Saturn Sent

You had no clue what was going through his head. Was he, like you, nervous at the prospect of spending a day together watching the last of the presentations after what had transpired the previous night? Was he considering just missing the day to hide? You doubted he was as nervous as you felt. But you wondered, with fear, whether he regretted it. You were unsure of what you felt. There was regret there, in all honesty — a faint flicker of it — only when you reminded yourself that he would be gone in a few days, that he would go back to being your political ethics professor, that your stolen moments in the Dornish sun would be but a faint memory.

Shaking yourself out of your swirling thoughts, you stepped away from the mirror, looping your bag over your arm. It was time to face the music, in spite of the uncertain feeling pooling in your stomach.

"Dinner tonight! Feel free to invite any of your friends!" It was your mother. You gave her a quick hug, smiled as she kissed your cheek, and nodded in response.

"I'm looking forward to it! I'll bring home a bottle of wine." You call out, pushing through the door.

"Alright, darling!" You catch, just as it swings shut again, and despite your nervousness about Baelor, smile fondly at the thought of your mother.

You arrived late, again. Entirely intentionally. You didn’t quite fancy the prospect of making small talk with Baelor — or anyone for that matter. Slipping in, you spotted an empty table at the edge of the conference room and made your way towards it with some relief. The conference was a lot emptier than it had been the previous day, many professors and students opting to miss the last half-day to catch their flights back home no doubt, and while you pitied the final presenters a little, you felt your breathing become steadier with the lack of crowd.

A little dazed and lost in your thoughts, you sat slightly slumped in your chair, facing the presenter but by no means following along with the complex argument she was making. You felt your eyes glossing over and let your mind succumb to thoughts of Baelor, and the memory of his lips on yours, the enthralling feeling of his rough scruff against the skin of your face. The mere thought sent a shiver through you, and you straightened in your chair, trying to refocus your eyes on the distant text. You almost flinched when you felt the gentle brushing of a palm on your shoulder.

You turned. Baelor’s eyes were on yours instantly, a soft glimmer in them, and the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, in an almost shy smile. You returned his gaze, your eyes fluttering shut in a blink of their own accord, and you were certain your cheeks were ablaze when you averted them. The smallest breath of air left him, a faint hint of a chuckle, and he quietly pulled out the chair beside you, settling into it. You felt his eyes on you, and it took everything in you to not turn to stare back at him. Heart pounding, you continued to look up at the presentation, your mind racing, focused only on the fact that Baelor was beside you, that you could still feel him watching you. Your heart nearly stopped then, when, beneath the table cloth, you felt the faint brushing of his fingertips against your knuckles, then the feeling of his hand reaching out to take yours, resting decidedly atop them on your lap.

The breath you took was shuddering and unsteady as you flicked your eyes to his. He simply continued looking at you with that soft expression, with that disarmingly gentle smile. Finally, you turned your hand, taking his and intertwining your fingers together. It was Baelor’s turn to redden slightly, Baelor’s turn to flick his eyes away nervously, pretending to focus on the presentation, but thinking only of the feeling of your soft hand in his, the feeling of your thumb moving gently back and forth on his hand.

The presentation passed slowly, and you felt frozen in time holding Baelor’s hand, your actions hidden beneath the heavy fabric of the tablecloths adorning the round conference tables. Neither of you moved, sitting still, as if any movement might rupture the bubble of frozen time the two of you had created — the moment of tender stillness. Finally, the presentation ended, and with some hesitation, you pulled your hand out of Baelor’s to applaude for the speaker.

“Seems like they’re saving the decent talks for last.” Baelor finally utters, straightening in his chair and turning to face you.

“What does that say about my presentation?” You joke in response, and he raises his eyebrows, conceding. “Shame there’s not many people left to appreciate it though.” You add, turning away from Baelor to cast another glance around the room. You noted, with some amusement, than many of the conference attendees even seemed to have their luggage with them, tucked under the tables, or shoved into far corners of the conference hall.

Baelor doesn't respond. He simply looks at you with that soft smile you're unaccustomed to seeing on him. You settle back in your chair when you hear the next speaker beginning their presentation, shuffling it closer to Baelor's, just slightly, and you think you catch him chuckling a little at the movement. You shoot him a smile, then, under the table, reach your hand out towards his.

The last few talks of the conference go by quickly, and soon the organisers are making their final acknowledgements, wrapping up the event with a long round of applause. You stand and stretch, and while Baelor had been watching you attentively for many of the talks, he averts his gaze when a small patch of skin becomes visible at your waist with the movement of your stretching.

He knows it's ridiculous. It's not as if he has to hide his attraction to you anymore, not after how he had kissed you last night — but he still felt some shame about just how much the thought of your body thrilled him, at how much younger you were than he. At how you were still his student, even if miles away from the damp confines of King's Institute.

He had been nervous on his short walk from the hotel to the conference venue. What if it had been a drunken mistake on your part? What if you regretted it? He had steeled himself entering the large hall for the final time, but as soon as he spotted you, with your legs crossed and eyes fixed on the presenter, he felt his shoulders relax, as if the mere sight of you brought him comfort.

It had been a risk, stretching out his hand to take yours, but he need to know. He couldn't wait for the end of the talk, or worse — the end of the day — to know if last night had been a mistake. So he took the risk, praying to the gods that you wouldn't flinch away from his grasp.

And you hadn't. Your hand felt painfully soft between his, and when you started brushing your fingers over his knuckles, Baelor thought his heart would stop. Perhaps it hadn't been a mistake, after all.

"No lunch today." Baelor speaks, as the two of you amble slowly towards the exit for the final time.

"Guess they didn't have that in the budget." You reply with a small smirk. A familiar voice causes you both to turn.

"Enjoyed the conference?" It's Davos, and you turn to give him a friendly smile.

"Ups and downs," You begin, and he gives you a knowing nod.

"I did have a fantastic conversation with a few people during the poster presentations. Some good points to include on our paper. Let's talk about it back in the office tomorrow." Davos declares, before bidding farewell to you and Baelor, no doubt in a rush to return to his office to get some work done after the many hours he had lost to the conference.

You sigh, lamenting the fact that it wasn't the weekend. You had forgotten, momentarily, that it would of course be Friday the following day, and you were expected to work your regular schedule with Davos.

Baelor quirks an eyebrow at you while stepping aside to open the large doors leading back onto the street outside of the conference venue.

"I forgot I have work tomorrow. Fuck. Sorry." You give him an apologetic look, truly wishing you had the day off to enjoy Dorne with Baelor. You'd fantasized about long walks along the coast, or a trip up to the vineyard, or the botanical gardens, like you'd suggested on the Tuesday. But no. Instead you'd be cloistered in Davos' office, revising your research yet again. You had no clue how you'd concentrate with Baelor around.

