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𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 : 𝓽𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝑱𝒆𝒏𝒂 𝑫𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⚡︎

* ˖ ݁ ✦⠀an independent, canon-divergent portrayal of 𝑱𝒆𝒏𝒂 𝑫𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒏 from George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire universe. This interpretation draws from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, but is primarily rooted in personal headcanons and AUs. Mature themes ahead. Strictly 21+, minors do not interact. Written by Lyra (30, she/her). This is a sideblog to @starlitsonnets.

I don't think the Targaryens are meant to be seem positively either way, the fact of the matter is that the Dance is meant to show how they were always self-destructive and rotten from the inside out.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐎𝐍, 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐋𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐋 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓. Harwin sat in the driveway for four minutes; the dashboard clock blinking from 11:47 to 11:51 while he gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, engine idling, heat cycling through the vents in a low mechanical exhale that fogged the bottom edge of the windshield in a slow creep. He didn't remember the drive to his father's house. Later, perhaps, he would remember pieces of it: the red smear of brake lights ahead of him on the rain-dark road, the low mutter of the radio he had not turned off, how his hands had sat too hard around the steering wheel, as though the whole world might veer off course if he loosened his grip for even a second. He would remember stopping at a green light until someone behind him leaned on the horn, he'd remember taking the turn too fast, remember the ridiculous, ordinary sight of Mrs. Tullys bins still out at the curb and thinking, with a strange and almost violent clarity, that the bin collection was tomorrow. The key missed the lock twice. On the third attempt, he gave up on gentleness entirely and shoved the door open hard enough that it struck the inside wall with a hollow, reprimanding crack. The house smelled exactly as it always had: old wood, cold hearth, black tea gone tannic in the pot, the faint waxy polish his father’s housekeeper used on Fridays. Had it beeshould have taken him back to a hundred evenings of coming home furious from rugby, bloodied from some stupid boyhood scrap, or sullen from school, or drunk from university and trying to pretend he wasn’t. Lyonel Strong’s house had always seemed made for the containment of storms. Thick walls. Heavy doors. Books in every room. Lamps that cast a modest gold over everything, forgiving nothing, concealing little. Harwin stood in the entryway, one hand still on the open door, rain stippling the shoulders of his coat, his chest rising and falling as though he had run the whole distance rather than driven. He had not thought to call; he had not thought at all, really, beyond the blind instinct of a man struck clean through and looking, stupidly, for the person who had taught him how to stand upright.

❛ . . . Dad. ❜ From somewhere deeper in the house came the shifting creak of an armchair, the soft drag of a slipper across the floor. Harwin shut the door behind him because the cold followed him in. He moved before Lyonel could properly appear, crossing the hall in three long strides, then stopping just short of the sitting room. There was his father’s reading lamp; there were the old legal journals stacked in militant little towers beside the chair. There was the framed photograph of Harwin and Larys as boys on the mantel, both of them sunburnt and squinting, Harwin’s grin missing one front tooth, Larys looking solemnly betrayed by the existence of daylight. His stomach churned. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his sternum, as if something there had come loose and he might keep it in place by force. ❛ I didn’t know where else to go. ❜

That much was true. ( It was also not enough. ) He looked up at his father then, properly, and the sight of Lyonel’s face made the fragile scaffolding of Harwin’s control shudder.  A sound left him, sharp and humourless, almost a laugh and almost not. Then he turned away before his father could say whatever was gathering behind his eyes. The old liquor cabinet stood where it always had, dark wood polished to a dull shine, its brass handles gone soft with age and use. Harwin pulled one open too hard. Glass chimed inside. ( Lyonel said nothing. ) He took the first bottle his hand found. Whiskey, he thought, though he hardly looked at the label. His fingers were damp enough that the stopper nearly slipped. He poured badly, too much and too fast, amber splashing against the side of the glass, and drank half of it before he had even shut the cabinet. He inhaled it, throat working around the burn, eyes closing for one hard second as the heat went through him and found nothing inside capable of warming.  When he turned back, the glass was still in his hand. ❛ I don’t . . . I don’t know how to say this. ❜ He swallowed. His mouth tasted faintly of rain and bile and whiskey, the three of them sitting sour on his tongue. For a moment he could hear the weather against the windows more clearly than his own thoughts; the soft, relentless tapping of it, like fingers on a closed door. ❛ My resident . . . Rhaenyra . . . ❜ His grip tightened around the glass. ❛ As in Viserys’ daughter, Rhaenyra. ❜ He pressed his tongue briefly to the back of his teeth, trying to force the rest of it out.  ❛ She . . . ❜ He dragged a hand through his damp hair, fingers caught at the crown of his head, elbow lifted, the posture almost defensive though there was nothing in the room to shield himself from. ❛ She’s pregnant. ❜

He turned away, then back again, unable to settle in his own skin; the sitting room was too warm. His coat was too heavy. His ribs felt too narrow for breath. The whiskeyy had done nothing but set fire to the hollow places, and all at once he wanted another drink with such immediacy that it frightened him. Harwin looked at Lyonel, rain tracking cold beneath his collar now, and whatever remained of his composure sat very still and very small inside him.  ❛ As bloody unbelievable as it is, we met the night before her first day of residency. I didn’t know who she was; she didn't know who I was. I didn’t know she was coming to St. Harrenhal the next morning, that she'd standing in front of me in orientation less than twelve hours later. If I'd known, I would never, you know I would have never . . . I swear to you, I didn’t know. ❜ His laugh was brief and miserable. ❛ She called herself Nyra. ❜ He sank finally onto the edge of the chair opposite his father’s; his elbows rested on his thighs. ❛ And now she’s pregnant. Twelve weeks, along. Too late to terminate. ❜ His voice thinned at the edges. ❛ And Viserys— ❜ There, the name struck stone, and Harwin inhaled, but the air did not go very far. ❛ He’s going to kill me. ❜

𝐋𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐋 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍. Not because the stream of words within him had grown parched, but because silence had long been his first and truest instrument of understanding. He preferred to observe, to assess, to analyse before acting. Tonight, however, as his eldest son crossed the threshold of the old house with the expression of a man who was drowning, Lyonel did not need time or analysis. The very moment his eyes lifted from the paper in his lap and settled on Harwin’s face, he knew something was wrong. His son's expression was etched with uncertainty, with fear, with helplessness. Whatever weighed on him went far beyond the ordinary exhaustion of a long shift or the lingering shadow of a bad outcome in the Pit. He knew it the way he had always known when Ellyn’s heart was in turmoil. While she had lived, she had scarcely ever been able to veil what emotions lived in her from Lyonel’s gaze. Whether fury lit her over something he had most certainly done wrong, or amusement softened the corners of her mouth at his nonsense, or affection made her eyes soft — his darling wife had been so achingly easy for him to see, and so very easy to love. Their children had inherited so much of her. Especially Harwin. His boy had never fully mastered the art of concealment. Not from him. And tonight his emotions were a tempestuous storm. Lyonel said nothing at first. He folded the paper with measured calm, the rustle of the pages the only sound that came from him. He did not ask. He would not. Harwin had come here for a reason, and Lyonel had always believed that the greatest gift a father could give was the space to speak when the words were finally ready to come. He simply waited.

