#reader has a backbone

TARGARYEN HEIR AERION BRIGHTFLAME'S RECKLESS REIGN IN KING'S LANDING

Aerion Targaryen, heir to the Targaryen's Valyrian steel empire, has had a string of scandals across King's Landing. From broken hearts to whispered affairs, the young Brightflame has become a fixture of the city's most exclusive parties—and its most unforgiving gossip circles.

Sources close to the family describe lavish late night soirees, with Aerion often seen stumbling from high-profile gatherings well past dawn. "He's hotheaded and fiery," says one insider, "and he just doesn't seem to care who gets caught in the flames."

Despite efforts by current company head, Maekar Targaryen, to preserve the family's carefully forged reputation, reports of Aerion's behavior continue to spread. Maekar, a respected businessman who assumed leadership after Baelor, his brother, declined the role, has yet to publicly address his son's conduct.

Meanwhile, expectations remain sky-high for the young prince. Fresh out of university with a degree in Finance from one of the most prestigious schools in the nation, Aerion is widely regarded as the future of the Targaryen empire. But with each new rumor turning true, the questions grow increasingly louder: is the heir apparent ready to inherit the legacy? Or is he simply destined to unravel it?

The office is a fortress of glass and marble, cold and impersonal, sat in the corner of the top floor. Two tinted walls of glass facing the city let in the soft afternoon light, bathing the cold black marble of the floor in warm yellow. A large black desk covered in stacks of papers sits in the center of the room. An imposing wooden bookcase made of dark oak sits against the left wall. The chair at the desk remains unoccupied. The air is filled with the sounds of a clock ticking softly.

Aerion lounges, head tilted back, in the arm chair across from the desk. He wears a wrinkled dress shirt tucked into fitted black slacks. He spins a black fountain pen deftly between his fingers, gaze drifting over the city below.

The door to the office opens with a loud bang, the heavy shove sending it crashing against the wall. Long strides and loud footsteps bring Maekar to the desk. He stands behind it, head down, hands splayed across it's cluttered surface. The look of indifference on Aerion's face forces a heaving sigh from deep in his chest.

"Aerion." The name leaves Maekar's gritted teeth. He rakes a hand through his hair— normally neat and gelled to perfection—that now lays in a mess, strands framing his tired face.

"Father." Aerion returns, a smile ghosting across his lips. He leans back in the chair, resting one ankle over the opposite knee.

Maekar's knuckles whiten as his hands tighten on the edge of the desk. He tosses a sleek tablet across the desk. It slides to a stop in front of Aerion.

"Pick it up. See what they've written about you." He gestures at the tablet without looking.

Slender fingers wrap around the tablet as Aerion briskly scans the screen. He quickly tosses it back onto the desk.

"So what? This is hardly the worst thing they've written." His mouth curves into a crooked grin. "Looks like they got my best angles. Hey—look, they even called me a prince."

Maekar's face flushes with anger.

"I've been easy on you, Aerion, far too easy. I've treated you how your mother would have wanted me to and see how you've turned out?" He grimaces, the words leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

Aerion's smirk only widens. "You can't do anything though father. I'm your heir. To do something drastic would completely scrap any idea of a unified front."

The air in the room tightens, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Maekar's violet eyes lock with Aerion's lighter ones.

"You think that because I have not, that I cannot." The words come out dangerously calm, nearly inaudible even in the deafening quiet of the room.

Aerion's smile falters at the tone in his father voice.

"You'll be seen, publicly, in a respectful relationship with the sister of Lyonel Baratheon. I'm sure you're familiar with their family name. She's a well respected member of the Baratheon family and I expect you to treat her with the utmost respect when you meet her next week."

Aerion can only gape at his father.

"I trust you'll heed my words. I've had enough of cleaning up your messes these last few years, Aerion. If this relationship doesn't work out—" he runs a hand down his face tiredly, "—and it will—you cannot fathom what I have in store for you."

Aerion gathers himself briefly, sitting proud in the armchair as Maekar begins to walk out of the office.

"Is she pretty at least?" His lips curl as he says these words. No matter, they fall as flat as his attempt at a confident smile falters.

Maekar doesn't even turn to look back at his son, the echoes of his shoes on the marble floor growing fainter as he makes his way down the hall.

Aerion sags suddenly, head tilting back as he slumps into the chair. He rakes a hand through his short white-blond hair.

"Fuck."

The lobby of the Targaryen building is vast and imposing. Far from the bright and warm colors of the Baratheon headquarters, it stands tall in sleek marble floors, high dark ceilings, and tinted glass so dark, it almost seems black. The only color in the entire room are crimson leather couches placed around the lobby area—a red so rich, it looked like it was painted in fresh blood. Even the receptionists seem as cold as their surroundings.

You fuss with the white laces on the dress you've been forced to wear. It's pale sunflower yellow, embroidered with delicate florals. It cinches just below your chest, falling in loose waves down to the tops of your knees. You'd never wear this.

A hand darts out, slapping at yours. "Stop messing with your dress." The voice is sing-songy, teasing in its indulgence of your annoyance.

"Oh fuck off, Lyonel." The words are biting.

"A lady shouldn't say such things!"

You can already imagine the shit-eating grin on Lyonel's face, but you refuse to look at him.

The glare you send him would have sent anyone—other than you brother—to their grave.

The amount of begging and bribery from Lyonel to get you into this damn dress would have made anyone gasp. In the end, you'd settled for the prize of taking his car for a joyride later tonight in retaliation.

"Listen, little sister," he leans in close, "I have a plan—we have a plan. You think father sent me without one?

He leans back against the couch, eyebrows raised in question.

You finally look over at him, eyebrow cocked. "What plan?"

His eyes fill with mischief.

The whisper is soft, but you swear it nearly echoes in the emptiness of the lobby.

"You're to date Aerion, yes? With plans to marry when this—if this—all goes well?"

You nod. "Yeah. You know this."

"And…why not make that work for us as well? Get close to him, woo him, and maybe, just maybe, once Maekar passes his seat to Aerion…"

Lyonel trails off, a wide grin on his face. You quickly fill in the blanks.

"Lyonel, I—"

"Mr. Targaryen is ready for you now."

You nearly jump out of your own skin.

A tall receptionist stands in front of you, fitted in a tailored black blazer and matching pencil skirt. Her kitten heels are a deep blood red, the same shade as the couches, and her hair is tied back in a severe bun. Not as severe as the expression on her face. You shove the thought away as quickly as it came, now was not the time for snarky comments.

