haunted by the ghost of the girl i used to be

“Oh, great,” you laughed, offering a bright, seamlessly media-trained smile to the wide-angle lens hovering just a few feet away. “Welcome to my home away from home, everyone. Come on in.”

You stepped up the metal stairs and pushed the door open, allowing the camera operator to slip in right behind you. The lens began a slow, cinematic pan across the interior, expecting the standard fare of an AD tour—perhaps some custom linen throw pillows, a carefully stacked tower of deeply personal literature, a few framed family photographs, and a luxury candle emitting the scent of expensive wood smoke. Instead, the silence that followed was incredibly, excruciatingly awkward.

The trailer looked like a high-end witness protection safehouse. The minimalist faux-leather couch was entirely bare, lacking a single blanket or wrinkle. The built-in vanity table held absolutely nothing but a single, lonely box of tissues and an empty paper coffee cup from that morning. Even the small kitchenette counter was pristine, devoid of a kettle, a mug, or a single stray snack. It looked entirely unlived in, sterile and cold.

The interviewer blinked, her gaze darting from the barren counter back to you. “Wow. It’s very... minimalist. Is this a specific design choice? A sort of sensory deprivation tactic to help you clear your mind and focus before a heavy, emotional scene?”

Beside you, Harry let out a sudden, muffled snort that he tried—and utterly failed—to disguise as a cough. You shot him a sharp, warning glare, though you could already feel a telltale warmth creeping rapidly up your neck.

“Uh, no,” you confessed, rubbing the back of your neck as you surveyed the vacant room. “To be completely honest with you, I don't think I've actually spent more than ten consecutive minutes in here since we started production this season.”

The interviewer’s eyes lit up, sensing a break in the standard PR script. “Really? Then where do you keep all your things? Where do you go between takes?”

“Harry's trailer,” you said simply.

“She entirely colonized it,” Harry interjected cheerfully, leaning his shoulder against your empty doorframe with an insufferable smirk. “It was a completely hostile takeover. Come on, I'll show the viewers what a lived-in space actually looks like.”

Sensing an infinitely better narrative than a tour of an empty room, the camera crew practically sprinted across the gravel lot, following Harry like a pack of bloodhounds. His trailer door was flanked by a nameplate that hung slightly crooked, and the moment he unlocked it and stepped inside, the contrast was staggering.

The space was warm, chaotic, and utterly packed with personality. A soft, oversized fleece blanket was tangled at the foot of his rumpled sofa, a familiar portable speaker sat hummed quietly on the counter, and stacks of script pages bleeding with fluorescent yellow highlighter were piled high on the small dining table.

“Now this is a home,” Harry announced with theatrical flair, spreading his arms wide as the camera panned over the cozy, cluttered interior.

But as the camera operator began zooming in on the domestic details to capture the essence of a young actor's sanctuary, the aesthetic narrative completely derailed. The interviewer stepped further into the tight space, her eyes narrowing as she pointed a manicured finger toward the small, stainless-steel kitchenette. “Interesting. I notice a very specific theme developing here. Harry, I didn't know you were a massive fan of sour watermelon gummies and organic elderberry tea.”

Harry froze halfway through the act of sitting down on his couch. He glanced over his shoulder at the counter, where a massive, family-sized bag of sour candy and a box of specialty tea bags were prominently, undeniably displayed.

“Oh,” Harry stammered, his face instantly flushing a light, telltale pink that stood out vividly against his wardrobe. “Right. No, those... those aren't actually mine.”

“They're mine,” you piped up, casually walking past the direct line of the camera to snatch the bag of candy. “I keep them over here because Harry's trailer has significantly better temperature control, and they don't melt into a giant blob.”

“Right. Temperature control,” the interviewer repeated, a highly amused, knowing smile breaking across her face. She stepped toward the appliances. “Let’s check the fridge.”

“Wait, no, the fridge is private property—” Harry joked, half-rising from the cushions with a nervous laugh, but the producer was already gently tugging open the small refrigerator door.

The lens focused tightly on the top shelf. It was entirely devoid of any typical bachelor snacks, protein shakes, or energy drinks. Instead, it was exclusively, neatly stocked with six bottles of a highly specific, obscure brand of iced matcha lattes—a beverage you had repeatedly and passionately mentioned being completely obsessed with in almost every press junket for the past two years.

“Exclusively stocked with your co-star's exact, highly specific caffeine order,” the interviewer remarked, looking over her shoulder at Harry. By now, he had buried his face entirely in his hands, his ears glowing a bright, unmistakable crimson. “Harry, do you even drink matcha?”

“It tastes like lawn grass,” Harry muttered into his palms, his voice muffled and miserable. He slowly lowered his hands, clearing his throat awkwardly as he desperately tried to find his media-trained footing. “I just... I buy them in bulk. Because someone around here gets incredibly grumpy if we hit hour fourteen of a night shoot and there's no green caffeine left in the immediate vicinity.”

“That is deeply, deeply attentive of you,” the interviewer teased, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

“It's just being a good co-star,” Harry insisted, his voice dropping into that rapid, rambling register that always gave him away when he was cornered. “Professional courtesy. You know. Teamwork. Cast morale.”

“Of course,” the interviewer smiled, clearly not buying a single word. She turned to pan across the remainder of the room, her eyes landing on the dark wooden bathroom door at the back of the trailer. Hanging carelessly from a plastic hook on the door was an oversized, heavily worn, charcoal-grey hoodie with a vintage sports logo fading across the front.

The interviewer pointed her pen toward it. “And what about that? Is that a prop from the wardrobe department?”

You looked at the hoodie, and your heart gave a sudden, violent thud against your ribs. You recognized it instantly—mostly because the exact matching sweatpants to that set were currently sitting in a laundry basket in your own apartment.

“That's mine,” you said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly, trying to sound casual. “I, uh, I borrowed it because the soundstages get really drafty between setups.”

“You borrowed it three weeks ago,” Harry pointed out. He looked up from the couch with a sudden, mischievous glint in his eyes that made your stomach do a frantic, dangerous flip. The initial panic seemed to have entirely left him, replaced by that comfortable, dangerous confidence he always wore when he wanted to push your buttons. “You left it on my chair, and then you just claimed it. It’s been living on that hook ever since.”

“It looks better on me anyway,” you shot back, trying to cover your rising blush with a wall of stubborn defiance.

“It does,” Harry said softly.

He didn't laugh. He didn't make a witty joke for the edit. He just said it—a quiet, completely sincere admission while looking directly up at you from the sofa, entirely ignoring the fact that a high-definition Architectural Digest lens was trained squarely on his face, capturing every ounce of tenderness in his expression.

The studio went entirely quiet for two long, agonizing seconds. You stared back at him, your throat suddenly dry, the rest of the trailer fading into a blur of warm lighting and static.

The interviewer finally cleared her throat, a massive grin practically bursting out of the frame. “Well. This has been an incredibly... revealing look at your workspace. Thank you both so much for opening your doors to us.”

When the final edit of the video was uploaded to YouTube a month later, the production team didn't cut a single frame of the exchange. In fact, the editors deliberately kept the heavy, breathless two-second silence after Harry’s compliment, leaving it completely raw and unedited for the world to see. The video broke the channel's record for views within twenty-four hours. The comments section became an absolute battlefield of emotional devastation, but the top comment, pinned to the top with nearly eighty thousand likes, summarized the entire episode perfectly:

“They called it an Architectural Digest tour, but they literally just documented a girl moving into her boyfriend's apartment piece by piece while he buys her favorite groceries and watches her wear his clothes. Someone give the interviewer a Pulitzer.”

The format of 10 Things I Can’t Live Without was a staple of internet culture. It was supposed to be a neat, curated glimpse into a celebrity's personality—a glimpse that Harry’s publicist had thoroughly vetted beforehand.

Items one through three went exactly according to plan. He talked about his favorite hair clay, a specific brand of throat lozenges he used during long shooting weeks, and his keys, which were attached to a heavily scratched metal carabiner.

Then, Harry reached into the black duffel bag beside his chair and pulled out item number four.

It was a small, rugged, sage-green portable speaker. It was visibly battered—the silicone casing was scuffed at the corners, the mesh grille had a tiny dent near the logo, and a faint smear of dried silver theatrical paint was visible near the charging port.

"Alright, so item number four," Harry said, setting the speaker down on the wooden table with a soft clack. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as a fond, incredibly relaxed smile took over his face. "This is my portable speaker. I bring it absolutely everywhere. Hotels, press junkets, the trailers—it’s just always in my bag."

The off-camera interviewer chimed in, "Are you a big playlist guy?"

"Huge," Harry nodded, tapping his fingers against the table. "But the funny thing about this one is that it’s not actually mine. I actually stole this from my co-star's trailer about three years ago because she wouldn't stop playing this one specific indie album on loop, and it was driving me mad. So, I just took it. And now it just lives in my house."