When the words did come, pouring in a raw and desperate rush, Lyonel felt the startle of it all settle deep in his chest. Rhaenyra Targaryen was pregnant with Harwin's child. For a split second his eyes widened, and a cold thread of disbelief stitching tight around his ribs. His blood seemed to still in his veins. Viserys’s daughter. Twelve weeks along. A child already growing in the most complicated of wombs. The absurdity of it, the cruel poetry of fate’s scheme, struck him with such force that he was nearly inspired to scoff. He did not. He steadied, because what his son needed now was anchorage, for the ground beneath his feet to remain solid when it threatened to give way completely. His posture remained relaxed against the worn leather of the chair, his gaze never leaving Harwin’s face; warm with the very paternal affection that had weathered every storm the boy had ever brought home. First and foremost, he cared about the wellbeing of the man sitting across from him — about easing the wild tides of panic and helplessness he could see crashing behind his eyes.

❛ Breathe, son, ❜ he said at last, the words a reminder more than command. ❛ You will do no one any good if you pass out on my floor. ❜ There was no anger in Lyonel. There should have been, perhaps. There would have been, had Harwin known who she was the night they met. But he hadn’t known. The whole thing was an improbable twist of fate, a collision of lives that should never have intersected in that way. And Lyonel could not be angry for it. He trusted his son. He knew Harwin’s moral code better than he knew his own hands. Harwin, who as a boy had never broken a rule without carrying the guilt of it like a stone in his chest. Harwin, who had followed every instruction with solemn focus during his OB rotations. Harwin, whose sense of right and wrong had always been something profoundly admirable. The terror and the guilt swimming in his eyes told Lyonel everything he needed to know. This had not been a line crossed in knowledge. It had been an honest mistake. But seven hells, what a mistake it was.

Gods. Rhaenyra of all people. Rhaenyra. Viserys and sweet Aemma’s daughter. The fierce little girl he had known of since the day she was born; the girl he'd watched raise her chin in petulant defiance and wreak havoc in tulle. The girl who was meant to inherit the very hospital Lyonel’s own family had founded, the girl already carrying the weight of an empire on her shoulders. Viserys did not know yet. But he would. Twelve weeks along, and there would be no hiding the truth for much longer. Lyonel would have worried more for Harwin’s position at St. Harrenhal if it were not for his own standing as business partner and friend. Viserys would not be pleased, he might even direct some of that famous Targaryen temper toward Lyonel himself but he would not dare let it touch Harwin’s career. Not truly. Unfortunately, it was Rhaenyra who would likely bear the brunt of it. Lyonel could not help the sharp pang of pity that moved through him for the girl. Where she would need a father’s comfort, she was likely to receive only reprimand and scrutiny.

❛ Viserys will do no such thing. ❜ He said calmly as he rose in unhurried movement, the floorboards creaking gently beneath the slippers Jeyne had gifted him at his last birthday. Lyonel crossed to the liquor cabinet, his hand finding his most favoured bottle. With steady hands he poured himself a glass, the amber liquid catching the dim light. When he turned back to Harwin, he did not step to his chair. Instead he crossed the short distance to where his son sat, and with one hand still curled around his glass, the other reached out to help peel the rain-damp coat from his son’s broad shoulders. The fabric was heavy, cold, the scent of the night’s storm clinging to it. Lyonel draped it carefully across the armrest. The gesture was easy and tender, the first small attempt to lift some fraction of the weight his boy was carrying. Then his hand came to rest on Harwin’s shoulder, fingers pressing in a reassuring squeeze — and in that touch alone he poured his conviction that love and steadiness could set most things right. He withdrew after a moment and returned to his seat, sinking into the leather with a soft sigh. Lyonel's mouth settled into something almost wistful, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening with memory.

❛ You were, I believe, only nine years old when you drove your bike into your mother’s bed of hyacinths. The flowers were crushed beneath the wheels, and Ellyn was discontented, though not truly angry. It had, after all, been an accident. But you, gods, boy — you took it as the gravest crime you might ever have committed. I have never seen a child so devoted to the act of making amends as you were in those weeks that followed. You spent every spare hour on your knees in that dirt, trying to coax life back into the damn plants. And the flowers thrived for it. Your unintended mishap was rectified, and in the tending of it I would be bold enough to claim that you discovered a new fondness, a new patience. You took responsibility, and many good things came of it. The flowers bloomed brighter than before, your mother was delighted, and you learned that broken things can be made whole again if one is willing to try. ❜ He chuckled then, the sound low and fond as his expression softened.

❛ This is not as simple as a trampled flowerbed, I admit. You have gotten yourself into quite a mess, lad, and it will require that very devotion that I know you are capable of. Regardless of how you feel for her, and vice versa, Rhaenyra will need you. She will need your patience and your steadiness. I know Viserys. I know how deeply he loves his daughter. But when he finds out, he is going to have a reaction that will leave her feeling quite lonely, I reckon. You need to be there. In whatever capacity she’ll have you. And we, I, will catch you in return. It will be alright, Harwin. ❜

I didn't take this post for the glory. There is no glory in this.

I swore an oath before I knew what oaths cost. I have been paying ever since.

You should not be in this part of the city at this hour. I will not ask again.

My loyalty belongs to the crown. 

Stand down. All of you. I said stand down! 

I have kept this city's peace for fifteen years. You have undone me in fifteen days.

You come to me with this now. At this hour. With blood on your hands and no explanation.

The gate closes at sundown. You knew that. Why are you only arriving now?

