#rue writes

  He recalls the day he hopped down from his truck to follow the little cat into the path that led to the farmhouse, finding a pretty young girl walking with a basket of flowers on her arm.

  That was the moment he was struck with a beauty incomparable to anything he had ever seen, her body covered in an angelic glow under the sunshine and her hair… God, her hair, he remembers the way every strand stood under her little headband.

  Jack sighs, looking at the same path again from the inside of his truck. Years have passed, six or seven? He doesn’t remember really, because it doesn’t matter anymore, he feels like he is back where the air isn’t suffocating him.

  With a deep breath, he opens the door and gently steps down, taking in another breath when he feels the warm summer breeze on his face. The silence of the area makes this moment more enjoyable, like a warm blanket his mom used to wrap around him when he was a kid.

  He takes in his surroundings, just as he remembers, the grasses are a bright shade of green, and when he rounds his car, he finds the red farmhouse at the end of the familiar path. 

  It’s the way he can hear the cows in the distance, or the thumping of the horses, or the dogs that chase each other around the house. The old familiar feeling of belonging had been gone for so long; now he feels it blooming in his chest again.

  His first thought when he came to this place was one thing: escape. He wanted to be free from the shackles of the war, freshly getting a job in his hometown, as a physician he had always dreamed of becoming, something far away from the missiles and bombs and the firing bullets.

  He didn’t manage to get too far from it in the ED anyway, but it’s still manageable, more flexible, better under control. At least there are no sudden sounds of bursting, the whistle, and the whoosh of something hitting the buildings. People dying under controlled conditions are less terrifying than what he has gone through.

  He knows the way he felt when he started walking through the grass, taking a moment to look at the field in front of him. The farm was a few hours away from Pittsburgh, near a town that has everything, adding the advantages of a quiet household and lovely people, which ultimately means way more peaceful than living in a city.

  He turns around to lock his truck, and that one second is enough to turn around to a gun pointed at his face, a young boy frowning fiercely at him as he stands a few meters away. 

  “Who are you?” The boy asks, rolling back his shoulders as he looks at Jack with an impatience only existing in teenagers, “I asked who you are!”

  “Put that thing down–”

  “Hands up!” The boy takes a step closer, holding the gun tighter in his hand, “Who are you and what business do you have here?”

  “I’m here to visit someone–” Jack tries to reason with the boy, not really wanting to hurt him if it comes to dragging that thing out of the boy’s grasp, “Let go.”

  “The town is half an hour’s ride away; whoever you want to see is not here!” The boy puts his finger on the trigger, and Jack exhales deeply, already done with this bullshit, as he raises his hands and looks down at his shoes.

  “I can assure you I know who I want to see, and I know she will be here, now, put the gun down, boy.”

  “Who the fuck are you–”

  “Gimme that–” 

  It happens in a second as Jack grabs the gun, slams his fist down on the boy’s wrist, and grabs the gun without any further fuss, locking it and holding it next to his thigh before he grabs the boy by the collar and pulls him closer.

  “Don’t fuck with me anymore,” Jack’s eyes darken slightly, the poor boy trembling in his grip, “Where is the owner of this place? I know for a fact she is here, and I wish to see her.”

  “Fuck off, I don’t know you, I’m not allowed to let anyone inside!” The boy tries to force Jack’s grip to loosen, pulling on his forearm, but Jack’s done this numerous times before; no one can detach his fingers if he doesn’t want to do it himself.

  “I told you to–”

  “Alex!” Jack falters at the voice, so does the boy — Alex, it turns out to be his name — and looks behind the boy’s shoulder to look at two figures running toward them.

  The voice. He remembers it like he remembers swimming with both legs; experienced, warm, a memory etched deep into his muscles, yet out of reach. He knows the way each syllable falls from the lips he also knows very well. 

  He watches as you jog towards him while holding a… baby’s hand, your other arm holding the basket of fresh apples tightly. He blinks when you halt in your steps, noticing the gun in his hand and the way his fist is clutching Alex’s collar tightly.

  “Daisy,” you don’t look away from the scene in front of you — a girl, he notices after finding the strength to look away from you for a second — and squeeze the little girl’s hand gently, “Stay right here, okay, baby? Mama needs to handle this.”

  “Okay…” The girl nods slowly, skeptical yet stern, taking a step back before you have to let go of her, dropping the basket on the floor before you march toward the men.

  Jack has to be somewhere between heaven and hell. Mama. A girl. You. Beautiful. Ethereal. Goddess. Baby. The words are swimming in his head without any sort of context; he is just mesmerized by the sight of you. It has been so long. 

  You stop dead in your tracks when you can finally see who is holding Alex, eyes widening and lips parting in shock as you look at the man you haven’t seen in six years. 

  Jack is a mess, at least on the inside, because you look so magical right now. Grown, more secure in yourself, even more beautiful than he remembers. You are covered with soft workout jeans and a cotton shirt that is covered up in dirt, hair glowing under the sunset lights.

  “Jack?” You ask, chest rising and falling faster now as you stare at him, hands fisted next to your body as your eyes wander his face. He wonders if you think he has aged well, or perhaps he looks too old and tired. 

  “Yeah…?” He replies with a ghost of a smile on his face, unintentionally digging his fingers into Alex’s skin, making him hiss, and you frown, taking a hesitant step closer.

  “Mama…” the girl behind you says, clutching her little basket tightly against her chest as she looks between you and the guys, “Why is he holding a gun at Alex?”

  “He is not, honey,” you turn around to check on your girl before looking back at Jack with a deep frown and a scolding face, “Let him go, Jack.”

  “He was pointing the gun at my face–”

  “He is our farm keeper, it’s his job,” you step forward and snatch the gun out of Jack’s grip in a second, to no one’s surprise. He has always been soft and gentle around you; of course, he would do what you say. “Let him go.”

  “Fine,” he sighs and pushes Alex away gently, glaring at the boy who glares back just as fiercely, and Jack is quick to shake the gun in his hand when Alex wants to launch at him, “Stay back.”

  “Alex–” you step between them, your sweet smell filling the air around you, and Jack — like a fucking dog he is — inhales your scent, closing his eyes as he remembers the way he would bury his nose in your hair and caress your arm. You sigh and look at Daisy, who is very much stressed and nervous as she tries to hide behind her little basket, “Alex, take her inside. Bake a pie for us, would you?”

  “But mama you promised you’d help!” She runs to you, dropping her basket on the ground before wrapping her arms tightly around your legs, “Please?”

  “I did, and I’ll keep my promise,” you run a hand over her curly red hair, stroking her cheek before leaning down to press a kiss on top of her head, “Go inside with Alex and wash the apples. I’ll be inside as soon as possible to help you two.”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone with him,” she whispers, tugging at the end of your sleeve, her big hazel eyes filled with worry, “Mama…”

  “I will be right there, I pinky promise,” you hold up your finger for her, and she blinks seriously, looking between you and your digit before she wraps her little one around yours, “I love you, sweetpea.” 

  “I love you too, Mama,” she leans up a little to kiss your cheek before running to Alex, who is waiting for her with both of your baskets, leading her towards the house slowly, leaving you and Jack behind.

  “The gun?” You turn back to Jack, holding your hand for him to hand over what is yours. He can literally feel the heat on his cheek spread down to his neck as well as he slowly places the gun in your hand, “Now,” you sigh and look at him while chewing on your bottom lip, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I…” This has to be the first time Jack Abbot is speechless. He is always one to talk, doesn’t matter what the subject is or where he is, he will always talk. But now, his brain can’t put the alphabet together and make one correct and coherent word, let alone a sentence.

  “You’ve got nothing to say? Really?” You scoff, careful with the gun as you cross your arms, looking him up and down, taking in the grey and the stubble, “You look older.”

  “I am older,” He clears his throat, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants, locking his gaze with yours with a tilt of his head, “And… I’m here.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” You want to roll your eyes at him, but his stare is too powerful for you to look away, like he is trying to memorize every ridge and curve on your face, “What do you want here? Why did you come back after six fucking years?”

  “Because I… I missed you.”

  “And you couldn’t have done this sooner?” You huff out a sarcastic breath, running a hand down your face before looking away from him, watching the sun setting down on the horizon, “You had years to come…”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t say anything more; instead, he takes in the way your nose scrunches at the sudden wind, your eyes turning a few shades lighter under the pink and orange hues of the sunset, the shape of your lips that move into a soft pout.

  Jack has a vivid picture of the last time he saw you like this, in this exact angle, six years younger, and crying for him to stay. He couldn’t, but he promised to be back, only to never return until this day. He kissed you that day, so soft and delicate, just to carry the taste of your lips with him back to Pittsburgh.

  “Are you planning to stay?” 

  “If you’d have me,” he replies and takes a step closer, and sighs sadly when you take a step back, “I’m… having the summer off. Three months, exactly. And… I wanted to see you.”

  “I have a family now–”

  “Husband?”

  “No, no,” you shake your head, hiding your gaze from him as you look down at your shoes, “No husband… I don’t have time for that, nor do I have time for any man. My hands are full with here and Daisy.”

  “I didn’t know you had a daughter.” his heart sinks to the bottom of his chest as he leans down enough to look you in the eye, taking another step closer to reach and touch your arms. “How old is she?”

  “We should go inside–”

  “I need you to tell me how old she is, honey.”

  He is lucky his voice isn’t shaking. At first, he didn’t think about any of it, but now, his thoughts are running a mile per minute. Red curly hair, big hazel eyes, a little short for her age, and a softness to her that he remembers you both had when you were together. 

  “You can’t waltz back into our lives and demand answers,” you frown and push him away slightly, trying to make some distance between your bodies, but he is determined to talk, to get answers, “You can’t do this to us.”

  “How old is she?” He cups your face in his hands, holding you close as he rests his forehead on yours, “Please, tell me. I don’t care how harsh the truth is–”

  “She is turning six in a few months,” you take a shaky breath, grabbing his wrists, stroking his skin with your thumb, “Don’t do this to me, please, Jack…”

  “Why didn’t you tell me anything?” He sniffs a little, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours gently, his fingers trembling on your skin, “I would have done something different–”

  “I wanted to tell you,” you drag his hands off your face, pulling yourself away from him forcefully, taking a few steps back to have space to move — in this case, running away from Jack’s heated stare — and hug yourself closely, “I thought you were gonna come back after a few months. Because it was what you always did! You’d go, work for a few months, and come back to me. But last time you didn’t! You left. You just… left.”

  “You could have called–”

  “Don’t you fucking dare blame me for this! I did everything on my own! I only had Alex’s mom with me when I gave birth! I waited, and waited for you to come!” You start walking away from him towards the house, “Now, get the fuck out of my farm before I beat you up.”