"Right, yes, of course." You stand up quickly, smoothing your palms down the front of your dress—out of nerves or for fear of misrepresenting yourself, you didn't know.

You and Lyonel trail behind her as she leads you to the elevators. She steps inside the waiting car, pressing the button for the top floor, and staring straight ahead unblinkingly. You slide into the elevator behind her, and glance over at Lyonel, who seems like he's having the best time of his life, basking himself in your discomfort.

The elevator shoots upwards at breakneck speeds, and you feel your ears pop during the climb. It slows, and the doors slide open silently. The woman gestures with an open palm to the large double doors at the end of the hallway.

"Mr. Targaryen is waiting to receive you just through those double doors at the end."

Without another word, she steps back into the cab, and heads back down.

The doors loom ahead ominously, the dark oak polished to perfection. Small fixtures in the ceiling cast ponds of soft yellow light onto the dark marble floor, lighting the pathway for you.

You take a deep breath and start forward, Lyonel a comforting presence at your back.

As you arrive, you raise your hand to knock. But before your knuckles can meet the wood, the doors swing open.

You blink in surprise. The room is near bare, save for a bookshelf and a large black desk in the center of the room. A small conference table sits off to the side, and two white-blonde men sit at it. One is older, face lined with stress and exhaustion. The other is young, and carrying the energy of someone who can think of many other places he'd rather be.

Maekar looks up as you enter, a tight smile crossing his face. He stands up, long strides carrying him quickly to stand in front of you.

He greets both of you with a strong nod, hand reaching out to shake Lyonel's hand, then yours.

"I hope the journey over wasn't too taxing. I've heard the traffic in the city can take quite some getting used to."

Aerion still hasn't looked over in your direction yet, an air of practiced disinterest surrounds him.

"Please, sit." Maekar pulls out two chairs opposite his and Aerion's.

You settle into your seat and Lyonel in his.

Only then does Aerion finally look up.

You see a brief flash of something in his violet eyes as they meet yours, but it quickly disappears, smothered by the mirth in his gaze.

Heat blooms as his eyes scan you quickly—up, down.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Baratheon." Aerion's smile is all teeth, predatory. "Lyonel." He nods in your brothers direction.

Maekar passes out sheets of cream paper, the text on the page in ink so dark it almost looks wet.

"Terms of the contract, just a formality. Your father is aware of the contents, I've had a copy sent to his office." He looks up at you, glancing between you and Lyonel once. "Please, look it over, I have pens here for your signatures."

Maekar looks to your older brother. "Your father informed me that you'd be signing on his behalf?"

Lyonel nods, gaze heavy. You both scan the contract, though the words blur before your eyes. You draw in a silent, but deep breath, calming your nerves. The contract sharpens into focus. It contains all the details of your soon-to-be public relationship with one Aerion Targaryen. It feels like a gilded cage.

"Let me know if you have any questions." Maekar murmurs quietly.

You can feel Aerion's gaze on you, assessing—what, exactly? Watching for signs of weakness?

Your hands feel a bit clammy, and you quickly bring them to you lap, wiping them against your dress, before placing them back on the table.

Both you and Lyonel pick up the pens set beside your contracts. You sign your name at the bottom, neatly on the dotted line, and Lyonel on his.

It is done.

Maekar gathers the papers, placing them into a sleek black folder. He presses a button on the desk, and an assistant arrives quickly, collecting the folder, before leaving the room.

"Thank you both, again, for coming out to meet us here. I'll have my assistant send out the logistical details to you and your father." His face is stern, in the way a man who has burdens too heavy for him to carry, does.

"Like we agreed, we will be leaking news of yours and Aerion's relationship to the agreed upon sources before your first official appearance as a couple to the Silver Lining Gala this coming weekend.

He glances at you, then Lyonel. "It brings me great pleasure that our families are finally being united. What a waste it would be to continue at each others throats. This industry has room for both families, after all."

You and Lyonel both nod.

"As agreed. Thank you for setting up this meeting, Mr. Targaryen." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

"Maekar."

"Sorry?" You gaze flits towards Aerion, then quickly back to Maekar.

"Please, call me Maekar." He stands, and you follow suit.

"Right, of course, sir—Maekar." You correct yourself with a nervous grin.

Aerion is still watching you like a hawk, the alertness in his eyes a stark contrast to his relaxed posture as he lounges in his chair.

"Please, let me walk you to the elevator."

You and Lyonel leave Aerion behind in the room, and follow Maekar as he leads you back down the hallway. You trail behind them, soft murmurs of low conversation reach your ears as your brother and Maekar speak softly.

As you step into the elevator, Maekar nods again. "Have a safe trip back."

He looks to you, a faint smile touching his lips. "Wonderful to meet you, Ms. Baratheon. I hope to see you again soon."

You begin to smile as the doors of the elevator slide shut. You exhale a breath of relief.

Back in the meeting room, Aerion finally stands. Pretty, he thinks to himself, and delicate. A rare smile flits across his face.

You heave a sigh of relief once you're back inside the family car. You lock eyes with Lyonel, and he seems ready to burst out laughing, dark brown hair ruffled from the wind outside.

You land a sharp kick to his shin.

"Ow, fuck—" he grasps at his leg.

"Shut up. Stop being a baby."

Lyonel lifts a single eyebrow as you slouch into the cool black leather seats. The car pulls away from the towering building slowly, and into the heavy rush hour traffic. The city is a blur as you drive, honks and car exhausts filling in the evening air.

"Like I was saying, all you have to do, lil' sis, is stick it out with Aerion, and bam. You get married, you work your way up in the company, earn their trust, and sabotage the Targaryens from within." Lyonel leans back in his seat, a pleased grin on his face. "Think of how pleased dad would be. Think of how good it would feel."

You want to agree, you want to. It's just…despite how Aerion, is, well, Aerion, and still—traitor that you are—you feel for him. Not everyone is lucky enough to have as close and as warm a family as yours. Perhaps Aerion was just a product of his upbringing.

"Lyonel, look. I just—I don't know if it's right to do this. Aerion is…Aerion, but to tear the whole company down? Who knows if mine and Aerion's relationship will even pan out?" You gesture in the air with your hands. "I don't know if the whole family deserves this."

Lyonel looks at you, really looks at you. A familiar grin returns to his face. "Okay, okay. Let's put a pin in it, yeah? Circle back? Maybe once Aerion finally pisses you—"

You shove his shoulder hard, before leaning back into your seat. The car makes its way through unfamiliar streets, lights and buildings blurring by as you tilt your head to look out the window.

