#one-shot

His childhood friend, you were the only person he could actually rely on outside of school. As children of two good business partners, you’d both found friendship amongst the fancy business dinners his parents and yours would host. It was safe to say you’d known each other long enough for him to call you up whenever he had the urge to, which was as often as he could.

You lived nearby and attended Henley Hall so of course he’d find any reason to bother you, asking you to sneak into his school, calling you up, or hanging out on weekends. Now three weeks into the new school semester, he needed to see you in person to have someone on the outside of Hell-ton to talk to. You were busier this year, and he hadn’t seen you much since the summer in which you’d spent the majority of your time together. He was getting withdrawals.

But of course, you almost always put up with his antics. His ways of finding rebellion in conformity was the small taste of rebellion you needed in your otherwise mundane life.

So here you were, skipping through the Welton corridors trying your best not to get caught by a Professor- or worse Mr. Nolan himself. Your casual clothing, that was definitely not up to the Welton dress code for males, was covered with Charlie’s Welton coat. It wasn’t cold enough yet to wear, but it’d have to do with helping you blend in when there were still boys roaming the school, settling in to start the weekend after a long week of rigorous classes.

Finally walking past the recognizable row of doors that made up the dormitories, you take a chance to more swiftly enter a familiar door. You let out a sigh of relief over making it safely, you lean back against it looking at the boy in question, who simply smirked up at you.

“Look what the cat dragged in” He greets, a cigarette hanging from his lips like an old pirate would with a pipe.

You blow a raspberry, taking off and tossing his coat at the end of his bed. All the walking mixed with the adrenaline of sneaking into his school made you warm.

“The cat being you, Charlie Dalton…Though I’d say you remind me more of a puppy dog.” You greet back, getting comfortable in the room you’d been in many times. Tapping his leg with your fingers, he moves his legs for you to sit before laying them casually over your lap.

“A puppy dog?? Ouch…you wound me, darling.” He says, pretending to be hurt as he holds his hand to his heart. But his lips were curled in amusement, inciting a small laugh from you. You pat his leg again, seeming to be quite settled in.

“Okay, okay…so what was the emergency you were calling me about, huh? Cameron irking you again or what?” 

“He usually is. Latin class is too. But,” He lets out a sigh as he puts out the cigarette on the metal headboard of his bed,“Can’t a guy just wanna see a pretty gal?” 

He leans over to ruffle your hair and you respond with a soft giggle, smoothing your hair back down.

“You see me far too often, Charlie…” You almost blush a little at him calling you a pretty gal, almost. “You know, my mother is actually starting to worry about your influence on me.”

It seemed you’d unintentionally spent the majority of the summer hanging out with Charlie, sometimes just a little bit past curfew. It was something your mother was not exactly keen about since it was often just you and him alone. Not proper for a young lady, she’d said.

Now it’s Charlie’s time to blow a raspberry, it seemed to be something he picked up from you and your reactions to him.

“I am a perfectly good influence on you, missy. Maybe your mother should worry about your influence on me.” He crosses his arms over his chest as he looks at you, a dramatically serious expression on his face. 

You both knew you had little influence on the free thinking, go-with-the-flow soul Charlie naturally was.

“Sure she should worry…who knows what I could put you on next. Today it’s cigarettes and pipes, tomorrow marijuana.” You act guilty, shaking your head slowly while holding back an amused smile.

“Do you actually know where to get marij-” 

“Charlie!” You playfully smack his arm and he laughs, raising his hands in defense. 

“Kidding, kidding…” Knowing him, you weren’t entirely sure how true that was.

“On a good note,” He starts, his cocky smirk coming back to his face. He seemed to even puff out his chest a little as he shares, “I know your father really likes me. He says nicer things to me than even my own father does to my face.”

I find yourself snickering as he seems to be extremely proud of his reputation with your dad. You had to admit, he was right. Much to your mother’s dismay, your father was constantly bringing him up at dinnertime, “how’s the Dalton boy”, “I heard this from his father”, “such a bright boy that Dalton”. You already heard from Charlie himself a lot, your years of friendship had him invading your life even when he wasn’t there. Your father loved him, and Charlie used it to the best of his advantage. It was really the only reason your father didn’t scold you for your summer shenanigans.

“I’ve heard, Charlie. Trust me” You chuckle to yourself just thinking about it, but you both knew exactly why. “I’m sure he thinks that the more he hypes you up to me, the more likely I’ll be to swoon for you.”  

Charlie lets out a chuckle with that, but anything relating to swooning had him back to his cocky act quite rapidly.

“Like I need him to hype me up, I know you swoon for me everyday darling. Who can resist all of this.” He puts his hands behind his head as he leans against his headboard, lifting a brow and smirking. 

The smirk was an ever present characteristic of him, since the moment he’d turned 15, he seemed to have mastered it. It amused you, probably his most charming characteristic.

“Oh, I’m swooning right now.” You roll your eyes before pretending to swoon, lifting a hand to fan yourself from his swoon-yness. That gets him laughing, the way you’d play along with him. He realized a long time ago that you didn’t realize how charming you were, but it was fine with him, only because that meant he got to appreciate how natural you were at it in secret. 

His laugh fades out, instead staring right at you. His smirk appears on his face yet again, an air smugness in it. 

“I guess your father’s plan worked after all then.”

The plan, both your father’s plans actually. They’d been scheming since they realized how close you’d gotten, which for fathers was actually not too long ago. Probably a year now.

“Ah, yes…turning you into an eligible bachelor in my eyes.” You snort amusedly, your eyes diverting from his own before the butterflies begin fluttering in your tummy.

It had become no secret to you and Charlie that your dad’s had been planning for a “union of families”, when you’d eavesdropped on them talking after a dinner party. They were good business partners, and longtime friends. With their children already being so akin to each other, it seemed the light bulb had gone on in their heads. 

But you knew Charlie. 

While he went along with what his father wanted, he only did it because he had to. Wellton, an ivy league future, business school. You knew that deep down, he wished to do something he wanted to do. Figure himself out, be a teen. Seize the day, as his new teacher had told him on the first day of his class. 

While you played around with the idea of being future Mrs. Dalton in your head, a thought formed from a crush that had been deeply stuffed away in your heart since you’d found out about your fathers plans. The inkling of anxiety over that plan told you that he secretly hated the idea of being pushed onto you. Maybe not because of yourself, but because it was yet another thing written into his future by his dad.

The last thing you wanted was to continue denying him a chance to write his future for himself, even if it meant pretending you weren’t on board with the expectation you’d both wed each other. Allowing it to continue being something you joked around about.

“Well, babe, I already am an eligible bachelor.” Giving his signature smirk, he puffs out his chest again and runs his hands through his hair dramatically, looking suave. 

This makes you laugh softly, but quickly your smile falters as you keep thinking about it. Charlie, being more perceptive than one would expect, notices this and nudges you softly on the shoulder.

“What? Am I that terrible of a possible husband?” He says jokingly, trying to keep up the playful atmosphere.

You chuckle lightly in response, trying not to ruin the mood. “No. You’re not…you’re a good friend, Charlie.” 

The atmosphere still seemed to change at your genuine compliment, Charlie’s own heart seemed to bloom, and he didn’t know what to do with that. He had never known what to do with it, pushing down his own feelings with the same idea that you didn’t want to be with him. 

Funny, since he was the one to flirt with you first, constantly trying to get your attention. He loved having your eyes on him, and only him.

He mustered a playfully toned comment.

“You make me blush.” He says, giving a much more authentic smile to you with a hand to his heart. Truly, it had skipped a beat. Knowing you saw him as a good friend was good, even if he wished it was more.

Silence seemed to fall between you, a comfortable one it seems as you lean your head back on the wall. Both of you seem to ponder it, the thing. But none of you knew what to say.

Finally, you’re the one that speaks up, “How would you feel if our dads plan worked?”

Another beat of silence.

“I know you don’t like doing what your father wants you to do, what he plans for you.”

Your eyes dart Charlie’s face, searching for an answer. He was looking at you pretty intensely, seeming to ponder the idea more deeply.

This is the first time you’ve seen Charlie seem so serious, and he was with reason. He knew what you meant to say, and it’s something he had thought about since the summer you two had shared ended.

Would he mind if you had fallen for each other, outside of your fathers pressure? 

Charlie grabbed the pack of cigarettes laying beside him and opened it, and placed one in his mouth. Though he didn’t light it up, it was more of a comfort thing. He was never one to be so serious, and this was both your feelings you were talking about. The last thing he wanted to do was say the wrong thing. 

And honestly, he adored you. More than he could ever say. Why else would he want your presence so constantly?

He hummed for a moment before speaking.

“I don’t like doing what my dad wants…” He admitted, his voice seeming quieter than usual as he takes the unlit cigarette out of his mouth. “But honestly…this is the first time I feel like I wouldn’t mind. Honestly, it’d be more of a personal decision”

His smirk returns, this was his way of seizing the day. He didn’t want to waste time going around the topic any longer when he knew deep down that you were the only girl he’d ever thought about, as flirty as he was generally. His gaze returned to you, And he was happy he did, because his answer had made your cheeks turn pink. You seemed almost flabbergasted by his answer. 

He’d willingly be with you.

“You wouldn’t mind?” You seem almost confused, but he seemed all too casual about it now that he’d seen how adorable you looked at his honest answer. 

He was choosing honesty today.

“I wouldn’t…I’m eligible, your father likes me, you’re a pretty girl.” He lists off, seeming sure of himself. He adjusts himself, removing his legs from your lap to scooch closer to you. His hand reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and your heart seems to flutter out of your chest. His heart did as well, but he was much too suave to let it show. 

“Seems like a winning hand to me.” 

It seemed…like his actions left you speechless. You were able to speak eventually, cracking a small smile.

“Seems like the winning hand was our father’s, in the end.” You say in a jokingly sardonic way, chuckling softly. 

“And the losing hand of your mothers.” He snorts right back. “Point is, I win in some way or another.”

He couldn’t help himself, he really couldn’t when it seemed like the perfect moment. 

Damn it Charlie, just do it, he thought before leaning in to steal a soft kiss from you. He’d always wondered if the gloss you wore was flavored. It smelled of cherries, and as he learned- it tasted like it, too.  The kiss was surprisingly tender, his hand still on your cheek. You eventually collect yourself enough to kiss back, your heart soaring. It was too early for a full blown make-out session though, so you both pulled away after a few moments. 

Dalton felt way too smug with himself about it, very proud of his ability to be assertive for once, after almost two years of crushing on you. You, on the other hand, could only give him a shy smile and looked away.

“I did not know this was how this evening would go…” You admit meekly, unable to meet his eyes after the kiss you shared. 

“That we’d seal the deal of you becoming Mrs. Dalton? Honestly, me neither, but…” He shrugged, his hand going to your chin to force you to look at him, “Carpe diem.” 

He leaned in again, but this time almost full blown tackled you into yet another kiss. Albeit, it was much more passionate than the first time. You couldn’t help but get lost in it, wrapping your arms over his shoulders, letting his hands into your hair to hold you in place. 

You’d have to find a way to thank Mr. Keating for this moment of carpe diem sometime, but you didn’t have a chance to process the pondering on that at the moment.

It was the most magnificent moment.

“Dalton- everyone is asking why you- oh!”

Pulling away with eyes wide and cheeks red, you look to the doorway to see someone who was equally as red-faced as his hair.

“Damn it, Cameron!” Charlie tossed his pillow at him, standing up to push his back out of the door, “We’re having a moment in here, please!”

He closes the door behind him, looking back at you, you were still in complete shock over being caught. 

“I think that’s my queue to head home, Charlie.” You say sheepishly, chuckling in embarrassment as you get up and begin putting his coat back on. The sun could be seen as it was beginning to set outside the small dorm window anyways. 

Charlie’s little heart almost stopped beating, he wished to spend more time with you after this new development of your relationship. And his want was a lot, with how clingy he already was. But you were right, Cameron had ruined the mood enough. He mentally cursed Cameron even more.

“Fine.” He let out an exasperated sigh, but then quickly put on a satisfied smirk on his face, grabbing you by your sides, “But we’ll finish this another time, future wife.” 

That made you laugh, leaning up to give him a kiss on the cheek. You’d done it once or twice before, and after the kisses of today, they still felt extra special. 

“I’ll see you later, Charlie.” Putting the hood of the coat on, you slipped out of his room ready to sneak your way back out of Wellton...the things you did for this boy. 

Charlie was sure you’d taken his heart with you… and for once, he was happy his dad had already pre-approved of you as part of his future. He’ll take business school if it means he’ll get to take care of you comfortably.

🐇 . *. ⋆·˚ ༘ *༄ 

“I went in- and they were all over eachother- and…!”

Charlie Dalton was determined to strangle his roommate as he walked into the dormitory lounge. 

“Cameron.” He said through grit teeth as he walked up to the group. Apparently, Cameron was already spilling about what he’d seen in their dorm to the rest of their friends. Way to keep his business private.

Everyone was already teasing him about it, making smoochy noises, and holding him back from an expulsion waiting to happen. 

“Oh shut up Knox, like you don’t want to make-out with that Chris girl.” The boys all laughed at this, Knox seemed to shut up real quick though (it was true).

“So, what did happen with her Charlie?” Asked Neil, who patted him on the shoulder in a proud manner. He of all people had seen the development of this crush over the years.

“Heh…” Charlie couldn’t help the smugness to come back, the feeling of her lips still lingered on his and it made him feel like a real man.

“What can I say boys…I siezed the day.”

The boys gave him sounds of cheer and pats on the back, impressed by him taking Mr. Keating’s message so deeply into his heart. 

“Are we still studying trig-?”

“-You don’t get it, do you Cameron?” Charlie rolled his eyes.

Michael had been injured - very badly. The worst he ever had been and the worst you had ever known of someone so far in your life. You cried when you were told he had been badly burned during the commercial shoot. You waited with his family in the waiting room for hours and hours, hoping for some sort of miracle or positive outcome. When the doctor finally arrived, he said Michael was in stable condition but there would be a long road to recovery ahead. You breathed out a shaky sigh of relief.

“He does not want visitors yet,” The doctor said. 

Two days later, you received a phone call from Michael’s mother, Katherine. She tells you that he is in a lot of pain but he wants to see you. 

“You always know how to cheer him up. Could you come, please?” she asked.

“Of course, Mrs. Jackson,” you replied.

That night, you entered the hospital through a special door for visitors of those higher in status in the hospital. They checked you in and gave you a special badge and lanyard that you were to wear around your neck. You slipped it over your head carefully.

“He’s in room 403,” the nurse said. You gulped and nodded. You turned to your left and walked down the darkened hall. As you approached his corridor, you saw Bill resting out front of his room. Your footsteps were quiet, but not quiet enough. Bill opened his eyes and sat up straight. When he saw you, he smiled.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he said. 

“Hello,” You said with a rattled voice. Bill nodded.

“I know. This is…messed up to say the least. That boy don’t deserve this…,” he said. You shook your head.

“No. He doesn’t,” you say. Bill stood up.

“Go on ahead in. I know he’s been asking for you,” he said. You nod. 

You hesitate for a moment as you approach the door. You grab the door handle. As you peered into the window of the door, your chest dropped into your stomach as you viewed the state Michael was in. You held your breath as you pushed the door open. You walked in and looked around the door. Michael seemed to be sleeping. You then closed the door behind you as you walked over towards the bed. You stood back a few feet as you looked down at him. The top-back portion of his head was wrapped in white bandages and he had an IV with pain medicine drip…drip…dripping down. You cover your mouth with your fingers as tears welled into your eyes. 

“Jesus…,” you uttered. This was a bit louder than you anticipated as Michael’s eyes opened. He blinked and moved very slowly. He sniffed as his eyes focused. Then - he saw you. A very small smile broke out on his face.

“(Y/N),” he said groggily.

“Michael…oh, my fucking god,” you said.

“Hey…don’t cuss, please?” he asked.

“I am so sorry. I just…I have been worried sick. And seeing you like this…oh…,” you wiped your eyes. You walked to the side of the bed near the guest chair. You looked down at him.

“What on earth are they giving you?” you asked as you looked at the IV.

“Probably morphine,” he mumbled. You exhaled softly. You didn’t really like the sound of that. But you nodded and sat down on the chair next to him. He had enough strength to turn his body and look over at you.

“You don’t need to be here. I know it’s hard. But, I wanted to see you,” he said.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m here. I’m always going to be here. I told you that before,” you say. Tears now welled in Michael’s eyes. He sniffled and nodded.

Then, he reached his hand out for yours. You leaned over and took it gently.

“Do you need anything right now?” you ask.