  “We both know–”

  “Yes, yes! We both fucking know you’d drop me before I touch you— stop following me!” You glance back at him, finding him wiping his tears and walking behind you, “Leave!”

  “But I want to stay, I want to get to know her!”

  “No, you can’t come into our lives and then leave again!”

  “Give me one last chance!” He grabs your arm, pulling you into his chest, “Please, I won’t even tell her I’m her dad– I’ll… I’ll just spend my sabbatical with you and your daughter.”

  “You can’t give her false hope as you did to me. I didn’t know what you were up to, who you were seeing. I didn’t know anything because you didn’t give me your phone number either! You just… left. And if you try to do that again with my daughter, I will make sure I’m the one who points the gun at your head.”

  “I like this side of you,” you snort at his words, pinning him with a pointed glare before he nods and lets go of your arm, “I promise. I won’t cross any boundaries. I’ll do whatever you ask me.”

  “Do you have anything with you? Like… clothes and stuff?”

  “I do, yeah.”

  “Good… you can take the guest room.”

  ****

  “Mama! Look!” You enter the kitchen with Jack following you slowly, finding Daisy covered in flour with her little flowery apron covering all of her height, “We wanted to make the top, but the dough isn’t helping!”

  “What do you mean, little flower?” You stride towards her, letting Jack linger on the other side of the counter, “You couldn’t shape the top with a knife?”

  “Mhm, you said no no knife! And I listened! But Alex don’t know how to do it like you,” She replies, pouting a little, turning around to find Jack looking at her with flushed cheeks and a small smile on his face, his expression turning awkward and shocked as she blinks owlishly at him, “Why is he here?”

  “He… is gonna stay with us for the summer–”

  “Stranger in our home?” She looks between you and him, twiddling her fingers as she tries to wipe off the dough and flour from her hands, “What about Alex?”

  “He isn’t a stranger, he is a friend of mine,” you pinch her cheek, making her giggle a little when you lean down to kiss her cheek, “Alex has his own home– ah, there he is!”

  “Hey– what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Language…”

  “Bad word!” Daisy shrieks when Alex groans and grabs her by the legs and picks her up, twirling her around and burying his face into her stomach, “Stop– stop, stop!”

  “Fine, fine,” he puts her down on her stool slowly, ruffling her hair before he looks back at Jack, who is standing stiffly, “What is he doing here again?”

  “He is staying,” you say as a matter of fact, grabbing the knife to cut the dough for the top of the pie, “For the summer, he’ll take the guest room.”

  “I thought we hated people.”

  “No hate,” Daisy shakes her head, watching you closely, “Hate is strong!”

  “True,” you nod and cover the pie with the dough on top before taking it and putting it in the oven, “We dislike people who invade our space, but we don’t hate them.”

  “Same thing,” Alex says, glaring back at Jack, who is very much staring at Daisy with the softest look on his face, “You gotta work around here, y’know that, right?”

  “I’ll do whatever she tells me to do,” Jack points at you with his head, still not taking his eyes off the little girl trying to wipe her face with the wet wipe you hand her, “Need help, little one?”

  “Nope!” She gives him a toothy grin, furiously wiping her cheeks, “What’s your name? How do you know Mama? Are you a cowboy? Do you have a horse–”

  “One question at a time, Daisy!” You tell her and wash your hands, helping her out of her apron before glancing at Alex, who grabs his gun and walks to the living room, “You’re not gonna stay for dinner?”

  “Nah, I have a few things to do around the stables before night settles in. I’ll see you tomorrow morning!”

  “Goodnight, hon.”

  “Goodnight, Lex!” Daisy screams and waves at him, slowly moving down the stool until her feet touch the ground, “Mama, tea?”

  “We’ll have tea with the pie,” you chuckle, turning around to look at Jack, who is staring at Daisy pacing around the house to find her sprinkler, “What do you wanna do now?”

  “Water flowers!” She says, jumping on her feet to reach her sprinkler, but she can’t reach it. Instead of asking for help, she starts whining and stomping until Jack looks at you for your consent, and when you shrug, he clears her throat to get her attention.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Pick me up?” She holds her arms up, waiting for him to do as he said, “If your back won’t hurt like Lex’s mama.”

  “I’m not that old,” Jack huffs out a quick laugh before closing the distance, grabbing her by her armpits, picking her up, and holding her on his forearm with ease, “See? I can even pick your mama up if I want to.”

  “But you have grey hair!” She giggles as she starts playing with the salty strands, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests on his shoulder, “So soft…”

  “I doubt it’s any softer than yours, Daisy.”

  He looks at her closely this time; the familiar ridge of her nose is a carbon copy of yours, and so is her smile that pulls her chubby cheeks up and makes her look like an angel with pink wings. Her eyes, though, it feels as if he is looking into a mirror directly. 

  Her irises are exactly like his; light olive green on the outside, blending with a honey colored brown as they get closer to her pupils, with a dark ring around the outer green. She has to have the most beautiful eyes he has ever seen, followed closely by yours.

  “Plants!” She gasps, turning around in his arms to reach for her sprinkler, but even with the help of Jack, she still can’t reach it. Jack is quick to extend his hand and grab what she needs, hand it back to her, and lower her to the ground when she wiggles out of his arms and runs towards you to fill it for her.

  “Say thank you, little flower.” You grab the sprinkler and fill it for her, watching as she gasps again and runs to Jack, wrapping her arms around his legs.

  “Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart,” He runs a hand over her head, “I really like your name.”

  “You do? It means a flower! White and yellow! We have them in my room!” She points to the stairs, grabbing the hem of his shirt to drag him to the couch in the living room, “What’s your name?”

  “Jack Abbot,” he says, chuckling when she pushes him down and crawls next to him on the couch, leaving you to water her plants and flowers around the living room, watching them closely as they sit side by side, “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too! I’m Daisy, I’m gonna be…” she counts her fingers one by one until she reaches the right number, holding her hands up to show him, “Six! I love my mom, and I love my pony!”

  “You have a pony? Wow, your mom gives you the best gifts!”

  “My mare gave birth around the time I was due, they kind of grow up together,” You say, taking the loveseat in front of them, but soon, Daisy is making room on your lap and cuddling you, “What do you want for dinner?”

  “Mashhh potato!” 

  “Jack likes potatoes as well,” you whisper, dragging your gaze from your daughter’s face down to the floor and finally meeting Jack’s eyes, “I remember it since the last time you visited.”

  He's been here before?” 

  “Yes, baby, I told you, he is a friend.” You kiss her forehead, pat her back, and put her on the floor gently, “Alright, do you want to wash the potatoes for me? Like I showed you?”

  “Yes, yes! Can Jack help?” 

  “If… he wants to,” you stand up, and Jack follows suit, blinking the tears that gather at his lash line as he watches Daisy jog to the kitchen, singing happily as she gets ready to help. You reach to smooth your palm over Jack’s biceps, “Hey…”

  “She is so beautiful,” he inhales sharply, a soft heartwarming grin on his face as he watches his daughter run around the kitchen, “Fuck, she is so perfect!”

  “That she is.”

  ****

  “How old are you?” Daisy asks with a full mouth, swinging her legs on her stool as she devours the pie you put on her plate, sipping on her tea like a royal lady.

  “Forty five.”

  “FORTY FIVE?! You are oooooold!”

  “Honey…” you try to get her attention, but you really can’t be mad at her when Jack makes a funny, shocked face that earns him a giggle.

  “She is right,” he shrugs, glancing between you and the little girl before taking another bite of his pie, “I’m definitely old, but I’m a doctor, so it makes up for it.”

  “Did you go to school with dinosaurs?”

  “Daisy!”

  You snort, dropping your face into your hands as Jack erupts into a deep, heartfelt laughter, throwing his head back and clutching his belly. 

  It has been so long since he has felt like this: alive. Perhaps his wedding night was the last time he had such happiness inside him, though he can’t help but feel the sadness inside him spiking. He was getting married while you were raising a toddler all by yourself.

  He sighs, running a hand through his curls as he watches you pinch Daisy’s cheek lovingly, earning a custard toothy grin from her. She is so perfect. He has never thought that someone could be this flawless, never, but this little human in front of him — an extension of him — to be so beautiful and resilient.

  “You should see my best friend, he is fifty.”

  “FIFTY? No way!”

  “Yup, his hair is also falling, so he’s definitely studied with dinosaurs during med school,” he smirks when she snorts and accidentally spits the tea inside her mouth, laughing when she sees Jack’s shirt covered in droplets, “Did you just–”

  “Jack, I’m so sorry–”

  “It’s okay,” he chuckles and grabs your wrist when you try to wipe his shirt off with a wet cloth, winking at Daisy, who is hiding her face in her hands shyly, “Hey, sweetheart, look at me…”

  “No…”

  “Oh, come on,” he sighs and stands up, pecking your forehead without a second thought before he walks around the counter to crouch down in front of her, leaving you shocked and heaving at the gentle yet sudden contact, “I brought different shirts. It’s okay, I’m glad I made you laugh.”

  “Really?” She asks, slowly lowering her small hands to her lap, and Jack takes them in his hands, bringing both of her knuckles to his lips, kissing each one gently, earning a little giggle out of her, “It tickles.”

  “Haven’t had time to shave it,” he grins, locking his eyes with her, “Never apologize for being happy, Daisy baby.”

  ****

  “LET'S GO!” Daisy knocks on Jack’s door feverishly, “Wake up, wake up, wake up–”

  “Daisy Paisy, don’t you think it’s rude to wake him this early in the morning–”

  “HI!” She shrieks when Jack opens the door, running towards him with a delightful laugh and tackling him back on the bed, “Would you come to the stables with us? I wanna show you my pony!”

  “But I’m tired,” Jack fakes a groan and flips her over, burying his face in her neck and plowing on her skin, rubbing his stubble over and over until she is screaming and pushing his head away, “Fine, I’ll go. I should probably help Alex out anyway.”

  “Yes! Mama, see? He is coming!”

  There are three things that Jack finds himself enjoying immensely nowadays after a month of spending on the farm. 

  One: Daisy. She is the light he never thought he’d lost. She is bright, radiant, and full of joy, sometimes even shy when he compliments her too much. She has turned into his little princess from the second week when he put her on his shoulders and helped you clean the house. Such a simple gesture, but it felt… fucking great to have his daughter’s pure attention and, at some point, affection.

  Two: you. Jack Abbot is a sentimental man; he prides himself on taking notice of little things, and one thing that he has learned is that your cold facade is no longer up around him. Like you have allowed him to step inside your walls and get to know this version of you, the more mature woman, and the mother of his child.