THE STAG AND THE DRAGON: BARATHEON HEIRESS AND AERION TARGARYEN SPOTTED TOGETHER

A new rumor has been circulating through the city—and this time, it appears it may have slipped out sooner than expected.

The younger sister of Baratheon heir Lyonel Baratheon has reportedly been seen in the company of Aerion Targaryen, the well-known heir to the Targaryen Valyrian steel empire. Sources say the pair have spent time together on several recent occasions, keeping to private settings and avoiding the usual public eye.

News of the pairing began to spread following what insiders describe as an accidental leak, with sightings and quiet reports making their way into gossip circles before either family could respond.

“They’ve been spending time together, just not publicly,” one source shares. “People weren’t really supposed to know yet.”

As of now, neither the Baratheons nor the Targaryens have issued any statement, leaving the rumors to circulate on their own. Still, the unexpected reveal has already captured attention across King’s Landing, where both families remain among the most closely watched.

For Aerion, long associated with the city’s social scene, the rumored relationship offers a new point of interest. For the Baratheons, whose private lives rarely make headlines, the attention is something of a rarity.

Whether confirmed or not, one thing is clear: the city is already watching closely as this story continues to unfold.

The ride over to the gala is an uncomfortable one. You smooth your hand down your dress—a silk river of chocolate brown that cascades down your figure—and bite back a cough. Aerion sits next to you, the city lights shining through the car window turn his silver-gold hair near white. His violet eyes stare ahead, one elbow resting on the car door, the other on the armrest between the two of you. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating outwards from him, but not so close that the two of you are touching.

He's dressed in a suit the shade of midnight, complete with a blood-red sash falling down the front. A three headed dragon is pinned to his lapel. The Targaryens are known for their otherworldly beauty, an ancient thing passed down through generations, and some say, Aerion is near the most beautiful of them all.

He's beautiful in the way the ice is on a frozen lake before it cracks beneath your feet.

You look away before he catches you staring, and in doing so, miss the slight upturn of his mouth.

The car pulls to a stop in front of the entrance to the venue. Aerion steps out first, and even for the briefest second that his car door is open, you hear the flood of questions and camera shutters clicking, before it's muffled by the door slamming shut.

Your door opens, Aerion's palm held out to you in an offering. The air is perfumed, and thick with the sound of cameras and shouting as you take his hand.

"Ms. Baratheon, look over here!"

"Is it true that you and Aerion are dating?"

You do your best to smile for the photos, hand resting lightly on Aerion's offered arm. The fabric of his suit jacket is smooth and warm beneath your palm. You hate that it brings you comfort, shame bubbling up beneath your skin.

When your eyes meet Lyonel's you have to bite back a sigh of relief.

"Excuse me, Aerion, I'm just going to go speak to Lyonel quickly."

Aerion glances at you, eyes assessing, before nodding.

You take off without a backwards glance.

Your brother cannot hold back a laugh. "Got away from the dragon, did you?"

It takes everything in you not to knee him.

"Here, got you a drink, little sister." He hands you a martini glass, it smells cloyingly sweet, a sprig of mint and a dusting of powdered sugar reminds you of winters spent with your family in the mountains. You take a sip, eyes closed to savor the taste.

"Thanks, I needed that." Your eyes fly open. "Fuck, Lyonel, I should probably get back."

"That you should," he grins. "See you around!" Lyonel takes off, merging back into the crowded room.

But when you turn to look behind for a head of white blonde, you don't see him. Then, you do.

He's smiling charmingly at a girl who's talking animatedly. You watch him as he places a hand on her waist, the rings on his fingers glittering in the soft lit room. You watch as he pulls her close to whisper something to her, lips ghosting over the shell of her ear.

And suddenly, any semblance of sympathy or comfort you had towards him vanished. In its place was a burning annoyance. You were doing him a favor. You were putting your neck on the line to help save his image. Not even fifteen minutes had passed and he'd already started chatting up the girl nearest him.

You don't spare him a second glance as you whip around, ready to head right back out through the entrance. But there, standing in the entrance, is the rest of the Targaryens. Valarr catches your eye, as Aegon darts towards you.

"How much did they pay you to date my brother?" Aegon asks, his head tilted, still prickly from the new hair growing in.

You let out a genuine laugh. "Nothing, Egg. I swear on my life."

"So you're with my brother because…you want to be?" His face is one of horror.

Valarr fails to bite back a snort of laughter, and you snap your head to him.

"Find this amusing, do you?" You glare at the brown haired man.

Valarr grins, "only a bit."

You glare harder.

"Okay, fine. I think it's really funny. Who knew you'd decide to date my cousin?"

Aegon cuts in, "You should have just dated Valarr. He's a much better choice, really. Just look at Aerion." He gestures a small hand over to where Aerion now stands, holding a totally different girl.

A young boy, around Aegon's age, runs from the crowd, yanking him into the crowd.

Valarr turns to you, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Seems like Egg's got somewhere to be."

You smile back at him, "Want to get another drink? I'm going to need it if I'm going to have to suffer through Aerion embarrassing me all night."

He's barely paying attention to the blonde in his arms. Her chatter is akin to the buzzing of a summer gnat in his ear. No, he's watching you. He's watching your shoulder bumping Valarr’s, your laughter spilling out, Valarr leaning in too close.

Something in his stomach flips, something traitorous. He doesn't care about you. He could have any girl he wants. This fake relationship means nothing. It's just another misguided attempt by Maekar to rectify his recent behavior. His father has tried many things before, and usually, they just end in acceptance. This should be no different.

So he tunes back into the girl in his arms. His lips curl into a smile, teeth glinting in the light of the room. His hand reaches up to brush away a strand of her hair, and she blushes, warm to the touch. His other hand comes to rest on the small of her waist. He talks, and converses with her. She laughs at a joke he makes, laying her hand to rest against his chest. She looks up at him with stars shining in her eyes, and he leads her away into a hallway. She follows him like he is the moon, and she is the tide, bound to him.

"Where did Aerion go?" You scan the ballroom. "I swear he was just right—how long have we been talking?"

Valarr shrugs. "I don't make a habit of keeping tabs on my cousin."

He lightly shoves his shoulder into yours. "But we can go look for him if you're worried."

"No," You shake your head. "No, it's fine, you stay here and enjoy the party. I can go find him myself." You shoot a goodbye grin at Valarr, then turn on your heel.

You turn down a dimly lit service corridor. The lights overhead cast dim yellow pools onto the dark rug. As you round the corner, you see them. They stand just out of the direct ceiling light. Shadows paint their figures in shades of gray—the soft lines along her hip, the rings glittering on his hands, and the white-gold of his hair. It's dark, but not so dark that you can't see that his lips are on hers, that his hands are on her hips, and that her hands are flush against his chest.