He laughed to himself, a light, completely unbothered sound, and casually spun the speaker on the table. "She’s been looking for it for literally three seasons. She thinks she left it in a hotel room in Wales during a location shoot. If she's watching this... sorry. You're not getting it back. The bass is too good."

He moved on to item number five—a pair of designer sunglasses—without a single care in the world. He finished the shoot, thanked the crew, and went about his day, entirely unaware that he had just handed the internet a smoking gun.

You didn’t watch the video when it premiered on YouTube the following Thursday morning. You were in the middle of a dental appointment when your phone began to vibrate so aggressively in your pocket that the hygienist actually paused.

When you finally got to your car and unlocked the screen, you had forty-seven unread texts.

The cast group chat was a war zone.

Tom: @Harry Collett YOU CRIMINAL

Tom: [Screenshot of Harry holding the sage-green speaker]

Beth: Oh my god. The Wales hotel room tragedy. I spent an hour helping her look under the bed for that.

Tom: He admitted to grand theft auto on GQ. Well, grand theft audio.

Phia: Wait look at twitter right now. Look at what the fans found.

Your heart did a sudden, chaotic stutter. You closed the chat and opened your social media app. Your notifications were climbing by the thousands every time you refreshed the feed.

The video had been out for exactly three hours, and the fandom had already conducted a full, forensic investigation.

A viral thread with over eighty thousand likes broke down the timeline. The first tweet in the thread was a screenshot from Harry's GQ interview, zoomed in on the speaker. The second tweet was a deep-dive cross-reference: a cropped image from an old Instagram carousel you had posted back during season two. It was a blurry, behind-the-scenes photo of your trailer's vanity mirror, and sitting right next to your makeup brushes was the exact same sage-green speaker, complete with the silver paint smudge.

But it was the third tweet in the thread that turned the harmless joke into an absolute meltdown.

Six months ago, Harry had posted a casual, late-night photo on his Instagram stories of his dog sleeping on the rug in his bedroom. The photo was taken from his bed, and in the blurry background, sitting directly on his wooden nightstand next to a glass of water and a stack of scripts, was the unmistakable sage-green speaker.

The fan's caption read: “He didn't just steal it and throw it in a drawer. It’s been sitting on his nightstand for months. He looks at her speaker right before he goes to sleep, I am going to throw myself into a volcano.”

Your face burned hot enough to melt glass. You stared at the screen, your thumb trembling slightly as you scrolled through the endless stream of hysterical comments.

“‘It just lives in my house’ is a crazy way to spell ‘I want to marry her.’”

“The fact that she thought she lost it in Wales and he just listened to her complain about it for THREE YEARS.”

“He took it because he wanted a piece of her in his house, you cannot convince me otherwise.”

Before you could completely lose your mind, your phone screen switched to an incoming call.

Harry.

You answered it immediately, not even giving him a chance to speak. "You are an absolute idiot."

There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by Harry letting out a deeply stressed, highly embarrassed groan. "Okay, so you've seen it."

"Everyone has seen it, Harry! It’s trending! My publicist just texted me to ask if we need to release a statement about a speaker!" You leaned back against your car seat, covering your eyes with your hand, though a helpless, breathless laugh was bubbling up in your chest. "You told GQ you stole it!"

"I didn't think they'd zoom in on the paint!" Harry protested, his voice cracking slightly in a way that told you he was currently pacing around his apartment, blushing furiously. "I just thought it was a funny anecdote. I forgot it was in that photo with the dog."

"It's on your nightstand, Harry," you said softly, your voice dropping as the reality of the fan edit hit you. Your heart gave a heavy, distinct thud against your ribs. "Why is it on your nightstand?"

The line went completely quiet. The frantic, defensive energy Harry had been holding suddenly vanished, leaving only the sound of his quiet breathing over the speaker. The silence stretched for three seconds, five seconds, turning into that same heavy, intense weight that always caught you both off guard during interviews.

"Because..." Harry started, his voice dropping into that quiet, sincere register that always made your breath catch. He cleared his throat nervously. "Well. It plays that album you like. And it... I don't know. It reminds me of the trailers."

You stared out your windshield, your chest tightening in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with anger. "You're a menace."

"I know," he murmured, and you could practically hear the small, soft smile returning to his face. "Are you going to sue me?"

"I'm considering it," you teased, your voice barely louder than a whisper. "Or I'm just going to come over and take it back."

"You can try," Harry replied softly. "But it's item number four. I can't live without it."

You slipped out the back exit, stumbling into a narrow, dimly lit brick alleyway just behind the venue. The cool night air hit your face, making your head spin in the best way possible. You leaned your back against the cold brick wall, letting out a breathless laugh, but before you could even catch your breath, Harry closed the distance between you.

The alcohol had stripped away every ounce of his usual media-trained caution. He crowded into your space, his hands sliding up to cup your jawline, his thumbs smoothing over your cheekbones with a heavy, desperate intensity.

"I've wanted to do that all night," he muttered, his voice thick and raspy, before his lips crashed down onto yours.

It wasn't a sweet, polite press-junket kiss. It was deep, clumsy, and entirely passionate—the culmination of months of hiding and weeks of keeping a safe, professional distance under the scrutiny of the public eye. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer as his hands shifted down to grip your waist, anchoring you against him. You were both laughing into the kiss, dizzy and utterly consumed by each other, completely oblivious to the soft, rhythmic clicking of a camera recording from the shadows near the street corner.

The next morning arrived with a brutal vengeance.

Your alarm went off at 8:00 AM for a live, morning-show press junket. With a pounding headache and throat-drying dehydration, you dragged yourself out of bed, barely having the energy to splash water on your face, let alone check your phone notifications. Harry looked equally disheveled when you met him in the lobby, his hair a chaotic mess, hiding his bloodshot eyes behind a pair of dark sunglasses.

"Never letting Tom buy shots again," Harry groaned, blindly reaching out to grab your hand as you both walked into the studio, utterly unaware of the digital hurricane currently flattening the internet.

Ten minutes later, you were sitting on a plush sofa under the blinding studio lights of a live morning broadcast. The host, a notoriously sharp entertainment journalist, smiled warmly at the two of you, though there was a distinctly dangerous, cat-like gleam in her eyes.

"Now, we know the cast had a massive celebration last night for the premiere," the host began, leaning forward on her elbows. "And it seems the festivities spilled out into the streets of London. Did you two have a good time?"

"Brilliant time," Harry said, offering his best hungover, charming smile, completely missing the trap. "Great to celebrate with the crew."

"It certainly looked like a great celebration," the host purred, tapping her tablet. "Because a fan video from about 3:30 AM last night has currently racked up fifteen million views on twitter. Let's take a look at the big screen."

You and Harry turned your heads simultaneously toward the massive monitor on the studio wall.

Your stomach instantly dropped into your shoes.

The video was crystal clear. It was the alleyway. The lighting was moody, but the silhouettes were unmistakable. There you were, pressed flat against the brick wall, with Harry completely draped over you, his hands firmly gripping your waist as the two of you passionately, thoroughly made out in the middle of London. The camera even zoomed in right as Harry pulled back to whisper something against your lips, making you laugh before pulling him back down for more.

The video faded out. The live studio audience erupted into absolute chaos, cheers, gasps, and loud wolf-whistles.

Beside you, Harry froze. His jaw practically hit the floor. He slowly lowered his dark sunglasses, his eyes wide with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock as a spectacular, deep crimson flush crept up his neck and flooded his entire face.

"Oh," Harry stammered, his voice cracking violently on live television. He looked at the screen, then at you, completely defenseless. "Right. Well. That’s... that’s out there now, isn't it?"

You covered your face with both hands, letting out a weak, helpless groan. "We forgot to check our phones this morning."

"Clearly," the host laughed, absolutely delighted. "So, guys... I think the fandom deserves a definitive answer. Is there something you'd like to officially confirm right now?"

Harry looked at you through his blushing panic, and seeing the breathless, amused resignation on your face, his shoulders finally relaxed. The heavy, exhausted tension vanished, replaced by a soft, incredibly relieved smile. He reached across the sofa, his fingers sliding smoothly into yours, locking his knuckles with yours tightly and holding your joint hands up for the camera to see.

"Yeah," Harry said, his voice instantly dropping into that quiet, genuine register that always made your heart flutter. He looked directly at the host, his eyes shining. "Yeah, we’re together. We’ve been together for a while, actually. And clearly, we're not very good at hiding it when tequila is involved."

The studio burst into applause, and for the rest of the interview, the suffocating weight of the secret was completely gone.

A few hours later, back in the safety of his apartment, the hangover had finally faded, replaced by an overwhelming sense of freedom.

Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his camera roll with a quiet, focused intensity. "If the internet is going to talk about us," he muttered, "they should at least have some proper photos, shouldn't they?"

"What are you doing?" you asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"Making an announcement," he smiled.

Ten minutes later, Harry's official Instagram account updated with a carousel post that completely broke the platform's servers.

The first photo wasn't from a red carpet. It was a blurry, candid Polaroid taken in his kitchen three months ago; you were wearing his oversized grey hoodie, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone, laughing so hard your eyes were closed while he captured the moment. The second photo was a sweet, quiet snap from a location shoot, showing the two of you fast asleep on a single cot in a holding tent, your head tucked perfectly beneath his chin.

The final photo in the slide was a high-definition selfie he’d taken just five minutes ago on his balcony. He was kissing the side of your head, his arm securely wrapped around your shoulders, while you smiled brightly at the lens, your hand resting against his chest.

The caption was short, simple, and perfectly Harry:

Everyone had their breaking point. Tom bitterly blamed the "dragon-ranking" disaster of the previous spring, which had alienated half the fantasy community.

Beth still hadn't forgiven the social media managers for forcing them to recreate thirst-trap fan edits with straight faces. Phia, usually the most stoic of the group, maintained with absolute gravity that reading the darkest corners of YouTube comment sections aloud on camera had permanently and irreversibly altered her brain chemistry. So, when they walked onto the soundstage and were greeted by six stark chairs, six ominous polygraph machines, and a row of suspiciously cheerful producers, a collective, freezing dread settled over the room. They weren't just going to be interviewed; they were about to be interrogated.

“I don't like this already,” Tom announced to the room at large, stopping dead in his tracks and eyeing the nests of rubber tubing and electrical wires draped over the upholstery.

The interviewer, a woman whose smile possessed the predatory warmth of a daytime talk-show host, beamed at them. “Welcome, everyone! Today, the younger cast will be answering the internet's absolute biggest, most burning questions—all while attached to medical-grade lie detectors.”

Ewan stood frozen by his designated chair, watching with wide eyes as a technician in a black polo shirt began delicately fitting silver sensors around his fingertips. “So... just to be entirely clear... if we lie...”

“The machine will call you out instantly,” the interviewer promised, her grin widening.

Ewan let out a long, suffering sigh, sinking into the chair like a man accepting his fate. “Wonderful. I suddenly have absolutely nothing to say for the rest of the afternoon.”

Harry settled into the seat right beside yours. Under the cover of the sudden flurry of crew members strapping bands across everyone's chests, he leaned over just an inch, his voice dropping to a low, desperate murmur meant only for your ears. “I'm leaving. If I start unclipping this now, do you think I can make it to the fire exit?”

“The wires are already attached,” you whispered back, gesturing faintly to the electronic harness binding him to the chair.

He stared down at his chest, his shoulders dropping in utter defeat. “...Right. Brilliant.”

To everyone's surprise, the interview began innocently enough, casting a brief, deceptive veneer of safety over the proceedings. Beth admitted, with a guilty flush of color in her cheeks, that she had accidentally-on-purpose walked off set with a high-end lace-front wig tucked into her tote bag after the season finale wrapped. A steady green light flashed on the monitor beside her. True.

Tom confessed, amidst a flurry of defensive hand gestures, that he had once broken character during a highly emotional take because one of the animatronic dragon props looked "a bit judgmental" from his peripheral vision. He then spent a solid two minutes passionately justifying his artistic choices to the room while the green light steadily hummed.

The studio settled into an easy, lighthearted rhythm, the initial tension melting away into familiar banter. That was, until the interviewer's eyes flicked down to a fresh cue card, and that sharp, terrifying smile returned as she turned her attention squarely toward Harry.

“I don't like that smile,” Harry muttered under his breath, shifting uncomfortably against the leather of his seat as the polygraph needles danced on the technician's screen.

She unfolded the card with agonizing slowness. “This question comes directly from the depths of the fandom: Harry, have you ever searched your own name on TikTok?”

Harry hesitated, looking everywhere but the camera lens. “...Yes.”

A sharp green light flashed. True.

“Hey, no shame in the game,” Tom nodded approvingly from the end of the row, leaning back with his arms crossed. “We’ve all done it.”

The interviewer didn’t miss a beat, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Have you ever searched any of your co-stars` names?”

Harry’s gaze involuntarily flicked sideways, darting to you for a fraction of a second before he pulled it back to the front. The silence stretched for a beat too long. “...Yes.”

The green light flashed again. True.

“Oh, interesting,” the interviewer purred, leaning forward.

“It was research,” Harry claimed quickly, his voice lifting a pitch higher as he tried to sound casual. “Purely professional research.”

“Mm.” She didn’t even pretend to believe him, exchanging a knowing look with the camera crew. “And what exactly were you researching, Harry?”

Harry stared at the opposite wall, his mind visibly racing as he calculated the least damaging answer. “...How bad the edits had become. I wanted to see the damage control we needed to do.”

“And what was the verdict?”

“They've got... frighteningly good transitions, actually,” he admitted softly.

The entire room erupted into instant, chaotic laughter. “You've analyzed the editing?” Beth cried, tossing her head back in disbelief. “Harry, you’re watching the transitions?”

“I just appreciated the technical effort!” Harry protested, his face rapidly turning a brilliant shade of crimson as the polygraph wires jiggled with his rising heart rate.

Tom leaned forward, narrowing his eyes like a detective under a dim lightbulb. “Alright, expert. If you’re just analyzing the technique, name three editing songs. Right now.”

Harry didn’t even have to think. The answer flew out of his mouth instantly. “‘Style.’”

Everyone went completely still. The laughter died down, replaced by a heavy, breathless anticipation. Harry froze, realizing a second too late exactly what he had just betrayed.

“...‘Daylight,’” he added in a smaller, weaker voice.

The silence in the studio became utterly deafening. The realization of his blunder seemed to physically weigh on him as he looked around at his staring castmates. “...I'm making things significantly worse for myself, aren't I?”

“You know the specific fan-edit soundtrack!” Tom shouted, throwing his hands in the air in absolute triumph. “You’ve memorized the Taylor Swift tracks!”

“I've just heard them in passing! They're algorithmically pushed to my feed!” Harry shouted back, defensively gripping the armrests of his chair.

By this point, the interviewer was wiping a tear of pure joy from her eye. “Oh, this is excellent. This is better than I could have hoped.” She reached into her deck, pulling out another card with a flourish. “Let's keep going. Harry... have you ever watched an edit of y/n and you more than once?”

Harry blinked, looking like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck. “...Potentially.”

The polygraph examiner raised a stern, unforgiving eyebrow from behind his monitor. “You need to answer with a definitive yes or no, please.”

Harry swallowed hard, staring down at his lap. “...Yes.”

The green light flared up, bright and unforgiving. True.

“HOW MANY TIMES?” Tom yelled, half-rising from his seat despite the wires keeping him anchored. “Give us a number, Collett!”

“I don't know!”

“Ballpark it! Give the internet a ballpark!”

Harry looked genuinely thoughtful for a painful, agonizingly long moment, his brow furrowing as he did the internal math. “...More than five.”

As the studio exploded into a cacophony of cheers, catcalls, and hysterical laughter, Tom clapped his hands together, hollering at the ceiling. “He's keeping count! The man has a literal tally mark in his head!”

“I AM NOT KEEPING COUNT!” Harry yelled over the noise, burying his face in his hands as his green light blinked rhythmically, confirming his utter humiliation.

It took a few minutes for the crew to restore order. The interviewer barely managed to compose her breathing before turning toward Phia, who, under the threat of the polygraph, reluctantly admitted that she had secretly searched herself on TikTok a mere three hours after publicly telling the entire cast she never used the app. Another green light. Another round of groans.

“Your turn,” the interviewer said, her eyes shifting smoothly across the panel until they landed squarely on you.

You felt your stomach drop, instantly regretting your career choices, your presence on this set, and your very existence.

She unfolded the next card, her voice dripping with amusement. “Have you ever deliberately engineered the seating arrangements to sit next to Harry during these interviews because you knew it made the press junkets significantly more entertaining?”

You let out a nervous laugh, trying to deflect. “That's a ridiculous question. Seating charts are decided by the publicists.”

“Answer the question,” the interviewer pressed gently.

You sighed, glancing at the technician, who was watching your spiking pulse with mild interest. “...Yes.”

True. The green light hummed cheerfully.

Harry turned his head, casting a look of exaggerated, mock-offense in your direction. “Oh, so I see how it is. I was just being used as a prop? A circus act to keep you awake?”

“You make the five-hour junket blocks significantly less boring,” you argued, offering him a defensive shrug. “It's survival.”

Harry paused, a self-satisfied smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “You know what? I'll take that. I'll accept those terms.”