  Third: he is surprised by how much he loves living here. The peace and quiet of the farm is so consuming that sometimes he finds himself sharing a beer with Alex while they walk around. There is no trauma, no screaming in pain, no chaos that he needs to macro-manage. He is just Jack, or Mr. Abbot here. Not a doctor, not an attending. Just Jack.

  “Your pony is back from the vet? How wonderful!” He kisses her forehead and puts her on his lap, pushing her hair out of her face, “Go and wait for me outside, I need to get dressed for the day.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting!”

  “Come on, baby,” you extend your hand, giving Jack a quick, easy smile before you lead your daughter out of his room, leaving him to change and get ready for the day. 

  It is not like he wants to dress to impress, it’s just a pair of sweats with a light, thin t-shirt, both loose enough so he doesn’t sweat his ass off under the heat. Besides, he needs to earn his stay; the best way to do it is by being able to move without anything bothering him or his foot.

  When he walks outside, he finds you holding a bucket of carrots and mints for the horses, already in your knee-high boots and overall jeans with a white tee under them. Daisy is wearing the same thing, but her hair is pulled back into a bun to keep the curls out of her face, given how she is going to be running around all day.

  “Ready?” You ask, holding the little girl’s hand and waiting for Jack to take her other one as well, calming her down as she starts to jump up and down in excitement, “Okay, what’s the plan, hon?”

  “Stables! I wanna show Spinner to Jack,” she swings your arms as you make your way to the destination, and Jack is careful enough not let her slip on rocks and mud, both of you hauling her up over a puddle that makes her laugh gleefully, “Can I give the carrots?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Are you sure–”

  “Jack, this is literally her job at this point. She started when she was two, this girl knows her way around animals more than me and you combined,” you explain quietly as you open the door and hand the bucket over to Daisy, following her around as she hums and slams the carrot on the metal doors, waiting for each horse to bend down and take the vegetable from her little hand, earning a pat or two and a praise on their heads.

  “Mama…” She stops in front of a stallion you have been working with lately. It is a bit… not too gentle when it comes to her, and that’s because he is new to this place, but Daisy isn’t as comfortable as she is with others, which only makes Jack more protective than he already is.

  “You’ve got this, little flower, you can do it.”

  “What if it bites me?” She pouts, holding the carrot tightly, her eyes wide with worry as she looks between you and Jack, and before you can do anything, he is striding toward her, standing behind her, and kissing her head.

  “I’m right here with you, sweetpea,” he runs a hand down her back, caressing her shoulders softly, “You can do it, and I can promise you that I won’t let you get bitten, alright?”

  “Okay…”

  She swallows and steps forward, banging the carrot until the stallion comes closer, bending its neck and taking the vegetable by the tip, and your daughter gently pushes up until her hand gets close to the horse’s mouth before she pulls away, looking at Jack, who gives her a fist bump before picking her up.

  “Good job!”

  “I did it! Mama, I did it!”

  “You did, that was very good!” You stand next to them, kissing her cheek and resting your head on Jack’s shoulder as the three of you look at the stables together, Daisy wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her cheek against his.

  Jack’s heart is about to burst open with how hard it is beating. This is everything to him. He has spent all his life chasing moments of happiness, running after a mere glance of peace, and this… this is everything and more.

  He kisses the top of your head, his arm circling your shoulders, before he leads you to where Daisy guides him. He loves her so much that he wishes he could bottle up her little laughs and drink them. He is sure she can make him immortal at this point.

  “My pony’s name is Spinner!”

  “That’s… a strange name,” He says, squeezing your shoulder when you snort and look away, letting them have this brief moment together as she opens up her life to him — her father, whom she doesn’t know yet. 

  “She is fast! And also she bites her tail and spins around herself! That’s why Alex helped me name her!” 

  “She is funny then.”

  “Yup. She is funny and golden! Her mama wasn’t gold, she was deep brown, but my little pony is golden and shiny and very, very pretty.”

  “Just like you, little flower.” He pulls her even closer if possible, eyes mesmerized by the sight of her cheeks pulled into a grin. He is seconds away from fucking dying from happiness.

  “Yeah, just like me and mama!”

  “That’s true,” Jack nods, locking his eyes with you intensely, and he desperately hopes you can read the undivided devotion in them, “She is really beautiful, too.”

  ****

  “Jack!” You shout his name when you hear his phone ringing after half an hour of staring at his figure, helping Alex move the hay around shirtless with sweat clinging to his pale skin, his biceps bulging and abs contracting as he walks around, “Your phone!”

  “Comin’!” He jogs toward you, standing in front of you with a soft look in his eyes, breathless and hot, “Who’s calling?”

  “It says Robby,” you hand him the phone, biting your lip as he crowds your space on the patio, answering the phone without walking away, smirking when he catches you eyeing his pecs and arms with a dark look in your face.

  “Hey, brother,” he says, resting the phone between his shoulder and ear as he puts his palm on the doorframe just above your head, bending down to drag his nose across yours, his other hand going to your hips, “Everything okay?”

  He listens carefully, groaning when he pulls away from you and sits on the stairs with his fingers locked in his hair. It must be bad news with how his happy demeanor changes instantly.

  You sit down next to him, stroking his back gently as you wait for him to say something, reply to whoever Robby is, without pushing him. 

  “Okay, I’ll be on my way,” he hangs up, looking at you with a pained expression, reaching to cup your cheek and caressing the soft skin of your jaw with his thumb, “I… I have to go.”

  “What? Why?” You suck in a sharp breath, frowning a little when you see how he can meet your eyes, “Are you… leaving?”

  “No, no, fuck no, I’ll be back!” He kisses the corner of your mouth before dropping his forehead on yours, “I have to go help the day shift until they are back on track. One of the residents had a surgery and can’t work today.”

  “You’ll be back tonight?”

  “I’ll be back tonight–”

  “You’re leaving?” You both turn around and see Daisy clutching her bunny toy in her hands, her hazel eyes watering as she tries to act tough and stop herself from crying. “Are you leaving us?”

  “No, baby,” he walks to her, kneeling in front of her and groaning as he puts weight on his bad knee, hugging the little girl tightly as he mumbles into her hair, “I’ll be back to tuck you in tonight. I promise.”

  “Pinky promise?” She pulls back enough to hold her little finger up between their bodies, and after he nods and wraps his around her digit, she crashes into his embrace and presses her so hard into his body that if she lets go, he will vanish into thin air.

  That night, not only did he come back exhausted, but he tucked her in and read her a book. He also kissed your breath away, touched you in a way you’ve been dreaming of for so long, and locked your bedroom door until sunrise.

  What stays behind closed doors was a broken whisper between your bodies.

  ****

  “I didn’t know you got married,” you whisper in his ear after very delightful hours of spending reuniting with each other’s bodies for… You lost count after the third night. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought, but marriage and grief weren’t one of them.”

  “Yeah, well… we met in a therapy group. After I left here, I started getting nightmares and… felt isolated from the world, so I started this group thing. She told me she just finished her chemo when we met. Everything was good until it wasn’t and… I don’t wanna talk about it now.”

  “It’s okay,” you nuzzle into his neck, breathing his scent as he peppers kisses all over your shoulder, “Life has a funny way of putting us through shit.”

  “Yeah, it does… and I’m sorry for everything. For leaving you and not coming back, for getting married and never trying to connect with you after years–”

  “How could you know, Jack? You fell in love, and I had our daughter with me. We were too busy battling through life to think of each other.” 

  He forces you to look him in the eye before he leans down to kiss you sweetly on the mouth, dragging his chapped lips over yours before he licks your bottom lip, nipping on the flesh slowly.

  “I’m never repeating the same mistake,” he mutters, pecking you once, “I’ll visit every weekend, even on weekdays if I have a day or two off. I’ll be here for you, for her.”

  “I know you will,” you kiss him back more passionately now, tangling your fingers through his hair to pull him on top of you again, “This time I have a good feeling.”

  “I won’t disappear, not this time, never again.”

  ****

  This shift has been hectic so far. He misses Daisy and you, he misses the sound of silence in the farm, and he even misses how his daughter laughed at him when he called her sweet little limb. Funny how that was their last memory together before he left for the week, laughing and giggling together while they gave each other pretty or goofy nicknames in your bed.

  He wants to bang his head against the closest wall. He is tired of the beeping and the sound of the keyboard. He needs water and Ibuprofen for his headache and knee, perhaps a bottle of Gin on rocks in a hot bathtub to ease his muscles.

  What he doesn’t need is you running into his ED with a crying baby in your arms, your tears matching hers as you try to push past the security and into the floor.

  “What the fuck are you doing here–”

  “She fell and-and I took her to the clinic near the farm, but they said she needed surgery and I just–”

  “Okay, okay, breathe for me– Ellis! I need you!” He yells, looking down at Daisy in your arms, clutching her little forearm in her other hand, tears streaming down her face as she cries into your chest, “Baby… look at me, it’s me, Jack.”

  She slowly opens her eyes, whimpering in pain and trying to reach for him, but with the first move, she yelps in pain and sobs, burying her face into your body again.

  “Baby, I need to take a look at your arm, okay? Come with me, let’s get you a room,” He nods at Ellis, who joins you in one of the trauma rooms, both of them gloving up and guiding you to the bed, helping you lay Daisy down gently.

  “Hey, beautiful! I’m Doctor Ellis, mind if I take a look at your arm?”

  “How did it happen, little flower?” Jack asks, sitting on the rolling chair and grabbing your hand in his as you push a few sweaty strands off your daughter’s face, “Can you tell me, please?”

  She shakes her head and cries harder when Ellis barely touches her forearm. The doctor tells Jack the orders and puts in her name for a portable X-ray, knowing whatever is going on with her attending, and this sweet girl is far too strong for them to get parted.

  “She… she was chasing Spinners around. Everything was good an-and then suddenly she tripped and fell on her arm–”

  “Okay, it’s okay…” he stands up and wraps his arm around your shoulders, thanking Lena, who starts an IV for your girl, giving her pain medication until she isn’t hysterically crying from the fact that both of her forearm bones might be broken, “She’s gonna be okay. We’ll keep her here until we can see what’s going on and if she needs surgery.”

  “I’m scared, I think I’m gonna be sick,” you stand up and wobble, holding onto Jack’s steady frame as you find your balance as best as you can before going numb between his arms, hugging him closely as he gently rocks you, looking at Daisy who is dowsing off after hours of bawling her eyes out in agony, “Jack…”

  “I’ve got her, Ellis is outside, tell her to take you to the family lounge, and I’ll come find you, okay?”

  You are too tired to say anything, only have enough energy to kiss your daughter’s forehead a few times before stumbling out of the room.