“Yes,” he said.

“Can you…can you read me some stories?” he asked. Your heart nearly melted at the child-like nature of his question.

“Of course, honey,” you replied. You looked up and around, seeing a stack of books on the table in the corner. You stood up and walked over to it.

“What are you in the mood for?” you ask.

“Anything,” Michael said.

“How about old reliable?” you ask, lifting up his beloved Peter Pan book. The corner of Michael’s mouth turned into a smile. He nodded. You smiled in return and walked back over to the chair. You sat down, made sure he was ready, and then read him his all time favorite story. After you finished, you saw Michael’s eyes were nearly closed again. You smiled faintly and stood up. You leaned over and kissed his forehead with a small peck as to not hurt his head.

“Get some rest,” you say.

“I will. And (Y/N)?” he asked in a sleepy tone.

“Hmm?” you reply.

“Stay the night? Please? I don’t want to be alone,” he said, trying not to cry. You took his head gently and nodded.

King’s Landing had never smelled like peace.

It smelled of smoke, hot stone, old fish, horse sweat, rotten fruit, scented oil, dragon musk, and the stink of too many men pretending that silk made them less mortal. From above, upon the saddle of Velyrax, the city looked almost worthy of songs: the Blackwater glittering under the pale morning sun, the Red Keep rising red and severe above Aegon’s High Hill, the Dragonpit crouched like a half-buried crown upon Rhaenys’s Hill, its great bronze doors swallowing beasts that had once made kings kneel. From closer, the illusion always curdled. Streets narrowed into veins. Flea Bottom steamed. Sept bells rang. Somewhere below, someone was being born, someone was dying, and someone was selling watered wine to a fool who deserved worse. It was the same city your kin had ruled, the same city your father had mocked, the same city King Viserys still tried to hold together with feasts, marriages, smiles, and the rotting remnants of his own flesh.

Velyrax descended in a long, smooth spiral, his wings catching the wind over the Blackwater before folding close to his body as he dropped toward the Dragonpit. He was not the largest dragon in the world, not while Vhagar yet lived and not while Caraxes still coiled around towers and cliffs like a red nightmare made obedient by will alone, but he was no hatchling either. Your mother had chosen his egg herself, a dark sea-green thing veined in dull silver, warm beneath her hand before you had even been named. Laena Velaryon had told Daemon Targaryen that the egg looked as if the sea had swallowed moonlight and refused to give it back. Daemon, never one to allow poetry to go unchallenged, had called it ugly. Three moons later it hatched in your cradle, snapping at the wet nurse and curling its tail around your ankle as if deciding the matter of ownership before gods or men could interfere. You had named him Velyrax when you were still young enough to think names were simple things. A Velaryon sound for your mother’s blood, a hard Valyrian ending for your father’s. A dragon fit for a son born between salt and fire.

His scales had deepened with age, green as storm-dark water across the back, fading to pale silver along the throat and belly. In sunlight his wings showed threads of bronze, and when angered, the membranes flushed almost black. His eyes were amber, bright and mean, with an old intelligence that made stableboys cross themselves and dragonkeepers mutter to each other in High Valyrian when they thought you were not listening. His flame burned pale at the center and green at the edges, beautiful in the way wildfire was beautiful, which meant no sane man wished to admire it for long.

He landed with a shudder that rattled through the stones. Dust leapt around his claws. Dragonkeepers came forward with chains, hooks, and low voices, careful as priests serving a god they knew would gladly eat them. You slid from the saddle, one gloved hand still against Velyrax’s neck until he lowered his great head beside you. His breath washed over your shoulder, hot and metallic.

“Rȳbās,” you murmured, and his rumble vibrated through your bones.

The dragonkeepers bowed. One old man, scarred from brow to chin by some beast’s past displeasure, looked past you toward the great doors. “Prince Y/N,” he said. “The queen’s daughter waits within the yard.”

You did not correct him. No one did, not anymore. Helaena was Princess Helaena by birth, your wife by law, beloved of the smallfolk by some miracle of gentle manners and maternal softness. Yet in King’s Landing, titles clung to people like cobwebs, and men spoke them wrong whenever fear made their tongues stupid. Queen Alicent’s daughter. Daemon’s good-daughter. Viserys’s peace offering. Your wife. Your Helaena, though even thinking it so plainly would have made half the court itch with offense, as if love were vulgar when not first approved by a council table.

You found her waiting beneath the inner archway of the Dragonpit, not close enough for Velyrax to take insult and not far enough to seem afraid. She wore pale blue silk today, soft as washed sky, with a mantle embroidered in silver thread over her shoulders. Her hair, silver-gold and heavy, had been braided simply and bound with small pearls. She had never had your father’s taste for display, nor your stepmother’s regal severity, nor Alicent’s careful pageantry. Helaena always seemed dressed for herself first and the realm second, a quiet rebellion so harmless in appearance that no lord knew where to place his disapproval.

At her side stood your son, Jaehaerys, three years old, solemn as a maester and clutching a carved wooden dragon in one fist. His hair was pale like hers, curling slightly at the ends, and his eyes were yours, dark violet with a ring of blue around the iris. Viserys had wept when the babe was named, because Viserys could weep at a song, a memory, a wound, or a plate of honeyed figs if it came garnished with enough sentiment. Your father had scoffed. Alicent had prayed. Otto Hightower had smiled the way men smiled when counting future coins. Helaena had only looked at the child against her breast and said the name suited him, which had ended the argument more cleanly than any royal command.

Jaehaerys saw you and broke from his nurse with all the dignity of a charging puppy. “Father!”

You went down on one knee before he reached you, catching him against your chest. His little arms locked around your neck. He smelled of milk, soap, and the lavender sachets Helaena tucked among his linens. For a moment, the city vanished. The court vanished. Blood claims, succession, gossip, bastardy, councils, Driftmark, Dragonstone, Oldtown, all of it shrank into nothing beside the warm weight of your son in your arms.

“You have grown taller since dawn,” you told him gravely.

He leaned back and frowned as if weighing the truth of this. “No.”

“No? Then heavier.”

“Maybe.”

“Helaena, the boy admits to maybe. We are raising a cautious prince.”

Helaena’s mouth curved. She came toward you, her gaze moving briefly past your shoulder to Velyrax, who watched her with one narrowed amber eye. Unlike many in the Red Keep, Helaena had never hated dragons merely because they were dangerous. Dreamfyre was her own, after all, old and pale and strange, with blue wings and a roar like tearing silk. But Velyrax was your father’s son in spirit, ill-tempered, proud, and fond of frightening men who had not yet earned the courtesy.

“Caution is rare enough in this family,” she said. “We should treasure it before someone teaches him glory.”

You rose with Jaehaerys still in your arms. “Someone will try by supper.”

“Your father arrived last night.”

There it was, spoken softly, as though the words were a cup placed near the edge of a table. Daemon Targaryen had returned to King’s Landing with Princess Rhaenyra and their children, as commanded by the king for the matter of Driftmark, for Lord Corlys lay wounded and fevered after war in the Stepstones, and men had begun gathering like flies wherever inheritance bled. Vaemond Velaryon had come to press his claim. Your alleged cousins, Jacaerys and Lucerys, had come because their names were always the knife men reached for when striking at Rhaenyra. Your sisters, Baela and Rhaena, had come because they were Laena’s daughters and could not be kept from a question of their mother’s house. And you had been summoned because you were the oldest child and only son of Daemon Targaryen and Laena Velaryon, which made you inconvenient in every possible direction.

The realm called Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon because the realm had been told to do so. Songs could lie prettily. Heralds could lie loudly. Septons could sanctify a lie until men knelt before it. But blood had eyes, hair, mouths, gestures, and the court had never stopped looking. You had grown beside Baela and Rhaena knowing that truth could be a blade even when left sheathed. Laena had never taught you cruelty. Daemon had taught you that mercy was often a luxury purchased by someone else’s weakness. Between them, you had learned to keep your own counsel.

Helaena reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from Jaehaerys’s brow. “Vaemond has asked to speak with you before the petition.”

“Has he?”

“He asked my mother where you were housed. She said she did not know.”

That meant Alicent knew precisely where you were housed and had chosen not to give Vaemond the satisfaction. A small mercy, or a calculation. With Alicent, it was often both.

“You should not see him alone,” Helaena added.

You studied her face. She did not look frightened. Helaena was seldom as fragile as those who wished to use her believed. She had a softness to her, yes, and a tenderness that had somehow survived the Red Keep, which was a rarer thing than dragon eggs. But softness was not stupidity. Silk could cover mail. A gentle voice could refuse more cleanly than a shout.

“Do you think he means to threaten me?”

“I think men say honor when they want something bloody done by another hand.”

You kissed Jaehaerys on the temple and gave him back to his nurse. “Stay with your mother.”

The boy looked at Velyrax. “Can I see him?”

“From far away.”

“I am brave.”

“You are three.”

“I am brave three.”

Helaena laughed then, low and warm, and the sound loosened something in your chest. She took Jaehaerys’s hand. “Brave three-year-old princes stand with their mothers and do not become breakfast.”

Velyrax snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils as if offended by the suggestion that he would stoop to eating something so small. Jaehaerys stared in awe. The dragonkeepers tightened their hands around their chains and pretended not to be afraid, which was a fine summary of Targaryen rule.

You walked with Helaena from the Dragonpit toward the covered way where litters and guards waited to return you to the Red Keep. Your sworn sword, Ser Corwyn, fell in behind at a respectful distance, and two of Helaena’s ladies followed with the nurse and child. The city moved around you in a blur of faces and bowed heads. Some called blessings for Princess Helaena. A woman with a basket of onions lifted a hand and shouted that the gods keep the sweet princess and her boy. Helaena smiled to her, not the empty court smile of someone acknowledging furniture that had learned to speak, but a real expression, brief and kind. The woman nearly wept.

“You do that too easily,” you said.

“What?”

“Make them love you.”

She gave you a sidelong look. “It is not difficult to be kind to people who have done me no harm.”

“That philosophy would kill my father.”

“Your father survives many things out of spite. He would survive kindness too, though he would resent it.”

You almost smiled. “He did when he learned I was to marry you.”

Helaena’s gaze lowered for a moment. The old wound had long scarred over, but scars were still proof that something had been cut.

You remembered it too well. The king had still been stronger then, though already swollen in places and missing two fingers. Viserys had summoned Daemon to the council chamber, where Otto Hightower sat with his hands folded, Lord Beesbury blinking over accounts, Grand Maester Mellos smelling faintly of herbs and old cloth, and Alicent standing beside the king’s chair in green velvet. You had been young, not yet wise enough to hide all your feelings and no longer young enough to be excused from the consequences of them. Helaena had stood across the chamber with her mother’s hand upon her shoulder, eyes down, cheeks pale, her hair pinned beneath a net of pearls. The king had spoken of healing divisions, of binding branches, of old hurts soothed by new vows. He had called you his blood twice and Helaena his dearest girl three times. Then he had announced the betrothal.

Daemon’s laughter had been worse than rage at first. A brief, bright sound without mirth. “No.”

Viserys had winced. “Brother.”

“No,” Daemon said again, and this time the word had teeth. “You do not get to heal your house by selling my son across the table like a cup of Arbor gold.”

Alicent’s face tightened. “Princess Helaena is not a cup to be sold.”

“Then take your father’s fingers from the bargain.”

Otto’s expression did not change. That was one of the things you had hated first about him, that stillness. It was not calm. It was practice.

Viserys had pushed himself upright, breathing hard. “This is not a punishment.”

“It is not a kindness.”

“It is a marriage,” the king said, voice cracking with effort. “A marriage between kin, between dragonriders, between the blood of my brother and the blood of my daughter. You think I do not know what is said in this castle? You think I do not hear the whispers? My house is splitting before my eyes. Let this be one knot tied before the rope frays beyond repair.”

Daemon had stepped closer to the table. Every guard in the room had become more aware of his sword. “You want peace? Name Rhaenyra plainly again. Send your leeches in green back to Oldtown. Stop letting these carrion birds pick at your heir’s children. That would make peace.”

“Enough,” Viserys snapped, and for a heartbeat he looked like the young king he had once been, angry, flushed, and certain the world should obey because he wished it so. Then pain took him, and he sank back.

Helaena had looked at you then. Not pleading. Not pleased. Only looking, as if trying to see whether you would become another man deciding the shape of her life while speaking over her head. You had hated the match because it was a chain, because it was Viserys trying to stitch a wound with living thread, because Daemon’s fury moved in your blood as naturally as breath. But you had hated more the way everyone spoke as if Helaena were a chair to be moved from one side of the hall to another.

So you had asked, “Does the princess consent?”

The chamber had gone silent.

Alicent’s hand tightened on Helaena’s shoulder. Daemon’s eyes cut to you, unreadable. Viserys looked startled, and then ashamed. Helaena had lifted her chin.

“I will do what is required,” she had said.

“That was not the question,” you replied.

Something changed in her face then. Not much. Enough.

“I would rather marry someone who asks than someone who does not,” Helaena said.

Not love. Not joy. Not even hope. But it had been the first honest stone laid between you. Years later, it remained the one that mattered most.

Now, walking through King’s Landing with your son behind you and your wife at your side, you wondered whether Viserys had ever understood what he had made. He had wanted a bridge. The court had wanted a hostage shaped like a husband. Daemon had seen a theft. Alicent had seen a risk and a safeguard woven together. Otto had seen numbers moving across a board. Helaena had seen a stranger who asked. You had seen a girl given no room to refuse, and perhaps that was where affection began: not with desire, not with songs, but with the simple act of not turning another person into a thing.

The Red Keep received you with its usual appetite. Servants moved through corridors carrying linen, wine, rushes, polished trays, and secrets. Guards stood beside doors trying not to overhear what their wages depended on them hearing. Courtiers bowed, murmured, retreated. Everywhere there were colors. Black and red. Green and gold. Seahorse silver. Hightower flame. Dragons on breasts, dragons on cloaks, dragons carved into lintels, dragons painted on shields. A dead dynasty could not have decorated its own tomb better.

Vaemond Velaryon found you before the hour of petition.

He waited in a small gallery overlooking the outer ward, a proud man with a hard mouth and silver hair bound at the nape of his neck. His cloak was sea-blue, clasped with a silver seahorse. He bowed, correctly but without warmth.

“Prince Y/N.”

“Ser Vaemond.”

“I thank you for granting me this moment.”

“I did not grant it. You stood in my path.”

His nostrils flared. “You have your father’s courtesy.”

“And my mother’s patience. Spend it carefully.”

Vaemond’s gaze shifted past you, perhaps seeking listeners. Ser Corwyn remained by the archway with one hand resting near his sword. Not near enough to insult. Near enough to remind.

“I come for justice,” Vaemond said.

“Most men who say that come for advancement.”

“Driftmark is not an advancement. It is my blood.”

“It is Lord Corlys’s seat.”

“Lord Corlys lies near death.”

“Then pray for him.”

Vaemond stepped closer. “Do not play the fool. You are Laena’s son. Her firstborn. A dragonrider. The blood of the sea snake runs in you, as it does not run in the boy they mean to seat upon the Driftwood Throne.”

There it was, naked at last. Men dressed ambition in law the way corpses were dressed for burial, but rot always found air.

“You mean Lucerys,” you said.

“I mean the truth.”

“You mean treason, if spoken too loudly.”

“I mean to prevent a theft. If you will not support my claim, press your own. Many would follow you.”

You watched him. “Would you?”

Vaemond’s mouth closed.

“No,” you said. “You would use my name to break his, then call me ungrateful when I did not kneel to your counsel afterward.”

“You dishonor your mother by allowing her house to pass to a bastard.”

Your hand moved before thought completed itself, closing around the front of his cloak and driving him back into the carved stone beside the window. Ser Corwyn shifted, but you did not draw steel. Not yet. Vaemond’s eyes widened, less with fear than surprise. Men who called themselves truth-tellers were often shocked when their truth earned fingers at their throat.

“My mother,” you said quietly, “rode Vhagar before you ever thought yourself brave. She crossed seas, defied comfort, and laughed at men who mistook lineage for worth. Do not place her name in your mouth to sweeten your hunger.”

Vaemond’s face darkened. “You know what those boys are.”

“I know what they have been named.”

“Names do not change blood.”

“No,” you said. “But men have drowned in less than what you are stirring.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then gave a thin smile. “Your marriage has softened you.”

Your grip tightened once, enough to pull cloth against his windpipe. “My marriage has taught me that men who speak of family often mean possession.”

You released him. Vaemond smoothed his cloak with stiff, furious hands.

“When the king dies,” he said, voice low, “all these pretty arrangements will die with him.”