The interviewer pulled another card from the stack, her smile turning decidedly wicked. “Have you ever actively changed seats or requested a different position because you didn't want the fandom making another thirty-minute compilation video titled ‘Harry Collett Looking at His Co-Star for Eight Minutes Straight’?”

The sheer specificity of the title hit the room like a flashbang. You immediately hid your face entirely in your hands, your cheeks burning hot against your palms. Across the row, Tom lost his mind completely, slapping his knee so hard the sound echoed off the rafters.

“There are compilations?” he gasped out between breathless wheezes. “There are multi-minute compilations of just looking?”

“Oh, honey, there aren't just compilations. There are full playlists,” Beth corrected with the calm, worldly authority of someone who spent way too much time on Twitter.

The interviewer waited with infinite, professional patience for your hands to drop from your face so she could get the answer on camera.

“...Yes,” you muttered to the floor.

True. The green light didn't hesitate.

Harry slowly, deliberately turned his entire torso toward you, the wires tightening against his shirt. “You've actually seen those? You know the titles?”

“I have social media, Harry. It’s unavoidable.”

“I didn't know they were thirty minutes long,” he said, sounding a mix of horrified and deeply impressed.

“They're longer,” you corrected grimly. “That was just the first volume.”

“Oh.”

Before he could process the sheer scale of the internet's dedication, another producer stepped out from behind the cameras, handing over a fresh, unblemished card. The interviewer accepted it like a prize, smiling warmly at the cast. “I've been saving this one. Harry... have you ever started laughing or lost your train of thought during an interview because you realized, in real-time, that the internet was about to wildly misinterpret something you just did?”

“Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

True.

“Can you give us a specific example?” the interviewer asked.

Harry didn’t even hesitate; he raised a sensor-clad finger and pointed it directly at you. “She once fixed my microphone. The clip had fallen off my collar, and she reached over and clipped it back on so we didn't have to stop the tape.”

Tom frowned, looking deeply underwhelmed by the revelation. “...That's it? That's the grand incident?”

“Someone made a twelve-minute analysis video,” Harry explained, his voice entirely deadpan. “It was called The Way She Fixed His Mic Says Everything. They slowed it down to 0.5 speed and put a lo-fi filter over it. They analyzed my micro-expressions.”

The room fell dead silent for a beat of absolute, processing shock. Beth blinked, her jaw slightly slack. “You're joking. You have to be joking.”

“I wish with everything in my soul that I was,” Harry said dryly.

Ewan slowly turned his head away from the panel, bypassing the interviewer entirely to look dead into the barrel of the primary camera lens. With total, unblinking seriousness, he spoke directly to the viewers at home: “Some of you genuinely need to find a hobby. Go outside. Touch some grass. I am begging you.”

The interviewer could barely breathe from laughing, her shoulders shaking as she shuffled the remaining cards. “Alright, alright. Last question of the day.”

A collective sigh of profound relief swept down the row of chairs, but the feeling of safety was incredibly short-lived. The interviewer’s gaze drifted slowly between you and Harry, lingering on the space between your seats.

“This final question is for both of you. Simultaneously.”

Immediately suspicious, a cold wave of mutual panic washing over you, you exchanged a sharp, fleeting glance with him.

She smiled with far too much innocence, reading the card with deliberate clarity. “Have either of you ever noticed the other looking at you during a live interview... and consciously, purposefully decided not to make eye contact because you knew the internet would lose its collective mind if you did?”

Neither of you answered. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, over the soundstage. In a moment of pure, disastrous instinct, rather than looking at the interviewer or the floor, both of your heads snapped around at the exact same time, your eyes locking onto each other in shared, panicked realization.

Tom slammed a heavy hand onto his knee, jumping halfway out of his seat. “They've done it again! Look at them! They're doing it right now!”

Realizing the catastrophic error of making eye contact during a question about avoiding eye contact, you both snapped your heads away just as quickly, staring resolutely at opposite walls of the studio. But it was entirely too late. The interviewer wasn't even attempting to hide her triumphant grin anymore, tapping the cue card against her palm. “I'm going to need a verbal answer from both of you for the record.”

You let out a breathless, defeated laugh, completely raising your hands in surrender. “...Yes.”

Harry let out a long, heavy sigh, reaching up with a restricted hand to rub the back of his neck, his face burning a definitive crimson. “...Also yes.”

Two bright green lights flashed on the monitors simultaneously. True. True.

For a full five seconds, a stunned silence hung over the studio as the cast processed the double confirmation. Then, Tom leaned forward over his knees, the biggest, most insufferable grin anyone had ever seen spreading across his face. He looked from you, to Harry, and back again, his voice dropping into a low, mocking purr.

“So...” Tom whispered, practically vibrating with delight. “The fan edits were right.”

The studio dissolved into absolute, irrecoverable chaos.

The confidence disappeared about twenty minutes later. The format was simple enough: everyone sat in a semicircle, took turns pulling tweets from a bowl, and read them aloud. 

The first few rounds went exactly as planned. Tom pulled out a tweet declaring that a particular character “Alicent had absolutely no business looking that attractive while committing treason," prompting the entire room to dissolve into laughter. Another read one comparing dragons to oversized emotional support animals, while someone else had to fight through a tweet ranking every member of the cast purely on who looked best covered in fictional medieval dirt. The first few were harmless, but then it was your turn.

You unfolded the card and immediately covered your face. "No."

The room erupted. "Oh, it's bad." "Read it!"

Slowly lowering the card, you cleared your throat. "'The way Harry looks at y/n in interviews makes me feel like I'm interrupting something private.'"

As the room exploded with laughter, you pointed accusingly at the producers. "You're encouraging them."

"We're documenting them," a producer called out.

"That's worse."

Harry was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his microphone. The next tweet you drew wasn't much better: "'Every time they sit next to each other during interviews, I feel like a Victorian parent accidentally walking in on courtship.'" Phia actually slid out of their chair laughing at the specificity.

Unfortunately, Harry's turn arrived immediately afterward. He unfolded his card, read the first line, and sighed. "Oh, come on. I'm not reading this."

"You absolutely are!" the cast shouted.

He glanced at you before finally giving up. "'I don't ship them anymore. Shipping implies uncertainty. At this point I just feel like I'm waiting for an announcement.'"

The room lost its mind. Tom stood up, yelling, "They've promoted themselves from a ship to an administrative process!" You laughed despite yourself, while Harry looked equally horrified and amused.

"Read another one," someone demanded, shoving a fresh card into Harry's hand.

Harry unfolded it and immediately regretted it. Looking toward the ceiling as if searching for divine intervention, he finally read it aloud: "'If he looked at me the way he looks at her, I'd fold faster than a lawn chair.'"

The reaction was instant, with several cast members collapsing into giggles. "See? That's what I've been saying!" one pointed dramatically between the two of you.

"I don't even know what that means," Harry muttered, still staring at the tweet.

"Yes, you do!"

Then came the tweet that doomed the entire video. You picked up your next card, expecting another joke, but your eyes widened. You looked at Harry, then back at the card, then back at Harry again.

"Oh no," a Beth whispered.

You finally read it aloud. "'The real slow burn isn't their characters. It's whatever's happening in every interview where they spend ten minutes pretending they don't know they're obsessed with each other.'"

Silence. The entire room froze.

It wasn't because the tweet was inappropriate; it was because it felt accurate enough to make everyone uncomfortable. Ewan slowly lowered their drink, another looked deliberately away, and even the crew suddenly seemed unusually interested in their equipment.

You laughed first, mostly because the alternative was panicking. "Well."

Harry smiled—a small, quiet smile that somehow made the situation worse. "That's... specific."

The room immediately erupted again.

"HE DOESN'T DENY IT!"

"HE NEVER DENIED IT!"

"You're all impossible," you protested, pointing at the cast.

"And yet, we're not wrong."

The filming eventually ended, but that particular clip spread across social media within hours. Fans clipped the heavy silence, Harry's quiet smile, and the fact that neither of you had actually disagreed with the tweet. By the following morning, millions had watched the moment, summarized perfectly by the top comment:

"The thirst tweets weren't the problem. The problem was that one accidentally turned into an observation."

The stylist waved politely at the lens, and the live chat began moving at a dizzying speed, a blur of emojis and questions about the upcoming season.

Because the front-facing camera was wide-angled, it didn't just capture Beth's vanity station. It also perfectly framed the narrow walkway of the trailer directly behind her, leading toward the coffee station and the back exit.

Neither you nor Harry had any idea the livestream was happening.

You walked into the background of the frame first, wearing a oversized grey crewneck sweatshirt and carrying a half-empty cardboard tray of pastries from the catering truck. You looked exhausted, your eyes half-closed as you navigated the tight space, clearly still trying to wake up for the early crew call.