"Don't apologise on my behalf." He begins softly, though you can tell he feels a little disappointed. "As much as I would wish to spend the day with you, I too have some responsibilities I must attend to. I have been rather neglectful."

"When was the last time you ever took a break, Baelor?" You ask teasingly. "Don't be too hard on yourself for attending an academic conference. Still counts as work, you know."

He gives you a look. "Even if it was just an excuse to see you?"

Your mouth falls open at the honest declaration. He had hinted as much last night, during your conversation on the Marlin's deck, but you hadn't expected him to say it outright, in the light of day.

You couldn't help the blush that coloured your cheeks, and averted your eyes from his, reddening further at his low chuckle. Looking up, you were caught by the gentle gaze, and allowed yourself to roll your eyes.

"Well, I suppose that'll have to be our little secret." It comes out teasingly, and, for a moment, Baelor returns your smile. But then his expression changes, and shifts into something more serious, as he contemplates your words.

Another little secret. It reminded him of how wrong this was. Of how forbidden it was. Back in King's Landing he had felt bad enough already about having shared a bottle of wine with you in his office, about the kiss at a university event on New Years. Here was yet another secret to keep, a secret with devastating consequences if it was revealed.

Sensing Baelor's sudden change in mood, your expression falls. You try to get him to look at you again, taking a small step back.

"Everything okay?" You attempt, tilting your head a little. He's still frowning, clearly lost in thought and staring at something in the distance. "Baelor?" You try again, and this time it succeeds in causing him to look at you.

"Yes. My apologies." It is clipped, and he presses an apologetic smile to his lips as he catches your confused expression. He sighs, and tries to clarify, spotting the look of slight hurt that's beginning to form on your face. "Just thinking about the university. When will you be back?" He continues, trying to make conversation, trying not to darken the mood.

You look hesitant, but shrug and respond anyway, still clearly detecting the odd change in the atmosphere between the two of you.

"Three weeks or so. Davos wants to get our paper submitted before I go. Any revisions we'll work on remotely while I'm back in classes."

Baelor hums. He's at least relieved that it won't be quite so long until he sees you again, but the inescapable feeling of dread is there. Three weeks for him to figure out exactly how to go back to the way things were before. To figure out how to treat you like simply another student, while his heart and mind knew otherwise. You still hadn't talked about it together — what the situation would be. Frankly, Baelor didn't know, and if anything, he felt he may need the three weeks to simply sit down and think about things sensibly, logically. As the head of the Politics and Ethics department at King's, as the next likely provost of the entire institute.

"Remind me to give you all the materials from the classes you missed. No exams this term, but it will be important for your thesis."

You avert your eyes, frowning at Baelor's flat tone, the sudden formality. With a soft sigh, you nod, and let your eyes flick up to watch the the conference attendees dispersing, spotting Davos' figure in the distance as he walks up the main street towards his office.

After a tense silence, you straighten and turn up to face him.

"Lunch, Baelor?" You're a little timid when you ask, and there is a part of you that is oddly relieved when he shakes his head. The excuse he gives is weak, but you nod along regardless.

"I'm afraid not today. I have some... matters to attend to." Of course he didn't really have matters to attend to. He could certainly spend some time going through his emails. He had put off looking at them for days and didn't doubt that he likely had hundreds in his inbox demanding his attention. More than anything, he needed to think. And he knew he had not been thinking straight around you.

"That works out, then." You reply, and your flat tone almost matches his, causing him to flick his eyes over you, watching as you look out at the emptying square.

"I might actually get a head start on some work with Davos."

Baelor hums again. Another silence stretches on unpleasantly, and you inhale. You're torn. Of course, a huge part of you wishes you could spend the afternoon and evening with Baelor, in the same lighthearted way the previous few days had gone. You could only dream of being with him the same way he had been last night. But with Baelor's odd demeanour, you found that you didn't want to linger in his presence if you weren't wanted. Finally, you turn to him with an offer, hoping it would act as an olive branch and snap him out of whatever odd mood he was presently in.

"We're having dinner at my parents' tonight."

That causes Baelor to turn his gaze onto you, finally.

"You're more than welcome to come."

He opens his mouth, and his head starts to move, as if preparing to decline. You continue before he can respond.

"Please, Baelor. It would mean a lot to me. Just a quick dinner."

He mulls it over for a second, and you can see him weighing out his options in his mind. The expression on his face was familiar. It was one you'd caught a few times when he was pondering an ethical stance in one of his seminars.

Finally he speaks.

"Your parents... Won't they be-" He struggled to find the words and grimaced a little. "Concerned? About us?"

About us. His phrasing made you redden, but you were a little pleased that he did at least acknowledge whatever thing existed between the two of you, the think that didn't yet have a name.

"They said to invite friends. I'll tell them you're a colleague."

He closes his eyes, and nods slowly.

"What time?"

"Seven."

You give him one more long look, your mouth falling open as you think of something to say, but you let it fall shut, and fix your eyes on a spot on the ground.

"Alright." You utter, inhaling and turning to him to bid farewell, at least for the time being.

As if suddenly faced with the fact that you'd be apart for the next few hours, Baelor flicks his head towards you, meeting your eyes. You're surprised by the emotion you see in them, flickering away with words left unsaid. His hand lifts on its own accord, and he reaches for your arm. You feel his fingers just brushing the skin of your arm before he pauses, and lowers it, catching himself.

The remorse hits Baelor as he spots the serious expression on your face. He hates that his ill-timed brooding had knocked the wind out of your sails, that your previous air of soft teasing had been replaced with a marked somberness. He wants to make it up to you. He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment, willing himself out of his mood for a moment.

"Can I bring anything? For tonight?" He tilts his head down at you and, after casting a surreptitious glance around the square, takes a small step closer to you, allowing just the tip of his fingers to brush your own.

The slight smile you give him sends a wave of relief through his body, even though it was only a brief flash.

"I said I'd bring back some wine, but perhaps it would be nice if you could bring one too. Can never have too much."

Baelor chuckles a little bit as he responds.

"I disagree there."

It had cut the tension between you, just the slightest, but it was enough that you felt your shoulders relax a little, enough for you to angle your body towards his a bit more. You turned your hand subtly, and interlaced your fingers with his ever so slightly, casting a look around the square as Baelor had done.

"Perhaps you just need to improve your tolerance of Dornish Wine." You tease, and it's a relief when Baelor smiles back knowingly.