“Then be careful you do not join them first.”

The petition was heard in the throne room beneath the blades of dead kings.

He left you there, his footsteps hard on stone. You watched him go without satisfaction. There were men at court who could be dismissed as fools, which made life easier. Vaemond was not a fool. That was worse. He had measured the weakness in the realm and found the seam. If he had not been so proud, he might have been truly dangerous. As it was, pride would put a sword or an axe through him soon enough. Westeros loved nothing so much as a man loudly carrying kindling into a room full of candles.

You stood with Helaena near the side of the hall, Jaehaerys kept away with his nurse, thank the gods. Rhaenyra stood tall in black and red, heavy with pregnancy, her face controlled but pale around the mouth. Beside her were Jacaerys and Lucerys, trying to look older than they were. Poor Luke looked as if the weight of Driftmark might crush him before he ever saw its tides again. Your sisters stood nearby, Baela fierce-eyed, Rhaena quieter but no less watchful. Daemon leaned with one hand on Dark Sister’s pommel, boredom draped over him so elegantly that only those who knew him saw the violence beneath it.

Alicent sat in green beside the Hand. Otto Hightower held court with the calm of a man who had already written three endings and was waiting to see which fool chose which road. The king was absent at first, too ill, it was said, and the Hand began in his name. The air tasted of dust and iron. Men whispered. Women watched. Vaemond spoke boldly, his voice carrying through the hall, laying out bloodlines, claims, rights. He did not press your name. Not after the gallery. But he let it hover. Laena’s son, unspoken. Laena’s blood, available in the room. A better claim than the boy’s, if one wished to pretend this was all about law and not about gutting Rhaenyra before witnesses.

Rhaenyra answered. Her words were careful, her anger hidden beneath royal composure. She spoke of Lord Corlys’s wish, of betrothals, of the king’s declared will. Then the doors opened.

Viserys came in wearing the crown of the Conciliator.

No one forgot that sight. Not afterward. Not even those who hated him. He was half a corpse and yet still the king, leaning on his cane, face masked in gold where disease had taken him, breath harsh enough to carry in the silence. Every step looked like punishment. Every inch forward was a commandment. He crossed the throne room because Rhaenyra had asked, because his brother watched, because his house was tearing itself apart and some ruined stubbornness in him still believed a father might forbid the storm.

No one helped him at first. Pride would not let them, or shock. Then Daemon moved. He went to his brother and lifted the fallen crown, placing it back upon Viserys’s head with a tenderness so brief it almost seemed imagined. Your throat tightened despite yourself. Daemon was many things, few of them safe, but he had loved his brother in the bitter, furious way dragons loved anything: possessively, destructively, beyond reason.

Viserys climbed the Iron Throne and bled for it.

When he spoke, his voice was weak, but the throne room bent to hear. Lucerys was heir to Driftmark. Lord Corlys’s wishes stood. The matter was settled.

It should have ended there. In a better realm, it might have. In this one, Vaemond Velaryon decided that pride was worth more than survival.

He denounced the boys. He called them what half the court whispered and no one with a functioning neck spoke before the king. Rhaenyra’s face went white. Alicent rose. Otto’s eyes closed for the briefest moment, as if he had seen the abyss and found even his appetite overmatched. Viserys dragged himself upright in a fury that seemed to tear the last strength from his bones.

“I will have your tongue for that,” the king rasped.

Daemon was already moving.

Dark Sister flashed once.

Vaemond’s head did not fall cleanly as songs would later claim. No death was as clean as singers made it. Blood struck the stone. Someone screamed. Helaena flinched, not dramatically, not like a maiden in a mummer’s farce, but as a woman startled by the sudden arrival of death in a room where men had been pretending words were not weapons. You stepped half in front of her on instinct. Daemon looked down at the corpse and said something low enough that only those nearest heard it.

“He can keep his tongue.”

The throne room erupted into noise.

Helaena’s hand found your sleeve. Her fingers pressed into the black fabric. You looked at her, expecting horror, disgust, perhaps the quiet condemnation of someone who had grown up among Hightowers and septons and still hoped men might solve things without spilling blood beneath the king’s eyes.

Instead she said, very softly, “He should have stopped.”

It was not approval. It was worse, perhaps. It was understanding.

Your father cleaned Dark Sister as though removing rainwater. Rhaenyra did not look at the body. Alicent did. Otto began issuing orders. Viserys sagged upon the throne, and for one moment you saw what this had cost him. Not the petition. Not Vaemond. The knowledge. He knew. Gods help him, he had always known. He had simply chosen love, or denial, or both, and called it law because kings had the privilege of naming their grief.

By evening, the Red Keep had done what it always did with blood. It scrubbed the stone, changed the rushes, lit candles, roasted meat, poured wine, and pretended the smell had gone.

The king commanded a supper.

That was Viserys all over. A man could lose half his face, a brother could behead a lord in open court, succession could sit at the table like a starving dog, and Viserys would still ask for music, cups, and reconciliation. He had built his reign out of avoidance and affection, and now, near its end, he reached for the same tools with trembling hands.

The feast was held in the queen’s apartments, smaller than a great hall banquet but no less heavy with performance. Viserys was carried in and set among cushions, the gold mask removed for part of the meal at his own insistence. The sight of him made many look away. Helaena did not. She rose, went to him, kissed his remaining cheek, and asked whether the pain was less after milk of the poppy. He patted her hand and called her his sweet girl.

You sat beside her with Jaehaerys on your knee for the first part of the meal. The boy behaved with grave dignity until offered sugared almonds, at which point he became a traitor to all discipline. Helaena took the dish away after his fifth, and he accepted this injustice with a wounded silence clearly inherited from no one in your family.

Rhaenyra sat across from Alicent. They exchanged courtesies that sounded almost real if one had never heard sincerity before. Jacaerys spoke politely to Baela. Rhaena smiled at Luke, perhaps to comfort him. Aegon drank too much and watched everything with that unpleasant mixture of boredom and resentment found in men who had been given every privilege except purpose. Aemond sat straight-backed, one eye covered by a sapphire beneath his patch, his mouth still as a carved line. Daeron was away in Oldtown, which may have made him the cleverest of Alicent’s sons by simple geography.

Daemon watched you more than he watched his wife’s enemies.

You felt it across the table. A father’s claim. A prince’s assessment. A dragon’s irritation that one of his own had chosen to roost in another wing of the castle. He had not forgiven the marriage. He had tolerated it because Helaena had given him no cause to despise her personally, because Jaehaerys was his grandson no matter whose daughter birthed him, and because Daemon, for all his violence, was not stupid enough to mistake your affection for weakness. But he had never stopped seeing the marriage as Viserys’s chain.

Viserys called for silence after the first courses. The room obeyed.

He spoke of family. Of old wounds. Of his love for them all. He asked, not as king but as a dying man, that they set aside grievances. It was painful because it was useless, and more painful because he meant it. Rhaenyra lifted her cup to Alicent, praising her care for the king. Alicent answered with grace and something like emotion. For one frail moment, peace entered the room and sat among you. Not strong peace. Not honest peace. But enough to make Viserys smile.

Helaena leaned closer to you. “He believes it while it is happening.”

You looked at the king. “That may be the kindest thing anyone can say of him.”

“He wanted us to be happy.”

“He wanted us to be useful.”

“Both can be true.”

You looked at her then, at the candlelight touching her cheek, at the calm intelligence in her eyes. “Are you?”

“Hm?”

“Happy.”

The question was too bare for the table, too intimate for a room full of enemies wearing kinship like borrowed cloaks. Helaena did not blush. She looked down at Jaehaerys, who had fallen asleep against your chest with one fist twisted in your sleeve.

“Yes,” she said. “Not always safely. But yes.”

A strange answer. A true one.

Aegon, already flushed with wine, leaned toward Jacaerys and muttered something that made Baela’s eyes flash. Jace went rigid. You did not hear the words, but you recognized the shape of them. Aegon had the gift of making even silence feel soiled. Helaena heard enough. She lifted her cup and said lightly, “Brother, if wine has made you clever, perhaps you should drink water before the miracle fades.”

Baela choked on a laugh. Rhaena hid her smile behind her cup. Aegon blinked, then smirked as if he had chosen to be amused rather than embarrassed. Alicent’s mouth tightened, but Viserys chuckled weakly, delighted by any sound that resembled family mirth.

Jace rose not long after and asked Helaena to dance, perhaps in courtesy, perhaps to prove himself unmoved, perhaps because kindness still lived in him despite all the men sharpening him for future war. In another life, in another arrangement, that moment might have belonged to different rumors. Here, Jace bowed to your wife as a prince to a princess, and then turned to you as well.

“With your permission, cousin?”

The word cousin hung between you. Legal cousin. Alleged cousin. Beloved cousin, if affection could decide what blood did not. You shifted Jaehaerys carefully to his nurse, then inclined your head.

“Helaena grants herself where she wishes. But if she treads on your foot, suffer nobly.”

“I do not tread,” Helaena said, rising.

“You do if distracted.”

“You speak as if you dance well enough to judge.”

“I survive.”

“You endure music until it ends and call that dancing.”

Jace laughed, and even Luke smiled. Helaena went with him, blue skirts moving softly over the floor. She danced well, not with Rhaenyra’s command or Baela’s fire, but with lightness, listening to the music rather than trying to conquer it. You watched her because you were her husband and because half the room watched who watched whom. That was marriage in the Red Keep. Even tenderness became evidence.

Daemon moved beside your chair while the musicians played.

“You refused Vaemond,” he said without preamble.

You did not look away from Helaena. “He asked for refusal.”

“He asked you to claim Driftmark?”

“He suggested justice might look improved with my face on it.”

Daemon laughed through his nose. “Fool.”

“Ambitious men often are when forced to speak plainly.”

“He insulted Laena.”

“He did.”

Daemon’s amusement thinned. “And yet he left that gallery with his head.”

“He was not worth making Helaena step over blood twice in one day.”

At that, your father looked at you fully. Daemon Targaryen’s eyes were pale and hard, and in certain moods they made men remember that dragons had never been domesticated, only negotiated with.

“You think like a husband.”

“I am one.”

“You were my son first.”

“I remain your son.”

“Do you?” His voice stayed soft. “When the king dies, there will be no more suppers like this. No more tears into wine. No more of Viserys holding a blanket over a pit and calling the floor mended. You know what comes.”

Across the room, Helaena turned under Jace’s hand, smiling faintly at something he said. Alicent watched them, not displeased, but not easy. Rhaenyra watched Alicent. Otto watched everyone.

“I know what men want to come,” you said.

Daemon leaned closer. “Then know where you stand before the ground cracks.”

“I stand with my wife and son.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only answer that is not filth.”

His jaw worked. For a heartbeat you were a boy again, desperate for his approval and furious that you wanted it. Daemon had loved you fiercely after Laena died, but not gently. He taught by blade, by silence, by expectation. He had taken Baela’s wildness in stride, Rhaena’s quieter hurt with less ease, and your grief with the brutal confidence that sons should bleed standing. You had adored him. You had hated him. Often in the same breath.

“Do not let them make you their shield,” he said.

“Do not ask me to become your sword against them.”

Daemon’s eyes flicked to Helaena again. “She is Alicent’s blood.”

“She is my wife.”

“She is Aegon’s sister. Aemond’s. Otto’s granddaughter.”

“And Jaehaerys is your grandson. Shall we keep tally until everyone at this table is reduced to a threat?”

His smile came then, slight and dangerous. “You have Laena’s tongue when angered.”

“Better than yours. Mine has not been promised to the king for removal.”

Daemon looked almost proud. That hurt more than anger would have. “You are wasted in this place.”

“Most people are.”

“Come to Dragonstone after this. Bring the boy.”

You did look at him then. “And Helaena?”

His silence was answer enough.

“No,” you said.

“She would be treated with honor.”

“She is not a banner to capture politely.”

“Honor matters.”

“So does being asked.”

His face hardened. “You think I would force you?”

“I think you would call it rescue and expect gratitude.”

The music ended. Applause rose, brittle and relieved. Helaena curtsied to Jace and returned toward you. Daemon stepped back, the conversation folding itself away behind his eyes.

“Think on what I said,” he murmured.

“I have thought on little else for years.”

Then Aemond rose.

The toast that followed would later be retold in a dozen ways, each uglier than the last. He praised his nephews in a voice clean enough to cut meat, calling them strong, and the word landed as intended. Jace struck him. Luke shouted. Aegon laughed. Baela stood so quickly her chair scraped stone. Guards shifted. Alicent cried Aemond’s name. Rhaenyra called for her sons. For one brief, absurd moment, Viserys seemed not to understand why the word had wounded, and that was the saddest thing in the room.

Daemon moved like a drawn blade, placing himself before Aemond. You stood too, not toward Aemond, not toward Jace, but beside Helaena, whose face had gone still. Jaehaerys woke and began to cry in the nurse’s arms, startled by the noise. That sound cut through your restraint more cleanly than Aemond’s insult. Helaena took the child at once, murmuring to him, her hand steady against his back.

Aemond met Daemon’s stare and, to his credit or stupidity, did not look away. The room held its breath. If war had begun there, no one who knew that family would have been surprised. But Daemon smiled, slow and cold, and Aemond stepped back first.

The supper ended soon after.

So did Viserys’s peace.

Later, when the corridors had emptied and the castle settled into its midnight murmurs, you stood in the chamber assigned to you and listened to rain begin against the shutters. King’s Landing rain always sounded unclean, as if even the sky regretted touching the city. A fire burned low in the hearth. Two candles remained lit beside the bed. Jaehaerys slept in the adjoining nursery with his nurse nearby, guarded by men you trusted because trust, in the Red Keep, was not a feeling but an arrangement backed by wages, fear, and repeated testing.

Helaena stood at the table, unpinning her hair. Pearl after pearl clicked softly into a shallow dish. Her gown had been loosened at the back by her maid before the woman withdrew, leaving the fabric held at her shoulders by habit more than fastening. The exposed line of her neck looked pale in the candlelight. There was a faint red mark near her collarbone where Jaehaerys had clutched her too hard when frightened.

You closed the door bar.

She heard it and turned. “Is your father angry?”

“My father wakes angry. The day merely gives it shape.”

“That sounds tiring.”

“For everyone near him.”

“Did he ask you to leave with him?”

You crossed the room slowly. “He asked me to come to Dragonstone.”

“And me?”

You did not answer. Helaena nodded once, unsurprised.

“My mother asked me to remain in the queen’s apartments after you leave,” she said. “She said the child should stay close. She did not say close to what.”

“Otto?”

“Power. Fear. The king’s bedchamber. All of them, perhaps.”

You stopped before her. “I am not leaving you here as hostage to anyone’s courage or cowardice.”

“And I am not leaving my father to die among strangers.”

“He will not be among strangers.”

“He will be among people waiting.” Her voice remained calm, but pain lived under it. “Waiting for his breath to stop. Waiting to count ravens. Waiting to lock doors. Waiting to say what they have rehearsed in private for years.”

You touched her arms, lightly at first. “Helaena.”

She looked up at you. “Everyone thinks because I do not shout, I do not see. My mother sees danger and calls it duty. Your father sees insult and calls it truth. Rhaenyra sees birthright and calls it law. Aegon sees chains because no one taught him the difference between being denied and being unloved. Aemond sees every slight ever given to him and feeds them until they bite. My father sees what he wants to save and not what he has neglected. And you...”

“And I?”

“You stand in the middle and think that if you are strong enough, no one will make you choose.”

The words struck harder because she spoke them without accusation. You looked at her face, at the woman Viserys had handed to you as a treaty, the woman who had become the one person in the Keep before whom you had no appetite for disguise.

“I chose,” you said. “I chose you.”

Her breath caught. Only slightly. Enough.

“You choose me in this room.”

“I chose you before Vaemond. Before my father. Before every man who has mistaken our marriage for a road into my obedience.”

Helaena’s eyes shone, though she did not cry. “Do you ever hate it? What was done to us?”

“Yes.”

It would have been easy to soften the truth. A worse husband might have. “I hate that you were offered to me by men who had not earned the right to decide the hour you woke. I hate that my father looked at you and saw your mother’s blood before he saw your face. I hate that your grandfather counted the dragons our children might ride before he cared whether you smiled at supper. I hate that the king made a bridge of us and then wondered why everyone marched across it with boots.”

Helaena’s mouth trembled. “And us?”

“No.” You cupped her face. “Never us.”

The rain thickened, tapping against the shutters like small fingers. She leaned into your palm, eyes closing for a moment. When she opened them again, something had changed. Not abruptly. Helaena was not a storm. She was slower than that, more deliberate. She stepped closer and set her hands against your chest, fingers curling in the dark fabric of your tunic.