A second later, Harry entered the frame right behind you.

For months, the entire production had been playing a high-stakes game of tracking your "gravitational pull," but the spreadsheets had officially been retired three weeks ago. You were finally, completely official—even if the public hadn't been told yet. And away from the red carpets and the promotional junkets, the sheer, effortless domesticity of the reality was entirely instinctive.

Without a single thought about who might be watching, Harry closed the distance between you. He didn't hesitate. He reached out, his arm sliding smoothly and casually around your waist, his fingers hooking comfortably over your hip to gently pull you back into his chest.

You didn't even startle. You simply leaned back into him, your head naturally tilting to rest against his shoulder as you held the pastry tray steady. Harry leaned down, burying his face briefly into the side of your neck before shifting upward to press a soft, incredibly lingering kiss against your temple. He kept his arm securely wrapped around you, his chin resting on your shoulder as he peeked over at the pastries, completely oblivious to the digital trap they were walking into.

In the foreground, Beth was still talking to the camera. "—and the director said we might actually get a lunch break on time today, which would be a literal miracle—"

She glanced down at the bottom of her screen to read the incoming comments, expecting questions about her character's wardrobe.

Instead, the live chat had completely fractured. The text was moving so fast it was a vertical streak of light.

- “OH MY GOD LOOK BEHIND HER”

- “HARRY???? IS THAT HARRY AND—?”

- “THE WAIST GRAB NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY”

- “ARE WE SEEING THIS ALIVE RIGHT NOW???”

- “HE JUST KISSED HER TEMPLE I AM SCREAMING”

Beth blinked, her breath catching as her eyes darted from the frantic chat to the reflection in the vanity mirror directly in front of her.

Through the glass, she saw you casually breaking off a piece of a croissant and feeding it to Harry, while his hand remained firmly, possessively anchored on your hip.

Beth’s eyes went completely wide. A look of sheer, unadulterated panic took over her face. She looked like a woman who had accidentally stumbled onto a state secret on national television.

"Oh," Beth squeaked, her voice cutting off entirely. She didn't say goodbye. She didn't explain. With a frantic, lunging motion, her hand slapped directly over the phone lens, turning the screen pitch black, and she violently hit the End Streambutton.

The trailer went completely quiet, save for the hum of a hair dryer in the corner. You and Harry both blinked, startled by her sudden, dramatic movement. Harry slowly took his arm off your waist, looking confused. "Beth? You alright?"

Beth slowly turned around in her chair, her face a mixture of terror and hysterical amusement. She held up her phone. "You two are dead. The publicists are going to murder me, and then they're going to murder you."

"What did you do?" you asked, a sudden, sinking feeling hitting your stomach.

"I didn't do anything," Beth groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "You two just introduced yourselves to fifty thousand people on my Instagram Live."

By noon, the internet had completely combusted. Because it was a live broadcast, the clip couldn't be deleted. Within three minutes of the stream ending, a dozen screen-recordings had been uploaded to every major social media platform. The fandom didn't just watch it; they analyzed it frame by frame.

It wasn't a nervous interview moment. It wasn't a clumsy PR dodge. It was a completely unscripted, raw glimpse into your actual life, and the sheer comfort of the gesture made it impossible to deny.

That evening, as you and Harry sat on the couch in his trailer during a lighting setup, your phone buzzed with a notification. It was a tweet from a major entertainment account sharing the clip, and it already had millions of views. Harry leaned over your shoulder, looking at the screen. A soft, completely relaxed smile broke across his face as he watched his own reflection wrap his arm around you on the screen.

"Well," Harry murmured, his hand sliding smoothly over yours, his fingers tangling with yours in the exact same comfortable rhythm from the video. "Tom's going to be furious he didn't get to commentate that one."

You laughed, leaning your head back against his chest. "We're never going to hear the end of this, you know."

The scene that would dominate the internet for weeks had taken nearly an entire day to film. It began after your character ignored direct orders and rode alone into enemy territory to warn a neighbouring house of an ambush, returning battered but successful hours later. The reunion wasn't gentle. It was loud, emotional, and raw, the sort of argument that only happened between two people whose feelings had been buried beneath years of duty and pride.

You still remembered standing opposite Harry beneath the blazing studio lights while the director quietly reminded both of you not to hold back.

"I don't want them arguing because they're angry," he had explained. "I want them arguing because they're terrified."

The difference had changed everything.

Your character barely managed to cross the threshold before his was demanding to know what possessed you to risk your life alone. Every sentence interrupted the next. Every accusation was answered with another. Your character insisted someone had to go. His argued that it should never have been you. Neither of them noticed how close they had moved until there was barely any space left between them, voices breaking under the weight of weeks of fear neither had known how to express.

The script originally ended the confrontation with silence.

During rehearsal, however, the director asked the two of you to let the scene breathe before cutting away.

Instead of stepping back, Harry's character reached for yours almost instinctively, his hands settling firmly around your arms as if reassuring himself that you were actually standing there. Your character looked ready to argue again before every remaining word simply disappeared. The kiss that followed wasn't planned as an interruption or a grand romantic gesture. It happened because neither of them could think of another way to say everything they had spent two seasons refusing to admit. It was messy, desperate, and emotional, beginning in the middle of an argument before gradually softening into something infinitely more tender. By the time your characters finally pulled apart, they were both laughing through tears, foreheads resting together while the anger quietly dissolved into relief.

When the director called cut, nobody spoke.

Even members of the crew who had watched dozens of takes throughout the day stayed unusually quiet before applause slowly spread across the soundstage.

Months later, millions of viewers experienced that same moment for the first time.

You had refused every invitation to watch the episode with the rest of the cast. Sitting beside Harry while the biggest romantic scene of the season played across a cinema screen sounded like an experience you were perfectly happy to avoid. Instead, you invited your closest friends to your flat, imagining a quiet evening with takeaway food and comfortable sofas would make the entire thing considerably less embarrassing.

The mistake became obvious almost immediately.

Mia walked into your living room carrying enough snacks to feed an army before stopping dead in her tracks, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the television.

"This is the episode, isn't it?"

You busied yourself arranging drinks on the coffee table. "There are eight episodes."

"Don't play innocent."

"I genuinely don't know what you mean." 

She looked at the others with a triumphant smile. "She's lying. This is absolutely the kissing episode." Within minutes someone had balanced a phone against a stack of books facing the sofa.

You noticed instantly.

"What are you doing?"

"Filming."

"No."

"We're filming ourselves."

"No."

"You're not the subject."

"I know exactly where this is going." Another friend reached over and pressed record anyway.

The opening shot captured everyone settling onto the sofa before Mia cheerfully announced to the camera, "POV: You're reacting to your friend kissing her ridiculously hot co-star."

You groaned so dramatically that everyone burst into laughter. "I hate all of you."

"We love you too."

For most of the episode, your friends behaved surprisingly well. They became invested in battles, loudly criticised terrible political decisions, and celebrated every victory your character achieved. Every so often someone remembered to glance toward you with an amused smile, but as the story unfolded, they became genuinely absorbed by the episode itself.

Everything changed when the final sequence began. The corridor appeared. Harry's character spotted yours stumbling through the doorway, bruised but alive.

Nobody in your living room said a word.

On screen, he crossed the room in seconds before demanding to know what you had been thinking. His voice echoed through the stone corridor as he listed every reckless decision your character had made, while yours argued back with exactly the same amount of passion. The argument escalated until both characters were practically shouting over one another, neither willing to admit that fear—not anger—had fuelled every word.

Your friends leaned so far forward they were practically sitting on the edge of the sofa. Then Harry stopped speaking. He simply looked at your character. Really looked.

His shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly as every trace of anger gave way to overwhelming relief. His character reached for yours so gently it felt accidental, one hand lifted carefully to your face, brushing a strand of hair away before lingering against your cheek.

The room exploded.

"Oh my God!"

"WAIT."

"LOOK AT HIM."

"HE'S ABOUT TO—"

Before anyone could finish the sentence, the kiss happened—not a fleeting television kiss, but something slow. Your friends screamed. Mia snatched the remote and paused the episode halfway through, freezing the two of you on screen as absolute chaos erupted in the room. She pointed dramatically at the television.

"The forehead touch afterwards!" someone yelled.

"The way he looks at her!" another added. "He looks devastated and in love at the same time."

You laughed, already hiding your face behind a cushion.

"No," Mia insisted, pointing at the frozen screen again. "Because what was that? The way he's looking at you..."

"It's acting."

Mia slowly turned to stare at you. "He looks at you like you invented happiness."

The room fell suspiciously quiet before everyone nodded in agreement.

"That's what I'm saying," someone whispered. "I've never seen someone look at another person like that."

You rolled your eyes, despite feeling your face grow warmer. "It's called acting."