"Perhaps."

A beat passes between you, but it's not unpleasant. Not as tense as the silence had been earlier. It's that familiar lingering silence, the one the two of you had begun to fall into at the art gallery, on the outside lunch table, on your slow walks through ancient Dornish streets.

You pulled your hand away, letting your fingers separate from Baelor's, already missing the tingling sensation. With a step back, you nod.

"You remember how to find the house?"

Baelor nods his head, just once, and then shoots a quick smile your way. He feels the loss of your hand in his too, and slightly regrets not taking up your offer for lunch, though he knows the space from you may do him some good.

"Seven. I'll see you there, love." It slips out without him thinking, and he almost grimaces. Taking a step back, and slipping his hands into his pockets, he inclines his head, waiting for you to take the first steps away.

"Bye Baelor." You respond quietly, and with a deep breath, turn to walk in the direction that Davos had walked off in, back to the cluttered office sheltered from the light of the sun, away from Baelor.

He watches every step away from him that you take, and with each step, his hand forms a tighter fist in his pockets. You're a fool, Baelor. He thinks, and finally lets himself turn to walk in the opposite direction from you, aimlessly looking for somewhere to eat for lunch.

"You could've just come in tomorrow, you know. Take the afternoon off?" Davos quirks an eyebrow at you, catching you staring out the window yet again.

"It's up to you. But you don't have to be here today." He continues, snapping you out of your reverie. Out of your endless thoughts of Baelor.

"No- I wanted to come. Sorry. Just a lot to think about with the conference."

Davos watches you for a moment, tilting his head. You hate how perceptive he is. Unfortunately, that's the one way that he does resemble his friend Lyonel. They're both sharp as swords, even if Lyonel doesn't show it much.

"I saw you at the Marlin last night," He begins, pausing to see if you would interject. When you remain silent, watching him warily, he sends you a reassuring smile.

"It is not uncommon, you know." Your heart plummets as he continues, and it's clear what he is referring to.

"I won't say who, but I have a colleague who is in a relationship with a student. Postgraduate, like you."

Your face heats up instantly, and you find that you are unable to look Davos in the eye. Instead, you sigh, and rest your head in your hand.

"No judgement from me. But-" He pauses for a moment, watching you with some concern and some sympathy. "But be careful who you get involved with. A random junior staff member or associate professor is one thing. Baelor Targaryen..." He trails off, knowing that his implication is clear.

Although still embarrassed, you force yourself to look up at Davos.

"We aren't in a relationship." You begin, shutting your eyes as Davos lets out a small chuckle, giving you knowing look.

"But- I know. And I think he knows too." You admit, realising there was no point trying to deny the existence of something when Davos had witnessed you firsthand.

The chair squeaks as Davos stands and makes his way to the front of his desk, leaning on it for a moment.

"I won't lecture you. Just be careful. King's Landing is not as... forgiving as Dorne is. Don't throw your life away, and look over your shoulder from time to time. I can't guarantee that others will be quite so understanding."

He taps on your desk twice, throws a somewhat comforting smile your way, and then leaves, no doubt on his way to get another coffee.

With a groan, you let your head fall into your hands. It was slightly mortifying that Davos had caught your interaction, but that wasn't the worst of it. If he had seen you and Baelor out on the deck, who else had seen? The sickening thought swirled around in your mind, and you cursed your recklessness. With a sigh, you tilted your head and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was time to go home and help your parents with dinner.

Relieved Davos had not yet come back, you slip out of his office, looking over your shoulder more times than necessary. Something about that conversation, as appreciative as you were of Davos' supporting words and lack of judgement, had made your skin prickle with paranoia. Who had seen us?

You attempted to distract yourself on the walk home, slipping into the local market to grab a bottle of red wine and some fruit, smiling weakly at the familiar face of the grocer while you packed your purchases into a small woven bag. But the prickling feeling did not go away. You recalled the Lannister professor, Sylas, jeering at you suggestively, watching the way you had stepped closer into Baelor's protective grasp, you even recalled the way Orson had spotted you two out on the deck. Not in any compromising position, but closer than one might expect a professor and their student to be standing. Your head shakes, again, as you attempt to rid yourself of the flashing images in your mind, attempting to shake off the anxiety that was building in you. You're being ridiculous. It was dark and late. Davos is just sharp. You repeated to yourself as you rounded the final familiar corner of the path leading back to your childhood home.

The comforting scent of your mother's cooking hit you the moment you stepped through the front doors, and it was a great comfort to you. The tension seemed to vanish from your shoulders and back as you inhaled the familiar scent, as she pulled you into a warm hug. Her clothes smelt of fresh bread and olive oil, and the thoughts of Davos and Sylas and Orson disappeared as you washed your hands, and began to methodically cut vegetables, laughing with your mother in the kitchen as if you were a teenager again.

"Are any of your friends coming round?" Your mother asks, stacking several ceramic plates, counting them, then reaching up for a matching number of cups.

"Just one. He's more of a colleague. From King's." You clarify, watching the way your mother's eye flicks to you for just a moment.

"Criston and Lyara not coming?" She asks, fondly recalling the many weeknights they would show up at your house unannounced, always happy to provide an extra seat for them at the table.

"They're on Criston's boat tonight with his family! We're catching up with them tomorrow night though." While you did wish the two of them could join for dinner, like they always used to, you were excited to spend time with them, and hopefully with Baelor, the following night.

"Don't have too much fun." Your mother jokes in response, raising her eyebrows, knowing that a night out with Criston and Lyara had often meant a very late night coming home, and a very groggy morning.

You roll your eyes, good-naturedly, and then reach up to grab one extra plate and one extra glass for Baelor.

"His name is Baelor, by the way. My colleague. He's been at the university for a while so he's a bit older, but he's lovely. We work together a lot at King's." You try to say it casually, to introduce Baelor to your mother in the way that was least likely to cause any suspicion or concern. It was not a lie, really. Perhaps colleague was a bit of a stretch, but it was certainly not untrue. Regardless, your mother's eyebrow lifts, just the smallest amount. If you weren't her daughter, with an intimate knowledge of all her possible facial expressions, you wouldn't have caught it.

"Well I'm glad he is coming. Go and see if your father is ready. He's been reading all day." You take the excuse to leave with some gratitude, and walk rather quickly through the small courtyard of the house to the other side, where the study was.

"Almost ready?" You call, pushing the sliding doors open gently.

"Oh, yes! Just a couple of pages until the end of the chapter. Almost there darling." You chuckle, shaking your head fondly at the familiar scene, and then leave him in peace to finish his book, which appeared to be about fisheries in the Dornish strait.