“I do not want to be peace tonight,” she said.

The words went through you with a heat that had nothing to do with the fire.

“What do you want to be?”

“Your wife.”

You bent and kissed her.

At first it was gentle because grief had filled the day, because blood had been spilled in front of her, because your son had cried against her breast while grown men played at honor with knives behind their teeth. Then her hands tightened, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepened into something less careful. Helaena made a small sound into your mouth, not fragile, not uncertain, but hungry in a way she rarely allowed herself outside the privacy of locked doors. You answered it with your own restraint fraying, one hand sliding into her loosened hair, the other settling at her waist where silk had gone slack beneath your fingers.

Her gown slipped lower. You drew back just enough to look at her, asking without making the moment small with words. She held your gaze and let the sleeves fall.

The blue silk whispered down her body and pooled at her feet.

Candlelight loved her. There was no other way to think it. It touched the curve of her shoulders, the fullness of her breasts, the soft strength of her belly, the pale marks motherhood had left low on her body, silvered and faint as old lightning beneath the skin. The first time you had seen those marks after Jaehaerys was born, she had watched you with wary eyes, as if expecting disappointment. You had kissed every one of them until she laughed and told you that you were being absurdly solemn over something half the women in the realm carried. But they were not half the women in the realm to you. They were hers. Proof of pain survived, life made, body changed and still desired.

You touched her now with the same reverence, though reverence did not remain clean for long. Your mouth found her throat, then the place below her ear where she always inhaled sharply. Her fingers moved to the ties of your tunic, impatient when one caught, and you laughed against her skin.

“Careful,” you murmured. “This is fine work.”

“I have seen you tear a man’s sleeve because he annoyed you.”

“That sleeve was offensive.”

“So is this knot.”

She pulled again, and the knot surrendered. You helped her strip the tunic from your shoulders, then your undershirt, then stood bare to the waist as she set her hands upon you. Helaena had a way of touching that undid you more thoroughly than boldness would have. Her palms moved over your chest, your ribs, the old scar near your left side from a tourney lance you had been too proud to avoid properly. Her mouth followed, pressing warmth to skin, and when her teeth grazed lightly near your collarbone, your hand clenched in her hair.

“Helaena.”

She looked up, and there was no court in her eyes, no council, no queen’s daughter, no reluctant treaty. Only a woman who knew exactly what her name sounded like when it became need in your mouth.

You lifted her onto the edge of the table because the bed was too far, and she laughed softly, breathless, as a cup nearly tipped beside her. You caught it and set it aside without looking. She parted her knees for you to stand between them. Your hands moved along her thighs, pushing the last layer of linen upward until there was no barrier left but your own remaining clothes and the final shreds of patience. She kissed you again, slower this time, open-mouthed and deep, her fingers working at your belt with increasing frustration.

“Now who is cautious?” you asked.

She bit your lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, hard enough to silence. “Do not become pleased with yourself. It makes you resemble your father.”

“That is cruel.”

“It worked.”

Your belt hit the floor. Then the rest. Her amusement faded when you touched her between her legs, replaced by a soft, unguarded gasp that you felt against your mouth. You stroked her with the care you had learned over years, not from instruction, not from brothel boasting, but from listening to her breath, her hands, the way her body tilted toward pleasure when her mind finally stopped carrying the realm like a basket of stones. She was warm and slick beneath your fingers, opening for you in increments, one hand braced behind her on the table, the other gripping your shoulder.

Outside, thunder rolled over the Blackwater.

Inside, Helaena whispered your name.

You kissed her breast, drew one nipple into your mouth, and felt her legs tighten around your hips. Her head tipped back. Her hair fell loose down her spine, pale as moonlit water. You worked her until her composure fractured, until her breath came unevenly and the quiet sounds she tried to swallow began escaping anyway. You loved that most perhaps, not the sounds themselves, though gods knew they could ruin you, but the trust of them. The knowledge that she could be unguarded here. With you. In a castle that had made every softness dangerous.

When she reached for you, you did not make her ask.

You entered her slowly, forehead pressed to hers, one hand at her back and the other on her thigh. Her eyes closed. Her lips parted. The first tight heat of her nearly broke what restraint you had left, but you held still until her body eased around you, until she pulled you closer with a small, deliberate movement that was permission and command together.

“Please,” she breathed.

So you moved.

Not as Daemon’s son. Not as Laena’s heir, not as Rhaenyra’s kin, not as Alicent’s good-son, not as a name to be counted by grasping men. You moved as her husband, flesh to flesh, breath mingling, her arms around your neck and your mouth at her jaw. The table creaked beneath her. The candles trembled. Rain blurred the windows. Her legs locked around your waist, drawing you deeper, and you felt the shiver move through her before it fully took hold.

You knew her body well enough to follow. Your hand slipped between you again, thumb circling where she needed it, and she broke against you with a soft cry muffled into your shoulder. Her inner muscles tightened around your cock, pleasure pulsing through her in waves, and you held her through it, thrusting slower, then harder when she whispered yes against your skin.

It did not take long after that. You buried yourself deep, shaking with the force of holding back until there was no holding. Release tore through you, hot and consuming, your mouth finding hers as you spent inside her. For several moments there was nothing but breath, rain, skin, the dying fire, the aftershocks of her body around yours.

Helaena rested her forehead against your chest. You held her there, still joined, one hand spread over her back. Her heartbeat gradually slowed beneath your palm.

After a while, she said, “The table was a poor choice.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out low and rough, startling in the quiet room. “You did not complain.”

“I was distracted by your fine arguments.”

“My fine arguments?”

She leaned back enough to look at you. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright. “You are more persuasive without a tunic.”

“That should be placed in the histories.”

“No. Maesters would ruin it.”

You kissed her again, softer now. Then you lifted her carefully and carried her to the bed, both of you cleaning yourselves with warmed water from the basin before slipping beneath the covers. The intimacy afterward had always mattered to her. Perhaps to you too, though you had taken longer to understand that staying was its own language. You drew her against your side, and she came willingly, one leg over yours, cheek resting on your chest.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then Helaena said, “When Jaehaerys was born, my mother told me sons belong first to the realm.”

Your fingers moved through her hair. “Your mother says many bleak things when frightened.”

“She was not wrong.”

“She was not entirely right.”

“The realm will want him.”

“The realm wants everything.”

“And your father?”

“He wants loyalty.”

“Rhaenyra?”

“Recognition.”

“Otto?”

“Leverage.”

“Aegon?”

You paused. “Escape, though he would not call it that.”

“Aemond?”

“Vindication.”

“And you?”

You looked down at her. “A morning where no one asks me who I would kill for.”

She was quiet for a moment. “That may be too much to ask of this family.”

“Yes.”

Her hand rested over your heart. “Promise me something that is not foolish.”

“Name it.”

“Do not promise there will be no war. Do not promise my brothers will become better men by dawn or your father will learn restraint or the king will live to see another winter. Do not promise me safety if safety must be purchased with lies.”

You waited.

“Promise me,” she said, “that whatever comes, you will remember Jaehaerys is not a claim first. He is a child.”

Your chest hurt. You turned onto your side, facing her fully. “I promise.”

“And that I am not a side.”

“You are not.”

“Say it plainly.”

“You are not a side,” you said. “You are Helaena.”

Her eyes searched yours. Then she nodded, satisfied not because words could save anyone, but because some vows mattered even when doomed men laughed at them.

Near dawn, the rain stopped.

You woke to grey light and an empty space beside you. For one cold instant, the old fear of the Red Keep moved through you, irrational and immediate. Then you heard voices from the adjoining nursery. Helaena’s low murmur. Jaehaerys answering with sleepy seriousness. The nurse laughing softly.

You dressed before the fire had been stirred back to life. Outside, the castle was beginning to move. Servants with ash buckets. Guards changing posts. Ravens being fed. Somewhere below, a lord was likely composing a letter that would help ruin thousands of lives. Dawn made men no less stupid, only better lit.

Helaena entered with Jaehaerys in her arms. The boy had one cheek creased from sleep and his wooden dragon tucked beneath his chin.

“He wants the Dragonpit,” she said.

“He always wants the Dragonpit.”

“He says brave three must inspect Velyrax.”

“Brave three may inspect Velyrax from a distance approved by sane adults.”

Jaehaerys lifted his head. “Dreamfyre too.”

Helaena kissed his hair. “Dreamfyre does not like loud boys before breakfast.”

“I am quiet.”

“You are not.”

“I can be.”

You exchanged a look with Helaena, and for a moment the ordinary absurdity of parenthood stood between you and the coming abyss. It was almost enough.

Almost.

The king asked to see you before the court gathered again.

Viserys lay in his bedchamber surrounded by the smells of medicine, incense, old linen, and decay. The curtains had been drawn back to allow in morning light, but it did him few favors. Without the crown, without the mask, he seemed less a king than a man already halfway claimed by whatever waited beyond breath. Alicent sat beside him, reading softly from a book of prayers, though she stopped when you entered. Her eyes moved from you to Helaena, then to Jaehaerys, whom Helaena held by the hand.

The king brightened when he saw the boy. Pain could not keep the love from his face. That was the best and worst of Viserys. He had loved so much, so poorly, so selectively, so sincerely, and the realm would pay for every contradiction.

“Jaehaerys,” he rasped. “Come here, lad.”

The boy looked at you first. You nodded. He went to the bed, careful in the way children became careful around sickness when they did not understand it but understood enough. Viserys touched his hair with shaking fingers.

“My brave prince.”

“I saw Velyrax yesterday,” Jaehaerys said.

“Did you? And was he fearsome?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Viserys gave a faint smile. “A dragon should be.”

Alicent’s expression tightened. She loved her father’s gods but had married into a house where children were praised for admiring monsters. A cruel arrangement, though not the cruelest she had endured.

Viserys looked to you. “Leave us a moment. Not Helaena. You.”

Alicent hesitated.

“Please,” the king said.

That word moved people more effectively than command in that room. Alicent rose, kissed his brow, and withdrew with Helaena and Jaehaerys. Helaena gave you one glance before leaving. Not fearful. Present.

When the door closed, Viserys breathed for some time before speaking. “You look like her.”

You knew he meant Laena. People usually did when they softened around the eyes.

“So I am told.”

“She was very brave.”

“She was.”

“Daemon loved her.”

“I know.”

Viserys’s mouth twisted. “He loves like a dragon guards meat.”

Despite yourself, you huffed a laugh. “He would call that complimentary.”

“He would.” The king stared toward the ceiling. “He hated me for the marriage.”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

You considered lying. Then did not. “Yes.”

His eyes closed. “But not now.”

“No. Not now.”

“I wanted peace.”

“I know.”

“I thought if I joined the lines, gave each side blood in the other, they would hesitate.” His breath caught, wet and painful. “Men hesitate before kin.”

You thought of Vaemond’s blood on stone, of Aemond’s toast, of Daemon’s offer to bring you to Dragonstone without your wife. “Some do.”

Viserys opened his eyes again. “Not enough?”

“No.”

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye into the ruined hollow of his face. He did not seem to notice. “I have failed them.”

There was no answer that was both kind and true. You stood beside the bed and listened to the king breathe.

At last he reached for your hand. His grip was weak, fingers swollen, skin hot with fever. “Protect her.”

“Helaena?”

“All of them,” Viserys whispered. “If you can. Her. Rhaenyra. The children. My sons. Gods help me, my sons too. Do not let them devour each other.”

There it was, the final command of a dying king: stop dragons from being dragons.

You bowed your head. “I will do what I can.”

Viserys looked at you with sudden, terrible clarity. “That is an honest oath. I have heard too few.”

When you left the bedchamber, Alicent was waiting in the outer room. Helaena stood near the window with Jaehaerys, showing him the pale line of Blackwater Bay beyond the walls. Alicent looked tired in a way paint and jewels could not hide.

“What did he ask of you?” she said.

“To do the impossible.”

Alicent’s laugh was short and humorless. “Then he remains himself.”

You studied her. She had never been cruel to you in the simple ways that would have made hating her easy. She had been wary, devout, proud, frightened, political, sometimes cold, sometimes unexpectedly gentle with Jaehaerys when she thought no one saw. She loved Helaena. That did not absolve her of anything. It made everything more difficult, which was generally how families arranged their worst disasters.

“My daughter should not be made to suffer for your father’s ambitions,” Alicent said quietly.

“No.”

That answer seemed to catch her off guard.

“Nor for yours,” you added.

There. Less caught off guard now.

Her eyes hardened. “You think me ambitious.”

“I think you are afraid, and afraid people often hire ambition to guard the door.”

“You speak like Daemon.”

“I was trying to be less insulting.”

Alicent looked toward Helaena. “She loves you.”

“Yes.”

“If that is true, do not take her where she will be hated.”

“If you mean Dragonstone, say Dragonstone.”

“Would she be welcomed there?” Alicent asked. “Truly? By your father? By Rhaenyra? By those who see my children as obstacles born from my womb?”

You said nothing.

Alicent stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You think staying here makes her a pawn. You may be right. But leaving may make her a prisoner of another color.”

The worst part was that she was not wrong. People were exhausting enough when stupid. When they had a point, they became nearly intolerable.

“Helaena will not be moved without her consent,” you said.

Alicent’s mouth pressed flat. “Consent. Men in this house discover that word when it suits them.”

“I discovered it before I married her.”

For a moment, grief passed over her face. Old grief. Young grief. The kind that began in a girl and hardened around a queen. Then it was gone.

“Then remember it,” she said.

By midday, Rhaenyra and Daemon prepared to return to Dragonstone. The court assembled in the yard with all the affection of rival armies forced to share a well. Horses stamped. Wheelhouses waited. Servants carried chests. Princes exchanged farewells stiff enough to stand unsupported. Luke kept his eyes away from Aemond. Aemond watched him anyway. Aegon complained of the light. Baela embraced you hard and whispered that the Keep made her want to bite someone. Rhaena hugged Helaena, which surprised some watchers and pleased you more than was safe to show.

Rhaenyra came to you last. Her pregnancy made her movements slower, but her gaze remained steady.

“You will not come,” she said.

“Not today.”

Her eyes flicked to Helaena, then Jaehaerys. “You would be welcome.”

“Would we?”

A pause.

Rhaenyra’s answer, when it came, was careful. “You are my blood.”

“Helaena is my wife.”

“Yes.”

That single word held weariness, regret, and calculation. Rhaenyra was not unkind. She had held you as a child after Laena’s funeral when Daemon had vanished into his grief and your sisters had cried themselves sick. She had taught Baela to command a room with silence. She had once told you that being born royal meant strangers would build cages and call them duties. You had loved her for that. You still did. Love, unfortunately, did not make people safe.

“I will not raise my son among people waiting to decide which part of him they can use,” you said.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened. “Then where will you raise him? Such a place does not exist for us.”

No answer came. None worth giving.

Daemon approached behind her, already gloved for riding, Dark Sister at his hip. Caraxes screamed somewhere beyond the walls, shrill and savage. Velyrax answered from the Dragonpit with a lower roar, less piercing but no less hostile. The yard fell silent around the sound. Dragons conversing over human heads. A fair image for the realm.

Daemon looked at Helaena. To his credit, he inclined his head. “Princess.”

“Prince Daemon,” she replied.

Then he looked at Jaehaerys. The boy stared back with solemn interest. Daemon crouched before him, which startled nearly everyone present.

“You have been inspecting dragons, I hear.”

“Yes,” Jaehaerys said.

“Good. Inspect men too. They are more treacherous and less impressive.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra murmured.

“What? It is sound advice.”

Jaehaerys considered this. “Are you treacherous?”

Baela made a strangled sound. Rhaena turned away, shoulders shaking. Helaena pressed her lips together. Even Rhaenyra looked briefly defeated by amusement.

Daemon smiled at his grandson. Not his court smile, not his killing smile. A real one, small and unexpected. “Very.”

“Are you impressive?”

“Extremely.”

Jaehaerys nodded, accepting the answer as one accepts weather.

Daemon rose. His gaze met yours. “Stay, then.”

“I will.”

“But when the fire starts, do not pretend smoke surprised you.”

“I never have.”

He clasped your shoulder. Hard. Affection, warning, farewell. With Daemon they were often the same gesture. Then he turned and went to Rhaenyra.

You watched them leave through the gate, black and red moving away from green walls, children following, guards around them, dragons waiting beyond the city like judgments with wings. The yard emptied slowly afterward. Alicent withdrew to the king. Otto to the council. Aegon to whatever cup had missed him most. Aemond lingered just long enough to look at you, at Helaena, at your son. His one eye was unreadable.