Aerion's eyes suddenly open, glowing as they find yours in the darkness of the hallway. He kisses her harder, deliberate this time—hand sliding beneath her dress, her breath catching against his mouth. He doesn't break eye contact as he moves his hand under her dress. He doesn't look away as he tangles his hands in her hair. He doesn't let go as she moans breathlessly, his hands roaming over her skin.

You have to yank your eyes away. You turn sharply on your heel and quicken your pace till you've pushed open the patio doors in the ballroom. The quiet is deafening. Save for the soft chirps of the crickets, and the whisper of the night breeze blowing through the courtyard, you are alone, and it is quiet.

You take your phone out. 10:30 PM.

The FaceTime call chimes only twice before familiar faces fill your phone screen. Dunk's eyes are magnified by his glasses, sitting low on his nose, and Tanselle's grin fills her warm face.

"Hey!" Both of them say, stopping short when they see the look on your face.

Dunks face goes slack, and Tanselle's brows knit together in a look of concern.

"What's wrong?" Tanselle's voice is soft.

Dunk chimes in, a crooked smile on his face. "Hey, that gala thing no fun?"

You pull your lip between your teeth, weighing whether you should tell them.

A sigh escapes your lips before you can stop it.

"Aerion is a nightmare."

They blink, before dissolving into cackles.

Dunk's glasses nearly slide off of his nose as he gasps for breath.

"Guys. GUYS. Please, oh my god." You try your hardest to get their attention.

"Girl. We knew this. C'mon, I mean, look at his track record." Tanselle finally gets the words out, still clutching at her stomach.

"You don't get it though. He's been provoking me all night as if my family—no, as if I'm not doing him a huge favor."

You take off your heels, letting them drop onto the ground beside you. You plant your feet firmly in the soft grass, the cool stalks tickling as they brush against your skin.

"He's been flirting with girls all night, in public. Then he disappears, and I can't find him. Mind you, this is supposed to be our first public appearance as a couple and he's going around as if—" You huff. "So anyways, I go looking for him, and then guess what I find?"

Tanselle and Dunk stare up at you expectantly.

"His tongue in another girls mouth. And not only that, we lock eyes and he kisses her harder. He grabs. Her. Ass."

Dunks eyes look even bigger, his expression magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. Tanselle's mouth gapes open.

"Holy shit."

"No way."

The words come simultaneously from the two of them.

"Yeah, I know—"

A hand reaches around you, snatching your phone out of your hand.

"Bye Dunk. Tanselle."

The chime of the call ending brings your head snapping around.

"What are you doing here?" The words are biting, annoyance hiding just under the surface.

"What, I can't come looking for my girlfriend?" Amusement creeps back into his voice, a smile on his lips, and your phone still in his hand.

You reach for your phone, and as he yanks it out of reach, you fall forward into him. You quickly take a step back from him, from the heady scent of his cologne, and his permanent smirk.

"Aerion. My phone." You grit your teeth, smiling big. "Don't you have better things to do? More girls to make out with?"

You swear you see a spark of annoyance dance through his lavender eyes before his face cools into a practiced smile. He takes one step, then another, until the two of you stand so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. Close enough that you're sure he can feel the anger burning its way through your veins.

So close that when he closes the remaining distance, you swear there had been none to begin at all.

The kiss is like a fire, burning with things unsaid. It is claiming, all teeth and sharp nips. He doesn’t kiss you—he brands a promise into your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair, as the other presses against the small of your back to pull you impossibly close.

You push both hands against his chest, coming apart with a gasp.

"If you tell anyone that this happened I will kill you." Your lips are swollen, face still burning. The threat is an empty one, and he knows it.

A cool breeze ruffles Aerion's hair as he smiles. "Wouldn't dream of it."

He turns on his heel and strides toward the patio doors, leaving you in the grass beneath the pale wash of moonlight—alone, and no closer to understanding him.

Bucky stilled.

Inside, the cabaret was packed shoulder to shoulder. Men in tailored suits. Women dripping in silk and diamonds. Everyone leaned toward the stage like you were a secret they’d paid dearly to hear. You stood beneath a single amber light, hands curled around the microphone, eyes half-lidded as you sang like the room belonged to you—even though it never truly had.

It used to, once.

The old owner had been a good man. Gruff, yes. Stern. But he’d kept his hands clean and his promises cleaner. He’d given you a place to sing, a roof when you were too young to have either, and rules that were ironclad: no touching the talent.

Then he died.

And the man who took over made it very clear what he thought your voice was worth.

You’d said no the first time. Politely.

The second time, less so.

By the third, you’d told him you’d walk—and he’d smiled thinly and reminded you how many people came just to hear you sing. How many mouths depended on this place staying open. How easy it would be to ruin you if you tried to leave.

So you stayed. But you didn’t bend.

Bucky learned all of this in pieces. From whispers. From ledgers. From the way the slime ball—Frankie Russo—sweated through his suit when Bucky acquired the club in a deal so bad it might as well have been a confession.

When Frankie realized who now owned the place, he panicked.

That’s when he made his final mistake.

“She’s special,” Frankie said eagerly, walking Bucky through the club after hours. “Brings in half the crowd. You want her, she’s yours. Consider it… a gift.”

You were standing on the stage, gathering your coat. You’d heard it all.

You turned slowly, chin lifting, eyes sharp and unafraid.

“No.”

The word cut clean.

Bucky stopped walking.

Frankie laughed nervously. “C’mon, sweetheart—”

“I said no,” you repeated, voice steady. “To him. To you. To anyone who thinks they own me because I sing for a living.”

Silence fell thick as smoke.

You met Bucky’s gaze then—really met it—and didn’t look away. Most people did. They flinched, stammered, tried to bargain.

You just stood there, daring him.

Something in Bucky shifted.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t raise his voice. He only said, “Leave us.”

Frankie blinked. “Boss—”

“Now.”

Frankie scurried.

You waited until the door shut before grabbing your coat and moving past him. “If you’re here to make the same offer,” you said coolly, “save your breath. I won’t change my answer.”

Bucky watched you go.

Then, later that night, in a dark alley that smelled of wet concrete and bad decisions, Frankie Russo learned that offering women like currency came with consequences.

No one ever tied it back to Bucky Barnes.

You noticed the changes immediately.

No more backroom threats. No lingering hands. The books were cleaned. The staff paid on time. A bouncer appeared at your side every night—respectful, silent, immovable.