  Jack sits on the edge of the bed, taking Diasy’s good hand in his and pressing gentle pecks on each of her fingers, then her knuckles, and then her wrist. He is crying now, too, hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he stares at the limp body of his daughter on a hospital bed. 

  It’s just a fracture. I have seen thousands of these before. With quick surgery and recovery, she will be fine before she realizes. She will be fine, she will be fine, she will be–

  “Daddy?”

  Oh, heavens above, he is going to have a heart attack.

  He straightens his back, his eyes widening as he looks at the little girl — identical to him — blinking sleepily at him, squeezing his hand faintly before mumbling the word again. Daddy. 

  “Sweetpea…”

  “Daddy, it hurts…”

  “I know, I know,” he scoots closer, cupping the side of her face before leaning down to kiss her little nose, watching the big ugly bruise form on her forearm, “You gonna be okay, daddy’s gonna take care of you. Okay? I’m right here, baby.”

  “Don’t leave me, daddy.”

  “Never, little flower, never…”

  His boots’ noises grow louder as he walks into the royal wing of the Keep, finally finding some solace in the silent halls. He can even hear his own breathing while he counts his steps.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  He hears the click of a heel ruining his counting; his head whips to the sound, trying to find the person responsible for bothering his peace, but he is met only by the soft ‘whoosh’ that is barely heard in the hallway.

  He shakes his head again, thinking nothing of it before he resumes the path he was taking. Sighing, he looks around the place; the candelights are brightening the hallways enough but not too much, moonlight seeps through the cracks, and suddenly he aches for a breath of fresh air.

  He strides toward the balcony — his unnamed balcony — counting his steps again. Five, six, seven, eight. And he stops for a second when he sees the bottom of a skirt sliding against the floor before it disappears in the direction of his destination.

  Curious and cautious, Baelor walks more slowly this time, trying not to make any other sounds that could frighten the person — a woman, he assumes — and lose the chance to talk to someone who is also seeking a quieter spot.

  Nine, ten.

  He freezes. 

  Wow. 

  Beautiful is the first word that comes to his mind as his widened eyes take in the way this woman is staring up into the stars with a content look on her face. No smiles, no, but he can sense the peace and ease in her eyebrows.

  He can’t even see her full face, yet he can read her like an open book.

  He is staring, he realizes, he is staring shamefully at a woman who is so unbelievably pretty in a way that steals the air from his lungs. He watches with a heaving chest as the silver moonlight spills over her hair like a shading in one of the paintings hanging in the painting room of the castle. She is perfect.

  There is a sadness to her, he assumes, a pain that lingers in the twitch of her mouth when she notices a shooting star in the pitch-black night. It isn’t even a true smile, but it is more than he could ever ask for.

  “My lady?”

  She gasps softly, turning around with her lips parted and her hand clutching her necklace in surprise. She seems frightened, her chest heaving with each exhale as she stares at him like a deer caught by the hunter with an arrow ready to be shot.

  She seems frightened, Baelor thinks, so he takes a step back and bows his head, his hands clasped behind him. He has a soft expression, a small smile on his lips as he tries to lighten the moment, even for a small moment.

  “I apologize, I did not mean to startle you–”

  “Pardon me, your grace,” she falls into a deep courtesy, her fingers threaded in front of her dress — a black long-sleeved gown adorned by black lace at the neckline, and a very beautiful corset that tantalizingly hugs her bosom — but he is not looking. He is not looking.

  “No need,” he shakes his head softly, his fingers itching to grab her arm and help her straighten her back, “Rise, please. We are not at court; it is not needed for you to be this polite.”

  “You are a Targaryen prince, your grace. Court or not, I shall always respect you,” she replies softly, standing back to her height again, looking at him with a nervous yet curious gaze, “I am deeply sorry for wandering in the castle. I was becoming restless at the feast.”

  “As I said, no need for apologies,” he walks on the balcony, three steps until he is standing side by side with her, “That we have in common. The celebrations can get too intense at times. That is why I am also wandering about. This part of the castle grows quiet at night.”

  “Yes, it seems it does,” she agrees, her eyebrows moving down a little at a thought, “But are you not required to be in the Tower of the Hand?”

  “Ah, yes, true, I spend most of my nights there,” he nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his posture straightening for reasons unknown as he looks at you with tender eyes, “Though I still own my previous chambers in this part of the castle.”

  “The sky must be beautiful from the tower,” she sighs a little dreamily, looking between him and the stars until her stare locks with a flickering star in the pitch-black night, the reflection of it shining on her irises. “Does it not get lonely there?”

  So she is not frightened, he thinks and sighs in relief, letting out a relaxed chuckle as he takes another step closer to look at the gardens from atop the railings.

  “It is hard to sense loneliness when you have many parchments to fill with words.” He looks up at the sky, keeping one hand behind his back whilst the other moves to the railings in front of him, “Being the Hand of the King has its advantages, though you have to pay the price of the power with sleepless nights.”

  “It must be rewarding,” she sighs quietly, glancing at him before looking down at her shoes, “To have everything you could ask for, without even asking; security, respect, peace.”

  “The Targaryen name alone ensures you are never truly safe, My lady. Prince or not, even a bastard with silver hair will never see peace.” He explains, “Many lords wish me death. They might bow, they might smile, they might bring me gifts as a gesture of gratitude, but they stand with a dagger at my back. It does not matter how deep their courtesy is; they will always believe a Targaryen born means madness and unruly chaos for the realm.”

  “But you are not chaos, are you, My prince?” Her tone is as soft as a feather, a ghost of a smile on her features as she watches him, “From what I have heard, you are the calmness that holds the pieces of the Keep together.”

  “I am not as you see me,” he takes a step closer, and he notices the way her breath hitches in her throat, “I am a man before anything else, I have urges and needs. I am ambitious, even though I am told to be the most levelheaded brother,” he gazes down at her, the way her eyelashes crul in the end, “And you, My lady? Who are you?”

  “That… is a mystery for another day,” she bends her knees in a quick courtesy, grabbing the skirt of her gown in her hands before she walks past him, “Have a nice night, your grace.”

  “Goodnight, my lady,” he smiles and watches her leave, his heart beating like a bird, hard and fast and breathtaking. Who is she? 

  With a sigh, he looks back up at the sky, looking for the star she was gazing at earlier, wishing it were his reflection in her eyes instead.

Day two

  “Lady Tyrell?”

  You groan at the sound, already done with the day before it had even begun. Rolling to your back on the bed, you sigh loudly, looking at the ceiling and blinking rapidly to wipe the exhaustion off your face.

  “May we come in–”

“Mama?”

  “Ah, I was wondering where she was,” you whisper and sit up against the headboard with a yawn, the tiredness of yesterday’s feast already drying out your bones. You fear what the rest of the celebrations will do to you. 

  It is not only the feast to be blamed for your exhaustion; your late-night rendezvous is also one of the reasons you are the way you are. You did not mean to slip away, truly, you needed a second to breathe, and got lost in the castle. It was your luck that led you to that balcony, as if the stars were calling your name, as if the pull between you and the Heir had brought you together.

  He was strikingly handsome; tall, yet he used his height to bring safety and not to corner you, mismatched eyes that glimmered under the moonlight — one a very unique shade of blue that was nearly violet, and one a chocolate brown color that reminded you of his Dornish heritage. The beard on his jaw and cheeks made him soft yet authoritative.

  You have never met a man who has made your heart beat this fast. Not even your late lord husband.

  You pull your hair over one shoulder, the soft sleeves of your night shift bringing your attention back to the world surrounding you. With a quiet and resigned exhale, you speak up.

  “Come in.”

  The world is pushed open gently, your chambermaid walking in hand in hand with your daughter, peeking inside the room before she guides the little girl to you.

  “Mama! They have sea!” Little Margery exclaims with a delighted smile, rushing out of the maid’s grasp before running for the bed and crawling on the mattress with a little struggle, huffing and puffing until she is situated under the blankets with her head on your chest, blinking her doe eyes up at you, “It is so blue!”

  “It is the Blackwater Bay, sweet girl,” you kiss her forehead, wrapping your arms around her body tightly as you acknowledge your chambermaid, “Good morrow, Celeste. I apologize, she must have dragged you out of the room at dawn.”

  “It is no problem, Milady! She is the sweetest. I am glad to be of service.” She smiles at the two of you, waiting for a heartbeat before she speaks up again, “What would you like to wear today, Milady? There is to be a hunt for the White Stag in the King’s woods in honor of Lady Kiera.”

  “A hunt–”

  “With a blade?” Margery looks up at you curiously, yet you can see the sadness creeping into her eyes, “Will they hurt the animal?”

  “No, sweetness, the Stag will feel no pain,” you smooth her auburn curly hair out of her face with a gentle caress, tucking a few strands behind her ear, “And you would find great friends there! There must be a tent for the kids, am I correct, Celeste?”

  “Yes, Milady! Little lords and ladies do have their own tent for the hunt! A safe and happy place for Lady Margery, I am sure.”

  “See? All will be well, and we shall have an excellent meal with the rest of the court,” you peck her small nose, pushing the covers off both of you to slowly wiggle out of the bed with her clinging to your chest, small arms wrapped tightly around your neck, “And if anything happens, send word for me, and I will come to you.”

  “Will you really?” She asks, her legs tightening around your waist as you walk with her through your room until Celeste helps you wash your face in the basin in the corner while you hold her up with one arm, drying your face as you walk to your mirror and sit in front of it with Margery on your lap.

  “Of course! Tell Celeste, and I will run to you without a second thought,” you watch as your maid stands behind you, untangling your hair out of your breath, reaching for the brush to gently comb through your strands, bringing oil out to shape the curls with her fingers. You return to your daughter, tipping her chin up, “What do you wish to do with your hair, sweet girl?”

  She thinks for a heartbeat, Aubrun's eyebrows frowning in concentration, before she gasps, “Pearls! I want it the way Grandma used to do it!”

  “I’m sure Celeste can think of something appropriate for today,” you kiss her head, chuckling when she reaches for the box of your hairpieces, waiting patiently for her turn while she observes every pin between her small fingers.

  Your morning goes by in a blink of an eye as you break your fast with Margery and help her get dressed for the day without her causing any trouble. The silence of the room was calming at some point when the little girl fell asleep in your arms as Celeste braided your hair in the fashion of King’s Landing.

  You manage to finally walk out of your chambers, hand in hand with your daughter, as she gawks at the tapestries and the King’s Guards’ shiny helmets. She is a joyful soul, wanting to explore the world around her, talking about everything and nothing until she has tired herself out, having the mischievous glint her Lady grandmother has, the same one her father had.