“Brother,” Helaena said to him.

Aemond bowed. “Sister.”

Then to you, “Good-brother.”

“Aemond.”

His mouth curved. “A rare thing, to be wanted by both sides.”

“A rarer thing to enjoy it.”

“Do you not?”

“No.”

“Then you lack imagination.”

“I lack your appetite for grievance.”

His smile vanished. For a heartbeat the boy he had been showed through, wounded, furious, half-blind and never allowed to stop proving he had become dangerous. Then the man he had made himself returned.

“Careful,” he said. “Men standing between doors are crushed when both open.”

You stepped closer. “Men kicking at doors should first ask what waits behind them.”

Aemond held your gaze, then gave a slight bow to Helaena and walked away.

Jaehaerys tugged at your sleeve. “Is he treacherous too?”

Helaena sighed. “We will not make that your new word.”

You lifted him into your arms. “Your uncle is complicated.”

“Like knots?”

“Like knots tied by angry people in the dark.”

“Can we see Velyrax now?”

Helaena looked at you. The yard was nearly empty. The road to Dragonstone had swallowed your father and Rhaenyra. The Red Keep rose around you, full of listeners, prayers, plots, sickbeds, swords, and doors that would soon close or open or break. Above the city, clouds moved apart, revealing a hard, bright strip of sky.

“Yes,” she said before you could answer. “Let us see the dragons.”

So you went together: Helaena, Jaehaerys, and you, with guards behind and the city below. Not Black. Not Green. Not peace, not war, not yet. Only a husband, a wife, and a child walking toward the Dragonpit while the realm held its breath and pretended it was not already burning.

Velyrax heard you before you entered.

His roar rolled through the stone like thunder beneath the earth. Dreamfyre answered from the shadows, old and pale and restless. Jaehaerys buried his face in your neck, brave three overcome for the moment by scale and sound. Helaena set her hand on your arm.

You looked at her.

She smiled, small but real. “He is still brave.”

You kissed your son’s hair. “The bravest.”

Days 1-4 went by easily. Work and other responsibilities kept him distracted, and even though he couldn’t fuck you, cuddles and kisses were still on the menu and he took great advantage of that. The only thing that reminded him there was a ban in place was having to actually wear the PJs he had in his dresser, instead of letting himself fall asleep in the nude after making love to you like he used to.  

Maybe he could’ve kept a few more days of that peaceful scenario before the reality of it came crashing onto him, but a misplaced bragging comment on his part during a conversation about how you’d probably give up on the ban before he did dialed the difficulty up to eleven. That was the only way he could justify the amount of teasing that you’d decided to bring forth in the following days.

From Day 4 onwards, you appeared to have taken a liking to roaming the house in nothing but oversized T-shirts, giving him glimpses of your ass whenever you bent down and letting him know you weren’t keen on panties these days, either. Those damn athletic skirts for the gym that always had him paying too much attention to your squats and too little to his own sets were equally back in fashion. All that while you also became more touchy-feely than usual -  constantly pressing your body against his and tracing any exposed patch of his skin with your hands, whispering in his ear, keeping him close just enough for your scent to make his mind stop working for a second before you’d go do something else and he’d be left standing there with a hard-on that wouldn’t go down and an itch in his palms from wanting to touch you back.

It was unfair and you both knew it. No matter how much Kyle tried to avoid or focus on something else, you were always there, the need for you swirling around him like a snake with its prey. The urge to call the whole thing off gnawed at his brain with every kiss of yours that landed just shy of his mouth, and he was using so much of his own energy in holding back from ravishing you that it left him incapable of doing much else out of life. No celebration on his part when he completed a whole week - he was a zombie amongst men, denied the peace your warmth provided.

Night 9 was when you brought out the big guns. And why he never made it to Day 10.

The sounds of your little moans attracted him like blood would a shark. He’d expected you to already be asleep when he came home from hanging out with his work colleagues, considering you were deliberately depriving you both of what you’d want to do that late at night. He was stealthy as could be passing by the door of your shared bedroom, not wanting to make any sound lest you wake up - so there was no mistaking for anything else the soft sounds he heard, loud enough even through the door, exactly like one would if they either knew they were alone or wanted someone to be made aware of them.

Rational thought didn’t even have time to grace his mind and give him the option of walking away to let you have your moment. The door was open in a millisecond, his eyes already wide in preparation of the view he’d catch.

And what a view. You were comfortably spread on the center of the bed over the covers, fully naked, legs bent and wide apart. The lamp turned on at the nightstand was your own personal spotlight, drawing attention to your full form in that dark room in the most erotic chiaroscuro imaginable. His cock was already twitching in his pants at the forbidden sight, almost warning him to walk away before he’d be too aroused to walk away smoothly from that, but there was no recovering the moment his gaze drifted to what was really happening between your legs.

You had both hands there. The fingers on your dominant one worked your clit steadily, your hips bucking towards it to give yourself further friction. The non-dominant hand was lower, holding the base of what could only be a toy and pumping it in and out of your cunt in slow movements. Kyle zeroed in on that, ignoring the trail of drool that was trickling down the side of his agape mouth, trying to gauge which one of your favorite toys was getting the luck he didn’t have tonight.

The answer, in the form of a pale beige colored dildo with a vibrator inside of it, the device’s end peeking out from the middle of the silicone, made him freeze in shock.

He didn’t have to look at the rest of it to know what it was. A true to size replica of his cock, homemade from a kit he bought and perfect down to every single vein.

One too many drinks could always lead a man to places he wouldn’t go with a gun, and Kyle was no exception. Whatever it was that he’d discussed with his friends during game night at Kenny’s place he would never know. What he did vaguely remember was heading towards his computer after returning home, credit card in hand and an idea in his mind - but he’d hoped the idea would’ve been tickets to Tahiti or something of that nature, instead of the much cheaper and much more risqué alternative that arrived at your house about a week later in an extremely discreet plain brown cardboard box. 

Returning it and getting his money back was an option, but when you saw the thing and your eyes shone with excitement, he figured it would at least be a funny experience that you could joke about someday. You two followed the tutorial with some laughter throughout, had fun with it when it was done, then cleaned it and promptly chucked it somewhere Kyle didn't care to remember. Having the real thing constantly at your disposal meant you didn't really feel the need for a fake, or so he thought.

Except, he quickly realized, you didn't constantly have it at your disposal now.

When you took notice of his presence and lifted your head to look at him, it was damn near irritatingly calmly. The movement of your hands slowed, but it never stopped; and so, while your gaze was unwavering as it focused on his eyes, his own had to fight to not be distracted by the hypnotic motions happening between your legs. The ease of someone who had no shame at being caught.

You didn’t recognize his arrival with words, and he was grateful for that: his knowledge of the English language had forsaken him, and the babbles he would have let out in lieu of it would’ve dug him an even deeper grave. He approached the bed just as quietly as he’d walked to the bedroom just minutes earlier, which now felt like a whole lifetime ago, that’s how intense the whirlwind he was thrown in at the situation was. Your gaze burned into him, following his every shift, but it was nothing compared to the blaze building in his lower abdomen. 

In the short distance between the door and the bed, he’d already forgotten there was a sex ban in place to begin with. His hand reached toward your body while the mattress dipped under his weight, and he wasn't even expecting you to move, since in his fuzzy mind he’d be on top of you in an instant. As such, the slap you gave his wrist right in mid-air was like a bucket of ice water straight to his face, with the slow shake of your head only adding salt to a wound that had been bleeding on him for over a week. 

Had Kyle been sound of mind, he would’ve complained, and the sizzling in the back of his throat definitely told him he should do so. Have you hear how much of an asshole you were being. Yet, hypnotized as he still was by your naked form, all he could do was slowly stand back up, keeping as little distance as possible from the bed: a good puppy waiting for a command so that he could perform it and win a treat.

Said treat came in the form of you giving him a small smile before closing your eyes and lending your mind to the mist of pleasure again, your lips parting with small breaths coming through them - a hint of a smile curled them at the corners, carrying just enough wickedness to be excusable. The wetness of your cunt glistened with the lamp’s light, yet it was in how it cried to his ears that true sensuality laid. Each squelch it made with the movement of your hands was a plea for him to take matters into his own, and each long second he spent watching made it more difficult to remain inactive. By now his pants felt absurdly tight, and he gave himself the excuse of ‘just having to change anyway’ as he undid them, his very soul emitting a groan of relief when his erection was granted slightly more space as the buttons came undone.

That relief was momentary, though. Knowing that you were using a clone of his cock to get yourself off, maintaining him as the master of your pleasure, made him so hard he could burst. That piece of silicone modeled after him seemed to have a direct line to his own member, as every single movement of it inside you made him throb aggressively inside his boxers, memories of the sensation of your tight walls driving him batshit with the need to feel it again. Clenching around his full length, like it was probably doing to the cursed thing, milking everything that he had. It didn’t help that you were vocal about it, either; those moans he adored were his personal torture as you let them out like he wasn’t in the room at all, lost in your own little world.

“Mmh… Oh God, yes…” The breathy words ignored distance and reached him clearly, sincere desire in each syllable. “Fuck, Kyle, just like that… Fuck me just like that.”

Oh, go to hell.

That’s when he understood. What you had wasn’t the ease of someone who hadn’t been caught. To be caught would imply there was no intention of him seeing what was happening. The moaning, the position, that specific dildo… It was all expertly designed to drive him fucking nuts.

With a loud growl, Kyle gave up pretending. Just observing and being ‘grateful’ he could do so wasn’t enough. His pants and boxers were pulled down so fast he could’ve ripped them, and there was another hiss when his cock sprang free, so angrily hard and sensitive even the bedroom air felt like a blessing when it hit him. More lewd, slick sounds joined the ones coming from between your legs - he wasted no time before wrapping a hand around himself, pumping at a vicious speed.

Your eyes met his again, drawn by the noise from his direction, and this time he held them steady. You’d wanted to mess him up in the head? Well, you got it. Every muscle in his body carried the hunger he’d harbored inside, passing its heat along as you, too, became even more earnest in your touches upon seeing it. No smile anywhere to be found; what your face now had for him were parted lips and eyelids that, similarly to his, struggled to stay open, wanting to shut you off to the world and let delight take the reins.

The motions on your non-dominant hand picked up, trying to synchronize the thrusting of the dildo with the tempo of his own strokes, yet he was too out of it to make any smart remark as he figured how much of a pale imitation it was for the feeling of getting fucked that roughly by him. How your dainty fingers couldn’t drive yourself mad with stimulation like his digits did. How the cloned dildo, perfect as it may be, would never throb and make you scream as it filled you up. And sure, his own fist was a poor replacement for your tight cunt too; but his imagination, the view of your desperate face and the whimpers of his name were doing an efficient job of filling in the blanks those last nine days had forced on his brain.

Feeling his balls drawing tight, he didn’t bother delaying the inevitable. He roars once more as it crashes over him, continuing to jerk himself off along the throbbing onslaught of pleasure while thick ropes of cum splatter onto the carpet. A bitch to clean later, yet never has a thought been furthest from his mind. He remains entranced as you don’t take too long to fall apart yourself, burning the image of it in his mind: the beige dildo being shoved as deep as it’d go into your cunt one final time as you cried out Kyle’s name and arched your back off the bed, bliss etched in all lines of your features. You collapse onto the bed afterwards, panting heavily, and he almost topples as well, held upright only by need… and fury.

That whole ‘ban’, from the beginning, had been foul play. Bets were off.

When both your harsh breathings stabilized into something not quite natural but close enough, Kyle spoke first. The foggy distraction in your mind prevented it from noticing the dangerous undertone in his voice, mistaking it for lingering lust. “... Had your fun there, huh?” 

You grinned lazily, pleased with yourself in more ways than one. “Mmm… Yeah…” 

A blur pounced on top of you, and whatever complaint you had to voice at the emptiness you felt when he reached for the dildo between your legs and pulled it out died in a choked sound. Your lips instinctively wrapped around the large silicone sculpture that had been shoved between them, and Kyle’s fully darkened eyes briefly rolled back inside his head, nearly tasting your arousal on his own tongue as you came in contact with it instead. 

“Morning,” You replied, voice still rough from sleep as your eyes felt puffy and face felt cool from moving away from the blankets. You crossed the kitchen, your hand brushing his waist as you passed to get coffee. “How long have you been up?”

“Hour, maybe. Went for a quick jog and came back,” He said, placing the egg on the toasted bagel with cheese he had set up already for a sandwich. “Want something to eat?”

You grabbed a cup of warm coffee before sitting down at the kitchen island and glancing at him for a minute.

“Mm, starving,” You tell him with a sneaky smirk, “Think you can whip up some pancakes?”

He took a bite of his bagel sandwich, still standing at the counter before he nodded to himself – almost as if he had really done something with the fried egg and cheese. “Can do, baby.”

It was just that easy between the two of you – Harry did everything that you asked, you reciprocated his needs, too. Everything between you was always so easy and so nurtured with a way to please one another. Between bites, Harry grabbed the bowl and pancake mix, adding in some chocolate chips and blueberries from the farmer’s market, and had a plate of pancakes ready before you could ask him twice.

It had always been that easy, which is why this had always worked. Harry was the kind of man who never had to be asked twice; he knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was you.

He grabbed you a plate, a fork, and a bottle of syrup before you placed a pancake on your plate.

“Thank you, handsome,” you smirked back at him, before you started to hear the sounds of pair of feet thumping on the stairs towards the kitchen.

The soft creak of the upstairs hallway announced the first arrival. Sawyer appeared, shuffling in like a sleepwalker, one hand rubbing at his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. He made a beeline for the fridge without so much as a ‘good morning’ before pulling out the carton of orange juice and drinking straight from it.

“A glass, Sawyer,” you said automatically, not even looking up from your mug.

He sighed and poured some into a cup, then collapsed onto one of the stools at the island. “What’s for breakfast?”

Harry grabbed him a plate before sliding it over to him, “Pancakes is what was made, but you’re welcome to anything else.”

Sawyer took a pancake, placing it on his plate before you watch him drown it in syrup. Your eyes meet Harry’s with a soft smile as he gives you one back.

Sawyer grinned at his plate, quick and lopsided; it was the kind of smile that made you think of the little boy who used to bring you flowers from the yard, roots and all.

He was your youngest; at fourteen, he was the one you’d both been a little more relaxed with after learning from every first-time-parent mistake you’d made with Scarlett. His hobbies including spending hours in his room teaching himself guitar from YouTube tutorials, and gaming, and could be fiercely loyal when it came to the people he loved. But he also had this knack for disappearing into his own world, quietly observing instead of jumping into the chaos.

There were many moments when you didn’t seem to realize how great that quality was in a child, because he kept to himself most of the time. You’d often wondered if that was a youngest-child thing—knowing when to fade into the background and when to speak up.

You’d just topped off your coffee when the faint bass of music bled through the ceiling right above you—it was Scarlett’s way of signaling she was awake but on her own schedule.

It took another ten minutes for her to appear, each footstep down the stairs deliberate, like she wanted to make an entrance even in her own kitchen, even for her own family.

At sixteen, Scarlett carried herself like she already knew the world was watching, even if the audience was just her parents and younger brother. She was tall for her age, with Harry’s green eyes and your smile, her dark hair pulled up in a loose bun that looked effortless but probably took fifteen minutes to get just right. She had on black leggings and an oversized crewneck, but the neat flick of eyeliner and the clear gloss catching the morning light told you this wasn’t a ‘just rolled out of bed’ look.

She didn’t say good morning—she never did before she’d had a few minutes to settle into the day, but she moved with the practiced grace of someone who knew exactly where everything was. Phone in one hand, she crossed the kitchen, opened the cabinet, grabbed a cereal bowl, and set it down without glancing up.

“Morning,” you offered up to her, watching her maneuver around the kitchen with her eyes glued to her device but still making her rounds with ease.  

“Hi,” she mumbled, sliding into a stool beside Sawyer and scrolling without looking up.

Harry grabbed the milk and box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch to place in front of her; they didn’t have to speak, he just understood what she needed when she needed it. That had always been the case for their relationship, which made you smile.

The air smelled of coffee, pancakes, and the faint citrus of the juice Sawyer had been downing next to you, and Harry leaned back against the counter watching them with that quiet pride he sometimes tried to hide.

It wasn’t until Scarlett’s phone buzzed again—her eyes lighting up just enough—that you caught the subtle shift. She was already planning something for later, and the way she avoided your gaze told you she didn’t want you to ask.