You took the time to get ready yourself. The steam from the kitchen had made you sweat, and you were still in your conference outfit, so you jumped into the shower for a quick wash. Not bothering to dry your hair, you picked out something comfortable, yet still nice enough for a dinner. You slipped on a soft white dress, cooling and airy in the hot Dornish air. It was simple; the sort of thing you'd often wear lounging around the house, or going for a short walk by the waterfront. You were relieved to be out of your conference gear, in the cool shade of your parent's home.

There was a small part of you that wanted to try harder, that wanted to put more effort into your outfit since it was Baelor that would be coming in less than ten minutes. But your mother was perceptive. During many childhood dinner parties, while your father's head may have always been buried in a book or a newspaper, she was the one with bright eyes that would flicker around the room, instantly understanding the dynamic between guests, the things left unsaid. You knew that any outfit that was out of the ordinary for you would've been noticed in an instant, so you let the desire pass.

The sound of your mother's excited voice rang through the house, followed quickly by the deep sound of another voice you instantly recognised. Taking a deep breath, you quickly put up your still damp hair into a clip, slightly regretting not having bothered drying it. With one final glance in the mirror, you sighed, and turned to cross the small courtyard back towards the main living room and kitchen of the house.

"Ah." Is all Baelor manages to utter when you appear in front of him, barefoot, damp hair and in a soft white dress that fluttered with every movement. He thought by now the sight of you would stop stealing his breath away, but spotting you in the comfort of your home was never something he could have prepared for. This version of you looked so at ease, and the domestic image made Baelor's heart thud painfully in his chest.

"Thank you for the wine. Why don't I take that from you? I can chill it in the fridge. Make yourself comfortable!" Baelor realised he hadn't stopped staring at you, and snaps his attention back to your mother when she gently pulls the bottle of wine from his hand.

"Of course, my pleasure. Thank you for the kind invitation." And almost instantly, Baelor's years of upbringing takes over. He smiles warmly at your mother, nods his head politely, and then exhales when she turns her back. Then his eyes are back on you.

"I hope you had a pleasant afternoon." It's too formal for your liking when Baelor says it, but you offer him a soft smile anyway, taking a step closer to him.

"It was okay. Not as pleasant as the past few afternoons." He doesn't take his eyes off you, and you catch his cheeks reddening just the slightest amount at your remark. He lets out a shy chuckle, and he starts fiddling with one of the rings on his finger, still peering at you with a hard to decipher look.

"Sweetheart, go and get your father!" You roll your eyes, but it's all in good faith, as you shake your head laughing a little.

"Want to come with me? He'll probably still be in his study. You might like it."

Baelor was powerless to say no to anything you asked of him, not when you were dressed in soft linen, with your face still slightly flushed from your shower, hair dark from the dampness. He felt the sudden urge to reach out and pull you into him. Instead he shoved his hands into his pockets, nodded stiffly and inclined his head to suggest you lead the way. He had to watch himself. You're in her home, for the sake of the seven. He chided himself a little at having slipped up already with the obvious staring, and now with his yearning that he needed to make far less apparent. His smile was a little strained as you looked back at him to check he was following, as you expertly navigated through your home to the office.

The earthy smell of books was familiar to Baelor, and made him feel somewhat at ease as his eyes scanned the tall dark bookshelves lining the walls of your family’s office space.

“Ah yes, I’m coming. Just started another chapter. Sorry! Got carried away there.”

A fond smile broke out onto your face as you pulled the book out of your father’s grasp. It was not the first time he’d gotten carried away progressing to the next chapter of a book after promising he’d stop. It was, you knew, a habit you’d definitely inherited from him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Your father pauses, getting to his feet lethargically, introducing himself and then extending a hand out to Baelor, inclining his head to ask for his name.

“Baelor. And the pleasure is all mine, surely. You have a wonderful collection, might I say.”

He’s good. You thought to yourself, raising an eyebrow at how well-mannered he was. It was something you’d known, of course, but perhaps you were so accustomed to seeing your friends greeting your parents, in a much more informal manner, that seeing how courteously Baelor interacted with your parents was greatly refreshing. It was a manner you admired, and you had to fight to stop looking at him with such awe plainly written on your face, particularly in the presence of your parents.

“You must excuse me whilst I go and assist my wife with dinner. I have been a very poor husband this evening. Make yourself at home!” Your father steps past the two of you, and as he does, he places a warm hand on both you and Baelor’s shoulders, giving you each a friendly squeeze.

“Thank you.” Comes Baelor’s soft reply, and it only when your father exists the office that you catch him exhaling. His eyes flick over to you, his gaze filled with some amusement and a twinkle of something warmer, something tender. You look even more perfect in the dim light of the office, he thinks, surrounded by tall shelves, books lining each one to the brim. With your father gone, you lean casually against the large wooden desk, crossing your arms and watching Baelor curiously as he takes in the sight of the room, and then as he takes in the sight of you.

After a moment of quiet, Baelor speaks. "I see why you became such a strong writer." He takes a few steps towards you, and you're distinctly aware of the vanishing space between you two. It's the first time the two of you are truly alone since his arrival. No longer in the presence of at least one of your parents, you allow yourself to take in his appearance more liberally, heart thudding as you do.

He's dressed well, as he typically is. Again, he's wearing a light blue linen shirt that is almost begging you to touch its softness, and the sight of his exposed forearms makes your mouth go dry. He's rolled up the sleeves to cope with the Dornish heat, and it's nearly pathetic what the sight of his arms is doing to you.

"You look good, Baelor." It leaves you without you really thinking, and you flush a little, glancing up at him warily to gauge his reaction. You'd kissed the man for the gods' sake, yet you still didn't quite know how to do this. Where things stood between you two. And now he's at your childhood home about to have dinner with your parents. You almost laughed at the surreal absurdity of it, but the feeling of Baelor's hand on your's stops you.

His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. Lifting your hand up slowly, his eyes don't leave your's as he presses the faintest kiss to it. He's still holding it when he replies.

"You look beautiful." He swallows, letting his eyes flicker down over your body briefly, before meeting your almost shy gaze once again.

You scoff, and pull your hand away from his, gently.

"Right. I've just come out of the shower and haven't even bothered to dry my hair. Thank you, though." You try and play off his compliment, rolling your eyes with a smile. He doesn't let you.

"Exactly. You look- at home. I don't take it lightly that I get to see this side of you. It's special to me."

His sentimental words catch you off guard. With his odd behaviour in the earlier part of the day, you weren't entirely sure what to expect from Baelor, and you had prepared to perhaps have to deal with a colder version of the man in front of you. You certainly hadn't prepared for such earnestness, for him to kiss the back of your hand chivalrously.