  Your gown is simple: a black gown with long sleeves and a neckline that even covers your collarbone. There had been designs sewn in green under your bosom and corset, fading into the black as it reached the end of your skirt. Elegant and fitted for a freshly turned widow. Respectful enough to keep the court silent.

  Your beautiful daughter, on the contrary, decided to go with the brightest orange ever seen among the seamstresses, with a long, flowy skirt that bounces with every step she takes. 

  She is so happy, with how she is swinging your hand and jogging next to you as you make your way towards the yard to get inside your carriage and start your short journey to the King’s Woods. 

  “Are you hungry, sweetness? We could ask Celeste to bring you some for the road,” you ask her, bending your knees a little to make sure she looks you in the eyes, “Because if we leave, we would not be able to eat anything till we reach the tents.”

  “I do not think I’m hungry, Mama… but maybe I am?” She is confused due to the fact that every time she is famished, her stomach growls. But now, it does not make any sounds that could potentially alert her, “Maybe an apple for the road?”

  “That sounds amazing,” you smile at her and wait for both your chambermaid and carriage to arrive, watching your daughter rock back and forth on the balls of her feet impatiently, glancing around the yard and the castle with a bit of remorse.

  “Our home is prettier,” she whispers, “But I love it here too! Maybe you would marry a prince, and we would stay!”

  “Shh,” your eyes widen, heart pounding in your chest as an image of a certain prince passes by your vieoon for a second before you crouch down next to her and make sure she is looking you in the eye, “We were invited because of your uncle, we came as Tyrells, besides, sweetness, no prince will like me nor it is appropriate to speculate about such things.”

  “Why not?” She pouts when you pinch her cheek, crossing her small arms over her chest, “I would like to stay here! I love the castle! Please–”

  “I, too, love this place, but it is for the royal family and the people of the court; we are not a part of either of them, my love.” You pull on her fingers until she is holding your hand again, watching as your carriage approaches you, the horse stomping its feet on the ground as it stops in front of you, “Let us go and enjoy the hunt!”

  ****

  To say the lady he met the other night has not been consuming every one of his thoughts would be a lie. And he, Baelor Targaryen, does not lie. He might not say the truth out loud, but he does not twist it and utter words that are a lie.

  He has been thinking, and thinking, and thinking about her. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her face, the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the way her skin glistens under the moonlight, the reflection of the black sky in her orbs. She is all he can see, all he can hear; she has become the only thing Baelor can focus on.

  He focuses on the way wind rustles the leaves of the King’s Woods. The noises of the knights and lords who are drinking and laughing while the maids and servants put up the tents and prepare the fire for the night. And yet, no sign of the mysterious beauty he saw last night.

  Baelor Targaryen is a humble man, confident and kind, ruthless when he ought to be. But his heart has not yet slowed down from his encounter with her, and it truly makes him dizzy, so he decides to help without a care about what his lords might think about him.

  He approaches the young man who is trying his best by carrying a huge wooden box, undoubtedly holding the possessions of his good daughter, Kiera. He truly wishes to help, really hopes he can pick up a thing or two to busy his unsettled mind and ease the pain of a few of his people, but it seems as soon as he starts walking towards the boy, he is causing a lot of problems.

  “My prince!” The boy gasps, dropping the entirety of the wooden box on the mud as he bends down on the low bow, his hands shaking as he waits for Baelor to respond.

  With a long defeated sigh, Baelor smiles and asks the boy to rise, knowing he has caused more trouble than helping anyone, totally the opposite of what he had in mind. 

  “I apologize, it seems I have done nothing but cause unease today,” He smiles down at the boy, reaching to pat his head before he steps back a little, “Make sure you tell the others to clean this up. Lady Kiera won’t be pleased to see dirt on her belongings.”

  “Yes, my prince! At once!” 

  He watches the boy bend down quickly, picking up the box with a groan, before he bows his head at Baelor and dashes toward where Lady Kiera’s tent is awaiting her arrival.

  “Well done,” he shakes his head at his mistreatment of the boy, sighing and puffing out air as he strides across the field, watching everyone closely as some of them hammer the nails into the ground while the others fill the glasses with rich Dornish wine. 

  He stumbles across a large table, covered with different plates: goose, meat, lemon cakes, tarts, and even duck with lots of different little side dishes that will most likely be ravaged by the lords. 

  As soon as he reaches for a tapestry that has caught his eye, a hand comes down for the same dessert he is reaching for. He chuckles before looking up at the person, his laughter dying in his throat as he finds her in front of him.

  She looks equally shocked, her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise as she takes in his features, her gaze landing on his mismatched eyes before she remembers who he is and drops into a courtesy.

  He is quick to reach for her elbow, not letting her bend her knees for him, shaking his head softly and smiling at her gently, “No need, my lady.”

  “Your grace,” he grins at her, his fingers twitching over her covered skin, the heat radiating from her body making him dizzy. You nod and stand next to him with ease after you slowly pull your arm away, looking down at your shoes in embarrassment when he clears his throat and withdraws his touch, straightening his back with his hand behind him. “Good morrow.”

  “Good morrow, my lady. I hope you had a good night,” he says quietly, his eyes memorizing every detail as he watches her closely, “I didn’t get your name before.”

  “And I said that mystery is the only way to survive the court,” she shrugs, a ghost of a smile making its way to her lips, and he feels as his own cheeks pull in a smile as well, “How else am I supposed to keep running into His Grace if he knows who I am?”

  “You would not need to run into me,” he confesses quietly, the words hanging between the two of them, “I would seek you out myself.”

  He hears the small breath falling from her mouth, her hands stopping the fidgeting before she licks her lips and regains her composure. She looks down at the pastries, “Now you have to seek me out more, because you do not know me.”

  “How so?” He steps a tiny bit closer, reaching for the dessert he was looking for before, gazing back at her softly, “You wish for me to run after you?”

  “Maybe,” she breathes out, blinking at him from beneath her eyelashes, “but you would be too busy with the realm’s demands to notice me. And that would be upsetting.”

  “For whom?” He asks, holding up the pastry for her to take, watching as she gently replaces his fingers with hers, their skin brushing against each other, and Baelor has to flex his other hand as the shockwaves rock through his body, “You, my lady?”

  “Hmm,” she brings the dessert up, taking a gentle bite from it, licking her lips as the powdered sugar sticks to her lips, his eyes are immediately drawn to them, and he is sure she is noticing the way his kind eyes are growing darker, “Perhaps. But a prince would never bother with a widowed lady.”

  “You are too beautiful to be a widow, my lady.” his fingers are twitching behind his back as he tries to hold himself from reaching to swipe his thumb over her lips, “Young and beautiful, it is a shame you are wearing black.”

  “It is expected of me, your grace,” she shrugs slightly, finishing the pastry with a soft expression before she reaches for another one, this time, handing it to him, “You did not get to taste the sweetness of this one, my prince.”

  “Is it good?”

  “It was baked by the castle’s best maids, I can only assume this has to be the most delicious pastry one could ever taste,” she says, and for the first time, she smiles at him even with the ever present sadness in her eyes, and his heart leaps into his throat, “I can only imagine his grace, the king, hires the most talented for his kitchens.”

  “Yes, he is very fond of his desserts,” he chuckles, dragging his ringed fingers from her waist up to her knuckles until the pastry is in his palm, the corner of his eyes crinkling with ease, bringing it to his mouth and taking a big bite from it. “Mhmm…”

  “How is it?” She asks with a soft tone, her eyes twinkling, “It seems your Grace hasn’t had one in so long.”

  “I stick to my Dornish wine and salty cheese,” he replies, licking the tip of his fingers with his gaze locked on your face, “Desserts are always present because of our Lord Father, but I am too busy to stay for it. The realm never waits.”

  “Ah, that explains your reaction then, Prince Baelor,” he smiles at the way his name sounds on her tongue, “Hopefully you will not be too busy for the hunt.”

  “I sure hope not–”

  “Lady Tyrell!”

  She turns around toward the sound, watching as — assuring — her maid running to where they are standing, panting with a pitiful yet terrified look on her face.

  “What is it?” His companion asks, taking a step closer to the maid, her brows weaving into a frown, her fingers clasped in front of her, “What’s happened?”

  “Margery, she fell–”

  “Excuse me, my prince,” she — you, he knows who his mysterious woman is now — does a quick bow before turning toward the maid, “Lead the way.”

  He sends you away with a quick nod, his own eyes wide and curious as you grab your skirts in your hands and walk with haste, letting your maid lead you to Margery, whoever she might be.

  ****

  “We seem to run into each other every hour and then,” you reach him, Baelor Targaryen, near the huge bonfire, throwing the end of your shawl on your shoulder as you approach him slowly, a goblet of wine in your hand.

  He turns around at the sound of your voice, his eyes softening at your familiar face while he raises his chin to look at you. “It seems so, my lady. I see you are out again under the sky.”

  “What can I say, I love the stars,” she replies, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they both look at the edge of the flames soaring into the midnight sky, “It is too beautiful to miss, especially when the city is far away. There is no unnecessary noise, only calmness and peace.”

  “It is a hunt, my lady,” he says, taking a sip of his drink while his gaze turns from the fire to your face, taking in the way the flames shine in your eyes and lighten up your skin, “This must be the only peaceful thing about it.”

  “Will you be the one to push the lance into the white stag’s heart?” You blink at the fire, sighing when he does not respond immediately, “I am of a softer nature. I despise violence, but I know it is the way the world goes day by day.”

  “What would you wish me to do then, Lady Tyrell?” His voice is soft, his eyes even softer as he looks at you fully, watching you closely as you frown a little, even biting your cheek, and he is delighted to notice those small movements.

  “Nothing, your grace, I…” you shake your head, a small chuckle leaving your mouth before you find the courage to look him in his very breathtaking eyes, “I spoke things that were irrelevant to our conversation–”

  “No, please, I have only learned of your identity for a few hours, my lady. I do wish to know more about you,” he watches you swallow your wine, not breaking eye contact as you bring the goblet to your lips, “Tell me about your life.”

  “I am from the Reach,” you start, tightening your shawl around your shoulders as a cold breeze hits your body, “A Hightower, to be exact. I grew up with four brothers. I was taught how to use a crossbow, how to wield a sword, and to mount a stallion. That is why I detest violence.”

  “What is it that you like to do?” He points to the chairs scattered around the bonfire near his tents, where he was sitting an hour ago with Valarr and Kiera, “Please, take a seat. I would hate myself for a lifetime if I were the reason your feet ache the next morrow.”