The banter was easy between the four of you because it was familiar in the way that came from years of figuring out how to be parents while still figuring out who you were yourselves. There had been nights in those early years when you and Harry ate cereal for dinner because it was all you could afford, and mornings when you took turns napping because Scarlett wouldn’t stop crying. Somehow, you’d made it through, and somehow you still loved one another more than anything in the world.

You slid off the stool at the island, wrapping your hands around your coffee mug as you moved to place your plate in the sink. Harry grabbed your waist on your trek to press a kiss to your temple, his fingers lingering against you in a way that made your cheeks warm.

Scarlett groaned at the interaction—of course, the one time she looked up from her phone. “Can you not? It’s too early for you two being gross.”

Harry grinned at her over your head. “One day, you’ll understand, and then I’ll make gagging noises at you.”

“Not happening,” she said flatly, but her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.

Breakfast held a few conversations that made your mothering heart whole; Sawyer started talking to Harry about a new game he wanted for his computer—something that Harry only tried to keep up with so that Sawyer felt comfortable talking about it, Scarlett was half-listening while firing off texts.

Scarlett got up from her seat before moving to open her bag that she had brought down with her, a bit casually and a bit nonchalant as if she didn’t want you to ask—and you knew that she didn’t.

But that didn’t stop you.

“Got plans today?” you asked casually, taking another sip of coffee.

She shrugged, eyes flicking away to keep the distance between you. “Maya and I are hanging out in a bit. Probably a movie night later.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, filing away the way she avoided your gaze. “What movie? I haven’t been to a movie in so long, I don’t even know what’s out.”

Your conversation bothered her as she rolled her eyes, “Don’t know, mom—I said probably, not definitely seeing a movie. We don’t know yet.”

Harry’s gaze looked over to meet yours at her attitude, which made his lips tip up in a smirk.  

It wasn’t unusual—she was sixteen, and secrets came with the territory. But something about the outfit peeking from the corner of her tote bag which included a short skirt you hadn’t seen her wear before made you tuck the detail away in the back of your mind.

Scarlett wasn’t reckless, but she had a streak of curiosity, a need to push at the edges of whatever box she found herself in. You remembered that feeling vividly from your own teenage years which was sometimes thrilling, sometimes it was dangerous.

Really, it’s how you ended up pregnant at seventeen, just a year older than Scarlett was now. It wasn’t that you would have changed anything, because you would never change how everything worked out. You lived in a beautiful home, had a stable job, had a husband that adored you, and two kids who grew up to be significantly enjoyable human beings in society.

There was nothing wrong about how everything turned out, but it made you weary to know that Scarlett had the same level of danger and thrill that you and Harry had when you were making out in the back cab of his ’90 Ford 150 in the parking lot of your school.

The phone in her hand buzzed once, and though her expression barely changed, you caught the quick light in her eyes before she smoothed it over. Whoever it was, it mattered to her, and the way she tilted the screen away from view with almost an adverse reaction, told you she didn’t want you to ask.

Harry caught your eye as she headed upstairs to grab a jacket. That silent, wordless exchange you’d perfected over the years passed between you: We were sixteen once. We know what that skirt’s for.

_____

A few hours had passed from the morning breakfast routine. This was the kind of calm and ease that life had started to become recently, especially since the kids had grown up; it was the kind you almost didn’t notice until you realized how peaceful everything felt.

Scarlett had breezed out earlier in the afternoon with a casual, “Going to Maya’s!” and a wave from the front door, not waiting for you to say goodbye before she vanished down the street. You and Harry had exchanged a glance but let her go. There hadn’t been a reason to not let her go—she hadn’t given you one yet, which made it that much tougher not to trust her.

She was smart and capable and you would hope that she would ask for help if she needed it, but you just hoped that she never needed help.

By six, the evening light was soft outside in the cloudless late September sky which still felt warm, spilling across the backyard. Harry stood at the grill in bare feet and a faded Springsteen T-shirt, flipping burgers with one hand and nursing a beer with the other. Sawyer sat at the patio table with his guitar on his lap, a spiral notebook open in front of him, his pencil tapping against the page in thought.

You were stretched out on the cushioned chaise with a paperback, though you’d read the same paragraph three times without taking in a word. The warm air carried the faint scent of cut grass, and the low hum of crickets had started in the hedges. Somewhere a neighbor’s dog barked; it felt like the suburbs, but it felt heavenly, in some way.

Harry glanced over his shoulder more than once, not subtle about the way his eyes slid from your face to the bare stretch of your legs under the loose hem of your sundress.

“You’re not reading,” he said finally, spatula in hand as he gave you that stupid smirk.

You smirked, keeping your eyes on the page. “I am.”

“You’re pretending to,” he countered, coming over to set the platter of burgers on the table. He bent, kissed the curve of your cheek, his hand brushing the inside of your knee for just a second longer than necessary, then went back inside for the condiments like nothing happened.

When he returned, Sawyer was bent over his notebook again, strumming a few hesitant chords before stopping to scribble something. Harry dropped into the chair across from him.

“Whatcha working on, mate?” he asked, reaching for the ketchup.

Sawyer shrugged, shaking his head as he stared at his notebook. “Just… something, dunno. I’ve been messing with this progression, but it sounds kinda like every other song I’ve heard.”

Harry leaned forward, nodding toward the guitar. “Play it.”

Sawyer gave him a wary look, but did as he was told. The melody was simple but sweet, a little halted in places as Sawyer tried to identify where he wanted to take it next.

“That’s not bad,” Harry said after a moment. “You just need a change-up in the bridge. Something unexpected so people don’t get bored.”

“Like what?”

“Like… go minor for a few bars, or throw in a chord they’re not expecting. Music’s all about giving people what they think they want, then sneaking in something they didn’t know they needed.” He gave a crooked grin, moving to stand up before Sawyer huffed a bit in thought.

When the burgers were plated and everyone had a drink, the conversation stayed light—Sawyer talking about a new band he’d discovered, Harry telling a ridiculous story about a customer who’d tried to return a hammer in front of him at the hardware store today “because it made a funny sound,” you laughing so hard you nearly choked on your fries.

But as Harry started clearing the plates, you decided to take your chance with Sawyer to test the waters on what kind of information he had.

“So,” you said casually to Sawyer as you both stayed seated in your patio chairs, “do you know what Scarlett was doing tonight?”

He didn’t look up from where he was stacking dishes, his voice perfectly neutral. “She said she was at Maya’s, I guess.”

“Mhm. And you believe her?”

Sawyer finally glanced up, meeting your eyes for half a second before looking away. “I don’t get in her business; she doesn’t get in mine.”

Harry arched a brow at him but didn’t push. You knew that tone—Sawyer wasn’t lying exactly, but he wasn’t going to offer up anything more either.

For Scarlett’s sake, his loyalty was absolute. You let it go, even though you felt that quiet prickle of unease in your stomach.

____

After dinner, everyone had moved to do their own things. Sawyer had decided to retreat to his room to continue to play his games with his friends, while you and Harry decided to open a bottle of wine and to watch a movie.

It had been a while since you two had been intimate together—nights like these were easy ad felt like it was just the two of you when both kids were self-sufficient.

It was around 10 when Sawyer had been sprawled on his bed for the past hour, his gaming headset crooked over one ear while he absently clicked through a menu screen that he’d stopped paying attention to as he heard his friends on the other end. The lamp on his desk cast a small pool of light across the open notebook there, the one where he’d been working on chord progressions earlier.

He was half-thinking about picking up the guitar again instead when his phone buzzed against his thigh. His eyes glared at the message that had come across his screen, seeing who it was from.

Scarlett: can you come get me?

He frowned, sitting up before he let his fingers run across the screen.

Sawyer: Aren’t you just down at Maya’s?

Maya only lived down the street from them, which allowed Scarlett to walk there quite frequently, and vice versa. Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then came back again as he waited for his sister’s reply.

Scarlett: no... at a party. don’t tell mom nd dad. pls

Scarlett: i don’t feel good ad im sad. please S.

A weird weight settled in his chest. Scarlett wasn’t the type to admit she didn’t feel good, not unless she meant it. But the don’t tell Mom and Dad was the catch. They had an unspoken agreement as siblings—don’t rat unless it’s absolutely necessary. She’d covered for him plenty of times, and he knew that the same would go for her.

He set the phone down, staring at the wall for a long moment, trying to decide if this counted as “necessary.” She hadn’t said she was in danger, just that she didn’t feel good—but she was also sad? But… why was she texting him instead of Maya? Or an Uber?

He picked the phone back up with an annoyed sigh, typing and deleting twice.

Sawyer: Where is it?

The reply came with a dropped pin. Sawyer zoomed in on the map; it was a neighborhood he didn’t know well, it wasn’t far away, but it was far enough that he couldn’t walk there on his own to get her. Especially if she wasn’t able to make it back herself.

Sawyer: are you drunk?

He waited a few minutes, seeing her typing in the message before he received her reply.

Scarlett: yea. room spinning nd im just outside. leo left with his friends nd didn’t stay. said he was coming back but then h left

He shoved a hand through his hair. If he went himself, how was he even supposed to get her home? He didn’t drive, and he wasn’t about to call one of his friends’ parents to chauffeur them from a party.

Sawyer: why can’t you get a ride?

Sawyer leaned back against his headboard, running a hand through his hair. He knew about Leo—the boy Scarlett had been texting nonstop for the past month, the one she claimed was just a friend when Sawyer caught her smiling at her phone. He also knew there was no way their parents knew—his dad would’ve had an aneurysm by now if he did. Especially if he knew the kind of kid Leo actually was.

Swayer typed another message on his phone: who’s there with you?

The reply from Scarlett came fast, like she was hanging onto every text that came in.

Scarlett: idk. don’t rly know them that well. i don't know anyone here. all older than me, cept maya

That made the knot in his stomach twist tighter. This wasn’t Scarlett’s usual crowd—the parties at Maya’s were usually just a handful of girls who’d been in and out of their house since middle school. This was different—this was older, and he knew was probably more Leo’s idea than anything.

He didn’t reply, but felt another text come in.

Scarlett: that’s why I texted you. please dont tell mom and dad

He stared at the words, knowing she was asking him to keep her secret like they always had for each other. But the image of her alone at some stranger’s house, tipsy and without a ride, kept flashing in his mind.

The knot in his stomach tightened as he thought about the way she’d looked this morning—smirking, brushing off questions. Something about it had already felt off and he knew that she didn’t do this kind of stuff often. She hung out with people she wasn’t supposed to hang out with, but she didn’t just lie about where she was.

With a muttered curse and roll of his eye, he swung his legs off the bed and padded downstairs. If she hated him for this, he knew she’d get over it… eventually, at least.

Downstairs in the living room, the soft flicker of the TV had been cascaded on the walls, the glass of red wine in your hand catching the light every so often when you moved. You were curled into the couch, with a throw blanket over your lap, your legs stretched over Harry’s lap. His bare feet were propped on the coffee table next to the empty popcorn bowl, one arm slung lazily along the backrest behind you.

The movie playing was halfway decent, but it wasn’t really holding either of your attention. Your focus drifted between the warmth of the wine in your chest and the low, familiar cadence of Harry’s voice as he told you about his business trip next week.

“So, Wednesday night’s just the welcome dinner,” he was saying, his eyes fixed on you rather than the screen. “Thursday’s all meetings and panels. Probably just gonna stay the night again instead of driving home late—”

You gave him a look over the rim of your glass. “Are you going to be networking, or are you just avoiding the four-hour drive?”

He grinned back at you, knowing he was guilty of both ends of that. “Bit of both, really. Don’t want to get stuck in rush hour. Besides…” He shifted closer, his palm grazing your knee under the blanket like he had done a million times. “If I’m gone Thursday night, I’ve got all the more reason to make the most of… tonight?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you set your glass down on the table next to you. “You’re terrible.”

“No, baby, I’m hopeful,” he corrected, leaning in enough that you caught the faint scent of the cedar soap he liked which kind of drove you wild—but you’d never tell him that outright.

His thumb traced slow circles on your knee, his other hand draped casually but deliberately behind you. He had that look—the one he always got when the house was quiet, the kids were out, and his mind started working in a very specific direction which practically pushed you both into your locked bedroom.

You were just leaning toward him when the sound of footsteps came from the stairs. At first you thought it was Sawyer heading to the kitchen for a snack, until you realized the steps didn’t pass through the hall toward the fridge. They stopped, hesitated, and then turned toward the living room instead.

Harry sat back slightly as Sawyer appeared in the doorway, holding his phone like it was something he didn’t want to be responsible for. He looked a bit panicked, so your mind tried to stay calm, but you could see the bit of hesitation in his face.

“Need something, bud?” you asked, straightening up as you watched Harry turn his head too.

He hovered there by the archway frame from the kitchen to the living room for a moment, eyes darting between the two of you. “Uh… no, but… Scarlett just texted me.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, his hand dropping from your knee as you could feel his body bristle against you. “Everything okay?”

Sawyer nodded once, then shifted awkwardly. “I mean—I don’t know.”

That prickle of unease moved through you instantly; both of you kept a distinct eye on him, which you know made his start to retreat, but you quietly refrained from pushing a question and rather just asked, “What do you mean?”

Sawyer looked down at his phone, thumb worrying the edge of the case. “She said she’s at a party and she… she wants to come home. She didn’t want to text you guys ‘cause she thought you’d be mad.”

Harry set his wine glass on the table, in his face giving way to a sharper focus. “Is she okay?”

Sawyer’s shoulders lifted in a small, helpless shrug. “She didn’t say. Just that she needs help and wants to come home—I mean, she wanted me to come get her, but… but I can’t.”

You could see the war in him—loyalty to his sister on one side, guilt and worry on the other. The same look he’d had when he was little and knew he’d have to tell on a friend for something dangerous.

“Can we see the texts, bud?” Harry said quietly, encouraging him.

Sawyer hesitated but handed the phone over to his dad. The screen lit with Scarlett’s messages, the last one reading: don’t tell mom and dad.

Harry’s jaw tightened as his eyes moved through the texts between Sawyer and his sister, but before he could speak, Sawyer added, “She… she said she’s kind of drunk. And that Leo was supposed to bring her home, but he left early, I guess.”

The name hit you like a second jolt. You knew enough from Scarlett’s tight-lipped smiles and Sawyer’s occasional teasing that Leo was someone she liked, maybe more than liked, but she’d never mentioned him to you or Harry.

Harry glanced up sharply, at Sawyer first and then at you. “Leo?”

Sawyer shifted, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Yeah. She’s been talking to him for a while. I didn’t think it was… I didn’t think he’d leave her there—I mean, I never met him or anything, but… I don’t know. I think he’s older.”

The silence stretched between you and Harry for a beat, both of you absorbing that extra layer of the situation.

Harry was already on his feet, sliding his keys from the hook by the door.

“Send me that address,” he told Sawyer. His tone was calm, but you knew that calm—the kind that sat on top of something simmering hot. You knew that he was very good at keeping his cool, especially in times of panic.

“You did the right thing telling us,” you said finally to Sawyer, your voice gentler than you felt. “I know it may not feel that way, but it is.”

Sawyer sank onto the arm of the couch, biting the inside of his lip as he shook his head. He looked nervous, and you put your arm around his shoulder to comfort him. “She’s gonna kill me for telling you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say to him, shaking your head and knowing how his sister would react... he wasn't too far off, but you just needed to reassure him. “Better she’s mad and safe, than the opposite.”

Harry was throwing his sneakers on, before you and Sawyer walked to the door to where he was standing.

“I’ll go with you,” you offered, moving towards putting some flip-flops on to leave the house.

He shook his head, his eyes briefly meeting yours; you saw the anger that harbored in his eyes, but also the hurt of knowing that Scarlett had lied. There were only a few things in the world that got under Harry’s nails—lying was one of them.

“If she’s drunk or upset, she might not want both of us there right away, and I just want to get her in the car. So, I’ll get her. You stay here in case she texts again.”

You nodded, even as your heart hammered between your ribs as you crossed your arms, standing and watching as Harry moved out walked out into the night, cursing under his breath as he closed the door behind him.

The address Sawyer had forwarded lit up on the screen of Harry’s phone, glowing in the cupholder as he drove. He knew the neighborhood — rows of modest single-story houses that all looked too quiet from the outside to be hiding a hundred teenagers and a few gallons of cheap liquor.

The closer he got, the heavier his chest felt. He’d never been able to turn off that part of his brain that ran every possible scenario when it came to his kids. It was worse with Scarlett—not only because she was the first born, but because she was his first and only girl. He didn’t like hearing that boys were involved, he didn’t like hearing that bad boys were involved. It made his stomach turn at what could have possibly been so bad she would want someone to pick her up.