There are things I have done in service of this city that I will not speak of. Not to you. Not to anyone.

Lower your voice. These walls remember everything said within them.

I have followed orders my entire life. I am looking at you and wondering, for the first time, what it would mean to refuse one.

You are not safe here. 

My men did not see you. As far as this watch is concerned you were never here tonight.

I have held this post through three rulers. I will not compromise it. Not even for you.

The city does not sleep. Neither do I. We have that in common, at least.

Tell me what you know and tell me quickly. I have neither time nor patience for half truths.

I understand sacrifice. What I do not understand is being asked to sacrifice you.

Nobody passes through this gate without my leave.

I have drawn this sword in service of causes I did not believe in. I will not draw it against you.

You ask me to look the other way. You do not know what you are asking.

A commander does not have the luxury of doubt. I have been doubting since the moment I met you.

The fog comes in heavy off the river at this hour. Stay close.

I know every shadow in this city. I know every place a person might hide. I will find who did this.

You should fear me. Most people do. The fact that you do not is either very brave or very foolish.

I have given this city everything it has asked of me. Tonight it is asking for something I cannot give.

My second will take the watch. You and I need to speak somewhere without ears in the walls.

The law is the law. I did not write it. I do not always agree with it. I enforce it nonetheless.

You, of all people, came to the barracks. What has happened?

I have seen men break under far less. You are still standing. That means something.

Do not mistake my silence for approval, boy. Do not mistake it for indifference either.

I was told you were trouble the day you arrived in this city. I should have listened.

A knight serves. That is the whole of it. Serve, protect, endure. I have never wanted more than that until now.

I have enemies in every quarter of this city. I will not have you become a target because of your association with me.

The order came from above me. I am not certain it came from a place I still respect.

Put the blade down. I am asking you as someone who does not wish to see you hanged.

There are two kinds of people in a city like this. Those who are protected and those who do the protecting. I have always known which one I am.

You should not trust me simply because I wear this cloak. Trust must be earned. Let me earn it.

I will not pretend the law bends for sentiment. I will also not pretend I am without sentiment where you are concerned.

My duty ends at that door. What happens beyond it is between you and whatever gods you keep.

You are asking me to betray everything I have built my life upon.

The city watch answers to the crown. I answer to the city watch. Tonight I find myself answering to something else entirely.

I have buried men I called brothers. I have mourned them quietly and moved on because the realm does not pause for grief.

I am not accustomed to being seen. Only to being obeyed.

Ride out at first light. Take nothing that marks you as known to me. I will follow when I can.

You remind me of something I gave up a long time ago.

FOR ONE SUSPENDED BREATH, Samira saw the life he was offering her—and then, with merciless clarity, she saw everything else. The tears had slowed to a trickle, hiccups still catching in her throat, but her voice has fled somewhere deep, cowering behind her heart which is beating so loudly she is certain he must hear it. His thumb moves against her cheek, still brushing away the wetness there, and she realizes with a start that she has been holding her breath. She exhales shakily, her hand still trapped in his, her fingers now loosening their death-grip to thread tentatively through his own. But even as his warmth bleeds into her skin, even as his heartbeat thunders against her ear where her forehead rests near his collarbone, her mind betrays her. It pulls her out of this moment, this sanctuary of his arms, and deposits her ruthlessly back into the fluorescent-lit reality of the pitt. She sees it all at once, and wishes she didn't: the corridors, the nurses' station with its undercurrent of gossip, the locker room where the other residents change in and out of scrubs and trade stories about their attendings with the casual cruelty of the overworked and ambitious. They will destroy me, she thinks, they will say I slept my way to good evaluations. They will say I was never that good; they will say he favored me, gave me the good cases, the easy night shift rotations, and now look—look what happened. She can hear it already, the whispers that would start before she even began to show. The sideways glances, the sudden silence when she enters the break room, and how her achievements would be reframed overnight from earned to given. 

She thinks of Dr. Chen, who had a baby during her first year of residency and returned to find her mentor suddenly "too busy" to write her fellowship recommendation. She thinks of the way the other residents had spoken about her behind her back—She's not serious about the work anymore, you can tell. Her head's not in the game. Once they have kids, they always choose family over the job. The words had been spoken with a smug certainty that made Samira's stomach turn, even as she had nodded along, desperate to distance herself from that fate, to prove she was different . . . but she wasn't, was she? She had become the cautionary tale. The resident who got knocked up by her attending, who let her personal life contaminate her professional one, who couldn't keep her legs closed long enough to finish her training. Gold digger, she imagines them saying, hissed over coffee cups in the cafeteria. Sleeping her way to the top and now she's trapped him. Poor Dr. Abbot, he never saw it coming.

The unfairness of it burns in her throat, acidic and hot. Jack is twelve years her senior. He is established, tenured in all the ways that matter, his reputation ironclad. If this comes out, he might face a slap on the wrist, a stern conversation at most, but he would survive. He would recover. The medical world forgives men their indiscretions, renames them scandals, affairs, or poor judgment, and then moves on. But for her—for a woman, for a resident, for someone still climbing the ladder with bloody fingernails—there would be no such forgiveness. There would only be the permanent stain of it, the question mark that would follow her to every interview, every fellowship application, every job offer for the rest of her career. She can see the fellowship committees now, the way their eyes would slide away from her CV, finding the gap, the irregularity, the story that doesn't quite line up. She understands with crushing clarity that there are no exceptions. Only choices, and consequences, and the cold truth a world that still believes women cannot be doctors and mothers simultaneously, that still views pregnancy as a dereliction of duty, a failure of commitment, a biological betrayal of the profession. The grief of it is so sharp, because she has worked so hard, because she has sacrificed so much—relationships, sleep, sanity, the semblance of a normal life in her twenties—all to prove that she belonged here, that she was good enough, that she deserved it. And now, in one fell swoop, she risks becoming the thing they whisper about in dark corners: the talented resident who lost her edge, who got distracted, who chose love over ambition and proved them all right. The imposter syndrome that she has kept locked in a box for three years would be unleashed, validated, given teeth. She would spend the rest of her career wondering if they were right, if every achievement was tainted, if she had only gotten this far because she was pretty, because she was available, because she had spread her legs for the right man at the right time.