Your expression softens, as you meet his eyes, and you feel it again. The magnetic current between your bodies. Unconsciously, you straighten against the desk, your head bowing forward slightly. Baelor leans forward too—he can't stop himself—and the hand he had used to gently lift your's just moments ago almost burns your skin through the fabric of your dress as it lands on your waist.

He flicks his eyes down to your lips, still a little flushed from your warm shower, and leans even closer until he's inches away.

"Dinner's ready!" Your mother calls, and with a frustrated sigh, Baelor presses his forehead to your's, shutting his eyes for just a moment, and then he's leaning back, away from you. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand and stares at a spot on the ground.

"Coming!" You call, after a pause, catching yourself, willing your voice to sound lighthearted, and not laden with the frustration you felt at the poor timing. With a sigh you push yourself off the desk, clearing your throat a little. "Let's not keep them waiting."

He says nothing in reply, but steps aside to let you walk past him, and he shudders as your arm brushes the front of his shirt. It takes everything in him to not simply reach out for you and pull you into him. Instead, he looks up for a moment, steadying himself before facing your parents again, and then follows after you, gazing at the back of your head.

It had taken Baelor a while to relax after your encounter in the office. He had been so close to kissing you again, something he'd been wanting to do for hours. He wanted to remember how your lips felt on his, how your body felt pressed against his, to be reassured that it hadn't been a drunken mistake. At the same time as he longed for it, he berated himself, yet again, for his uncharacteristic lack of restraint.

He chewed slowly, staring at his plate in thought in a moment of quiet, after having been peppered with questions from your curious parents continuously for the first half of dinner. What was proving a challenge to him was the fact that he was sharply aware of the puzzled look on your face, of the way you'd lean forward slightly to try and meet his eyes from your spot in the chair beside him. He wanted to give you a soft smile, to place his hand on yours, or perhaps rest it on your thigh. Gods how he wanted that. Instead he replied attentively to your parents' questions, responded in kind with his own polite queries, and made positive remarks praising your mother's cooking. If Baelor was good at anything, this was it. Squashing down his own feelings for the sake of propriety, ignoring the painful burning in his chest for the sake of small talk.

After a while you seemed to give up trying to catch his gaze, and trying to engage him in a playful conversation. Instead, you leaned back into your chair, poking at your food, trying to smile at your mother and father. You could play the game too. It was something you'd grown accustomed to at many stuffy dinners at King's. You gave your parents the space to satisfy all their curiosities about Baelor, the older man you'd invited to the table, and chimed in with a light remark every now and then.

"So how did the two of you become acquainted then? In the library I expect." Your dad jokes and lifts his glass of wine to you, smiling fondly. You press a smile back but it doesn't land as tenderly as it normally would, due to the simmering feeling of guilt in your stomach, due to the deception to come. You couldn't really tell him that you'd met sitting in his classroom.

"Something like that." You begin, wanly, and then smile. "No- Baelor's focus is Philosophy and Ethics, so naturally trade ethics came up a lot in conversations, dinner parties, the usual King's fare."

"Ah. Trade ethics. Your grandfather would be proud." Your father replies, taking a healthy sip from his wine, and turning back to Baelor, a question on his lips.

"Oh- you must be the lecturer she TA's with then. I must say you seem different from-"

"No, darling-" Your mother interjects. "This is Baelor. I believe her friend's name is Lyonel."

"Colleague." You correct, and lean back, swirling your wine around a little, and throwing Baelor an apologetic look. He smiles tightly, his eyes meeting yours finally, and then flicking back across to your parents.

"My apologies. Baelor. How are you finding the fish?"

You chuckle to yourself at how quickly your father has moved on, and give your mother a knowing look. It's a quirk of his you'd always found amusing, his attention hopping from one topic to another, but you were certain it brought your mother some ire from time to time. Dinner progresses, and as much as you feel a slight tinge of disappointment that Baelor has not spoken directly with you at the table, you push it aside, trying to simply enjoy being back at the dinner table with your parents again.

You kept up the effort for a good amount of time, but as desserts were polished off plates, your leg began shaking under the table, and impatience made it's way to your finger tips around the stem of your wine glass.

Baelor's eyes flicked down to the way your index finger kept tapping on the glass and it made him feel a sense of comfort, knowing that, to some degree, you were clearly waiting for the end of dinner, waiting for a moment to be alone with him again. He was much better at remaining composed, at not letting his impatience seep into his physical body. The only telltale sign was the way he was rotating the ring on his middle finger while nodding as your mother spoke about Dornish weather and pottery.

With a bolt of inspiration, you sit up in your chair.

"Speaking of pottery-" You begin, suddenly energised by having a real excuse to speak with Baelor alone again, "I promised I would show Baelor some of Great Aunt Myrella's pottery. I showed him the one at the gallery but that one's, you know-"

"-Ugh." Your father agrees, shutting his eyes as if almost picturing the sad display. "I keep offering them some of her better ones, you know."

"I know. That's what I said to Baelor." You reply, standing and making your way to the other side of the table to wrap your arms around your father, giving him a fond kiss on the cheek.

"Well of course! You know where they are. We'll begin cleaning up in here if you're all done." He pats your hand fondly and lets you stand.

"-Oh, try and catch the sunset after. You must show Baelor the view from the rocks." Your mother chimes in as you make your way to her, giving her a similar kiss on the cheek, thanking her for the meal.

It catches you off guard a little. Her suggestion. Of course, when you'd invite your friends round, it was nearly a tradition. You'd walk outside with them after a big meal, often with a few glasses and a bottle of dessert wine in hand, and you'd sit on the rocks, dangling your legs in the water. But it was the way she had said it this time that caused you to pause slightly, and glance back down at her with curiosity. She simply raised her eyebrows and smiled, all too innocently for your liking. With a quiet hum, you straighten, and look up at Baelor, still seated across the table now. The look on his face is arresting. There's a softness there, and you wonder what it is that is running through his head as he watches you and your mother.

Baelor feels his heart stutter as he watches you from across the table. The image before him is painfully domestic, and the sweetness of it makes his breathing catch. The fondness on your mother’s face is plain to see, as is the love in your eyes as you wrap your arms around her. It makes him think of a thousand things all at once. His own mother, when he had been a boy in Dorne so many years ago. Those memories were faint for him, clouded in layers of his mother’s silk dresses and his father’s linen shirts. It hurt to think of, and so Baelor found he hardly ever did.

