catches, uneven, your fingers curling slightly against the edge of your notebook like you need something to hold onto.

It deepens — but not in the way you expected.

Not urgent.

Not overwhelming.

Just… real.

Too real.

A book slams somewhere in the distance.

The sound cracks through the moment like glass.

You pull back instantly.

Your chair scrapes harshly against the floor as you push away from the table, breath coming quicker now, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with what just happened.

What you just let happen.

“Oh my God,” you breathe.

Billy blinks at you, like he’s still there — still in it. “Bambi—”

“I have to go,” you say immediately, already reaching for your bag.

Your hands don’t feel steady.

You shove your notebook inside anyway.

“Wait— what?” he says, half-rising from his chair. “What are you—”

“I have to go home,” you repeat, too fast, too tight.

Because if you slow down—

If you think about it—

You might not leave.

And that’s worse.

“Bambi, hey—” he moves around the table, closer now, voice lower, trying to catch you before you slip past him. “It’s just—”

You shake your head quickly. “I can’t— I just— I have to go.”

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

Because if you do, you’re not sure you’ll remember why you’re leaving.

You push past him, chair legs scraping behind you, the sound too loud in the quiet library.

“Hey—” he calls after you, louder this time.

A sharp “Shh!” cuts through the air from the front desk.

Billy stills for half a second.

“…Sorry,” he mutters automatically.

And then he’s moving again.

Fast.

The door swings open hard enough to hit the stopper behind it.

Cool air rushes in, sharp against your skin, but it doesn’t slow you down. If anything, it makes everything feel clearer. Too clear.

You move fast.

Across the lot — gravel crunching under your shoes. You weave between parked cars without really seeing them. You don’t look back. Don’t stop. 

If you stop, you’ll think.

If you think, you’ll—

“Bambi—”

You move faster, grip tightening on your bag strap, fingers digging in like it might keep you from unraveling right here in the middle of the parking lot.

Footsteps close in behind you. “Hey—”

His voice hits you a second before his hand does.

Not grabbing.

Just catching your arm — enough to stop you.

You pull away immediately.

Not rough.

But firm.

Final.

Billy freezes for half a second, thrown off by it.

That’s new.

Your breath is still uneven, your chest rising too fast, and he’s right there — close again, closer than he should be after what just happened.

“Are you serious right now?” he asks.

Not angry.

Confused.

Like he missed something important.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because all you can feel is his mouth on yours. The way you didn’t stop it. The way you leaned in.

God.

Billy studies your face, trying to catch something — anything — but you’re not giving him anything to work with.

No anger.

No softness.

Nothing.

It unsettles him.

Good. That makes two of you.

You fold your arms across your chest, needing the barrier.

“I just—” you start, then stop.

Because what do you even say?

I didn’t mean to kiss you?

That would be a lie.

I don’t want this?

Also not true.

So instead—

“That shouldn’t have happened,” you say.

The words come out steady.

Clean.

Detached.

Like they don’t belong to you.

Like you didn’t feel every second of it.

Billy stills.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just… quiet.

Like the words landed somewhere deeper than you meant them to.

“Okay,” he says after a second.

Too easy.

Too controlled.

Like he’s already adjusting.

You nod once. “Okay.”

You move to step around him, but he doesn’t let you.

“Okay?” he repeats, sharper now. “That’s it?”

You shrug.

Minimal.

Dismissive.

“What do you want me to say?”

Billy lets out a short breath, something frustrated flickering under the surface now. “I don’t know— maybe anything that sounds like you actually meant it?”

Your grip tightens on your bag strap.

“I said it shouldn’t have happened,” you repeat.

Same tone.

Same distance.

It lands harder this time.

Billy runs a hand through his hair, pacing a half-step away before turning back to you like he’s trying not to push too hard and failing anyway.

“You kissed me back.”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

Flat.

No elaboration.

His brows pull together. “And that doesn’t — what, matter?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it. Because you know how much it mattered.

How much it still does.

And that’s exactly why you shut it down.

“It was a mistake,” you say.

Careful.

Controlled.