Her hand tightens in Jack's again from the vertigo of realizing how high she has climbed and how far she has to fall. But beneath all that fear, treacherous and persistent as it is, there is the other thing. The wanting. The image she cannot banish of a child with Jack's patience and her stubbornness, with his warm eyes and her dark skin, a small perfect amalgamation of them both. She imagines holding that child, imagines the weight of it in her arms, imagines Jack's face when he first sees it. The thought of it is so vivid it makes her chest ache with a yearning so deep it feels like it could swallow her whole. His hand is still on her face, and his eyes are searching hers with such affection, such unwavering devotion, and he had said you and me, as if that were a fortress they could hide inside, as if their love could be enough to deflect the blows that are coming. She wants to believe it; she wants to believe that they could weather it, that his support would be enough, that together they could be stronger than the gossip and the judgment and the professional suicide she is contemplating. But she has been a woman in medicine long enough to know that she will bear the brunt of it alone. Jack will be the tragic hero, the man who fell in love, perhaps foolishly, but understandably—men will be men, after all. She will be the seductress.

Her lips part; her throat works. She wants to say: I love you, and I'm terrified, but all that emerges is a small, broken sound, a hitch of breath that is half sob, half surrender. She presses her palm flat against his chest as if she can borrow some of his steadiness; her forehead creases, the struggle visible in every line of her face, the effort of holding all these contradictory truths at once, that she wants this, that she cannot afford this, that she is terrified of both having it and not having it, that there is no version of this choice that does not involve loss. For a moment, she thinks about him, and what he is offering, and whether she believes him. Whether she can believe anyone who says they will be there, when she has learned that the only person she can truly rely on is herself. Whether this love is enough to build a family on, or whether it’s just the beginning of a much longer, much harder conversation about sacrifice and the slow erosion of romance.  ❛ I want all of those things too, ❜ she says, and the words come out barely above a whisper, as if speaking them too loudly might make them real in a way she is not ready for. She swallows, her throat still tight, and forces herself to continue. ❛ The mornings. The traveling. The normal days. I want them with you. I've wanted them for longer than I've been willing to admit, even to myself. ❜ She laughs, a small, watery sound that is closer to a sob. ❛ I want to be a mom, Jack. I've always wanted to be a mom. I just didn't want to be a mom yet, and now I'm terrified that if I wait for the right time, there won't be one, or that the right time will come and I'll have missed this chance, and I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I'd been brave enough. ❜ She pauses, her breath shaky, and she feels the tears rising again. Her hand falls from his jaw to his shoulder, gripping there, her fingers digging in slightly as if she can hold onto him and hold onto herself at the same time. ❛ But I know I don't want to decide alone. I know I don't want to carry this by myself. If we do this, if we choose this, I need it to be because we both want it now, not because you're supporting me or my choice. I need you to be in it, Jack. I need you to tell me what you want, what you really want, when you look at all of it: the mess, the risk, the complication, the us. I need you to tell me if you want this baby. If you really want me in the long haul, if you really feel that way. If you want us, even when it's hard, even when it's ugly, even when the hospital finds out and everyone has an opinion. Because I am terrified of wanting it if in the end, I'm wanting it alone. ❜

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊'𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑. It hit him like a full body tackle he hadn't braced for — the impact violent and sickening, bypassing bone and muscle and going straight for the unguarded place he had only ever let her see. It tore something open inside him; the idea that she could, even for the shortest moment, think she would face this alone, as if every part of his scarred body, heart and soul did not belong to her and her only. The mere notion that she thought there existed even a single version of this life in which he would not be right there with her. It stunned him so completely that he simply stood there for a split second with nothing but disbelief ringing in his ears. She had always been independent, hyperindependent in a way that made his chest swell with admiration and quiet ache both at once. She would run herself into the ground three times over before she asked for a hand. But this was not that. Jack could respect that. This was an older, deeper wound. This was the bleeding remnant of every person who had ever taught her that love was conditional, that safety was temporary, that the only person she could truly count on was the one staring back at her from the mirror. The knowledge of it made something volatile and protective flare behind his ribs. Not at her. Never at her. But at every single soul who had drifted into her orbit, taken, and left her emptier, left her with the notion that she'd have to face the world alone.

❛ Mira—look at me, ❜ Jack said in roughened timbre, his palms rising to cradle her tear-damp cheeks; tenderly, as though she was the most precious thing he'd ever been trusted with, but unmistakably possessive too. His thumbs brushed beneath her eyes, capturing the tears there with unguarded reverence. His eyes locked on to hers, unyielding, and the softness that had lived in his moments before gave way to something far more ardent; steady, unflinching conviction that spoke of every certainty he harboured about her — about them. ❛ I need you to listen to me. Actually listen, okay? You are not, and you never will be, alone in this. ❜ He asserted, voice spun from a severity he hoped would instil some semblance of security in her. Jack was not going anywhere, not as long as he had a choice. His thumbs continued their tender sweep against her soft skin, his eyes blazing with everything he felt for her. ❛ I want this. ❜ He said; steadily, without a shred of hesitation. ❛ I want this. ❜ He repeated it, softer the second time because he needed her to understand he was hers in every possible way; in passion, in gentle tenderness, through grief and joy and hardship — he belonged to her. Everything he was belonged to her. And Jack would spend the rest of his life reassuring her in every language there was.

❛ I want this with you. Whether it happens now or years down the line, it doesn’t matter at all. I will want this with you whenever you’re ready. Because—because I love you, Samira. ❜ The silence that followed was charged, his heart setting off in forceful gallop; hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free, chest tightening until breath came shallow, throat closing around the enormity of what he had just laid at her feet. The air between them trembled with the weight of the words that had never been spoken quite like this before; so fierce, so unrestrained, so bare. They had danced around it, whispered it in the dark with reverent hands and worshipping mouths — but never like this. Never with the full, terrifyingly beautiful truth of it exposed. ❛ I love you so damn much. ❜ Jack said again, savouring the way the words felt on his tongue; the corner of his mouth curving into the faintest, most helpless trace of a smile. For a long moment he breathed her in, leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead. The kiss lingered, and into it he poured every promise he had ever made and would ever make.