But faced with the picture of you, holding your mother, in the soft evening light across the dinner table, he was faced with a deep yearning, laced with some pain. He loathes the facade you both had to wear in the moment. He wonders how your mother would react if he'd simply come clean, if he'd tell her that the two of you were- well he didn't quite know what the two of you were. He certainly didn't have a name for it. He just felt a painful desire to be a part of the picture, the tender inside jokes with your parents, to be able to take your hand in front of them, to tug you into his side. Perhaps it was his loneliness, his hours spent alone in university housing, the number of times he'd phone Matarys or Valaar and it would end up going to voicemail. Not that he blamed them for it, he knew they were likely busy with friends, but he missed dinners with them when they were both boys, missed playing with them in the garden, lifting Valaar onto his shoulders and dipping him back. The soft tender display he spotted between you and your mother certainly brought all those yearnings back.

And then the guilt flooded into his system. You were half his age — perhaps not quite that young — but close enough that it made him feel ashamed for watching you with such fondness in his eyes, ashamed for even imagining himself at the table as something more than simply a colleague.

And then your eyes met his, and he froze, trying to focus his attention onto what your mother had been saying.

"Okay, leave some dishes for me to clean up later. Don't do them all!"

Baelor snaps out of his musing, and straightens in his chair, pushing away from the table to stand.

"Come on. I'll show you the vases and the bowls upstairs, then we can get some air."

Suddenly remembering his manners, he walks around the table to where you stand waiting, and walks past you to help pull out your mother's chair as he catches her standing.

"The meal was wonderful. Thank you ever so much. If you ever visit King's I would be honoured to take you out to dinner. Unfortunately I am not as talented a chef as you are." The flattery causes your mother's cheeks to redden, and she pulls Baelor in for a quick kiss on the cheek, taking his hands.

"You are too charming, Baelor. It was our pleasure." He releases her hand. Throughout the exchange you'd been chewing on the inside of your cheek, watching the scene thoughtfully. Baelor turns to you, and you press a smile his way, and tilt your head in the direction of the stairs leading to the second floor. You chuckle as you hear your mother and father chatting in the kitchen, hearing their voices fade away with every step upstairs you took.

"Your parents are lovely." Baelor's voice rumbles a little as he follows, a step behind you. It is the first comment he has made your way directly, and you find that you had missed it.

"I love them dearly. They've been nothing but generous and supportive to me. My entire life."

Baelor hums in reply, and returns your smile as you look back at him once you reached the top step.

"It's clear they love each other very much." He continues, taking in the way your white dress flits about in the gentle evening breeze, the way your bare feet pad on the terracotta tiles. He casts a look back down into the open courtyard, watching your father stack the dinner plates, before vanishing into the kitchen again.

"I know—they've set a strong example for me to follow. Although I must say it's given me quite high expectations."

"-Of love?" Baelor utters quickly before he can stop himself, and he grimaces a little as he catches the slight pause in your step, and the way your head turns slightly, as if you're about to turn and look at him. You straighten for a moment, but continue to walk ahead of him slowly, leading the way to the upstairs guest room which housed your family's heirloom artifacts.

"I suppose. Of friendship, companionship, respect. Of sacrifice." You turn to look at him then, a light glint in your eye. You slow and allow him to catch up with you, watching him curiously. Your heart had stopped when he'd said the word. Love. You'd tried to ignore the fluttering in your stomach when he'd said it. It was far too early to even consider that. You thought to yourself. Not only was he your professor, still, but the two of you were still on rather shaky, undefined ground. You didn't want to pain yourself by associating the concept of love with Baelor in your mind.

"My parents were a good example of some of those things, but perhaps not love. Things work a little differently in my family."

Your eyebrow lifts for a moment as you eye Baelor while rounding the corner to the room. His was an ancient family, dating back generations. You were no stranger to how some of the upper crust families like his operated — marriages of convenience, strategic partnerships and lasting investments — but you'd never dared to pry, never dared to ask Baelor a personal question about his family, about the Targaryens.

"Perhaps the only exception to that is my younger brother, Maekar. He truly loved his wife. Was never the same after she passed."

You stop in your tracks, one hand pressed on the door to the guest room. Baelor's low tone causes you to turn, and you catch the faraway look in his eye as he stares at your hand on the door, clearly miles away. You move your hand and, tentatively, place it instead onto Baelor's shoulder. He looks up at you instantly with something burning in his eyes.

Softly, and with some trepidation, you speak, peering up at him.

"Well it seems to me that you love your brother very much. That makes you an exception, too. And your sons."

Baelor freezes. It's unclear whether it was in response to your light touch on his shoulder, or your mention of his sons. It was a sensitive topic for him, and seeing you with your parents had put him into an oddly sensitive mood. His eyes looked glassy for a moment, and you were unable to stop yourself from moving your hand slowly to his cheek. You stepped closer to him in the dark alcove.

"It seems to me there's a lot of love in your family, too." His eyes flick up to yours, and the burning in them is arresting. He tilts his head slightly, into your palm, and you feeling your pulse jump in your neck. Swallowing past the feeling, you let your thumb gently brush his cheek bone, inhaling at the sight of his eyes fluttering shut. His hand comes up to cup yours where it is on his cheek, as if he doesn't want you to let go. And then he gently pulls it off his face. You frown for a moment, but it vanishes when he presses his lips to the base of your palm, in a barely-there kiss, before releasing your hand, and opening his eyes again.

The act has made you speechless. Your mouth opens, and then it closes again. Baelor takes a step back, his cheeks colouring slightly, though it's hard to see in the dim light of the alcove.

"Come on. I was promised ancient Dornish pottery." It cuts the thickness in the air between you, and you roll your eyes, your hand returning to its spot on the door as you push it open. You miss the feeling of Baelor's cheek in your hand.

The display of pottery was modest, and your visit with Baelor to the guest room didn't last long, as you peered out of the patterned windows and spotted the sun setting over the water. After a quick tour of some of your favourite pieces, and a cheap joke involving you gently throwing one of the bowls in Baelor's direction for him to catch, you led Baelor out of the room and around the back stairs leading back to the exterior of the house.

"Back in a bit!" You call out in the vague direction of the house, leading the way down a set of terracotta stairs towards the well-trodden path that led to the secluded waterfront a few minutes walk down from where the house sat atop the crest.

"This must have been a wonderful place to grow up. You must get homesick."

You groan and nod almost exhaustedly, thinking of the extent of the homesickness you'd often felt while at King's.

"Well, you saw me when you brought out that bottle of Dornish wine in your office. I nearly fainted."

Baelor chuckles at that, and slips his hands into his pockets, watching his steps on some of the more slippery rocks carefully.