"Is it?" Mia asked.

"Yes."

"Hmm."

The silence lasted for about ten second before another of your friends said,  "You kissed Harry Collett."

"I kissed my co-star."

"You kissed Harry Collett."

"I am aware of who my co-star is."

"You got paid...”

"I KNOW."

Another friend replayed the kiss, then replayed it again.

"You know what's crazy?" she laughed. "The chemistry is actually ridiculous."

"I've seen the scene," you replied.

"No, but seeing it as a viewer..." She shook her head dramatically. "I would've believed you two were actually together."

Your cheeks warmed. "Good thing neither of us has to convince you."

"Oh, honey," she said. "You've convinced everyone."

Another friend zoomed in on the paused frame.

"And don't even get me started on the hand."

"Oh, the hand deserves its own discussion."

The room dissolved into laughter as the argument continued. Every time you insisted the scene had been carefully choreographed, someone countered by replaying another few seconds before pausing again to analyse expressions, body language or the way Harry's character softened the instant he realised yours was safe. The TikTok captured every second of it.

Your increasingly desperate attempts to defend yourself. Your friends shouting over one another. The repeated cries of, "She kissed Harry Collett!" and, "Look at the way he's looking at her!" The TikTok ended with all four of them screaming while you slid lower and lower into your chair, trying unsuccessfully to disappear beneath the restaurant table.

“You know what’s even funnier?” Mia laughed, looking up from her phone. When you asked what, she grinned. “We’re posting this.” Your eyes widened in panic. “No, you’re absolutely not.”

“It’s already uploading,” she countered.

“…Mia.”

“Too late.”

You sighed dramatically, muttering that you hoped it would flop. In fact, It did not flop. By the following morning, the video had reached over five million views, and by lunchtime, it had easily crossed twelve million.

People stitched themselves reacting to your friends reacting to the kiss. Editors added dramatic music beneath Mia yelling, "SHE KISSED HARRY COLLETT!" Someone even animated little fireworks around your increasingly embarrassed expression. The comments somehow became funnier with every refresh.

"She's acting like she accidentally kissed him."

"I'd tell every single person I met."

"Her saying 'it's called acting' while refusing to look at the screen..."

"The friend pausing every three seconds is literally all of us."

Around lunchtime the next day, your phone buzzed. Harry had sent you a link to the TikTok, nothing else. You replied almost immediately: Don't.

Three dots appeared, then: Your friends are hilarious.

-They're humiliating me, you typed back.

They're representing the entire fandom.

-They're never allowed in my house again.

Another message arrived: The bit where they paused to discuss my hand placement made me laugh.

You stared at the screen. -You watched the whole thing?

Twice.

-Traitor.

I prefer supportive co-star.

You rolled your eyes despite yourself, a smile slipping onto your face. He was enjoying this far too much.

By the end of the week, fans were using the audio beneath edits of your characters, bts clips, and red carpet photographs. It quickly became one of the most recognizable quotes in the fandom. By the time you arrived at the London premiere a few days later, you knew someone would bring it up, you just hadn't expected it to be the very first question. The interviewer smiled the moment you and Harry stepped in front of the microphone. "So... I have to ask about the TikTok."

You sighed. "I knew this was coming."

Harry laughed beside you. "I thought it was brilliant."

“Of course you did.”

"I liked it."

"I know you liked it," you muttered, as the interviewer grinned and held up her microphone.

"My favorite part is when your friend pauses the episode and says, 'He looks at her like she invented happiness,'" the interviewer said. "After watching the scene... I have to admit, I understand what she meant." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly far more interested in the carpet beneath his feet than the cameras. Noticing his sudden shyness, you laughed awkwardly. "They're very dramatic."

Harry smiled to himself before looking up. "I suppose that's a nice compliment."

"For who?" you asked.

He looked at you for a beat longer than usual. "For both of us."

"So," the interviewer continued, catching the look, "what do you both think about that observation?"

Harry glanced toward you again. "I think our intimacy coordinator would be very pleased that people believed the scene."

"That's the diplomatic answer," you teased.

"It is," he admitted.

"But...?”

His smile softened. "But... I do think it's one of the best scenes we've ever filmed together."

You nodded, your voice softening as well. "So do I."

The interviewer noticed. The photographers noticed. The fans watching the livestream definitely noticed. Neither of you realized how quietly you'd spoken until the interviewer lowered her microphone with a knowing smile. The clip spread across social media almost as quickly as the original TikTok. For the first time in weeks, fans stopped talking about the fictional kiss. Instead, they talked about the way Harry had looked at you on the red carpet.

“Forget the kiss scene.”

“Someone explain why they're looking at each other like that in real life.”

You weren’t sure what had made you think of him. You didn't know why you had attempted this in the first place, or what had possessed you to believe your hands could capture a ghost.

Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps it was the way the light fell through the window this afternoon. Or– or perhaps there had never been a reason at all.

Some days, after all these years, he simply returned to you. Not as a ghost. Not as a dream. Just as a memory.

You smiled faintly to yourself, a fragile thing that felt as easily torn as porcelain.

“Let’s see if I still can,” you murmured.

The first few lines came easily. The shape of his face. The fall of his hair. And the outline of broad shoulders you once knew better than your own reflection.

For a while, it felt almost effortless.

 In your mind, Jacaerys only ever existed in profile. You could perfectly conjure the sharp, proud slope of his nose, the curve of his eyelashes silhouetted against the dusk, to trace the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth when he was trying not to smile, and the wild, unruly tumble of his dark curls that never quite minded the wind. You could see the side view of his face so clearly it made your chest ache. It felt like he was sitting across from you again. Like he had only stepped away for a moment. Like the years in between had never happened.

Then you reached his eyes.

And stopped.

The charcoal hovered above the page. You frowned.

Wait.

You tried again, begging him to turn around– pleading for him to turn his back to you and show you his full face– but the image fractured. The moment his eyes began to meet yours, the features bled away into nothingness. The memory refused to yield him to you.

Nothing.

You remembered looking into them.

Gods, you remembered that.

You remembered how safe you had felt beneath his gaze. How he would look at you as though the world beyond the two of you did not exist. You remembered laughter. Warm hands. Summer evenings. Promises spoken beneath starlight.

When you closed your eyes to reach for him, the world around him came alive with terrifying, vivid clarity. You could see the brilliant, endless blue of the sky, the blinding, golden warmth of the yellow sun, and the lush, vibrant green of the grass swaying beneath his boots. The world was loud, cruel, and beautiful with color.

But Jace? Jace was entirely devoid of it.

He stood there in the center of your mind– like a quiet monochromatic specter. He was a stark, muted grey amidst a brilliantly colorful world, as if the sea had washed away everything that made him bright, leaving behind only a shadow. He felt like a good dream you had woken up from too soon– one you were desperately trying to crawl back into, even if it meant waiting in vain just to go back to the way the two of you were before.

You remembered loving him.

And then remembered losing him, crashing into the Gullet and burying him beneath the cold, indifferent sea. You wondered bitterly if it had just been the right love at the wrong time, or if you should have tried giving in a little more to the warmth you had before the world fell apart. You had been so scared to lose him then, keeping your heart guarded, but those hidden feelings had only grown into quiet, heavy regrets buried deep within you. Was he only meant to teach you how to love, and then leave you behind?

But his eyes–

You couldn’t remember them.

Slowly, you lowered the charcoal. The tip snapped between your fingers, leaving a dark, jagged smudge across the heavy parchment like a scar.

The realization settled over you like rain. Somewhere along the way, you’d forgotten. Not on purpose. Never– never on purpose. Just little things. Small details carried away by passing years.

You could still remember the feeling of his hand in yours. You could recall the exact warmth of his palm, the rough, reassuring calluses from his dragon reins, and the way his fingers used to anchor themselves against your waist as if you were the only solid thing in a crumbling world.

And yet the face attached to it was beginning to blur.

You swallowed.

The unfinished portrait sat between your hands. In another life, in a world where you were his, there would have been a lifetime waiting for the two of you. You would have had the time. But here, the colors of the world only served to remind you that while he was never truly yours to keep, all this time, you had entirely been his.

—It gives warmth. It gives purpose. It gives you another soul to orbit, another heartbeat to measure your own against.

It teaches you how to live.

But love is a hungry thing.

And hunger, if left unanswered, becomes ruin.

Feed it your time and it will ask for your devotion. Feed it your devotion and it will ask for your future. Feed it your future and— one day— it will bare its teeth and ask what remains.

Some call that sacrifice.

Others call it grief.

But there is precious little difference between the two.

For when love loses the thing it was made to cherish, it does not die quietly. It claws. It bargains. It prays. It digs its bleeding hands into the earth and demands the impossible.

And sometimes— sometimes the impossible answers. 