Billy goes still.

Not defensive.

Not angry.

Just… still.

Like he’s trying to figure out if you actually believe that.

“Didn’t feel like one,” he says quietly.

That almost cracks something.

You look away.

That’s the first real reaction you’ve given him.

And he clocks it immediately.

He steps closer.

Not touching.

But close enough that you feel it again — that pull you just barely got away from.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

Your gaze fixes somewhere over his shoulder, jaw tight.

“Bambi.”

Still nothing.

The silence stretches.

And now—

Now he’s the one stuck in it.

The one filling it.

The one reaching.

“I’m not—” he starts, then cuts himself off, frustrated. “I’m not trying to mess with you, alright?”

A breath slips out of you. Almost a laugh.

But there’s nothing light about it.

“That’s kind of your thing,” you say.

It’s not cruel.

That’s what makes it worse.

It’s honest.

Billy flinches.

Small.

Quick.

But you see it.

“Not with you,” he says.

Too quick.

Too real.

Your chest tightens.

You hate that it does.

This is where things shift. Where it gets messy. Where you start to feel something you can’t control.

“I’m not—” you stop, shaking your head slightly. You start over, colder this time. “I’m not doing this thing where you decide it means something just because it happened.”

The words land sharp. Exactly where it hurts.

Billy stares at you for a second. No reaction.

Then—

“You’re seriously doing this right now?”

You finally meet his eyes.

And for a second—

There’s something there.

Too much of something you’re not sure you’re ready for.

“That’s what we’re doing,” you say, looking away again.

And the emotion is gone.

Billy exhales sharply through his nose, something frustrated and almost — hurt — bleeding through despite himself.

“Got it,” he mutters. 

And you see it happen.

The shift.

Not all at once.

Piece by piece.

His shoulders pull back. His jaw sets. His expression smooths into something more familiar — something controlled, something guarded.

Something safe.

The armor.

Sliding back into place.

It hits harder than if he’d snapped.

Because this—

This is deciding not to reach anymore.

Your chest tightens.

You ignore it.

“I drove you, so—” Billy says, gesturing toward his Camaro across the lot. 

Like it’s just logistics now.

Like that’s all this is.

You close your eyes briefly.

Right. Of course he did.

This just got worse.

You don’t say anything.

You just start walking again.

Toward the Camaro.

It’s quiet. And not the easy kind. 

Not the kind you’ve started getting used to.

This one is—

Off.

You can feel it in the space between you. In the way neither of you looks at the other. In the way your footsteps don’t quite fall into sync this time.

Gravel crunches under your shoes, too loud in the silence.

Billy reaches the driver’s side first. Opens the door.

Doesn’t look at you.

Doesn’t say anything.

You circle around to the passenger side, fingers tightening briefly around the handle before you pull it open and slide inside.

The door shuts with a heavier sound than usual.

Inside, the air feels different.

Same car. Same worn leather seats. Same faint trace of cologne and something sharper underneath.

But it doesn’t settle the way it did before.

The engine turns over.

The radio clicks on automatically — some song already halfway through — but he reaches out and shuts it off almost immediately.

The silence that replaces it is worse.

Thicker.

You stare straight ahead. Hands folded too tightly in your lap.

Don’t look at him.

The car pulls out of the lot.

Slow.

Controlled.

Careful in a way that feels almost deliberate.

Your stomach twists.

Because this—

This is new.

Billy Hargrove doesn’t drive like this.

You risk a glance.

Just a quick one.

His hands are steady on the wheel. Grip firm. Not tense, exactly — but not loose either. His jaw is set, gaze fixed on the road like there’s something out there worth focusing on.

Like it’s easier than looking at you.

You look away quickly.

The silence stretches, pressing heavy against your skin. Every second that passes makes it harder to breathe normally, harder to sit still, harder to pretend this is fine.

Because it’s not.

Your fingers curl slightly against your jeans.

The memory of the kiss replaying in your mind. 

The way he hesitated.

The way he gave you time to pull away.

The way you didn’t.