"You were eager, certainly."

"Thank you for that— by the way. Feels like a lifetime ago for some reason." He nods, tightly, thinking back to that fateful night. He had thought of it endlessly back in King's. You were right. He thought. It did feel like a lifetime ago. The weight of your hand on his thigh, the heat radiating off you has he leaned closer on his sofa. So much had changed, and yet nothing really had. Especially not in King's. He still shivered when you touched him, whether it was a hand on his thigh or on his shoulder, snf to everyone else, he was still simply your professor. But he couldn't deny the things that had changed between you two — the shared understanding, the shared kisses — they were not things he could undo, or forget. He wasn't sure he wanted to, anyway.

He's aware of his silence as the two of you reach the water's edge, but it is not entirely uncomfortable. He watches the way you expertly find your footing on the rocks, taking a large step onto a few bigger ones. You turn back to him with an almost smug look, eyes flicking down to his leather brogues as they press against the slippery rock.

"No—not that one. That one wobbles. Twisted my ankle on that one plenty of times. Especially after drinking."

Baelor rolls his eyes, but is grateful when you extend a hand out to him to take, as he steps over a particularly large rockpool.

"Here. This part is dry." You pat the spot beside you, wishing you'd brought a blanket or something, hoping Baelor isn't put off by it. He just nods, and settles into the spot with much more ease than he'd had stepping over the rocks.

When he finally settles, you take your eyes off him, and let them settle on the familiar horizon, on the fiery streaks in the water catching the light of the setting sun. The breeze feels just right — not so rough to prove an annoyance, but strong enough to bring that pleasant cooling sensation the skin of your neck and thighs. You shivered slightly as you adjusted to it.

"Perhaps this is what I get the most homesick about."

Baelor turns to regard you, inhaling sharply at the way the last golden rays are shining on your face.

"Quiet evenings after dinner with my family, walks along the waterfront with my friends. Don't get me wrong— I love King's but it's just—"

"—Not the same."

You nod, and turn to meet Baelor's gaze.

"Exactly. Even in the summer the air feels— different. The people— I don't know how to describe it. It's like I'm constantly pretending to be someone I'm not. Only a few people get that. Dunk. Tanselle. Raymun sort of—but he is a Fossaway in the end. He always has the cider business to fall back on. It's not the same for me, or for Dunk."

For a moment you miss your tall friend, wondering how he's managing on his own at King's. You had heard from him perhaps once or twice, during a quick phone call during your lunch break. You hoped he'd finally asked Tanselle out properly, and you were grateful for his friendship with Raymun. You shake your head in frustration at yourself. Seconds ago you had been talking to Baelor about homesickness while being at home, and now you were missing King's a little. You wished you could be content with your situation.

"You don't have to pretend with me. Please don't."

The soft demand in Baelor's tone causes you to turn and look up at him again. He's leaning back, using his hands to prop himself up against the rock, and watching you with his head tilted. His eyes trace over your face, and he's looking at you as if pleading. He continues, sitting up a little more and leaning closer to you. With some effort, he leans on his left arm, allowing his right arm to slowly rise. He brushes the stray hair that has blown across your face in the evening breeze, and pushes the stubborn strands behind your ear.

"It's why I was so drawn to you. There's a depth to you that I don't see in many of the others. A grit and determination that they simply don't need. Truly, it's what makes your work that much more remarkable than theirs. It's what makes you remarkable.

You try to turn away, a little embarrassed by the praise, but Baelor's hand tightens against your cheek, and he stops you.

"I mean it. I'm not just saying it to flatter you. It's magnetising."

He watches you for a moment, the way you shut your eyes as you relax into his palm. With your eyes shut, he allows his eyes to slip down to your lips. He swallows as your lips part when he moves his thumb, gently stroking the soft skin of your cheek.

You open your eyes, and Baelor's face is inches away. And he is staring at your lips. Trembling slightly, you push yourself up until your nose brushes his. He's the one who closes the remaining gap, the hand still on your face holding you just a little tighter as your lips press together desperately.

Baelor sits up fully, and his other hand finds its way to the back of your head, tangling slightly in the hair there, just slightly damp now that it had dried a bit over the course of the evening. You follow him, sitting up and wrapping your arms around his neck to hold yourself up.

He lets out a low sound and shudders, feeling the way your body is pressed into his, and catching himself, gingerly untangles his hand from your hair, letting it rest on your shoulder, and then pushes ever so slightly.

You open your eyes with confusion, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. You catch the movement in Baelor's head even before he says anything, and you open your mouth in protest, beating him to it.

"Don't say it."

His head starts shaking as he slowly utters your name.

"-Don't. Baelor." You hate that it sounds like you're pleading with him.

He says your name again, and it sounds pained.

"This is not a good idea. The gods know how much I want this but— I'm returning to King's on Sunday."

You sigh and shut your eyes, removing your arms from him, and leaning back to recline on the rock. Your arms rest, crossed above your head, blocking out the sight of Baelor hovering beside you. With more frustration than you'd intended, you reply to Baelor, still shutting your eyes.

"I thought you said you didn't want to pretend anymore. Last night— you said you didn't want to lie to yourself about this. Us. Whatever this is." The frustration in your voice was apparent to Baelor, and he wanted nothing more than to take you back into his arms. But the two of you had not been in a state to really talk about things last night after your slightly drunken kiss on the Marlin's patio.

"I don't want to pretend. I'm not pretending. But the fact is that you and I will both be back at King's together at some point. You will be in my class, and I will be supervising your thesis." Now it is Baelor's voice that is beginning to sound tense, his own frustration at the situation seeping through. You finally remove your arms from their place above your face and prop yourself up on your elbows, turning to look at Baelor with a long expression.

"I'm aware." You mumble quietly, taking in the creases in his forehead as he frowns.

"I'm an ethics professor." He declares quietly, shaking his head, staring out at the darkening horizon.

"—I know." He flicks his head towards you and gives you a frustrated look, and you sigh, shaking your head somewhat apologetically. You know how bad it would look. An ethics professor caught having an inappropriate relationship with his ethics student. What was worse was that Baelor was not just any ethics professor. He was likely the next provost of the entire institute. These were all things you knew. All things that hovered in the back of your mind, that you had managed to willfully ignore while you had spent time with Baelor at the museum, the conference, the bar... You knew this conversation was coming, that the reality of the situation would come crashing down eventually. Yet it was still painful to acknowledge. It still hurt to think of what would come next.

"Sorry. It's just— I'm fully aware of the situation we're in. I'm not some naive schoolgirl who believes in fairytales and happy endings."