And Bucky?

He never asked for you.

He came to listen.

Always from the shadows. Always still. His eyes followed you like you were something holy and dangerous all at once. When you sang, his world narrowed to the sound of you breathing between verses.

It unnerved you.

Men like him didn’t wait. They took.

So when he finally spoke to you—weeks later, offering you a drink you hadn’t asked for—you braced yourself.

“I don’t belong to you,” you said immediately.

“I know,” he replied.

That stopped you.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t corner you. He spoke like a man carefully placing glass on marble.

“I bought the club,” he said. “Not you.”

You studied him, searching for the lie.

“Why protect me, then?”

His jaw tightened. “Because no one should’ve ever tried to break you.”

You laughed softly. “That didn’t start here.”

“I figured.”

You didn’t trust him. How could you? You’d learned what promises were worth when whispered by powerful men. You guarded your independence like a blade at your throat.

And yet—

He never demanded. Never caged. When you threatened to leave, he only said, “If you go, it’ll be because you chose to. Not because someone pushed you.”

That was when you started to see it.

The yearning.

The way his hand flexed when you brushed past. The way his voice softened when he said your name. How the most dangerous man in the city waited for permission he didn’t need—but wanted.

When you finally kissed him, it was your choice.

When you loved him, it was on your terms.

And Bucky Barnes, feared by half the city, loved you like a man grateful for something he never thought he’d be allowed to keep.

The club became yours one night—papers slid across the table, signed without ceremony.

“You don’t own me,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he said. “I just want to stand beside you.”

The rhythmic tapping of piano keys is soft and inviting, the pianist seated at it playing a familiar tune, though you can't quite place your finger on the name. A singer stands to the left, their voice is low and sultry, crooning words in a language you don't recognize. You're in a floor length gown, a deep forest green, soft and shimmering in the dim lighting of the restaurant. Your hands are folded in your lap, eyes tracing over the same pattern on the wall trim opposite you for the hundredth time.

A quiet voice startles you out of your reverie.

"Ma'am? Are we still waiting for one more?" Your server is an older man, with kind, warm eyes.

"Yes, yes, I am so sorry. He usually isn't late, and I don't know where he's gone off to tonight!" The words escape your lips with a nervous laugh.

He nods and walks back off into the kitchen.

You pick at the table cloth, tracing the circle of condensation your now-empty glass of water left behind. You can feel your face beginning to warm with embarrassment of having been sat here for thirty minutes in silence waiting for Aerion to show up.

You can hear the people around you whispering. Uneasily, you watch as a woman looks at you and whispers to her partner, a hand covering her mouth as her eyes flick back and forth. You're not surprised, not really.

Yours and Aerion's relationship is highly publicized. For all the public knew, the two of you were in a happy partnership, a loving couple. Maekar had ensured both parties, Targaryens and Baratheons, were aware of what was to take place. The intention was for this relationship to be successful, more specifically, as publicly successful as possible.

It must come as such a shock, for them to see you, younger sister to Lyonel Baratheon, sitting all alone at a dining room table in one of the nicest restaurants in King's Landing, waiting for a date who would never show. You'd noticed the looks and the whispers as soon as you stepped through the front doors of the restaurant. It seemed these days your face lived permanently on the front pages of the tabloids devoted to keeping up with the new "it" couple in King's Landing. But as the seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes to a half hour, the whispers had grown into a loud murmur of noise, and each glance your way had burned like a hot iron brand against your skin. The thought makes you sick to your stomach.

Suddenly, you stand up so fast that the chair's legs protest as they screech against the floor. This was humiliating. Gathering your dress up at in your hands, you stride toward the front door. Your heels clack softly against the floor as you make your way out. You murmur a soft apology to the host at the front desk, an apologetic smiling gracing your lips before you step out into the night air.

For a moment you just stand in the chill of the outdoors, pulling in a deep breath of fresh, cool air as you stand with your arms wrapped around your thin dress. Your head is tilted up, watching the faint glow of the moon in the sky, washed out by the bright lights of the city. You close your eyes briefly, savoring the sudden stillness of an ever-bustling street. It's just late enough that there are far fewer people out on the street.

Reaching a hand into your bag, you pull out your phone, hitting the Face Time button on the group chat you share with Dunk and Tanselle.

The call chimes once, twice, than a third time before connecting. Tanselle is sitting at the desk in her bedroom, with a straightener in her hand. Her other hand is tangled deep in the tight coils of her hair. Dunk's glasses are low on his nose, squinting over the camera at something out of sight.

"Hey! Hows the date going?" Tanselle asks, steam rising into the air as she pulls the straightener through her hair. Dunk nods enthusiastically, but obviously preoccupied.

You grip your phone tighter, shouldering your bag higher up so it rests more comfortably.

"Aerion never showed. I don't know where he is. He didn't bother to text or to call, and—"

"Oh boy."

"Jesus Christ."

The words come in unison. Tanselle halts, straightener still hot in her hand. Dunk looks up, pushing his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose.

"What?" You raise an eyebrow, the streetlight above you casting an eerie halo around your head. "Do you know where he is?"

The two of them quickly look away from their cameras. Tanselle drops her straightener onto her desk, and both of them reach for their phones. For a couple seconds all you can see are their foreheads, blue-white in the light of their phone screens. You watch as they type furiously to each other before setting their phones back in position and looking back at you.

"So. A couple times—" Tanselle starts.

"Only a few, you know, not a ton—" Dunk injects quickly.

"Maekar has had us go get Daeron, and Aerion, when they get too…you know." Tanselle is looking directly at the camera now. Based on how shes talking, you quickly deduce that it's far more than a couple times. All of King's Landing knows of Daeron and his… proclivities towards getting drunk—and staying drunk.

Dunk speaks again. "Daeron frequents the pubs so he's always easy to find but Aerion… Aerion… uh, he—" Dunk scratches the back of his head and pauses, as if he's rethinking his choice to tell you this. "—drag races."

The call goes totally silent. For a second all you can hear are the crickets chirping in the nearby bushes and the soft whistle of the wind rushing through near-naked branches, trees long since stripped of their leaves as fall bleeds into winter.

"So instead of showing up to our date he is…what? Risking his life driving some car around?" You scoff.

Aerion hadn't exactly treated you well these past weeks since the gala, not since the kiss you shared in the courtyard. You still remembered how you'd stood there, fingers pressed against swollen lips, staring at the dark, gaping doorway he'd walked back through.