  “Thank you, my prince,” with a smile, you walk to the chairs, choosing one that is placed the closest to his, the corner of your lips pulling up in a bashful smile, but you are quick to shake it away, “Well…” he rests his chin on the palm of his hand, “I like to… bake. It is unbecoming of a lady, I know, we are not supposed to get our fingers dirty, but after my husband’s sudden passing… it has been of great help.”

  “What do you bake, my lady?” He asks, his gaze unwavering as he keeps his irises locked on your face.

  He is so handsome, you think. His short hair makes his eyes stand out more; his beard, long and soft-looking, you wish to run your fingers through it, caress his defined jaw, and watch him lose his focus. 

  Unfortunately, it is you who is losing her focus at this point.

  With a not-so-subtle shake of your head, you look down at your goblet, the warmth of the fire kissing your cheeks, heating your body, adding to the tension hanging between the two of you.

  You met him last night for the Seven’s sake. You must not enjoy how one looks in your direction, which is enough to send your heart racing.

  “Berry tarts,” you sigh, smiling a little, “My daughter helps too. She eats more than she helps, but it is good to have us… occupied so we do not wallow in grief.”

  “You have a daughter…” Baelor hums in amusement before he raises his eyebrows in surprise, “Margery?”

  “Yes, I am impressed,” you look at him just as shocked, his cheeks pulling into a wide smile, and you have to hide your flustered amile behind your drink, sipping gently before continuing, “Did you seek out information about us?”

  “No,” he chuckles, moving away a little to lean on the back of his chair, looking up at the sky for a heartbeat before his gaze finds you again, “I put the pieces together.” 

  “Hmm, you seem to like a good riddle, my prince.” You mimic his pose and look at the side of his face, noticing the sharp ridge of his nose, “And scenery.”

  “True,” he meets your gaze, smiling at you softly, and you notice the beautiful shade of red on his cheeks; you do not know whether it is from the flames or the wine, “You seem to like a black night sky as well.”

  “We used to have a telescope to watch the stars from the highest tower of the castle,” you explain in a hushed tone, “My brothers did not enjoy it as much as I did, especially when I would drag the Maester up there to help me look at the stars. It was a beautiful time, sometimes I miss being a child; away from grief and motherhood.”

  “That is a beautiful memory,” he replies, blinking at you with a curious yet empathetic look, “Did you love your lord husband?”

  “Ah,” you laugh in a gentle manner, looking at the stick closest to you as it burns at the other end, the fire coating the length of it slowly, “I did not at first, though. We weren’t a love match, but we grew closer; he was the second son, and I was the eldest child and the only daughter. Shared troubles were the reason we grew to love each other. And then came Margery in our second year of marriage. Seven years is a long time,” you suck in a sharp breath as you finish before looking at Baelor, “What about you? I’ve heard quite the tales about you and your lady wife.”

  “The tales are pretty dramatic compared to what we had,” he starts, finishing his wine, putting the goblet down on the ground before he combs his fingers and closes his eyes, a small smile growing on his face, “Just as you, our marriage was not as pleasant as a lady would like. Heir to the throne, Hand of the king from a young age… it was a lot of responsibility for us. But we got closer as the time passed, Valarr was born, and we were happier than ever. It did not take us long to fall in love.”

  “It is a lovely thing, to love another,” you whisper, smiling when his misty eyes meet your own, “To create a human and give them life. I wish Margery had more time with her father. The Seven took him from us too soon.”

  “You will find love again,” he mutters, and you notice how he fiddles with his rings, maybe to ground himself, maybe to stop himself from touching you. “You are a young and beautiful lady.”

  “Maybe,” you nod, squeezing your own fist before you bite your lip, “Maybe.”

Day Three

  “I like eating,” Margery says as she sits at the Tyrell table with you, swinging her legs and eating the meat they have brought from the hunt for lunch, “I like eating with you, Mama!”

  “I can tell, sweetness,” you kiss the top of her head, burying your nose in her beautiful curls as you smell the petals Celeste had dropped last night in her bath, “I like eating with you too.”

  “Can we have cake later?” She asks, looking around the tent to find the cake she saw earlier, huffing when she sees it on the high table where the royal family is sitting, “So far away!”

  “I do not know, maybe. We have to wait and see what plans the court has for us,” you reply, pushing her hair out of her face when she groans and pouts, busying herself with her food. You laugh softly, kissing the crown of her head again, “If you are good and eat all your meal, they might give us a huge piece!”

  “Truly?” Her big eyes shine with happiness as she looks at you, “A big piece with looots of cream?”

  “Yes,” you nod, then point at her plate, “Eat, and I shall think of a way to get you a piece, sweetness.”

  “Thank you, Mama!”

  You are about to respond when you see Prince Valarr stand up as soon as Lady Kiera walks into the tent, kissing her hand when she reaches him and easing her into her seat. That is when you notice Baelor.

  He is looking at you in a way that could set fire to your skin; unshakable, soft, with undivided attention as if he is memorizing you, carving the shape of your face in his mind until you are all he sees in his waking moments and dreams.

  A smile threatens to pull on your face, but you are quick to notice your good sister looking at you with a curious expression on her face. And you have to try to keep a mask on as long as you need to so she does not notice anything out of the ordinary.

  It is not that something has happened, nothing is going on, but the idea of anyone finding out you have drunk with the Heir, you have stargazed together, makes your heart beat against your ribs like a rabbit being chased.

  You do not wish for anyone to find out.

  You glance at your good sister, making sure she is happy and distracted with Margery before your eyes find Baelor’s mismatched ones; truly a wonder, a dark-haired Targaryen set to rule over the kingdom with orbs lovelier than the sea itself.

  Watching with bated breath as he stands up, he raises his cup to his son and future good daughter, “It is an honor to be the host of a lovely event held for my son and Lady Kiera. I have watched you grow into a handsome capable young man, and now, you have found compassion in a loving lady who will help you become the best man and knight you can be.” He smiles, looking around the room before his eyes catch your gaze for a brief moment, “You will become a strong and fair king one day.”

  “Thank you, father,” Valarr says, smiling broadly, “May we see you happy once more.”

  “Let us thank our guests as well for joining us in this week’s beautiful celebration!” Baelor sits down after that, and your eyes are magically pulled towards him, and you notice him whisper I hope so too in response to Baelor’s words.

  ****

  He does not realize how the time passes; from riding his horse back into the castle walls to the beginning of the feast at sunset. He is already changed into a black and red doublet, sitting at the high table with the King present next to him, sipping on his wine.

  People are dancing, and the King’s guard is standing nearby as they search the hall for any threat. There sit the big houses of the realm; Starks, Hightowers, Martells, Arryns, and Tyrells have all attended, and are placed closest to the high table.

  That gives him a good look at you and your little girl, whom you are caring for. He is reminded of Jena; she took care of Valarr and Matarys fussings, fed them herself as long as she had to. She would pat their heads and kiss them goodnight. He never had the chance to have his own little girl, a princess to spoil because his wife was taken too soon from him. Just as your husband was taken so hurriedly by the Seven.

  He watches the way yet another black gown is laced across your back, too beautiful yet soulless for a woman like you. He wishes to see you in your house’s colors; Tyrell and Hightower. But more than anything, he wants to see you in the bloodiest and finest silk in the entire Westeros. In his colors. In the Targaryen colors.

  Baelo Targaryen is a man of class, a man of patience, which is why his father has bestowed the position of his Hand on him. But even the mightiest men must have one weakness, and shockingly, his newest one is you. 

  He watches you talk with an enthusiasm that could become the sole source of his heart pumping blood. He can not help but smile broadly as he sees Margery jump out of her seat and twirl at the music, showing off her green gown to everyone.

  But then, he sees it. He sees the lord approaching your table. At first, he thinks nothing of it, the lord could have many reasons to come to the Tyrells, he could have a business plan, a trade deal, something, anything. 

  Apparently, it is none of them as he stops right next to your chair, extending his hand and smiling at you sweetly. Sickeningly sweet. Baelor has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he can not stop the grimace on his face when you laugh and look down at your plate.

  “Are you well, son?” The king asks, his old body resting against his chair as he looks at Baelor with curious eyes, “You have been silent for far too long.”

  “Of course, why would I not be?” He tries to mask his emotions, but his emotions are too strong to handle, and his frown deepens even more when he sees you stand up with your hand in the Lord’s palm, your skirt sweeping behind you as the guy leads you to the dance floor.

  “Maybe you would like to dance…?” He has to stop the urge to grunt at his father, but he is not entirely wrong. He is not very good at dancing, the last time was with Jena at Matarys’ name day, the exact day he was born, in their chambers as she clung to him in pain, but she was happy and safe in his arms. 

  He thinks about the last time you danced. Was it at Margery’s name day perhaps? Or at your wedding? Could it be at a feast in the castles of Highgarden, or maybe in the garden of roses surrounding your home? Did you enjoy it? Are you enjoying it now?

  The lord is respectful, keeping his hands where Baelor can see; one on your back and the other holding yours as he slowly moves you across the floor among the other couples. 

  His body moves before he has the chance to rethink his decisions. The song is near its ending, his footsteps follow the rhythm of the music as he walks around the high table, passing the Tyrells and glancing at Margery watching you with a beautiful smile. 

  He nears the end of the dance floor where you and the lord stop, bowing as the song ends. You smile at the lord before you notice a familiar shape of dragon embroidery and turn your face to where Baelor is standing.

  “My prince,” you drop in a courtsey, ignoring as the guy bows deeply before he is dismissed with a single nod from Baelor. That was easy, he thinks, much easier than expected as he offers you his hand.

  “Please, Lady Tyrell,” he whispers, his fingers closing around yours when you place your hand gently in his palm, allowing him to pull you closer, “May I have your next dance?”

  “You may,” you reply, placing your hand on his shoulder, looking at him with wide eyes, your fingers trembling in his hold, but he is steady and will be more steady for you. “I did not take you for a dancer, your Grace.”

  “Nor did I take you as one,” he loses his head until his lips are closer to your ear, “Though you are a beautiful dancer, a delicate one too. I had to sit and watch you brighten the entire room.”

  “You flatter me, my prince,” you breathe out, your chest heaving, your skirt brushing his boots as he twirls you once, pulling you even closer than before yet still making sure it is an appropriate distance. 

  He looks at you, wide-eyed and smiling, the glee in your eyes making this experience more joyful than it already was for you. 

  As soon as the song ends, everyone stops, and for the first time, he lets his most suppressed feeling become known in his eyes; you notice his pupils are blown that the blue and violet hue of his iris is invisible, his lips are a few shades darker, and his cheeks are tinted with red.

  You are the same with how you inhale harshly, your hands getting clammy and a longing look in your eyes. He wishes to devour you if he could right here, but the king is present, the court will whisper and worse, your reputation will be tainted because he could not resist his urges.