❛ There ain't a damn world in which I don't want this with you. Or a reality where I don’t stand behind you no matter what you choose to do. ❜ He said, withdrawing from her brow to meet her eyes, ❛ I’ll fuck up whoever vocalises judgement. And yeah, Robby included. Especially Robby. I'm not scared of his ass. ❜ The words carried a dark, wry edge, but the conviction beneath them was absolute. His hands slid from her face, tracing the line of her jaw before settling at the small of her back, strong arms gathering her close, pressing her firmly to the solid breadth of him. The world outside this, them, could go to hell for all he cared. He'd still be there with her, unmovable. He knew he was privileged; he knew what this would look like when word inevitably got out. He was protected; the tenure, the reputation, the simple fact of being a man in a field that forgave way more than it should. A field that never really forgave women. He would get a conversation, maybe a slap on the wrist. She would get the weight of every judgement, every whisper, every sideways glance that saw nothing of her brilliance. The blatant misogyny made something savage and protective rise in him, a readiness to stand between her and every single person who tried to make her feel small for wanting both a career she had bled for and a life that included family.

❛ I want this, sweetheart, ❜ He repeated against her temple, ❛ I've got you. We're in this together. ❜

"Only one thing has remained constant through it all: ironically, the only thing that has refused to follow the order of Time since the very start."

— if sisyphus loved by rum4life (@semperrgumby)

THE ADDRESS HAD BEEN BURNING A HOLE IN HIS POCKET FOR THE LAST FOUR HOURS. Robby sat in his car across from Heather's apartment building, engine off, keys still dangling from the ignition, and tried to convince himself this was a reasonable thing to do, and that showing up unannounced at your ex-girlfriend's apartment with a bag full of baby supplies was completely justified, that it was nothing more than the action of a concerned colleague. He'd been sitting here for ten minutes, long enough that his coffee had gone from hot to lukewarm in the cup holder. He'd talked himself into leaving three separate times and then stayed anyway, paralyzed by indecision. This is insane, the rational part of his brain informed him helpfully. You're her ex-boyfriend. You haven't had a real conversation in years. You have no right to show up at her home, no matter what supplies you're bringing. She's a grown woman. A competent physician. She doesn't need you checking up on her.  But the other part of his brain, the part that remembered how she'd looked when she told him about fostering Baby Jane Doe, wouldn't let him start the car and drive away. So he grabbed the bag and went before his brain could catch up with his body and talk him out of it. ( Go or stay. Fish or cut bait. Shit or get off the pot. ) The building's front door was unlocked—security risk, he noted automatically, and the lobby was small but well-maintained: scuffed hardwood floors, mailboxes with little brass doors, a radiator ticking and hissing in the corner. Stairs to the left, elevator to the right. He took the stairs. ( Three flights. ) It gave him time to think. Christ. Maybe he should text her first. Give her the option to tell him not to come. That would be the sane thing to do. The respectful thing. But he was already on the third-floor landing.

Apartment 3C. A baby cried inside. The sound punched through the door and straight into his chest—thin, reedy, like it was the end of the world in miniature. He heard Heather's voice, muffled, low, and soothing; her footsteps crossing the floor. The crying quieted slightly, then resumed, a little more insistent. His hand moved before his brain could stop it. Three sharp knocks. Her footsteps changed direction, now coming toward the door. He heard the slide of a deadbolt—good, at least she locked her door—and then the turn of the knob. Heather looked like someone who'd been awake for three days straight, which—given that she'd brought Baby Jane Doe home forty-eight hours ago—was probably accurate. She was wearing an old UPenn Medicine sweatshirt that he recognized from residency, the logo so faded from years of washing that it was barely legible. Gray sweatpants with a small stain on one knee—spit-up, probably, or formula. Bare feet, toenails unpainted. No makeup. ( Still beautiful though. ) He held up the pharmacy bag that might explain his presence here without him having to articulate the messy tangle of emotions that had actually driven him to her door. 

❛ I come bearing a goodie bag. Dana said you might need supplies. Thought I'd drop some things off. ❜ Heather stared at him, and he watched her process his presence. Surprise, followed by confusion, followed by something that might have been wariness. It was hard to tell. They'd gotten so good at hiding from each other. ❛ I can leave these and go,❜ he added quickly, already half-turning like he might bolt back down the stairs if she gave him the slightest excuse. ❛ I just—I wanted to make sure you had what you needed. For the baby. I didn't know if social services gave you supplies or if you had to get everything yourself, and I thought— ❜  The baby whimpered, more insistently this time, and Robby saw Heather's fingers tighten slightly on the doorframe.  ❛ . . . Uh, if you need anything. If it gets overwhelming, or you just need someone to hold her while you sleep for twenty minutes, or—❜ He stopped himself, realizing how that sounded. How presumptuous, and how much it revealed about what he'd really come here for. ❛ You know where to find me. ❜ 

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘. Of course she did, given how long she'd dreamed of this, how long she'd carried grief through miscarriages, negative tests and failed IVF cycles. Even though hope had waned, she had continued to prepare in the only ways she knew how; read every book, haunted every forum, cornered every mother she could find for the truth of it. She had grasped at every source to catch even the faintest glimpse of the enormity of what it meant to be a parent. But nothing had prepared her for this. And, to add, she was doing it alone; a single mother in her very late thirties, who had stood in pedes under Dana’s warm gaze, taken one look at the abandoned infant the hospital had named Baby Jane Doe and known with some ancient, unexplainable certainty that the child was hers. That’s Ava Collins, Heather had said. That’s my daughter. Forty-eight hours later she stood in the wreckage of her own apartment-turned-warzone and nearly laughed manically at how so much chaos could be generated in so short a time. Burp cloths lay draped over the back of the armchair, empty bottles clustered on every flat surface, pacifiers and socks and onesies were scattered in a haphazard trail from living room to kitchen. The now empty cardboard boxes that had held the crib, changing table, and car seat stood stacked in a corner. The bag of groceries she had bought earlier to make herself dinner still sat untouched by the door. She had already run two loads of laundry and none of it was folded; the mountain of clean but wrinkled clothes had claimed one end of the sofa, shrinking only because she kept grabbing whatever sat at the top. There was no time for order. Exhaustion had rooted itself deeply within her marrow; heavier and more merciless than any all-nighter of med school and residency combined — because there was no relief waiting at the end of a shift, no one to tap her out. Amid the chaos and overwhelm, in the brief pockets of quietude between feedings and changings, the cruel thought had begun to whisper; maybe she wasn’t cut out for this after all. Maybe that was why her body had refused to carry when she had finally felt ready.