He turned onto the street, and the house came into view immediately with light spilling from every window, bass thumping so hard he could feel it in the steering wheel, kids clustered in groups on the lawn and the driveway. He noticed that there were red cups everywhere—along the lawn, the porch, the stoop. He pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the road, a bit away from the direct scene before he cut the engine and got out.

The air smelled like beer and something sharper. A couple of boys in backwards caps gave him a once-over but didn’t say anything when they caught the look on his face. He wasn’t really sure where he was to find Scarlett, he hadn’t thought of it that far. But when his eyes crossed along the front porch, he saw her—in the short skirt and jacket that that she taken in the tote bag hours earlier.

Scarlett was sitting on the porch steps with her shoulders hunched, her hair falling forward to hide her face. Next to her, Maya was talking in low, hurried bursts, glancing toward the yard like she was worried someone would overhear what she had been talking about.

Harry started up the concrete walkway, hands in his jacket pockets before his eyes fixed on Scarlett, but it was Maya who noticed him first. She froze almost instantly when she recognized who it was, her mouth parting slightly.

“Mr. Styles,” she said, voice slurring just enough to tell him she’d had a few herself. “Uh—”

Harry’s gaze flicked from her to Scarlett. She looked up at the sound of his voice when he said, “Scarlett.”

Her eyes were glassy, cheeks blotchy from crying. She swiped at her face quickly, as if she could erase the evidence before he got any closer. “Dad—”

A girl from the porch turned her head quickly, "That's your dad? Holy shit."

Harry raised his brows at Scarlett and Maya as they looked back at the small group of girls holding solo cups.

Scarlett looked mortified.

“Let’s go,” he said gently, not trusting himself to say anything more. He offered his hand, watching her watch it. He could tell that she was dealing with inner turmoil of not only having her father rescue her, but whether or not she should accept.

Maya shifted uncomfortably on the step, her words slurring as she spoke. “I… she’s okay, I promise. We were just—”

Harry turned his attention fully to her now, noticing the faint sway in her posture as she began to try and stand up on the wooden steps. “You’ve been drinking too?”

Maya winced at his question, shaking her head before she found herself fully giving in. “Like… just a few.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying his best to bite his tongue. “Get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

Maya blinked, clearly not expecting that. “I don’t—”

“You’re not staying here like this,” Harry said, his tone brooking no argument for either of them. “Come on.”

Scarlett stood, arms still crossed over her chest and followed him down the walkway; Maya trailed behind them both reluctantly. Harry opened the back door for her, then guided Scarlett into the passenger seat before getting behind the wheel.

The drive was quiet at first, just the hum of the tires on the asphalt as Harry maneuvered through the neighborhoods, back to your street. He kept his eyes on the road, but his awareness stretched to the seat beside him when he’d stop at red lights. She was slouched against the window, breathing unevenly, still sniffling now and then.

“Scarlett,” he said finally, his voice low against the even lower sound of the 90s Rock that played on the radio, “how much have you had?”

Her answer was a half-shrug, eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights with the glassiness that reminded him of the room spinning. “Dunno. Not a lot.”

He tightened his grip on the wheel. “You’re drunk.”

“I said I dunno.”

Maya’s voice piped up from the back, soft, “We just had a couple drinks—honestly, it wasn’t that much.”

Harry didn’t answer or respond to that, just took in a deep breath and let it out slowly to stop his heart from beating too rapidly.

When they reached Maya’s house, he heard Maya’s quiet thank you before she got out of the car and made her way up the front porch; he waited until she was inside before pulling away.

Now it was just him and Scarlett in the car together, the silence was almost thick enough to hum in his ears.

Harry could hear the faint tick of the turn signal as they waited at a light, the distant echo of bass still ringing in his head from the party; he knew it was ringing worse in her ears. Scarlett sat turned toward the window with her arms crossed, like the world out there would save her.

“You’ve been crying,” he said at last, softer than before.

Her laugh came short and brittle, like it hurt to force it out—there was an odd bitterness to it like Harry hadn’t heard from her before, “So? You gonna ground me for that too?”

“Don’t speak to me like that, Scarlett,” Harry swallowed down the first sharp retort that came to mind. “I want to know why you’re crying.”

She shifted in her seat, curling in on herself as she started to think about the situation again; a few more tears fell against her cheeks.

“Leo was supposed to bring me home. He said he had to leave early, so I-I just thought he’d take me. And then… he’s just gone.” She shook her head, the movement quick and frustrated. “I don’t even know half the people there—they were all older than me. Everyone’s drunk, the music’s so loud you can’t even hear yourself think. And—And it’s not fun. It’s not like in movies o-or anything. It’s just… stupid.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She swiped her palm at her cheeks again, this time more out of irritation than shame. “I thought he liked me, you know? I thought he was gonna… I don’t know. Make sure I was okay afterwards, b-but he just left. Didn’t even text.”

The sound of her breaking down made his heart rip into shreds, but he knew that he had to keep the façade up to ensure that she knew that she was in trouble, too. Harry didn’t want to ask any pressing questions, but he knew what she was referring to and he could feel the rage boiling through his veins. But hearing her cry only made him bristle to the point of his hands aching from holding on the steering wheel so tight.

“I-I just—I don’t know,” She bit her lip, “I thought it would be different.”

Harry felt something coil tight in his chest — the same combination of rage and helplessness he’d only ever felt when someone hurt one of his kids. He pulled into the driveway, easing the truck into park but not shutting it off yet.

When he turned toward her and could get a good look, the dashboard light caught the side of her neck… and that’s when he saw it. A dark mark, half-hidden by her hair. It didn’t take a genius to know what it was. His stomach dropped, then twisted into something hot.

“Scarlett,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “did he—? Did you… with him?”

Watching her turn towards him, he caught sight of her eyes that were red and looked dry from crying; even worse, he saw the little girl he loved so dearly, but so hurt. Her eyes went wide for a split second before she looked away sharply. “Don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry gripped the steering wheel for a moment, trying to keep from saying something he’d regret. He had to remind himself she was sixteen, drunk, and already hurting. But the sight of that bruise made his skin crawl.

“Fuck, Scar,” A soft curse came out of his mouth as he shook his head. He leaned his head against the headrest before he shut his eyes. “I don’t even know what you say to you right now because I’m so angry and so disappointed,” He paused for a moment.  “You’re sixteen,” he said finally, quieter but with a steel edge. “No one gets to leave you like that. No one. Not a friend, not a boyfriend, not anyone.”

She gave a harsh sniff, still looking out the window. “Yeah, well… guess I was wrong about him.”

He reached over, brushing her hair back from her face like he had when she was small, though now it was partly to see her eyes, partly to hide that mark from the world a little longer. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. But you did the right thing asking to come home.”

Her mouth wobbled, and she gave a small nod.

When they stepped inside, you were already waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Your eyes scanned over Harry and Scarlett, not sure which to look at first. You could see Harry’s eyes had a disappointment, but a relief that she was walking through the doors at all. One look at Scarlett told you all that you needed to know: pale, glassy-eyed, shoulders drawn tight.

You reached for her hand without asking questions, just murmuring, “Come on, sweetheart,” and started toward the stairs.

Scarlett didn’t say anything — just let you take her hand and guide her up to bed.

Halfway to her room, Scarlett stopped short and mumbled back with some sadness laced to her voice, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

You pivoted instantly, steering her into the bathroom instead. She sank to her knees by the toilet, her hair falling forward until you gathered it in one hand and held it back for her. She coughed and retched, pausing to breathe as you heard her crying through it, and your other hand rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades.

A small, sad smile, just out of recognition of the situation, crossed your face as you pet her head and shushed her, “Sweetie, you’re going to be okay.”

When she was finally slumped back against the wall, you dampened a washcloth under cool water and pressed it gently to her forehead. Her eyes were practically shut as she laid against the cool wall.

“Better?” you asked quietly, tucking some hair behind your ear as you tried your best to help her up.

She nodded, weakly, her voice rasping as she spoke. “Sorry.”

You shook your head, looking at her covered in dark eye makeup and tear-stained cheeks, “No apologies. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You helped her into her room, easing her out of her smoky, wrinkled clothes and into an old pair of soft pajamas. She was half-asleep on her feet by the time you guided her under the blankets. You brought the trashcan from her bathroom to sit next to the bed but also sat a glass of water and a small plate of crackers on the nightstand, then crouched to press a kiss to her hairline.

“Drink if you wake up thirsty,” you whispered against her.

By the time you stepped out, closing the door softly behind you, Harry was waiting in the hallway. He was standing in the dim hallway but didn’t ask you how she was or if everything had been okay—he knew that it hadn’t been.

His hands were buried in his pockets, but it didn’t stop the restless energy running through him. The sight of that hickey replayed in his head, sharper each time. She was still his little girl in so many ways, but the night had made one thing painfully clear: she was stepping into a world he couldn’t shield her from completely, no matter how much he wanted to.

And that thought cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

“Let’s go downstairs,” you say to him softly, reaching to grab his forearm before he nods and melts into your touch.

In the kitchen, the quiet felt thick but not entirely uncomfortable; it was like he just needed that peace for a moment. Almost immediately, Harry pulled a quart of ice cream from the freezer and grabbed two spoons, dropping into the chair beside you at the island. The cold carton sat between you before he opened the lid roughly and dove straight in.

For a while, neither of you spoke; you realized that you hadn’t even heard what had really happened, you were just waiting for Harry to give you the version you’d need to parent on tomorrow. You passed the ice cream back and forth, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. It was the kind of silence that meant you were both still turning the night over in your heads.

Finally, Harry sighed, his spoon clinking against the side of the carton. “She was sitting outside with Maya when I got there. Maya was drunk, too. I took her home first.”

You stayed quiet, letting him unspool it at his own pace. You knew that Maya was her best friend, and while you knew Maya to be a good girl, you felt almost motherly towards her, as well.

“She’d been crying when I got there. Said Leo was supposed to bring her home but left early. Didn’t come back.” His voice was calm, but you could hear the grit underneath. “She told me it wasn’t fun — that she didn’t know half the people there. And…” He hesitated, jaw tightening as he let the ice cream melt in his mouth, trying to talk through it. “She had a fucking hickey.”

You exhaled slowly, meeting his eyes. “Harry… she’s sixteen. We were that age once, remember? Doing…,” You took in a deep breath as you shook your head with a bit of self-realization, “Exactly the same things we’re terrified she’s doing.”

His mouth tugged into a humorless half-smile. “I was mature, though.”

You arched a brow as you let out a soft, quiet scoff. “Oh, please. I clearly remember being sixteen, you seventeen, and we were doing it in the back of your truck behind the football field after your band practice. And look how that turned out — nine months later. ”

That got the smallest huff of laughter out of him, though it was tinged with exasperation. “Yeah, but we were mature.”

“We thought we were,” You leaned in a little. “She’s just giving it back to us ten-fold, H. She’s got your charm and my stubbornness. It was bound to happen, and she’s going to make mistakes.”

There was a moment that you hadn’t prepared for, a pinkness lined his nose as he stared at the ice cream carton and tried to almost push away the emotion that built up in him. You didn’t see that often, but his eyebrows were knit before he spoke again, “I—I don’t know, I just didn’t expect… like she just sounded… hurt.”

The last word seemed to sit heavy on his tongue, as if saying it out loud made it more real.

You let your hand slide over his, your thumb brushing the back of his knuckles.

“She was hurt,” you told him gently, “Someone she liked let her down. And she’s sixteen, so that’s going to feel like the end of the world because it is, in her world. Shame and embarrassment are all apart of this, too.”

His jaw shifted a little bit, eyes still fixed on the melting ice cream that sat on the spoon. “I hate that I can’t fix that. I hate that she’s got to learn it like this — sitting on some stranger’s porch, mascara running, smelling like beer. That’s not… I don’t want that for her.”

“I know,” you say back to him. “And you can’t stop every bad night. But you can be the one who shows up when it happens. Tonight, that’s what you did.”

He finally looked at you then, eyes a little glassy, and for a moment he wasn’t Harry the dad or Harry your husband — he was that seventeen-year-old boy again that you fell so deeply in love with, still figuring out how to protect the people he loved. “Feels like it’s not enough.”

“It is enough,” you said firmly, giving his hand one more squeeze. “It’s what she’ll remember. You showed up—the most important man in her life right now showed up for her.”

Harry let out a slow breath, his thumb absently brushing over your wrist before he reached for another spoonful of ice cream. You sat there in the quiet, finishing the ice cream, knowing the real conversation with Scarlett was waiting for you in the morning.

But for now, the silence, the warm of his hand in yours—that felt enough.

_____

This Sunday in the Styles house felt much different. The usual weekend clatter — the sound of Harry at the stove, the faint guitar from Sawyer’s room, you move through the kitchen with coffee and chatter about the upcoming week — was replaced by a silence that felt too careful, too deliberate.

Scarlett hadn’t come downstairs yet, but you could hear the occasional creak of the floorboards above your head, the slow shuffle of feet as she moved around her room. She was awake, but you doubted she felt like facing anyone. But it was good to know that she lasted through the night.

Harry was at the kitchen table, not cooking this time, just nursing a mug of black coffee. His face was unreadable; his eyes fixed on some point outside the window over your shoulder. Every now and then he’d tap his fingers against the side of the mug, but he didn’t say much. You knew that look — the quiet before he decided exactly how he was going to say what needed to be said.

Sawyer wandered in first, hair sticking up in the back, still in his T-shirt and sweats. He stopped in the doorway like he was checking the temperature of the room before stepping inside—like he was checking to see if Scarlett was down there yet.

“Morning,” you said softly, trying to keep it normal.

“Morning,” he mumbled, heading straight for the fridge. He pulled out the juice carton, caught Harry’s glance, and muttered, “Glass, I know,” before getting one from the cupboard.

He poured, sat at the far end of the table, and started drinking. You could see him sneaking glances toward the stairs, his foot tapping under the table. He’d been loyal to Scarlett last night, right up until he’d decided she needed help, and now he looked like a kid waiting for the fallout.

It was nearly ten when Scarlett finally appeared. She took the steps slowly, holding the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She was pale, her hair pulled back haphazardly, dressed in an oversized hoodie and pajama pants. The faint shadows under her eyes told the whole story of the night prior.

She paused in the kitchen doorway when she saw all three of you there. Her gaze flicked to Sawyer, then to you, then to Harry — and lingered there for a moment. He didn’t say anything right away, just raised his mug slightly in acknowledgment.

You moved toward the counter, giving her a small smile, keeping everything normal, still. “Morning, Scar. There’s water on the counter and some toast if you want it.”

She shuffled in, took the glass, and sat at the table across from Sawyer. He kept his eyes on his juice, but you saw the way his shoulders shifted like he was bracing for something.

The air was thick with anticipation — no one quite wanting to be the first to start, but all of you knowing it was coming. After the three of them were at the table, you found yourself moving yourself to the table, as well.

Harry finally set his mug down with a soft clink. “Alright,” he said, his voice even but firm, “let’s talk about last night, shall we?”

Scarlett took a sip of water; eyes fixed on the glass in her hands. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Sawyer shifted in his chair. You caught his eye and gave him the smallest shake of your head — not now.

“Oh, there’s a lot to talk about,” Harry said, leaning forward, forearms on the table. “Starting with the fact that you weren’t where you said you’d be, and you were drunk, and you had no way to get home.”

Scarlett winced at the word drunk, her free hand curling into the sleeve of her hoodie as she pulled herself into the chair. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were bad enough to text your brother instead of us,” Harry replied quickly, annoyed that she would even say something along those lines. “Bad enough that I had to come pick you up from a party with people you didn’t even know.”

She pressed her lips together, and you could see the tension in her jaw. “I didn’t ask you to come get me, you know.”

You stepped in before it could escalate too quickly; you already felt the heat coming off of Harry at her disgruntled words. “Scarlett, this isn’t about grounding you for going out. It’s about making sure you’re safe. Last night, you weren’t, and that makes us not be able to trust you the way we want to be able to.”

Her eyes flicked to you, softer for a moment, but she didn’t speak. Harry sat back slightly, giving her room to answer.

Scarlett stared at the table, idly running her finger along the rim of the glass. “I told you — I wasn’t that bad. I just… I didn’t feel good and wanted to go home.”

Harry’s voice stayed calm, but there was an edge to it now as he stared across the table at her. “And why didn’t you have a ride?”

She shrugged, her hair falling forward to hide her face. “I—I did, but he,” She paused for a moment, “He—uh, Leo, he left.”

The name landed in the middle of the table like a dropped coin. You didn’t miss the way Harry’s jaw twitched.