  “Meet me at our terrace?”

  “Yes.”

  ****

  You remember the first time you walked through these hallways, needing an escape from the feast, away from the noises of the boots stomping on the ground. The dark pathway led you to the balcony, where you met the Heir to the Iron Throne. 

  That fateful night had changed something in you both; something that started to pull you to each other whenever you were next to each other. As if you were tied together with invisible strings.

  You jog through the hallways as if you were born here, turning right by a memory and grabbing your skirt in your hands as you near the end of the pathway.

  There he is, standing with his back to you. His posture is straight, hands locked against his waist as he looks up at the sky. For a brief second, you wait and watch him; his shoulders are a little tight, his fingers fiddling together, the red of his doublet as red as human blood.

  He turns around, and you move without thinking as soon as his eyes meet yours. It takes three strides to meet him, cupping his cheeks before crashing your lips into his.

  Sparks fly across your skin, his lips are soft and warm, and the realization makes you nearly melt. He is everything you have been missing, something good, something alive. 

  His hands are unbelievably warm when he places one on your waist and the other on the back of your head, his lips moving against yours in a heated rhythm, stealing the breath out of your lungs feverishly.

  You grab the short hair strands on the nape of his neck, whether to tug on them or pull him closer you do not know, but you know that you do not wish for him to ever be parted from you, today or any other day to come.

  You gasp when one of his hands slips downward, grabbing your buttocks and squeezing harshly, making you gasp into his mouth, clutching him harder. His beard rubs across your skin – so unbelievably soft – as you scratch his jaw and kiss him with an open mouth.

  He pushes his tongue past your lips, pressing you to the stone wall as he pushes his knee between your legs when he feels you begin to go soft in his arms, holding you up and straight as he tastes the wine on your tongue.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” he groans against your lips before he trails his kisses down your neck, making sure to pull down your neckline to attach his mouth to the soft flesh above your bosoms, his beard burning your skin as he kisses and nibbles across your skin.

  “My prince–”

  “Baelor,” he sinks his teeth into your collarbone a little as a warning, “It is Baelor to you, my dear.”

  “Baelor,” you whine, beginning to rock a little against his thigh, the amount of layers of your gown and his pants does not allow you to take your pleasure, “I need more.”

  “Tomorrow night,” he whispers, he kisses you again, “After the ceremony, come to my chambers. The tower of the Hand,” he licks your bottom lip and it makes you moan, “Shh, I will have you tomorrow night just the way you deserve.”

  “After the ceremony?” You rest your forehead on his, gazing into his eyes with a small smile on your swollen lips.

  “Yes,” he kisses you one last time before he steps away from you, and you notice the pained look he sends your way as soon as he loses your touch, “I will tell the guards to let you in without hesitation.”

  “I will see you then, Baelor.”

  He laughs softly at the way his name sounds this breathless and in awe, “Yes, tomorrow night.”

Day four

  His day started with the image of you, the memory of last night and the taste of your lips against his tongue, and a smile as big as his face as he got dressed. 

  Last night was magical, it had been so long since he had felt such a strong emotion swirling inside him. The last time was with his late wife, and he remembers that night the best; it was a few months after Matarys’s second name day, he was exhausted but she was very much lively and in need and they spent the rest of the night curled up together under their sheets.

  Baelor thinks of the two memories, side by side. He feels guilty for being alive after his late wife, he feels as if he is betraying her trust and love, but you… He has not felt so warm in such a long time, and you are making him feel like a person once more.

  He walks through the hallways of the Keep, passing ladies and lords as they greet him briefly, trying to keep his grin to himself but he is barely managing to hold his posture as a prince should.

  Until something, or someone small collides with his legs.

  “Save me!” Oh. Margery. She is pulling on his sleeves as she giggles and looks behind her before she tugs on him again, “She is coming after me!”

  “Who is?” He crouches in front of her, a small smile on his face as he notices the disheveled look on her; dark red curls in different directions, her white night shift large enough to cover her entire small body.

  “Mama!” She gasps when she hears the knocking of the boots against the hard floor, looking at him with wide eyes before she throws herself into his arms. “Save me from the beast!”

  He catches her effortlessly, already used to his boys tackling him down. She is far too gentler than he is used to, and he loves how she clings to him, arms wrapped around his neck.

  “Your mother is no beast,” he corrects her gently, picking her up with his forearm keeping her weight against his body as he pushes a few unruly strands out of her face, “She is a lovely woman who wants the best for you.”

  “She wants me to take a bath and wear a gown so tight it hurts my chest!” She huffs out, pouting a little and he is so close to crying because she looks so much like you, it feels him with so much endearment it nearly spills out of his ears.

  “I could save you from a gown but not a bath, little flower,” he kisses her forehead, walking slowly with her in his arms, “You should be clean, always. I took a bath this very morrow too!”

  “Did your maid scrub your arms–”

  “Margery!” You round the corner, heaving as you stare at her, eyes widening when you notice him holding her, dropping into a quick courtesy, “My prince.”

  “You are a prince?” Margery asks, tilting her head to the side, blinking her huge hazel eyes at him, “You did not tell me!”

  “I am,” he chuckles, glancing at you for a brief second, finding you smiling and looking all flustered at your daughter’s antics, “You did not give me a moment to introduce myself. I am Baelor.”

  “My prince, put her down,” You take a step closer, rubbing Margery’s back slowly, but she only hugs his neck tighter, placing her head on his shoulder, “Come on, please. We have a wedding to be ready for.”

  “Your lady mother is right,” he bites his cheek to stop from laughing when she huffs out in annoyance, “I want to see you dancing with beautiful hair at my son’s wedding.”

  “He is your son? He did not give me cake yesterday–”

  “Get down, little lady. I am not going to repeat myself, let the prince be.” Your tone changes into a stern one, making both Baelor and Margery look at each other before he kisses her forehead again before he puts her down. 

  “She was not being rude,” he states gently, taking another step closer, smiling down at Margery who grabs your hand and waves shyly at him, “I shall see you at the wedding. Would you save me a dance, little flower?”

  “Will you marry Mama if I dance with you?”

  “Margery!” You gasp, squeezing her hand in warning but she shrugs and hugs your arm closer, you close your eyes, trying not to melt when Baelor laughs softly, “I sincerely apologize, your grace. She is a child and–”

  “No need,” he shakes his head, reaching to hold your hand gently in his, the small contact between your fingers tinting his cheek in red, “I do not know about marriage, but I would like to see you in something other than black, my lady.”

  “What do you have in mind, your grace?” You ask, breathless and panting as he brings your knuckles to his lips, his beard brushing the back of your hand as he plants a kiss there, his thumb caressing your pulse point.

  “Red!” Margery squeals, pulling on your other hand as she jumps up and down, “You must wear red!”

  “I–”

  “Great choice,” he winks at Margery before kissing your hand one more time and letting go, his gentle eyes filled with an unknown warmth, “Targaryen red would be more than I could ask for.”

  “I do not believe it would be appropriate,” you whisper, clenching and unclenching your fingers, “The court will talk…”

  “They always do,” he replies, “Let them talk about your beauty, not grief.”

  “I… I will think about it,” you bend your knees in another courtesy before beginning to lead your daughter away, “Tonight…”

  “Tonight.”

  ****

  The gasp your good sister let out was truly worth it when you walked inside the Sept with Margery holding your hand. Red. A red so deep it looked as if you were draped in blood, Targaryen Red as it was requested.

  You watched the young couple get married in the eyes of the Seven, watched how Valarr’s cloak wrapped around Kiera’s body as she belonged to this house; the face of a beautiful queen to be.

  Baelor, as handsome as always, stood next to the King as he watched his son get married to the woman he so loved, but during the ceremony, his eyes would find yours. His attention, although mostly on his son and good daughter, would drift to you and Margery every moment or so.

  “Why is Prince Baelor looking your way?” Your good sister asks, her sharp judgmental eyes narrowing as she glances between you and the prince, “He seems to be shocked by your… appearance as well. You are grieving, that is an awfully inconvenient gown for a widow.”

  “I lost my husband almost a year ago,” you say, helping Margery climb into the seat next to yours as you wait for the married couple to arrive at the throne room, “I am young, I deserve to be happy.”

  “Yes, well, it seems you have lost all etiquette of the court after my lord husband’s brother died,” she smiles at you, her teeth sharp and his tongue poisonous, “At least for the sake of your daughter… do not tarnish her future.”

  “Mama, look!” She waves at Baelor, grinning when he sends a small wave back in her direction, “Prince Baelor promised me a dance!”

  “We shall wait and see, sweetness,” you run a hand over her curls, filling her plate to feed her enough if he decides to make good on his promise, “Let us have supper for now.”

  “I wish to dance! I will go to him myself!”

  “No, sit–”

  “Lady Tyrell.”

  “My prince!” Your good sister and Lord Tyrell stand up immediately, you though, can not because he is standing behind your chair, looking down at you with a gentle gaze that makes your heart palpitate so fast.

  “Your grace–”

  “Prince Baelor!” Margery squeals and wiggles in her chair, “We shall dance!”

  “Of course, my lady,” he chuckles and offers his hand to her, giving you a little room to help Margery down and hold his hand, “If it is alright with your mother…”

  “Absolutely, please,” you stand up as well, which seems to be the wrong move given how close you end up to him, having to look up at him as he towers over you, his eyes falling to your lips. You clear your throat and look down at Margery who is clutching Baelor’s fingers tightly in her small hand, “Be good for our prince, okay?”

  “I am always good!”

  “True, my lady,” he cocks his head to the side, smiling reassuringly, “We will have the best dance, and we shall show it to the court.”

  “I would not hold you back then,” you reply, bending your knees in respect and he bows his head a little before leading Margery to the middle of the room where the rest of the ladies and lords are gathering – Valarr and Kiera included – and he kneels in front of her, bringing her hand to his lips, relishing the small giggle she lets out.

  “Will you hold my hand?”

  “Dancing is all about holding hands, little flower,” he straightens his back, pulling her a little closer until she is standing on his boots with her flat boots, “Ready?”

  “Yes!”

  You watch them dance, ignoring the way some heads turn in your way, watching you then at your daughter and the Heir to the throne. You ignore them, as you always do, and watch your daughter giggle as Baelor spins her around. She looks so happy, her eyes shine as they did with her father when he was alive, and her smile makes your body warm.

  He picks her up when they have to move across the room, keeping her close and laughing when she says something, his eyes crinkling in joy.

  The dance ends sooner than you notice. Margery is fast on her feet as she bolts toward you with a big smile on her face, Prince Baelor in tow.