You honestly shouldn't be shocked. If you were to be given a dollar each time he showed up on-time—each time he showed up at all—to dates, you'd be the poorest beggar on the streets of Flea Bottom.

Despite it all, you'd thought that maybe the two of you were finally on the same page. That, however naively, you'd begun to enjoy each others company. At least, to the extent that you could—you still hadn't forgiven him for the way he'd treated you at the gala. The thought of him in that hallway, hands sliding up the back of that girls dress, kissing her harder as soon as he locked eyes with you.

The two of them stare off to the side, quiet. They wait for you to speak first.

"Just when I thought he couldn't get any—" You break off with a tired sigh. "Where is he?"

The driver pulls off slowly, leaving you standing before a multi-floored parking garage. It's a colossal structure made of sun-bleached concrete, with words scrawled on the walls in black graffiti. Crushed cans and cigarette butts are scattered between the tufts of weeds, growing up through the cracks in the pavement.

The bass of distant music is so loud you can feel it even all the way out in the lot. There are a few people milling about the entrance to the garage dressed in a fashion far from what you're used to in your world. Three guys and one girl stare you down from where they stand, leaned up against the wall, cigarettes flickering orange between their lips. The girl is in a short paid miniskirt, a near see through white collared shirt tied over her belly button. The men are in loose tees and shirts, shorts and pants slung low around their waists. One wears a silk black bandana tied over his bleached blond hair. Another, a gray beanie tugged low over his face. The last wears an expensive, but well-loved gray leather jacket.

In truth, you felt peoples' eyes on you the second you stepped out of the company car. You were dressed in a gown you didn't even want to know the price of. Maekar had sent it and you knew the Targaryens paid well for protection. You know you stick out like a sore thumb. Their eyes continue tracking you as you walk through the entrance, heels clicking as you walk deeper into the garage, their soft murmurs following you as cigarette smoke wafts into the darkened sky.

The area is flooded in multi colored lights and smoke. There are throngs of people leaned up against cars you've only seen in movies. People dance in the flashing lights, skin tight outfits glimmering as they twist their bodies.

That's when you see him. He stands with his back facing you, talking with a couple of other guys.

You still, frozen in step, eyes locked onto Aerion. Fury boils hot beneath your skin and you feel a sick sense of wonder at how it is possible for him to completely forget about you.

He's wearing a loose white cutoff tank and low slung black washed jeans. There are silver chains looped through belt buckles. As he reaches to clap someone on the shoulder, his shirt lifts just high enough. You can see a black inked dragon, wings tucked, stretched over his side. His hair is messy, tufts of his hair stick up like the ridges on a dragon's back.

You cross the space between you in the blink of an eye, your hand closing around his forearm before he even realizes what's happening.

He turns as you tug his arm hard, a look of confusion and annoyance on his face. He pivots slightly, half facing the group, half facing you. He looks at you as if you are nothing but a fly, annoyingly buzzing around him on a hot summer day.

"What are you doing here?"

You glance around at the other people in the group, yanking him away into a quieter corner.

"What do you mean what am I doing here?" The words escape your lips in a hiss so cold you're sure the room's temperature drops a few degrees. He shrugs out of your tight grip with almost no effort at all.

Aerion's eyes glow unnaturally in the light of the room as he watches you, gaze tracing appreciatively over your dress. It hugs you in all the right places, the forest green nearly black in the dim light of the corner you've pulled him into. He runs a hand through his hair, tousling the short strands even further before leaning back against a stone pillar.

"You look nice." His tongue darts out, swiping across his lips as they stretch into a familiar smirk.

"Are you serious? That's all you have to say?" You try your best to keep your voice down, but your patience begins to slip. Anger surges through you, your voice growing louder.

"What? I can't compliment my girlfriend?" The words are teasing in tone, dancing across your skin. There is no guilt in them. They are empty. Nothing.

That is when you realize that he had forgotten, completely and utterly, about your date. He hadn't even actively decided to skip it. It had been so unimportant that he didn't even know what he had done wrong. Your heart betrays you, the pang is sharp and deep in your chest, pumping this rot through the rest of you.

You push it all down, because despite it all, you find yourself worried. "We need to go. Is this even legal? Does Maekar even know? Lyonel is going to kill me—" The words leave you in a panic.

He cuts you off as he rights himself, moving away from the pillar he was leaning against. He's already turning away from you. "Yeah, whatever. We can go after I race."

Aerion leaves you there, in a room full of unfamiliar people, in a dress that's too thin for the weather—alone.

You stand hugging yourself with your arms, thinking of all the places you'd rather be then here. As you glance around the room, searching for a spot you might be able to wait in unnoticed, you hear your name called out by a familiar voice.

A man with a mop of curly brown hair on his head makes his way to you. He wears a deep maroon leather jacket and loose black pants.

"Raymun!" Your smile is huge, a wave of nostalgia crashing over you as you embrace him.

He laughs as you squeeze him tightly, a warm and genuine smile stretching across his face. "Dressed up for the drag race?"

You laugh. "No, this was from—never mind. How have you been? It's been such a long time."

Raymun smiles, shaking his head. "Almost didn't recognize you. We don't exactly look like how we did in high school anymore, eh?"

You suppress a shiver at the cold. "Not anymore, I guess. For better or for worse."

His eyes widen. "Shit, are you cold?"

Before you can say anything, Raymun pulls his jacket off, wrapping it around your shoulders. It smells faintly of wood-smoke and green apples. The jacket is smooth and warm against your chilled skin.

You look at him for a bit, before you speak again. Taking in his warm brown eyes, hair the color of a chocolate lab (the personality of one, too).

You nudge him, teasingly, "So why are you at a drag race?"

The tips of his ears turn red, "Oh! Yeah, I'm, uh, helping Steffon. He's racing today. He's being a right dick though."

"I see some things never change."

Raymun laughs at your words. You find it easy to slip into conversation with him. Being around him feels like old times, simpler times, and the banter comes easily. You begin to feel the stress and annoyance from the night melting away. You'd missed having such a good friend around.

"Hey, do you want something to drink?" He rubs the back of his head. "Not sure they'll have anything besides shitty liquor, but you look like you'd need something to keep you warm. Besides my jacket of course."

You grin. "Sure, thank you."

You watch him walk back into the crowd, melting into the sea of bodies, before emerging out on the other side. The lights dance over the floor and over the bar where he stands, yelling to the bartender who can barely hear him.

Raymun is looking down at the drinks he's balancing, "Hey, okay so I got them to make us some—" his voice cuts off abruptly as he looks up, "—drinks."

Aerion stands behind you, cold fury radiating off of him in suffocating waves.