Harry said, leaning forward again, almost like in an interrogation room. It's a game of tennis between them. “Who is Leo?”

Scarlett’s eyes snapped up to his, shrugging quickly at his questioning. “Just a guy.”

“A guy you’ve been seeing?” Harry pushed, shrugging as it to mimic her nonchalance, “Just a random man you met on the street?”

“I—I mean,” She bit the inside of her cheek, diverting her eyes away from him, “I—He’s a guy I know.”

Sawyer shifted in his seat, eyes darting between them. “He’s also been here.”

“What the fuck, Sawyer?” Scarlett cut in sharply, glaring at him, but you could tell that Sawyer found his way to let the information slip without getting too much in trouble.

“Language,” you turn to her quietly, shaking your head almost to just keep the peace, “And we’re a family who is honest, we don’t lie for one another.”

Harry looked at Sawyer, practically ignoring you before he questions his son instead with a disbelief that made his voice raise just a bit louder, “He’s been here? When?”

“Uh, over the summer.” Sawyer’s foot tapped under the table, his shoulders curling in as he stared at the table, “He snuck in one night... I mean, one night that I saw, I guess.”

Your eyes shut for a moment—you didn’t even know if you could look at Harry with the information presented before you feel the table shift as he leans forward.

Harry’s brows shot up, his tone turning sharper. “He snuck in?”

Scarlett’s glare darted back to Sawyer, with a death sentence written all over it. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

“Scarlett,” you said, your voice firm but calm as you tried to stop the table. “That’s not how this works. We’re not doing secrets and threats in this house. We deal with things straight on.”

Sawyer shrugged as he turned to his sister, a bit more inclined to fight for himself, "Because I don't like him."

Harry had leaned forward on his elbows, his gaze steady at his daughter across the table. “How old is he?”

She hesitated, tugging her sleeve over her hand. “Seventeen.”

Harry’s jaw ticked; your eyes diverted to him for a quick, sharp moment before your eyes met and you cleared your throat.

Scarlett’s lips twisted into a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, and I’m not going to get pregnant like you two did. I know what a condom is, so don’t worry.”

The words landed like a slap across the table—like the slowest, most painful slap that none of you saw coming. Sawyer’s eyes went wide, glancing between you and Harry as if waiting for an explosion between you both.

You inhaled slowly through your nose, trying to keep your voice even. “Scarlett, that’s not something you get to throw around like it’s clever or witty. It’s not a joke.”

Harry’s stare sharpened, but he didn’t raise his voice. “If you think what happened with us was some kind of accident we didn’t take seriously, you’re wrong. And if you think you’re untouchable because you know what a condom is, you’re even more wrong.”

Scarlett’s smirk faltered, the defensiveness still there but not quite as steady now. You could tell that she was sorry for her words but just seemed a bit misguided in her thoughts for a moment. She had been playing the defense, and needed to say something that would end the conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell us about him?” you asked, keeping your tone softer.

“Because I knew you’d do this,” she shot back, gesturing to Harry who you could tell had been so wound up that anything could set him off. “Turn it into an interrogation. Make me feel like I’m doing something wrong just for liking someone—sex is normal, you know, everyone does it.”

Harry’s stare didn’t waver; in some ways you found incredibly attractive, but you can not let it get to you in the tense of the moment. “Sex is normal when it’s between two people who respect each other. Is that what you had last night? A guy respecting you?”

Scarlett’s cheeks flushed instantly, and her gaze dropped to the table. She twisted the cuff of her hoodie between her fingers, the fight in her voice softening just a little. “I don’t know… I mean—he likes me.”

“Yeah, teenage boys like sex, Scarlett.” Harry leaned forward slightly, and there was no bite in his tone now — just a steadiness that came from somewhere deep. “Liking someone isn’t enough. Respect means they don’t leave you drunk at a party with people you don’t know. It means they make sure you get home safe. If they can’t do that, they don’t get you. Not like that.”

She didn’t look up, but you caught the subtle shift in her shoulders — not giving in, but not pushing back as hard.

Scarlett’s lips pressed together, and she let out a slow breath through her nose. “I just… didn’t want you to treat me like I don’t know anything.”

Your lips curved up a little bit as you looked between Harry and Scarlett, “You know more than we sometimes give you credit for.”

Harry interrupted, finishing your thought, “But you also don’t know everything yet — and that’s okay.”

Sawyer, who’d been keeping his head down until now, risked a glance at Scarlett. “For what it’s worth, if I was you and dating someone, and they left me at a party… I’d dump them.”

Scarlett shot him a look, but this time it was almost grateful, like he’d given her an easy way out of admitting the same thing herself.

Harry didn’t blink, answering quickly “Liking someone is fine, Scarlett. Sneaking around with someone who leaves you drunk at a party isn’t fine.”

Scarlett’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” you said. “That’s why we’re talking about it — so you think about what you deserve before it gets to that point.”

Sawyer muttered under his breath, “Told you Leo’s a jerk.”

“Not helping,” she snapped, but her voice had lost some of its bite.

Harry sat back finally, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction.

“Scarlett, I’m not here to scare you for the sake of it. But if I have to walk into another party and see you sitting on a porch with your mascara running because some boy bailed on you, we’re going to have a much bigger problem.”

She looked down at her hands, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I get it.”

You reached over, resting your hand lightly over hers. “Good. Then let’s start with being honest from now on, okay? No sneaking in, no sneaking out. If you want us to trust you, you have to give us a reason to.”

Scarlett gave a reluctant nod, and though the air in the room was still heavy, some of the heat had burned off. “How long am I grounded?”

You kept your tone steady, even when she tried to meet your gaze with that practiced teenage glare. “Two weeks. No going out except for school or practice. Phone stays in the kitchen at night. And we drive you anywhere you need to be.”

Her mouth fell open in protest. “That’s—”

“Fair,” you cut in, not raising your voice. “And you know it. If you want more freedom, you earn it back by showing us you can be honest.”

Scarlett slumped back in her chair, arms crossed tightly across her body, but she didn’t argue further — which, from her, was as close to acceptance as you were going to get.

Sawyer kept his eyes on his juice, probably just relieved his name wasn’t part of the punishment.

Harry reached for his coffee mug again, practically empty now, his voice quieter now. “We’re done for now. Go sleep it off, sweat it out. We’ll talk more later if we need to.”

Scarlett stood without anything else to say out loud, only muttering something under her breath you couldn’t quite catch, but she headed upstairs without slamming a door — you both took that as another small win.

When the sound of her footsteps faded back into her bedroom, you let out a breath and exchanged a look with Harry — the kind of look only parents who had just survived a round with a teenager could give each other.

______

It was later that evening, the light in the hallway, when you and Harry found yourselves lingering outside Scarlett’s room. The day had been quiet since breakfast — she’d stayed upstairs, alternating between napping and streaming something on her laptop, and the tension in the house had settled into a low, steady hum instead of the sharp crackle from earlier.

You had both decided to check-in on her, just the two of you without her brother possibly intruding on conversation. You knocked softly on her door. “Can we come in?”

There was a pause, then a muffled, “Yeah.”

Inside, Scarlett was propped up in bed, wrapped in a blanket with her laptop balanced on her knees. She set the computer aside, her eyes flicking between you and Harry as you stepped in.

Harry crossed the room and sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall by her desk, knees bent casually. You sat on the edge of her bed, close enough that she didn’t have to look far to meet your eyes.

“You’ve had a day,” you told her gently, letting the words settle in the room between you.  

She shrugged, tucking her legs up under the blanket, sitting crisscross; there was an animosity that Harry could see across the room. “Guess so.”

Harry gave a small smirk, almost like a peace offering. “This isn’t round two of the interrogation, I promise.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t quite smile. “Then what is it?”

“We wanted to tell you something we should’ve said earlier,” you took in a deep breath, knowing it may come better from you than from Harry. “We know what it’s like to be your age and feel like you’re figuring everything out. We were right where you are once — sixteen and seventeen, thinking we were making smart choices, thinking we were ready for anything.”

Scarlett glanced at you, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

Harry picked up from there, sincerity lacing his tone, “I was eighteen by the time you were born, but when your mum and I first got together, I wasn’t much older than you. We were in love — we are in love, but we also made decisions that changed our lives forever. We don’t regret you, Scar, not for a second. But it was hard, and it was a lot for two people who were still kids themselves,” Harry thought for a moment, contemplating if he wanted to continue, “We just want to make sure you’re… giving yourself only to people who deserve you, that’s all.”

Scarlett shifted under the blanket, her voice quieter. “I’m not gonna make the same mistakes you did.”

You reached for her hand, squeezing lightly as you make sure she recognizes that you’re not there to tell her how to live. “We’re not saying you will, but we want you to understand — you know, sex, relationships, all of it — it’s not just about knowing the technical stuff. It’s about being with someone who respects you enough to care for you when it matters. Last night, the person you trusted didn’t do that.”

Harry’s voice was softer now. “I’m not angry that you like someone, Scar. I’m angry that he made you feel small. That you were left sitting outside a party crying.”

Scarlett’s eyes dropped to your joined hands, her shoulders curling in.

“And we’re not going to lock you in a tower for the rest of high school, or anything. We just need you to hear us when we say: your worth isn’t measured by whether a boy stays, or calls, or kisses you. You decide what you deserve, and you don’t settle for less.”

There was a long pause between the three of you. Scarlett swallowed, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”

You watch as she contemplates for a moment before her eyes lift to Harry, "Thank you for coming to get me... last night."

Harry's eyes soften, his smile raises just a bit like he had been hit by something that he hadn't expected. He stayed quiet for a moment before he nodded. "I'd do anything for you, Scar."

You looked at him, "And that's why I picked him," You tell her quietly, "I knew he'd always put us first."

There's a heavy silence in the room, and understanding that is starting to lighten the silence moment by moment.

Harry shifted on the floor, moving to make his way closer to the bed where you were both laying. “Alright. That’s enough serious talk for one day. What are we watching?”

Scarlett blinked at him, surprised by the shift in the mood and the situation in the room. “You’ll just make fun of it.”

“Probably, that’s my job,” he said with a grin. “Scoot over.”

Scarlett looked at you both for a moment before you crawled in one side of her, Harry laying down the edge. He reached for her laptop and flipped it open anyway, shifting over so you could lean in beside her.

It wasn’t forgiveness or a full resolution, but it was a start.

The movie Scarlett picked wasn’t exactly your style — too many quick cuts, too much shaky camera work, weird characters, but she was leaning against your shoulder under the blanket, and since Harry had pulled himself up from the floor to sit on her other side, his arm draped along the back of the bed.

At some point, her head began to grow heavier against you, her breathing evening out when she found a heavenly sleep. Harry caught your eye over the top of her head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. You both stayed still until the credits rolled, not wanting to wake her.

When you finally eased yourself out from under the blanket, she shifted only slightly, curling into Harry’s side then instead. He kissed the top of her head, then carefully laid her back against her pillows. You pulled the blanket up to her chin, tucking it around her the way you had when she was little.

She didn’t stir; the world was so quiet inside her small bedroom.

You and Harry slipped quietly out of the room, closing the door to a soft click. The hallway felt quieter than the rest of the day had, the weight of the morning’s tension finally starting to ease knowing now that there had been some resolution.

The kids would go to school tomorrow and everything would be fine; Harry would get up and go to work tomorrow, you would too. The feeling of heaviness was starting to fall on your shoulders as you realized that the day had started to slip away from you—the weekend practically gone, just like that.

Harry’s hand brushed yours as you walked toward your bedroom, his fingers curling around them. “Time for a shower?”

You didn’t even hesitate, because you knew that he had read your mind—just like he always had. “Yes, please.”

Once you both had made it into your bathroom, you realized that Harry had been staring at you. You moved to turn the shower on, letting it warm up around you as the door had closed behind you. Harry hadn’t made a long stare, but enough that made your heart thump a bit heavier in your chest. Your eyes met his for a moment before he moved to tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head.

Harry’s gaze dragged over your bare skin in that slow, reverent way that made it obvious — he’d never stopped looking at you like the girl he’d fallen for behind the football field, only now he had years of knowing exactly how to touch you; where you liked it, how you wanted it, if you wanted it. His palms skimmed your waist before his thumbs caught under the lace of your bra.

“You know that I love you more than anything in the world, yeah?” Harry asked, almost like it was a question that he had never asked you before.

“More than anything?” You ask again, using your fingers to pull his own t-shirt off, revealing the toned muscles and warm, bronzed skin littered with tattoos underneath. Your eyes danced around on the ink, letting it sink into your memory for the umpteenth time.

“Anything,” he concluded, watching as you tilted your head up towards him.

You both continued to undress, leaving each item of clothing behind on the floor in a scattered mess, like always. It was the moment the hot spray hit your shoulders, that made your body relax; Harry was already crowding in behind you, hands spanning your waist like he was anchoring you there.

“Mm,” he hummed low in your ear, lips brushing the wet skin just beneath it. “Been waiting all damn day for this.”

You tilted your head back against his chest, feeling the water and his voice ripple over you. “The shower or me?”

“Yes.” His witty answer came without hesitation, followed by a slow kiss to the curve of your neck.

You laughed softly, turning to face him, your hands sliding up over the slick warmth of his chest. Droplets clung to his lashes, ran down the stubble along his jaw. He looked at you like he had when you were sixteen—like he’d found something he wasn’t about to let go of—but now there was the weight of years behind it, the kind of devotion that had been tested and won.

“You’re staring,” you teased him, poking at his chest. He pushed you against the wall for you both to lean on before he kissed your cheek softly.

“Getting my fill,” he murmured into the softness of your cheek, thumbs stroking your hips. “I can never stare at you enough.”

“You know,” you tell him softly, “We’re basically sneaking around like we told the kids not to do.”

Harry pulls back for a moment, giving you a glance over before he smirks—it’s the same ridiculous smirk as always, which illuminates his dimples and set fire to your lungs, “Baby, we invented sneaking around—we were the king and queen of it. We couldn’t keep our hands off of each other, we still can’t.”

And it was true. You remembered many nights of sneaking down your parent’s trellis, in the backyard so that you weren’t seen by the front porch light. Then you’d sneak down the pathway in the driveway, out to the street where Harry sat with his pickup truck awaiting your arrival. This wasn’t anything new—this was just you.

You’d slip into the passenger seat, cheeks flushed from the rush, and he’d look at you like you’d just rewritten the rules of the world. That was always the danger of Harry—he made trouble feel worth it. He was always where he said he would be, he always chose you, he always wanted you.

Now, decades later, the truck was gone, replaced by a house, two kids, and a lifetime of responsibilities—but the look in his eyes hadn’t changed.

He pressed you gently back against the tiled wall, the spray cascading over both of you. “Only difference now,” he said quickly, brushing his mouth over yours, “is I don’t have to take you home by midnight.”

You grinned against his lips. “Might still give you a curfew.”

His laugh was a deep, low rumble as his hands roamed with that same slow, teenage reverence, like he still couldn’t believe you were his. “Not a chance.”

You swiped the water from your lashes, still smiling against him. “Fine, no curfew. But you’re still helping me clean up the kitchen after this.”

Harry groaned dramatically, though his hands stayed planted on your hips, squeezing firmly, “Romance killer.”

You kissed him back, “You’ll survive.”

He kissed you one more time, slow and deep, before finally reaching past you to turn off the water. The quiet after the spray stopped felt heavier somehow, just the sound of your breathing and the occasional drip against tile.

You stepped out first, wrapping yourself in a towel, and he followed with that lazy, content grin that told you he’d follow you anywhere. By the time you were both in pajamas, hair damp, the house felt still again—Scarlett asleep, Sawyer probably buried in his video game or guitar in his own room.

The two of you padded barefoot into the kitchen like it was your own little after-hours world.

Harry started stacking plates into the washer while you wiped the counters, his hip brushing yours every time he passed—he did it on purpose every time.

“You know,” he said quietly, looking towards the stairs, setting a glass down with a little more care than necessary, “we could just leave this for tomorrow.”

You gave him a pointed look, squinting a bit. “And wake up to ants? No, thank you.”

He smirked, sidling closer, drying his hands on the dish towel before looping it around your waist to tug you in. “King and queen of sneaking around… reduced to responsible homeowners with a sponge and a bottle of dish soap.”

“Speak for yourself,” you teased, but you didn’t pull away, resting your hands on his chest.

When the last pan was scrubbed and the counters gleamed as clean as they could be, you leaned back against the island, watching him turn off the kitchen light. He caught your gaze in the dim glow from the hallway and tipped his chin toward the stairs.

“Kitchen’s clean,” he said softly, brushing past you, hand skimming your lower back. “Now we can get back to the fun part.”