Heat creeps up your neck again, sharp and unwelcome. You swallow hard, keeping your eyes on the windshield.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t—

Your brain doesn’t listen.

It replays the shift in his breath.

The way it deepened, slow and careful, like he wasn’t trying to take anything — just meeting you where you already were.

You press your lips together.

Hard.

Outside, the sky darkens further. Thick clouds rolling in, the first faint drops of rain starting to tap against the windshield.

Soft.

Uneven.

Billy flips the wipers on.

They sweep back and forth in a steady rhythm. It fills the silence just enough to make it almost bearable.

You glance at him again.

You shouldn’t.

You do.

There’s something different about him now.

Not angry.

Not exactly distant.

Just…

Closed.

Like what you said settled somewhere deep and he decided not to touch it.

Not to push.

Not to ask again.

And that—

Feels worse.

Because you almost wish he would.

Say something.

Push back.

Give you something to react to.

Instead, he just drives.

Quiet.

Careful.

Like nothing happened.

Like it didn’t matter.

Your chest pulls tighter at that.

Because it did.

It did.

You should say something.

Anything.

But every option feels wrong the second it forms.

Sorry?

No.

That opens something you just shut.

It wasn’t a mistake?

Too late.

It’s too messy. Too real.

Your throat feels dry. So you say nothing.

And the silence keeps building.

By the time the car slows in front of your house, it feels like something stretched too thin — like one wrong move could snap it.

Billy puts the car in park.

The engine idles.

Neither of you moves.

A beat passes.

Then another.

You think he might say something.

He doesn’t.

His hands rest on the wheel.

Still.

You reach for the door handle.

Pause.

Just for a second.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say.

It comes out flat.

Polite.

Like none of this happened.

Billy nods once.

“Yeah.”

That’s it.

No “see you.”

Just—

That.

Your chest dips.

You push the door open before you can think about it, stepping out into the cool air. The rain has picked up slightly, light but steady, dotting your skin almost immediately.

You don’t look back as you close the door.

You don’t give yourself the chance to.

Because if you do, you might see him looking at you.

Or worse—

You might not.

And you’re not sure which one would hurt more.

-*-

Your room is quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind that settles in your ears the second the door shuts behind you, cutting off everything else — the car, the rain, him.

Just… silence.

You don’t turn the light on.

You don’t need to.

You drop your bag by the door. It hits the floor with a dull thud.

You don’t move after that.

Just stand there.

Like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that you’re home.

That it’s over.

That you left.

Your chest rises slowly.

Falls.

Doesn’t settle.

You press your lips together, stepping further into the room, each movement feeling slightly off — like you’re not fully in control of it.

Your bed is right there.

You sit down on the edge of it without thinking. Hands braced beside you, staring at nothing.

It fully hits you then. 

Not dramatic.

Just… quiet.

Insistent.

The memory slips back in before you can stop it.

The table.

His voice too close.

Your breath catches.

You close your eyes.

That was a mistake.

You said it so easily.

So clean.

Like it didn’t matter.

Like it didn’t—

Your fingers curl against the comforter.

Because that’s not what it felt like.

Your jaw tightens.

You try to push it away.

Focus on something else.

Anything else.

It doesn’t work.

Your brain goes right back to it.

The hesitation.

That’s what gets you.

Not the kiss itself.

Not even the fact that it happened.

It’s that he—

He waited.

You swallow hard.

Your chest tightens again, sharper this time.

He gave you time to pull away.

And you didn’t.

You didn’t.

Your hands press harder into the mattress, grounding yourself.

Because that part you can’t twist.

You can’t rewrite it into something accidental or careless or meaningless.

You leaned in.

Even if it was just a little.

It still counts.

It still means—

You shake your head quickly.

No.

Don’t do that.

Don’t turn it into something bigger than it is.

You’ve done that before. You know how that ends.

Your throat feels tight.

You exhale slowly, forcing your shoulders to relax.

“It was a mistake,” you murmur to the empty room.

The words sound wrong the second they leave your mouth.

Too flat.

Too rehearsed.

Like something you said because you needed it to be true.