"Fossoway." He glances at you, taking in the red leather jacket draped over your dress. His hand reaches for the collar of the jacket before he begins to tug it off, your arms tangled up in the fabric of the coat.

"She won't be needing this anymore." He tosses the jacket at Raymun's feet. It lands in a heap on the cold concrete floor.

You stand there in shock, the chill forcing you to wrap your arms around yourself once more. The music that reverberates through the space fades into the background.

Then Aerion wraps his hand around your forearm, gripping tightly, before pulling you away. His lips brush the shell of your ear, and a chill—that has nothing to do with the cool temperature—runs through your body.

"Time to go, little stag." You feel him smiling, the edge of a sharp canine grazing the skin of your ear.

You turn to look back at Raymun, sending him what you hope is a soft smile as if to say, don't worry about me. Raymun is still standing there, a drink in each hand. The shocked look on his face has faded into anger and disbelief. Not at you, no, at the way that Aerion has treated you.

You wonder briefly if he knows anything about yours and Aerion's relationship. If he does, it'll be from what he sees on the tabloids. He'll have only seen the performance the two of you put on for the flashing shutters of cameras.

You pull your arm, twisting it in Aerion's grip till the skin of your arm burns hot. It's futile, and you know it.

"Aerion, stop. Are you crazy? Where are you taking me?"

You're watching the back of his head, waiting for him to turn and answer. He doesn't, long strides forcing you to quicken your step so as to not be dragged behind him.

"Aerion? Look at me. Please." Your words are desperate, fear snaking through your veins. "I'm not even angry about the dinner okay? I just want to go home."

When he doesn't respond you continue, "I'm sorry I came out here, okay? I can leave. I'll call the driver and he can take me back."

He stops abruptly. The two of you have stopped in front of a sleek black Dodge Challenger with silver trim. He finally turns to look at you.

When your eyes meet, you swear his gaze burns. "Get in the car."

He yanks the passenger side door open, his arm resting on the top of the frame.

You pull your lip between your teeth, before releasing it. "I don't know if this is a good idea Aerion. You're clearly angry, and driving while you're—"

"Get. In. The. Car." His jaw tightens, and the words fall through clenched teeth.

You place one hand on the door, the metal cool against your palm, before ducking your head and sliding into the leather seat. The seat is ice-cold beneath your legs. You're barely settled inside before Aerion slams the passenger door shut. The heavy door nearly catches your hand.

When Aerion slides into the driver seat, you're still sitting stiffly in the passenger seat. You risk a glance over at him, taking in the prominent veins along his neck, the clench of his jaw, his eyes scanning the room through the car windshield. One hand is on the wheel, squeezing so tightly his knuckles show white through his skin. The other hand rests on the gearshift. The leather squeaks under the strength of his grip.

In this moment, you find yourself wondering how he could possibly be mad at you. Annoyance bursts through you at the thought. You open your mouth to speak before a knock on the driver side door stops you.

It is a woman, hair done up in space buns, dark eyeliner lining her eyes. She shouts something through the glass at Aerion, her top glimmering in the light as she leans closer to the closed window. You watch her gloved hand gesture at the beginning of the track. Aerion nods, and something in his eyes shutters as he pulls the car into reverse.

The engine starts not with a soft purr, no, it starts with a roar so loud, heads whip around to look. Those nearest the car clear out of the way fast, parting to create a path for Aerion to pull his car to the starting line. The rumble of the engine beneath you is so loud it drowns out the sound of the music and party goers.

Aerion turns the wheel with one hand, the other resting against the center console, close enough you could feel the heat of him through your dress. You stare straight ahead, fingers laced tightly together in your lap. When Aerion got angry, he got angry. If you gave him an inch, he'd take a whole mile. He can act however he wants and you were going to punish him for it.

Another car, a deep green color, pulls up beside you. The driver has dyed red hair so dark it looks the color of blood. It's gelled back, spiked up to form a pair of aggressive devil horns. The knuckles on the hand gripping his steering wheel are tattooed with letters you can't make out. His other hand is holding a lit cigarette to his lips.

He exhales a cloud of smoke, as he rolls down his window.

"Hey, Aerion, maybe we race for her yeah? If I win, I get to have a night with this one, if you win, well," He looks at your, oily black eyes appraising you. "Looks like you're gonna get a night with her anyways. 'Sides, I ain't slept with a girl this fancy before." He lets out a loud, abrasive laugh as he rolls his window back up.

Aerion's jaw just clenches in response, teeth grinding as he stares straight ahead. The veins in his arms bulge as he grips the wheel of the car impossibly tight.

Neither of you get the chance to say anything. At that instant, a woman in a bikini top and cutoff cargo shorts walks out in front of the cars. She holds two small bandannas in her hand, one bright red, the other black. Her slender arms lift up over her head, red painted nails bright against the fabric.

The bandannas fall, floating down to the floor. The second they touch the floor, the smell of burning rubber fills your nose, tires squealing and engine growling as Aerion presses the gas pedal to the floor. You don't even hear the loud yell the crowd lets out as the cars take off.

The garage is a narrow space. Just wide enough for two cars to fit through side-by-side, the turns so tight you could knock off a side mirror if you weren't watching where you were going.

The cars are side by side, the walls of the garage blur past in a tapestry of gray, blues, and blacks. You sit tense in your seat, watching as Aerion deftly switches gears, his feet dancing over the different pedals.

There is something fascinating about his concentration, about the skill and practice it takes to race the way he does. The thought flashes through your mind before you can stop it—I hope he wins.

You convince yourself you only want him to win because of the smug bastard racing him. You tell yourself it's so that you can see the look on his face when Aerion's car pulls forward and across the finish line.

You are still trying to convince yourself when you realize, in your distress, you never strapped your seatbelt on. In that moment, you hear the tires of Aerion's car screech and the car wobble. He tries to correct it, hand turning the wheel to counteract the skid—but it's no use.

The car clips the pillar hard, and the vehicle slams to the side, and then suddenly, you're floating upside down. You're weightless in the air, if only for a split second. Your necklace floats, dangling down over your face. Your fingers tighten, gripping the armrest in a futile attempt to keep yourself anchored.

The moment feels frozen in time—until you pitch forward, slamming head first into the windshield. Your head is feels split open, something warm and wet trickling down your temple. The last thing you hear before your vision goes black is the sound of the car groaning, the metal creaking in protest under the strain.