You hate how bitter you sound, at how your irritation is being directed towards Baelor. It feels like a cruel trick the gods have decided to play — letting you have Baelor for a few days, then tearing him away from you again. You shut your eyes and your head falls back as you let out another sigh.

"Look. I knew this was... the likely outcome. I suppose I've just been in denial. I understand. I just wanted to enjoy this. Just while it lasted." You tilt your head back down, but you can't bring yourself to look at Baelor. Instead you stare at the last glimmer of red on the horizon, where the sun is taking its last breath.

He remains silent, and the anxiety starts to build in you. Without looking at him, you take a breath, and straighten. The sun has now completely vanished beneath the dark horizon. The breeze coming off the sea sends an unpleasant shiver through you.

"Come on. We should head back. Hard to see the rocks in the dark."

Baelor's head flicks up at you as you stand abruptly, and he opens his mouth in protest.

"We still haven't talked about this, you know." His voice is slightly raised, and he's looking at you with some exasperation. He wanted to discuss this. To weigh out the possibilities, to even just convey how emotionally torn he was about the whole situation. It seemed that was far away from what you wanted.

"What is there to talk about?!" It comes out more loudly than you intend; Baelor flinches slightly. You apologise.

"Sorry. Just— we both know it can't happen. No point dragging it out."

Baelor looks like he wants to argue again, still seated on the dark stone. You speak before he is able to.

"There is no universe in which this would work. I know it, and so do you."

It leaves Baelor speechless — the hard finality in your voice. As if there's no other option. She's right. He supposes. But the harshness of it hurts more than he had expected, and it squashes the last of his will to discuss this with you properly, since it seemed you had made up your mind on the matter. The last thing he wanted to do was compromise you further by pushing you when it was clearly not something you wanted to do. He would not abuse his power for that, especially with the position he was in. Silently, he pushes himself up, standing on the rock, and giving you a firm nod before stepping aside.

A look of remorse flashes on your face as you watch Baelor. His hands are in his pockets, now that he's standing, and his shoulders are a little slumped. He's not looking at you, instead staring up ahead of you towards the path leading back to your parents' house.

It had been harsh, and you regretted snapping at him, but it was all just a reflection of how painful this was for you. He'd be gone, in a few days, and you'd be in Dorne no doubt thinking of your time with him. He'd go back to his classes in King's — a schedule packed with meetings, office hours, lectures — and you'd be stuck with the ghost of him, the ghost of his kisses and tender touches. And then, eventually, you'd be back at King's with him. Back to sitting by the large window, back to trying not to stare as he delivered his lecture, back to avoiding his gaze, back to lonely university mixer evenings, surrounded by people who didn't even see you.

You wished you had been more sensible and just avoided this inevitable pain. With a shake of your head, you turn. Your feet automatically find the right place to step, after years of practice, even in the dark, and you begin the walk up to the house. In spite of your hurt, you turn a few times, making sure Baelor is following, and while your mouth opens a few times, you find that you have no words to speak. Nothing that would suitably convey the complexity of feeling in your chest, the thoughts whirling in your head.

The two of you finally make it up the hill to the crest where the house sits. It is dimly lit inside, and you can see your parents reclining at the table with books in their hands, cups of Dornish iced tea in front of them.

"I hope you enjoyed the view! We are in a beautiful spot here. If only you'd been here for New Year's! You would've seen the fireworks over the water." Your mother places her book down, and smiles eagerly up at you and Baelor as you enter, a little out of breath from the steep walk up.

"Thank you. It was a wonderful way to end the evening. You have been most welcoming to me. I hope I can return the favour one day." The finality in Baelor's voice is evident, and with disappointment pooling in your stomach, you know he is about to leave.

"Won't you stay for some tea before leaving?" Your father adds, peering up at Baelor over the top of his book, said more out of politeness than anything.

"No, no. I must be heading back. I am rather fatigued from the conference, and I have some emails to catch up on." His voice sounds a little strained, and you chance a look at him while he is turned towards your parents. He looks more tired than you had been conscious of, and the remorse builds in you again as you reflect on your harsh tone with him.

"Why don't you walk Baelor out, darling. Thank you for coming. You are welcome here anytime you are in Dorne.

You turn wordlessly towards the front door, footsteps slow and heavy. You push the door open, holding it to allow Baelor to follow you outside, and then you gently release it, letting it shut behind you two. Your feet take you automatically to the front gate, your eyes tracing the small stones that make a path in the front garden. Baelor is still silent, and so are you.

The creaking of the gate causes you to look up at him as he pulls it open. Your eyes meet his.

"I suppose this is it?" You ask, but it comes out as more of a mumble. Baelor's hand lifts, but it falters. He lowers it.

"Will I see you before I leave?" It's quiet when he asks, whispered almost. His eyes glimmer with the smallest amount of fading hope.

You sigh. Before this evening, you had fantasised about a weekend with Baelor, walking through the narrow streets of Dorne, visiting the Saturday market, sitting squashed together in an intimate restaurant. Those images shattered in your mind as you watched Baelor, hesitantly pushing against the gate.

"I don't know. I don't want things to be weird, but it's sort of— it's hard now, Baelor."

He immediately looks away, a frown lining his forehead. He nods.

"Okay. I understand."

It makes your heart thud painfully, and guilt stabs at you. As Baelor pushes the gate open, you step forward.

"I'm meeting up with my friends tomorrow night. After work. We're having dinner at the restaurant we went to on Monday, then going to the Dockside Tavern after. You should come. One last hurrah." You try to cut through the thick tension, the dark mood you'd plunged the two of you into. Perhaps it could be an olive branch, a way of ending things as friends, rather than enemies. You didn't want this to be the last memory you had of Baelor in Dorne, and you didn't want it to ruin his memories of his time here.

He doesn't look up at you. Instead he frowns at a piece of rust that flakes off the fence. It creaks again as he pushes it open.

"Thanks. I— I'll think about it." His tone is flat, and he flicks his eyes over your face for just a moment before he turns to look at the gate again. You stand, watching as he pushes it open fully this time, and steps out. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and he turns to the left, trudging to the corner of the street. You watch until he vanishes, wishing he would give you one more glance. The iron gate clinks shut, and automatically, your hand lifts to press against the spot Baelor had been holding onto, feeling the roughness of the rust beneath your palm.

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a/n: Sorry I'm so mean!! Also I've had major motivation issues since finishing my exams so this took longer than expected and went a slightly different direction from what I was intending. I actually decided to split this one into two chapters, so there will be another part out hopefully soonish, and at least one more after that? We'll see haha.