The baby monitor crackled with a whimper that grew into a wail with impressive speed. The sound yanked Heather back from the spiral. She dried her hands on a dish towel that smelled faintly of formula and moved on leaden feet towards the nursery. Ava’s cries filled the small space, her tiny body rigid with a distress too large for her frame. That perfect face was more than she could bear; cheeks flushed from the effort, nose scrunched and damp, mouth open in a cry that rattled the air. Those small fists flailed, as though she were berating the cruelty of a world that had discarded her with such ease. Heather’s heart tore open anew. She couldn’t blame her. The world had been so, so cruel to this child.

❛ Oh, baby girl. I know, I know. ❜ she soothed softly, gathering Ava into her arms with infinite tenderness, supporting her against the crook of her arm. ❛ You’re safe here, little one. Little Ava. I’ve got you. I’ve—mommy’s got you. ❜ She cooed as she began to sway, her voice frayed with exhaustion but steady nevertheless. There was no way in hell she was not going to be steady for this child. Slowly the cries lost their sharpest edge, the flailing limbs relaxed, the rigid spine eased as Ava registered the steady rhythm, the low murmur, the warm circle of arms that promised safety where there had been none. Her breathing hitched once, twice, then fell into the soft cadence of approaching sleep. The flushed cheeks cooled. The tiny brow smoothed. And Heather felt her eyes burn. She lingered in the dim nursery, still rocking Ava, long after the whimpers had faded, revelling in the incredulity that this was her life now. Jesus christ. Only when she was certain that her daughter was wrapped in deep sleep did she lean down and feather the gentlest of kisses to her forehead. She breathed her in and warmth seeped into Heather’s weary bones, chasing away the chill of doubt. She was made for this. She was. Because in just these few short, brutal, beautiful days she had come to love this child with a ferocity that terrified her in its intensity. A love so instinctive, so primal, it surpassed anything she had ever known. The human heart was a wild.

It was right as she turned away from the nursery and was stepping back to the kitchen when the knock came — three firm, unexpected raps that cut through the fog of her exhaustion. Confusion furrowed her brow, alongside that new rush of protectiveness. Dana had already done her welfare check; she wasn’t expecting anyone. Slow, fatigued steps carried her to the door. Her hand hesitated only a moment on the knob before she turned it. And when she pulled it open, her breath caught sharp in her throat.

❛ Michael? ❜ He stood in the hallway with a pharmacy bag dangling from one hand, his expression coloured with familiar concern, his eyes softening the moment they met hers. It had been days since she had seen another soul outside of the brief, clinical handoff at the hospital and Dana’s quick visit. His text from yesterday still sat unanswered on her phone; a casualty of the twenty-minute nap that had shattered too soon beneath Ava’s cries. She stared at him, stunned, the first real person she had seen in what felt like a lifetime. ❛ I— ❜ His kindness had stunned her, suspended her in a fragile state. Heather watched him prepare to turn, already offering her an out in case she thought he was overstepping. She didn't.

You know where to find me.

And that was the precise moment everything inside her gave way. It was absurd, how little it took, how tiny the straw that broke the camel's back could be. The sight of him there; present, offering care, offering comfort, proved the undoing she hadn’t known she was so close to. The days of solitude, the fatigue, the insidious whispers that maybe she wasn’t enough, that her body’s past refusals had been signs, all surged to the surface at once. Her throat closed in. Her chest tightened. Before she could think, before pride or reason could intervene, she stepped forward and threw her arms around him, burying against the solid wall of his chest as the first sob tore free. It felt like surfacing after too long underwater. His warmth, the familiar scent of him, the way his arms came around her without hesitation, was sanctuary. Fuck, it felt so good to be held. To not have to carry her weight for just a second. Her fingers clutched at his jacket.

❛ Thank you. ❜ she managed, the words muffled and thick against him. She stayed there longer than she should have, longer than the boundaries of their broken relationship perhaps allowed, but in that moment none of it mattered. This was Michael. And something about him had always been a place she could fall apart without fear. Eventually the worst of the storm blew past, enough for her to pull back; though her hands lingered for a beat, sliding to his upper arms, fingers brushing the familiar contours there almost unconsciously before she let them fall away. ❛ Jesus christ . . . I'm sorry, ❜ She said on the heel of a sniffle and a self-deprecating laugh, ❛ God, I don’t know what came over me. Exhaustion. Delirium. Both, probably. ❜ Her gaze dropped to the pharmacy bag again, and the smile that curved her mouth was small, tremulous, achingly vulnerable. ❛ This is—you didn't have to. Thank you. So much. ❜ Heather stepped back just enough to give him space, realising how little of it there actually was between them. But then she also took a step aside, leaving the entry open in invitation; glancing over her shoulder at the battlefield of new motherhood.

❛ Would you uh—would you like to come in? It’s a fucking mess in there, and Ava will probably start screaming before you even sit down, but I’ve got good coffee. If you have time, of course. ❜

THE WORST PART IS NOT THE FEAR ITSELF Samira realizes, as the tears fall—it is how much she wants him to be right, how desperately she wants to believe that everything will be okay. The first sob catches in her throat, lodged somewhere between her sternum and her windpipe, and then the rest come tumbling after it in a rush she cannot contain. They rise up through her chest in waves, cresting higher than the last, and she is helpless against them. Her hand tightens around his own, reflexive, desperate, her fingers curling into his palm as her forehead presses against his chest. She feels the give of his shirt beneath her skin, the warmth of him bleeding through the fabric; his heartbeat is there too, if she listens for it—and she focuses on it now because it is the only thing in the room that feels certain, the only thing that has not shifted beneath her feet. She is crying, and she hates it, the loss of control, that this is how her body has chosen to process what her mind cannot yet hold. It feels like a betrayal, this unraveling, this inability to maintain even a semblance of composure. More than that, she hates how much she needs this—needs him. Six months ago, she did not need him. Six months ago, she had her life arranged exactly the way she wanted it: her career trajectory mapped out with precision, her goals clearly defined, her sense of self intact and uncomplicated. And then he had happened. Jack had happened. ❛ I don't know what I want, ❜ she says, and the words come out fractured, barely audible against the fabric of his shirt. ❛ I thought I did. I thought I had time to figure it out. ❜ And that is the crux of it, is it not? She had thought she had time. Time to finish her residency, time to decide whether this thing with Jack could last, time to build the stability that would make having a child feel like a choice rather than a crisis. She had imagined it all so differently. She had imagined a proposal first, maybe, or at least a conversation about the future that went beyond the careful present-tense they have been living in for the past six months. She had imagined herself ready. And she is not ready. She is twenty-nine years old, a third-year resident, maybe in love with her attending, and definitely pregnant . . . and none of those things fit together the way they are supposed to. She does want kids. She has always wanted kids. That has never been the question. The question has always been when, and with whom, and whether she would be ready when the time came. And now the time is here—or at least, a version of it is here—and she is not ready. But does that matter? Does readiness even exist, or is it just another story people tell themselves to feel more in control of things that are fundamentally uncontrollable? ( She has no idea. ) Because it is not just about whether she wants a child. Of course she wants a child. The wanting is not the problem. The problem is everything else. The problem is that she is still a resident, still dependent on evaluations and recommendations and the good opinion of people who could destroy her career with a few well-placed words. The problem is that Jack is her attending, and no matter how careful they have been, no matter how discreet, the fact remains that their relationship exists in a space that is professionally precarious at best and professionally catastrophic at worst. The problem is that she does not know how to reconcile the life she has been building for herself with the life that is suddenly, irrevocably, staring her in the face. But she is also afraid of what it will mean if she does not keep it. She is afraid of the grief that will follow. She is afraid of wondering, for the rest of her life, what might have been. She is afraid of the version of herself that will wake up six months from now, or a year from now, or five years from now, and realize that she let this slip through her fingers because she was too scared to reach for it.