AERION TARGARYEN AND SISTER OF LYONEL BARATHEON CAUGHT IN FIERY CAR CRASH

Just this past weekend, the power couple were traveling through King's Landing on their way to a dinner date at one of the most esteemed restaurants in the area. The Targaryen heir was in the driver's seat, and the Baratheon in the passenger seat when the accident occurred. A source close to the family mentioned that the pair had been seen arguing before getting into the car and leaving the Targaryen family estate.

The two were traveling southbound on the King's Road when a car swerved out of the other lane, and crashed head on into the pair's car. Bystanders stated the car spun wildly out of control before crashing into one of the pillars lining the main road. Upon impact, it was said that the hood of the car began to smoke, before bursting into flames.

When ambulances arrived, Aerion Targaryen stepped out unharmed, smoky and bruised, but alright. The same could not be said for the sister of Lyonel Baratheon. She was seen loaded onto a stretcher, and into an ambulance.

We are currently unsure which hospital she is being treated at, but sources have phoned in saying it she's being held at a private wing of the hospital within the Red Keep Estate. Updates on this story will be posted as soon as possible.

Aerion slips into the room, the door opening silently, a small gust of air fluttering through his hair when he shuts the door gently. In his bruised hand is a bundle of yellow tulips, your favorite. His hand had tightened around them earlier, without him noticing, and the stems had crumpled just slightly.

He pads into the space, eyes roving over your peaceful figure. He stands over you, breathing deeply, the sterile scent of the hospital stinging as it fills his nose, cut with the soft, clean scent of you. Turning to the bedside table, he arranges the tulips in the empty vase, amongst the other get-well-soon items others have left.

Aerion spots the balloons Lyonel tied to your hospital bed, and the sight of the words and images printed on them makes the slightest of grins stretch across his face. They're covered in ridiculous photos of you, 0.5 pictures of you that warp your face so much you look like an alien. He's never seen this side of you—a non-serious, normal, side of you.

When he turns back to look at you, your chest softly rising and falling underneath the thin hospital blanket, he feels something deep within his chest. Aerion's eyes trail over the bruises, the place where your head hit the windshield, the marks along the side of your face. He lingers, and it hits him, unwanted and sudden—he's afraid of losing you. There's a rush of guilt, of anger, and all these feelings he'd never felt—no, feelings he'd suppressed—for you.

All that he'd been doing had been to push you away. Every smirk, every time he'd missed a date, every time the two of you had argued. His father had decided what was best for him was to leash him to you. You'd be his handler now. He'd wanted to spite Maekar, to do just enough. Malicious compliance is what he had decided on committing to. If Maekar wanted you two to look good together and for Aerion to pretend to behave, that he would do. That, and nothing more.

Watching you in the hospital bed, knowing it'd been hours and you still hadn't woken—knowing that each bruise was his fault—he turned towards the door, chest heaving. Oh, how far he had fallen.

It is so bright. Even through your eyelids, the light stings your eyes. They feel as if they'd been glued shut. Your whole body hurts.

You part your cracked lips, a soft groan escaping you. Your eyes finally open, taking in the stark white hospital room, a thin blue curtain tied up near your bed.

Blinking hard, you scan the room as you vision slowly clears, weakly turning your head until your eyes land on Aerion.

He has stitches over his eyebrow, and one eye is badly bruised and swollen. He has his hands in the pocket of an oversized jacket.

He speaks first, softly, "What do you remember?"

You think. And think. All you can remember are bits and pieces, flashing lights, the crunch of metal, the pounding bass of a song you don't recognize. Frustration floods you.

"I don't know. I remember it being noisy. There were bright lights. I don't—" You clench your fists into the blanket, the IV stings as you shift.

Aerion just watches you silently, white-blond hair glowing in the bright light of the midday sun. Dust motes float gently through the air, sparkling as they're caught by rays of sunlight.

The memories surge through you like a tidal wave, flashing through your mind like the scenes of an old film motion picture. You feel everything at once, then only one thing—anger. Anger at Aerion, and anger at yourself for thinking he could ever be better than he is. You grit your teeth, looking to the floor, then at him.

The words burst forth, pouring from you like water from a broken dam.

"Why did you make me get in that car? The accident—I was only there to try to bring you home." You gasp a breath. "I didn't even want to be there, Aerion. Do you know how long I sat at that restaurant waiting—"

"Maybe you shouldn't have been flirting with Fossoway then." He says it coolly. As if the whole ordeal had been your fault.

Your jaw drops in shock, and you wince from the way the movement pulls at your bruised skin.

"Are you—are you serious?" Your voice reflects genuine surprise. You are astounded that that's what he's thinking about right now.

Aerion's jaw clenches, and you see emotions warring behind his eyes till they shutter, growing cold once more.

"You leave me, sitting at a restaurant, waiting around for you as if I have nothing better to do, nowhere better to be, so you can go off an drag race? Aerion, I don't know if you remember, but I, we, the Baratheons, are doing this to save you. Out of whatever good faith is left between our families."

You pause, chest heaving as you catch your breathe. You can feel traitorous tears beginning to gather in the corners of your eyes. Your vision blurs.

"I got hurt Aerion. This time is different. You continuously stand me up? It's fine. Maekar is there to cover your tracks and I can just go back home and pretend I'm not dating some—" You gesture angrily at him, hands flying as you talk. "—absolute dickhead who doesn't care about me. Who doesn't care about my feelings, or my time, or anything at all."

The first tear falls, tracing a wet path down your cheek. You wipe at it angrily, wincing again when you press too hard on a bruise.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, pink lips parting around empty air, then closes them again. They press together so tightly his mouth forms a think pink line.

"You won't even say anything?" Your voice is defeated, the energy and the fight drained out of you. "Get out."

He just stands there for a moment, still in that relaxed posture, hands still limp inside the pockets of his jacket.

"I said, get the fuck out." You raise your voice, the anger is biting, writhing beneath your carefully calm exterior.

Tears threaten to fall from your eyes but you don't let them. You don't let them fall until Aerion turns on his heel, slamming the door behind him as he leaves. As they trace salty paths down your face, you stand on unsteady feet—cold tile a shock to your bare feet. You wrench the tulips out of the vase, throwing them into the small plastic trash can by your bed.

You are still standing, in your thin and flimsy hospital gown when a nurse knocks. She peeks in to check on you.

"Sweetie, are you okay? I heard the door slam." Her eyes are kind, and filled with concerned. She takes in your tears, your red eyes, and trembling hands. "Do you need me to call someone, hon? Or an extra blanket?"

You smile a sad, soft smile. "I'm fine." You wipe the tears away gently, careful of the bruises littering your face. "I promise I'm okay, thank you."