They say death is the only bargain that cannot be undone. That once a soul has crossed the threshold, no prayer, no plea, no amount of weeping can call it back.

That is what the wise men say.

But the wise have rarely buried the person they loved most. They have rarely stood before a body still warm from yesterday and been expected to accept eternity. They have rarely watched the world continue turning when theirs has already ended.

Grief makes heretics of the faithful.

Monsters of the gentle.

And worse—

Fools of us all.

And the terrible thing about love is that it teaches us to give freely. Our time. Our loyalty. Our futures. Our hearts. 

And the terrible thing about gifts is that once they are given—

they no longer belong to you.

But it did not always begin with loss.

There had been a time before graves and gods. Before salt-stiffened shrouds and desperate prayers spoken to uncaring flames. A time when the world was simpler, lighter, stripped of the suffocating weight of war. 

Or perhaps… it only seemed that way because he had still been alive. 

Before grief hollowed you from the inside out, scraping away at your ribs until you were nothing but a cage of skin and memories, there had been laughter echoing through the cavernous, dragon-carved halls of Dragonstone. There had been endless summer afternoons spent wandering around sun-drenched courtyards where the sea breeze smelled of wild thyme and sweet grass and not iron and decay. 

You remembered the simple grounding warmth of another hand finding yours in the dark, slipping between your fingers behind the dust-scented tapestries of the castle as though it naturally belonged there. As though parting were a physical impossibility.

There had been Jacaerys.

Not the solemn, burdened prince sung in tragic ballads. Not the flawless, rigid heir to a contested iron throne, nor the shattered waterlogged corpse carried home from the wreckage of the Gullet.

Just him. 

Just… Jace. 

He was a boy with perpetually wind-tangled brown curls and a crooked boyish smile that he only ever flashed when the court wasn’t looking. A boy who laughed just a little too loudly when he was genuinely amused, his whole chest shaking with it, and who loved too fiercely. He was a boy who spoke of the future as though it were something certain— as though that future was something waiting patiently just beyond the horizon. 

And perhaps that was the cruelest part of all—

The future had existed once.

Until it didn’t anymore. 

Jace had pulled you aside with an urgency that immediately set your heart racing, his hand closing around your wrist before you could disappear into the crowd. "Come with me," he had said.

No explanation, no greeting— only that familiar grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. And you followed anyway. You always did. 

He led you away from the bustle of the castle, away from the servants and guards and watching eyes, until the noise of Dragonstone became little more than a distant murmur carried on the wind.

Only then did he stop. And only then did his smile begin to fade. Something in your chest tightened.

"What is it?" you asked.

For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze drifted toward the sea. Toward the horizon. Toward the waters that would one day take him from you.

"I have to leave," he said quietly. And just like that, the world changed. You stared at him. 

"Leave?"

"The Triarchy has been sighted in the Gullet." His jaw tightened. 

The words settled heavily between you. War. It was always war.

War had lingered over Dragonstone for so long that it had become as familiar as the sea breeze. Yet somehow, hearing it from Jace's own lips made it feel real in a way it never had before. You tried to smile— tried to make light of it. 

Jace must have seen something change in your expression, because his features softened immediately.

"Hey."

His hand found yours. Warm. Steady. Alive.

"I'll be back."

You laughed softly.

"That's what everyone says before they leave," you murmured, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of a sudden dark premonition. Your fingers dug into the rough wool of his jerkin, desperately needing to anchor him to the earth.

"And I mean it," he insisted, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest ache.

"You cannot possibly know that," you whispered against the narrow space between your lips. 

"I do know it."

A familiar stubbornness entered his voice, that sharp, unyielding edge that had always made him entirely impossible to argue with. He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin just a fraction. "The Triarchy isn't taking me down."

You raised an eyebrow, a breathless, desperate attempt to bring back the easy cadence of your usual banter, to shield yourself from the terror creeping into your veins. "Oh?"

"No." His boyish grin returned, flashing bright and defiant against the bleak gray backdrop of the cliffs. He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression brimming with that infuriating, beautiful life. "I am annoyingly difficult to kill."

Gods. You loved him.

You loved him so much that it frightened you sometimes— a vast consuming ocean of devotion that threatened to drown you if you looked too closely into its depths. The realization settled quietly, heavily in your chest as you looked at him standing there beneath the brilliant afternoon sun. The wind caught in his dark curls, tossing them wildly across his brow. 

His eyes were bright with an unshakeable determination, and his future— splendid, heavy, and grand seemed to stretch boundlessly before him.

You stepped closer, erasing the final inches of distance between you. The teasing smile slowly disappeared from his face, replaced by stillness. 

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. There were immense, fragile things hanging in the air between you— confessions kept hidden in the dark, fears whispered only to the night sky, truths neither of you had ever quite found the courage to name aloud.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted your hand. You placed your palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his doublet.

Beneath your touch, his heart beat hard and fast. It was an erratic, chaotic rhythm, hammering violently against his ribs as though it could not quite decide whether to race forward into the coming storm or stop altogether under the weight of your gaze.

Jace inhaled sharply, his chest expanding beneath your hand, but neither of you looked away. The intensity in his dark eyes was paralyzing.

"My heart is yours," you whispered.

The words left your lips before you could second-guess them, before pride or fear could claw them back. It was simple. Honest. And utterly terrifying.

For a moment, the world seemed to be still entirely. The crashing of the tide against the black rocks below faded into a distant murmur. The wind died down. The sea, vast and indifferent, seemed to hold its breath. He stared at you, his lips slightly parted, your words embedding themselves into the very fabric of his being.

He was about to reply back— when one of the guards was hurrying toward you from across the courtyard. Jace cursed under his breath. And for a second, he remained where he was– looking at you. Your hand still resting against his chest.  As though he wanted to say something. As though he had been on the verge of answering.

But duty won. As it always did.  The sudden absence of his warmth felt colder than it should have.

"I'll find you when I return," he promised.

Not if.

When.

The certainty in his voice was almost enough to make you believe him.

Almost.

The sea had not been kind to Jacaerys Velaryon. He did not look like a prince. He looked like a shattered doll left to drown. The cruel iron arrows of the Triarchy had torn through his neck, his chest, and his throat. Bloated by the brine, his skin was the translucent color of curdled milk, marbled with dark blue veins. His beautiful dark curls were matted with seaweed and gray sand. Vermax was gone, a mountain of burning scales sinking into the crushing depth of the Gullet, and Jace had followed his dragon into the dark.

They bathed his corpse in sweet oils, trying to mask the heavy sweet stench of the sea, wrapped him in a magnificent shroud of black velvet, and began the preparations for the pyre. The lords spoke of duty. They spoke of a prince’s tragic noble end.

But you did not look at his royal shroud. You looked at his hands— the small crescent scar on his thumb, the fingers that had traced your jawline under the cover of midnight when the world was still quiet.

No, the word formed in your chest, hot, violent, and choking. Not him. Not yet. I will not let the fire have him.

Stealing a prince’s corpse from under the nose of a grieving queen— a grieving mother— is a madness punishable by a horrific death, but love— love does not care for laws. It was easy enough to bribe a despairing, weeping silent sister with a handful of stolen gold; easy enough to drag his heavy, stiffening body from the crypts and into the dark belly of a salt-stained trading galley bound for the East before the pyre could be lit.

You hid him beneath coarse burlap and heavy barrels of salted fish. For weeks, you lay beside him in the damp, claustrophobic dark of the ship’s hold, your cheek pressed against his cold, unyielding velvet-wrapped chest, ignoring the slow and horrifying softening of his flesh.

You whispered to him through the long, rolling nights. You told him about the spring. You told him you would not let him go.

Volantis smelled of cloves, old sweat, and burning flesh.

The Black Walls towered over Volantis, dark against the evening sky. Beneath them stood the Temple of the Lord of Light, vast and red, its great fires burning day and night, casting long shadows across the crowded streets below.

You dragged Jace’s body through the filthy back alleys, hiring desperate tight-lipped smugglers with the last of your family’s jewels to carry the heavy wooden chest containing his decaying remains. By the time you breached the inner sanctum of the Temple, the smell of him was thick, a sweet, cloying, terrible rot that clung to your clothes and coated the back of your tongue.

A Red Priestess did not turn when you entered. She stood before a towering and roaring wall of flame, her crimson robes bleeding seamlessly into the firelight. Her hair was the color of dried oxidized blood, and her eyes, when she finally turned her head, were entirely devoid of human warmth.

"You bring a corpse to the hearth," she said, her voice like grinding stones over deep water. "The Lord of Light warms the living, child. He does not concern himself with flesh that has begun to rot."

"Bring him back," you choked out, falling hard onto your knees on the scorching stone floor. Your hands were blistered and bloody, your fingernails caked with dried sea salt and Jace’s decaying skin. "I know your god can do it," you said. "I've heard the stories. The sailors speak of priests who breathe life into the dead. Please."