❛ I'm almost thirty, ❜ she says, and she does not know if she is talking to him or to herself. ❛ And I don't know if I'll get another chance like this— I've always . . . I've always wanted to be a mom. ❜ She pulls back just enough to look up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy, her face wet; his face swims in her vision, blurred by tears, and she can see the worry etched into every line of it, how his jaw is tight and his eyes are searching hers for something—reassurance, maybe, or guidance, or just some indication of what she needs from him.

❛ But this is a mess. We've already crossed so many lines, and if I—if we— ❜

She exhales sharply. They have been so careful; they have kept their relationship out of the hospital, never so much as touching each other where anyone could see, maintaining the strictest professional boundaries in every interaction within the walls of the Pitt. But none of that will matter if this comes to light. None of that will matter when she starts showing, when she has to take maternity leave, when everyone inevitably does the math and realizes that the timeline overlaps with her residency under his supervision.  ❛ I can't have a baby right now, I can't, but what if this is the only time? And I know that's not—I know there are other options, other timelines, but— ❜ She is spiraling. She knows she is spiraling. But she cannot seem to stop herself; her thoughts are racing, careening from one worst-case scenario to the next. If she does not keep it, she risks a different kind of loss, one that she suspects will haunt her in ways she cannot yet fully comprehend. ❛ The worst part is that I think I want it, ❜ she admits, and the words feel like they're being dragged out of her. ❛ I want this baby, and I feel like I'm not allowed to want that because of everything else. Because of the timing and the optics and the fact that I'm supposed to be focused on my career that I've worked my whole life— ❜ She swipes at her tears with her free hand. ❛ And I know you said you'd support whatever I decide, but what if I make the wrong choice? What if I choose wrong and you—what if you resent me for it? What if I resent myself for it? I mean, do you want this? A baby? With me? Or is this—is this something you're just willing to support because you think that's what you're supposed to say? We haven't . . . we haven't talked about the future—❜   

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐁𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐆𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓. It was a sound designed to penetrate Jack's skin; to cut through muscle, sinew and bone until it lodged in a place in his chest that ached with tenderness. This was his fault; every broken inhale, every tremor that shook her frame. It was his fault. They should have been more careful. He should have been more careful. But from the moment she had stepped into the ER that first day, Jack had been smitten, struck by deeply rooted respect and admiration that had bled into affection. It had been impossible to resist. And now here they were, tangled in consequences he had never meant to let happen; consequences born of a love so fierce it made him want to burn the world down just to see her smile. He loved her. With a depth that terrified him, a devotion that would have him surrender anything at all if it meant her peace. Even the child he had not dared to dream of until her. Because she was far more important. She was everything. Jack's arms moved immediately, without hesitation, when she did not recoil from his touch but rather surrendered into him. He wrapped her into his embrace, pulling her flush against his chest until there was no space left between them. One hand splayed across her back, his fingers tracing soothing patterns, while the other cradled the back of her head as her sobs soaked through his t-shirt. His lips found her dark hair, brushing the softest of kisses against her crown — again and again. Each kiss was a silent response to the words rushing out of her, each a promise that she was not alone in this. His arms flexed, tightening yet again around her; anchoring her to the solidity of him in the hopes that he'd reach through the panic and convey to her that she had something reliable to lean on.

❛ You don't need to know anything right now, okay? ❜ He murmured against her temple, ❛ you've got time. You don't have to decide anything yet. Especially not tonight. ❜ The notion of fatherhood had been a casualty of too much grief; wife, war, leg. He had told himself he was too damaged, too haunted by the ghosts that rode shotgun in his skull to ever be entrusted with something as innocent as a child. It had been a mercy, that renunciation, when the only company he kept was silence and solitude. But Jack today was way more healed than Jack three years ago. Jack today had healthy outlets for his trauma, he saw a therapist regularly, and the ghosts didn't really howl as loudly anymore. Jack today had Samira. She had coaxed light into places he had thought forever shadowed. And now . . . the idea of a child didn't feel like this terrifying, impossible thing anymore. The thought filled him with startling warmth instead. A child made of them. Another soul that would look at him like he was worth something. Someone to greet the mornings with, small hand in his as they navigated school and scraped knees and bedtime stories. He wanted it. With her. In ways he had never permitted himself to want before. But the wanting did not eclipse her autonomy. He would love her either way. As long as she was in it, the rest of his life would be equally happy regardless of what she chose.