Not because it was.

Your stomach drops.

You look down at your hands.

They’re not steady.

You flex your fingers once.

Twice.

It doesn’t help.

Your mind drifts again. Not to the kiss this time. To after.

The car.

The silence.

The way he didn’t push.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t try to twist your words or turn it into a joke.

He just—

Accepted it.

Your chest tightens.

Because that’s not what you expected.

That’s not what you prepared for.

You thought he’d fight you on it.

Push.

Tease.

Make it easier to dismiss.

But he didn’t.

He just pulled back.

And somehow that made it worse.

You let out a shaky breath, dragging a hand over your face.

“God,” you whisper.

Because now you’re stuck with it.

With what you said.

With the way he looked at you after.

With the way something in him just… shut off.

Your eyes sting.

You blink hard.

No.

You’re not doing that.

You lean back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Think.

You need to think.

This is simple.

It has to be.

He’s Billy Hargrove.

You know who he is.

You know how he is.

This is what he does.

Gets close.

Says the right things.

Makes you feel like it means something.

But that doesn’t mean it actually does.

Right?

The thought hangs there.

Weak.

Unconvincing.

Because if that were true…

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Why did it feel different?

The question lands heavy.

You don’t have an answer for it.

And that’s the problem.

You lay there for a long time.

Long enough that the rain picks up against the window, steady now, filling the silence with a soft, constant rhythm.

Long enough that your breathing finally starts to even out.

Long enough that the moment should fade.

It doesn’t.

It lingers.

Sharp around the edges.

You swallow, staring at the wall across from you.

It wasn’t a mistake.

Your chest tightens immediately because accepting it changes something. 

Makes it harder to hide from.

Harder to take back.

Your fingers curl into the fabric beneath you again.

If it wasn’t a mistake, what was it? 

And worse—

What does that mean now?

Your gaze drops to the floor.

To your bag by the door.

To everything you didn’t say.

Your throat tightens.

Because you could go back.

You could fix it.

Say something different.

Tell him—

You stop the thought before it finishes.

Because that’s where it gets dangerous.

That’s where you start stepping into something you’re not ready to stand in.

You exhale slowly.

Shaking your head once.

No.

You made your choice.

You said what you said.

And now—

Now you have to live with it.

Even if it doesn’t feel right.

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

Chapter 7: That's What It Was Supposed to Sound Like

Chapter 9: Too Close to Call It Nothing

The sky over Hawkins Tuesday morning is that washed-out gray that usually means rain later. The parking lot is already half full by the time Nancy pulls in, rows of cars still ticking with leftover heat from the drive.

The radio hums softly — some slow, synth-heavy song you only half recognize, the kind that sounds like it belongs playing in the background of a mall instead of the high school parking lot.

Nancy shifts the car into park and glances at you. 

“You’re quiet,” she says, like she’s testing the waters.

You shrug, staring out the windshield at the steady stream of students filtering toward the front doors. Backpacks slung over their shoulders, someone laughs too loudly, and someone else smokes behind the gym like no one else notices.

“Just tired,” you tell her. Which isn’t entirely a lie.

You didn’t sleep much last night. 

Every time you closed your eyes, your brain dragged you back to the nurse’s office — Billy sitting in that chair, shoulders slumped, voice quiet in a way you had never heard before. Not performative. Not sharp. Just… real.

Unsteady.

You squeeze the strap of your bag a little tighter. 

Nancy studies you for another second, like she can see something shifting behind your eyes. She doesn’t push it, though. Just sighs and reaches for the door handle.

Cold morning air spills into the car as she steps out. You follow, the noise of the parking lot rushing in to fill the space—car doors slamming, voices overlapping, the low hum of a school day starting whether you’re ready or not.

Students drift toward the entrance in loose clusters, and you fall into step beside Nancy, letting the current carry you.

The hallway is already loud by the time you walk in — lockers slamming, someone arguing about a math test, a Walkman leaking tinny music somewhere behind you. Normal. 

Aggressively normal.

You adjust your grip on your books as you turn the corner toward your locker.

And there he is.