The priestess walked toward the wooden chest, stepping over your trembling, pathetic form. She lifted the heavy lid with a pale elegant hand, completely unbothered by the sudden, suffocating rush of the Gullet’s stench that filled the sacred chamber. She looked down at Jacaerys— or looked at what remained of him. His skin had taken on the pale, swollen cast of the drowned. Dark curls clung damply to his brow. His lips hung slightly parted, as though caught in the middle of an unfinished breath.

She let out a soft, sharp sound— a dismissive, cruel little laugh.

"There is nothing for him here, girl," she said softly, shutting the lid with a dull echoing thud. "He has gone where all men go."

"No!" You lunged forward, desperately grabbing the hem of her heavy crimson robes. "He is the heir to the Iron Throne. He cannot simply die. He has a purpose. A destiny."

"He is meat," she corrected coldly, pulling her robe from your frantic grip. "And he belongs to the worms. Go home. Weep for him there."

"I will give anything!" you screamed, your voice cracking,  tears tracking clean lines through the soot and ash on your face. Your knees struck the stone hard enough to bruise. You scarcely felt it.

“Anything,” you repeated, your voice cracking. “Take my gold. Take my sight. Take my blood. Take my years. Take whatever your god demands, but please— give him back.”

The fire roared in the silence that followed. The priestess did not answer immediately. She simply watched. And you hated her for it. You hated the calmness in her face. Hated the stillness in her posture. Hated the way she looked at you as though she had seen this scene play out a hundred times before. 

Perhaps she had.

Perhaps desperate lovers crossed the Narrow Sea every day, dragging coffins behind them and begging the gods to undo what could not be undone.

Slowly, the priestess turned her gaze toward the chest. Toward Jace— or toward what remained of him.  The firelight flickered across her face.

“You would give anything?” she asked at last.

“Yes.”

No hesitation— totally devoid of uncertainty. The answer came so quickly that it almost surprised you.

The priestess’ mouth twitched.

“You speak as though sacrifice is simple.”

“I do not care about simple.”

“You should.”

The priestess stepped closer. The hem of her crimson robes whispered across the stone floor.  Somewhere beyond the temple walls, a bell began to ring. The sound echoed through the chamber. You barely heard it. Your eyes remained fixed on the priestess.

“If there is a price,” you said quietly, “tell me.” The smile disappeared. The priestess regarded you for a long moment. Then she stepped forward.

Close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off her skin.

Close enough that you could smell smoke clinging to her robes.

Without warning, she lifted a hand.

One pale finger pressed against the center of your chest. Directly over your heart. You hissed. The touch burned. The priestess tilted her head slightly.

Listening.

To your heartbeat.

To the frantic rhythm stumbling against your ribs— to the life still coursing through your veins.

“He has no pulse,” she murmured. Her eyes drifted toward the chest.

“No warmth.”

The pressure of her finger increased.

“No fire.”

You looked up. Firelight flickered across her face, reflected in her eyes until they seemed to burn from within. You swallowed.

The air suddenly felt too thin. Too hot. “If he is to breathe again—“ the priestess continued softly, “—then he must borrow what is missing.”

The realization came before the words. Some instinct deep within you already knew. Your heart began to pound harder. The priestess felt it. Of course she did. A strange look crossed her face. Not pity— but a look somewhere, something close to disappointment.  

As though she already knew what your answer would be.

“His heart is silent—” she said. The temple seemed to hold its breath. “—If  he is to live, you must give him yours.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fire roared behind her, filling the silence with its hunger. Shadows flickered across the walls of the temple, stretching and shrinking with every breath of the flames. It felt as though the very chamber was waiting to hear what you would choose.

Jace lay motionless inside the chest.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

The word echoed through your mind. You thought of Dragonstone. To sun-warmed stone beneath your feet. To afternoons spent wandering its halls with nowhere to be and all the time in the world. To Jace’s laughter carried away by the sea wind. To the future you had built so carelessly together—so certain of its existence that neither of you had ever thought to question it.

And suddenly the choice did not feel like a choice at all.

“Take it.”

“Silly girl.”

The words should have angered you— instead… they merely exhausted you.

Her eyes flickered toward the chest.

“You think he will rise, gather you into his arms, and thank you for saving him.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. A sad smile— a cruel one. Or perhaps both. 

“You have dragged a corpse across half the world because you cannot bear to let him go.” The flames reflected in her eyes. “And now you stand before me offering your heart as though the gods reward devotion.”

She shook her head.

“The dead do not return unchanged.” But you did not care. You had crossed an ocean. You had slept beside a corpse.  You had abandoned reason somewhere in the Narrow Sea.

Whatever warning she intended to give had come too late.

“Take it,” you said again.

And this time, your voice did not tremble— there was nothing uncertain in your voice. 

The priestess dragged you to the stone altar beside the chest. The ceremony was not grand. There were no beautiful chants, no comforting prayers. There was only a jagged obsidian blade, the roaring and suffocating heat of the fire, and a pain so agonizing it tore the air from your lungs before you could even scream. 

You felt it. The tear. The terrible, visceral pulling of the meat inside your chest. Ribs cracking open like dry twigs under a boot. And then a sudden horrifying emptiness. A vast freezing void where your warmth used to be. 

As your vision began to fade into a dull, featureless gray, you heard a sound from the wooden chest. A long, gasping, wet rattle. A horrific, choking intake of breath.

Jacaerys Velaryon lived.

But you did not. Not truly.

When you returned to Westeros, people rarely noticed you unless you wished them to. you kept to the edges of rooms and the backs of crowded halls, more shadow than woman.

The cold never bothered you anymore. Neither did the heat. At first, you thought it was grief.

Then one night, alone in your chambers, you pressed a hand to your chest. And found nothing waiting for you there. No heartbeat, no rhythm— only stillness. 

You sat awake until dawn with your hand over your ribs, listening to that terrible silence.

But you could hear it. If you stood close enough to him, you could hear it clearly.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was loud. It was steady. It was yours. Every time he laughed, every time he sighed, your stolen heart beat violently against his ribs, keeping his resurrected flesh warm.

You thought he would look for you when he woke. You thought your face would be the first thing he searched for. After all— you had crossed an ocean for him. You had carried him through salt and rot and prayer. You had torn your own life apart to stitch his back together.

Surely… that had to mean something.

But when Jacaerys finally opened his eyes in Volantis, something in them felt wrong. Not absent, empty— it was simply… distant. 

For a long moment, he stared at the ceiling as though listening to a sound only he could hear. When his gaze finally found yours, there was recognition there. Yet it brought little comfort. He knew your name, he knew who you were, snd yet—he looked at you the way one looks upon a half-forgotten dream after waking— familiar enough to remember, yet somehow out of reach.

The warmth that had once come so easily to him seemed diminished. His smiles were rarer. His laughter quieter.

More often than not, you would catch him staring toward the horizon, his thoughts already leagues away. And though he thanked you for what you had done, though he spoke to you with kindness, there was always something standing between you— a distance neither of you could name.

As if some part of Jace had remained behind in the dark waters of the Gullet, and what returned to you was only what death had chosen to spare.

And then came the North.

By then, the war was over. Rhaenyra Targaryen sat the Iron Throne at last. Lord Cregan Stark rode south with his banners. Yet it was neither the soldiers nor the lord himself that altered the course of your life.

It was the woman who came with them.

You watched from the dark corners of the Great Hall as Jace sat by the roaring fire. You watched him look at her. She was wild, fierce, and smelled of pine, blood, and winter frost. She did not know the boy he used to be,  she only knew the resurrected prince, the myth made flesh. 

You stood behind a heavy stone pillar, your hand pressed hard against your flat and silent chest, as Jace laughed at something she whispered.

And inside him, your heart leaped.

You felt it. Because it was your heart, you felt the sudden, violent rush of warmth that flooded his veins— you felt the erratic, fluttering skip of the pulse when her fingers brushed his arm— you felt the deep, heavy, suffocating thud of devotion settling into his bones.

He was falling in love with her.

He leaned in, his eyes bright— the very eyes you had bought for him with your own eternal damnation— and pressed his lips to hers.

Across the room, a phantom ache bloomed in your empty chest. A  hollow agony that tore through your non-existent soul. You wanted to scream, you wanted to tear your skin open, but you had no breath to catch, no tears to shed.

 You could only watch— paralyzed, as the man you destroyed yourself to save gave his smiles, his promises, and his future to another woman.

He loved her completely. He loved her fiercely.

And the worst, most terrifying part of it all— the cruel truth whispered by the red priestess in the smoky dark— was that you knew exactly how much he loved her.

Because the very heart beating for her... was yours.