❛ Hey, hey—Samira, look at me, ❜ His hand slid up from her spine to cradle her chin, tilting her face until she had no choice but to meet his eyes, ❛ Listen to me. There is nothing you could do that would make me resent you. Nothing. So get that thought outta your head, alright? If you don’t want this baby, you don’t have to have it. And if you do want it, that’s okay too. You can be a mom and still have the career you’ve worked your ass off for—because you’re really fucking strong, and you're not doing this alone. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Whatever you choose, I will be here. ❜ Jack leaned in then, punctuating his words with a soft, lingering kiss against her forehead, his palm shifting to cradle her wet cheek, thumbing away the tears there. ❛ You kind of stop dreaming about kids at my age. ❜ He began with a short laugh that veered into self-deprecating, ❛ Doesn’t mean I don’t want one. But even if I do, that doesn’t change a damn thing. I’d never hold it against you if you chose not to. You and me, Samira, that’s all that matters. ❜ The small smile that pulled at his mouth was tentative, almost shy, but the fondness in it was endless. ❛ Listen, I want a life with you. Waking up next to you every morning. Traveling. Being there when shit goes right for you and when it doesn’t. All the normal days and the big ones. I want them with you. If that means being a dad someday . . . then that's just another extraordinary thing we do together. But if it doesn’t, it’s still you and me. And that's one hell of a life already. ❜

JUGHEAD HAD WRITTEN ENOUGH REUNION SCENES TO KNOW they never unfolded the way you rehearsed them. He'd thought an awful lot about moments like this, the collision of past and present, because he knew well that memory had a way of ambushing you in a dive bar on a random Thursday. He leaned against the bar, one elbow braced against the worn wood, his laptop bag still slung over his shoulder like he might need to make a quick exit. His fingers tightened around his whiskey glass. Honestly? He'd spent years perfecting the art of reading people, decoding the subtext beneath their constructed façades; it was an occupational hazard of being both a writer and a chronic overthinker. ❛ Ended is such a final word. I prefer to think of it as an extended ellipsis. You know, those three dots writers use when they're too cowardly to commit to a period but too honest to keep the sentence going. ❜ He took a measured sip of his whiskey, buying himself a moment to organize the chaos of thoughts careening through his mind. The Veronica he'd known, the one he'd tangled himself up with in a moment of spectacular poor judgment and even more spectacular chemistry, wouldn't have needed to track him down through whisper networks and carefully placed inquiries. She would have simply expected him to appear in her orbit, because wasn't that how gravity worked when you were someone like her? ❛ For the record, I would have answered, ❜ he continued, setting the glass down. ❛ I'm many things, Ronnie: bitter, cynical, perpetually three chapters behind on my deadline, but I've never been good at holding grudges. They require too much energy, and I barely have enough to maintain my caffeine addiction and crippling self-doubt. ❜ The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. ❛ Besides, we're both too old to pretend that what happened between us was anything more complicated than two people seeking temporary shelter from their respective storms in the worst possible port. ❜  He watched her fingers worry at the straw in her drink, a nervous gesture so unlike the Veronica he remembered that it set off every instinct he'd honed through years of observing human behavior and translating it into fiction. Something was wrong.  ❛ So, ❜ Jughead leaned back slightly, giving her space while simultaneously closing the emotional distance between them. ❛ What's the real story here, huh? ❜

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒. At least, that was the story she had told herself for years. Whether ballrooms or corporate boardrooms, through joys, scandals and heartbreaks — nothing possessed the power to make her small unless she granted it permission. She had always met the world with her chin held high and her spine poised as unbending iron. She tackled everything head on and with perfectly manicured composure; emanating confidence and fearless resolve — because to falter was to drown, and Veronica had never had the luxury of sinking. But this moment, balancing on the precipice of telling Jughead the irrevocable truth of their one night, had tied a knot in her chest so intricate that no amount of confidence could loosen. It was infuriating, actually, how tongue tied she had become; caught by the desperate urge to linger in the liminal space where he still did not know, the space where things were still somewhat normal. But things weren't normal. She had sought him out because she could not bear the weight of it alone. Because he deserved to know. Because some treacherous part of her still remembered how it had felt to be held by him that night. Her fingers tightened around the damp glass, the extra mint a futile offering to the relentless nausea. It did nothing to soothe the crashing, curling waves within her stomach. Every word he spoke about their dalliance landed heavy as stones. He spoke of it as an uncomplicated surrender between two people who had simply needed the comfort of someone familiar. And it had been, at the time. In the heat of the moment their eyes had collided and they both understood that it would be a brief, fleeting indulgence with no strings attached. God, if only he knew how far beyond complicated it turned out to be. Her fingers gripped tighter, knuckles blanching against the condensation.

❛ Oh, I know you would have picked up, ❜ she replied, the half-sarcastic, half-arrogant lilt that had always been her signature now sounding hollow even to her own ears. ❛ You leap for any reason to procrastinate, Juggiekins. If I didn’t know you any better, I might wonder whether you even like writing at all — or if it’s simply the tortured-poet-brooding-at-the-diner aesthetic you’re into. ❜ Still hollow. Every word hollow. Her stomach clenched again, more violently this time, and she drew a sharp breath through her nose, gaze fleeing from the intensity of his. Not now. Please not now. The nausea could not win now. Not when she had finally found the courage to track him down, to speak the words that would rewrite both their lives. She had to tell him. She had to. And he knew she was stalling. She could hear it in the cadence of his voice, feel it in the knowing weight of his gaze even as she refused to meet it. Jughead was annoyingly discerning; had the ability to read even the thinnest fracture in her polished armour. It was partly why they'd fallen into bed that night to begin with — he'd seen her grief, recognised her need for warmth, her desire to be held. He had read her with an ease that should've been upsetting, but she had let him. She had wanted it. She had liked it. The pressure in Veronica's throat swelled until she choked. She swallowed against it; once, twice, three times, but the air refused to follow. Cold sweat pearled at her temples, and a single drop traced a slow path down her spine.

Fuck.

❛ Jug—uh, about that night . . . ❜ The words dissolved on her tongue just as the edges of the room began to lurch, the amber barlight streaking into dizzying ribbons. One hand abandoned the glass to clutch onto her thigh, nails digging against fabric and flesh in a desperate bid for anchor, for control, for anything that would keep her from splintering apart in front of him. No. She refused to let this happen to her. No, no, no. ❛ I'm— ❜ But even the Queen Bee of Riverdale could not command the unpredictable whims of pregnancy. The sentence died abruptly. Her palm flew to her mouth, eyes wide and glassy in the dim amber glow as they locked onto his for one horrified heartbeat. Panic and desperation flashed behind her gaze before she pushed off the stool. The wood screeched against the floorboards, and in the next breath she was gone. Pressing past warm bodies until her own pressed against cool porcelain, the bathroom door swinging shut behind her.