  “Mama! Did you see me?” She makes grabby hands at you, and you pick her up with ease, “Prince Baelor was so kind! He helped me a lot!”

  “I did! He is a prince, of course, he would help, sweetness!” You kiss her flushed cheek before meeting Baelor’s overwhelming gaze, “Thank you, your grace. You… you made her entire night.”

  “That was the least I could do for the most beautiful lady in the realm,” he pinches her cheek before withdrawing himself from your space completely, “I am very glad that I could be the cause of her happiness even for a brief moment.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” you smile, dropping in a small courtesy with Margery still in your eyes, ignoring the burning glare of your good sister against your back.

  “Have a great night, my lady.”

  ****

  Your heart is beating so fast against your chest as you walk through the hallway that you know ends at Baelor’s chambers. The guards are already standing there, white cloaks and shiny armor glinting under the soft candelight. You give them a small smile as you approach them, one of them ignoring you as the other nods, scanning you from head to toe in order to find something amiss.

  You nod in reply when they push the door open gently, slowly walking inside like a scared cat, taking in your surroundings before you find Baelor sitting behind his desk.

  His chambers are spacious; a large bed on your left, a terrace close to his work desk, a dining table close by, and even a small set of furniture gathered around a table. Lived in, dark, warm, and him. 

  You find a bathtub close to the hearth, and the steam of the water dampens the air in the room. With a curious yet shy smile, you stride in his direction, and he stands up as well, meeting you halfway.

  “Hello,” you whisper, placing your palms on his chest, his hands finding home on your waist just as quickly, pulling you closer until you are pressed against his body, “I was not aware we were going to take a bath.”

  “Neither did I, dear,” he brushes his nose along yours, “A change of plans that will only lead to me worshiping you.”

  “You are as tempting as sin,” your palm moving up slowly, cupping the side of his neck, your thumb caressing his bearded jaw softly, “It is… unbelievable, the way you make me feel.”

  “You do not give enough appreciation for your own beauty,” he bends down a little, placing a kiss on your cheek, “I believe you are the most alluring person I have ever met. Beautifully crafted by the old gods, new, and the doomed gods of the Valyria.”

  “I feel so strong about you,” you cradle his face in your hands, your lips only a breath away, “Undress me, Baelor.”

  “With pleasure,” he closes the distance, kissing you with an enthusiasm that makes you gasp into his mouth.

  His fingers reach for the laces of your gown, deliberate fingers, pulling on each knot until the red gown is pooling around your ankles, his lips moving with yours in sync.

  “Allow me,” he pecks your lips before he pulls back a little, “raise your arms,” you do and he pulls your shift up until you are only left in your small clothes, bare breasts falling into his line of vision, “Fuck me…”

  “It is unfair,” you reach to undo his doublets, dropping fabric after another until he is standing with his own white shifts until you are tugging at it, making him chuckle as he pulls it off, showing his toned chest and abdomen. “Oh…”

  “I have grown old–”

  “Do not say that,” you shake your head, “You are perfect for your age. Truly… a body sculped by the gods.”

  “You are sweet,” he kisses you again until you are breathless before he lowers himself on one of his knees, dragging your underwear down slowly, mouthing at your belly as he drops the fabric away as if it had offended him, “beautiful.”

  He grabs your hand, making sure you are secure as he helps you inside the tub with a steady hand after he kisses your thigh. His own desires made their presence known by making a tent in his underwear.

  “Join me,” you lean over the edge of the tub, resting your cheek on your forearm as you watch him stand up and pull the last piece of clothing off until he is as nude as the day he was born. 

  Your eyes are immediately drawn to his cock, noticing the soft blush that runs from the top of his stomach to his neck and cheeks, moving to make room behind your body, ignoring the way your body calls for him. Not now.

  He sits behind you, his knees bracketing yours as he pulls you flushed against his body, arms wrapped around your middle and his nose buried in the soft braids you have not bothered to undo.

  He kisses your shoulder, his fingers caressing the skin under your breasts as the warm water surrounds your bodies. He is gentle and caring in a way you have never experienced before – not even your late husband was this careful with you – and he makes you feel as if you are made of the most fragile and exquisite glass in the entire Westeros.

  “Beautiful,” he whispers, one of his hands moving to cup your breast, squeezing the flesh, making you gasp and throw your head back. He smiles, nipping on the shell of your ear, “I would pour us wine, but I am already drunk on your scent.”

  “Sweet talker,” you let out a breathless laugh, wrapping one arm around his neck before turning around a little to look him in the eyes, finding his gaze already dark and wanting, “Do you always invite noble ladies to your room?”

  “Never,” he brushes the tip of his nose against yours, the hand on your chest moving up to hold you by his fingers on the side of your neck, drawing you closer until his lips brush yours, not in a kiss but a promise of one soon, “You are the only woman I have found myself being smitten with.”

  You kiss him then, pulling him in by the back of his head, moving your lips against his forcefully, moaning in his mouth when one of his hands drops between your legs, fingers finding your pearl with ease.

  He is enjoying the way you melt in his arms, head resting on his shoulder as you let him feast on your tongue, sucking and pulling on the flesh of your lips as if they belong to him. They do, though it is too soon to admit.

  “Baelor…” you gasp when one motion of his fingers along the sensitive nerves sets your skin ablaze, “I need you.”

  “And I you–”

  You detangle yourself from him, pushing him back until his back hits the bathtub, a gush of water spilling out of the tub because of his movements.

  He is stunned, you can see it in his eyes as he spreads his arms over the edge of the tub and leans back with a surprised smile, watching with hooded eyes as you crawl into his lap, finding home on his body before kissing him again feverishly.

  You do not wish to waste any more time. You want him, here and now, and for many days as you can have with him. As you moan and gasp into his mouth, he helps you line up his cock with your winking hole, holding you against him by one hand wrapped around your back and the other on the back of your head.

  “Fuck– Fuck, Baelor.”

  “I know, dear,” he says through a choked breath, “Slow and gentle.”

  You nod but when you take him inside you finally, you slump forward on his body, your breasts rubbing against his hairy chest as you adjust to his girth. He is big; bigger than your late husband as it is only him you can compare Baelor to. 

  He groans, holding you close as he stretches your walls deliciously, enjoying the warmth of your walls as they hug him close. He tucks your face into his neck, the hand on your back moving to your buttocks, squeezing the flesh while he tries his best to resist the urge to fuck you.

  “Gods be good,” he throws his head back when you roll your hips down, using his shoulders to hold yourself up as you begin to move, leaning down enough to kiss his throat, smiling at the vibration that is felt over his skin as he groans.

  “You feel so good,” you whisper, trailing your lips up to his jaw, then cheeks, “Gods, you feel so fucking good–”

  “You were made for me,” you moan at his words, sinking your teeth into his thin bottom lip as you begin to move faster, the water around you crashing into your bodies in hurried waves. 

  He squeezes your ass, fingers digging into your flesh as he bends his knees to thrust up inside you, slotting his tongue with yours in a desperate kiss as he takes his pleasure and brings yours to the edge of yours.

  Your noises fill the room, the sound of the water hitting the bathtub over and over again, adding even more noise to your coupling.

  He kisses you like you are air, he holds you as if you are a dream and he does not wish to wake up from it. He wants you more than ever, more than yesterday, more than the first time he met you. 

  Baelor tugs in your hair until you are gazing into his eyes – misty orbs meeting each other in the throes of pleasure – and you have to try to hard not to break the contact but his cock nudges the spot inside you that has your vision going white.

  You climax with a broken cry, fingers leaving half-moons on his broad strong shoulders, cunt clenching around his length for life. You do not wish to let go of him, you want him inside you for as long as possible.

  Your legs shake around him uncontrollably until he pulls you down and holds your limp body against his while he hammers his cock inside you. You can feel his body contracting for a second before he buries himself inside you to the hilt, filling you up with his warm seed as he whimpers your name into your hair.

  He is trembling slightly from the pleasure. You are sure he has had his share of women since his wife passed, but you do not believe any of them to be this intense.

  “So good,” he whispers, caressing your bare back and holding you close with a soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder, “You were so good, my darling.”

  “So were you,” You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as the heat leaves your bodies, “It had been so long since I experienced… such a pleasant moment.”

  “I shall give you more if you allow me,” he tightens his embrace, afraid you would leave even if he is the one shielding you from the toxic reality of the court, “The night is young…”

  “I have to leave before dawn,” you whisper, but do not push him away, “But I suppose I have earned the right to join you in your bed,” he smiles at your words, pecking your lips, “And this water has grown cold and disgusting. We must get out of this instant.”

  And when his chest rumbles, you are sure of the decision you made.

Day Five

  “Look at the flowers!” Margery whines, stomping her feet as she stands in front of the bushes of the royal gardens, “They look so dead!”

  “Sweetness, they are just fine–”

  “They are not! Mama, look, the petals are turning down!” She almost starts crying, looking frantically across the field to find someone, anyone to come and listen to her, “They are not getting enough water.”

  “We shall find a way to tell the gardeners, is that alright, Marg?” You ask, turning her so you could look her in the eye, “Besides, these are not ours to mend–”

  “I miss my flowers,” she pouts, but does not pull away when you kiss her cheek and chuckle, “I love to stay but their gardens are bad, Mama! Can we tell–” she is distracted again, this time, by noticing three shadows walking in the same path as you, “PRINCE BAELOR!”

  “Margery!”

  You know the whispers will start to fly off soon with the way every head turns to the little girl running to where the Heir is standing with his son and good daughter.

  Baelor is quick to notice her, finding her panting as she reaches the three of them, frowning so deeply that a small crease forms between her light brown eyebrows. 

  “Hello, Lady Tyrell,” he says gently, leaning down a little to be less intimidating, “How can I help you on this fine morning?”

  “I am very displeased by your gardens!” She huffs, crossing her small arms across her chest, looking at him with a deadly glare that makes his heart burst through his chest, “Your flowers are dying!”

  “Oh, no,” he crouches down in front of her, his thumb moving to untangle her eyebrows. He has to stop the endearing teasing smile that threatens to overtake his features so he does not upset her further, “What shall we do, little flower?”

  “Our roses bloom when they get enough water. Yours are dying because you do not help them! If I don’t eat, I will die. Flowers are the same!” 

  “Best we start feeding them, then!” Valarr jumps in, clearly interested in the little fiery girl in front of him, and he notices you finally approaching them with a tired look, “My lady.”

  “My prince, princess,” you courtesy to the married couple before looking at Baelor, “Your grace, I apologize–”

  “No need,” he shakes his head, looking at Margery with a small smile, “Would you like to stroll with Prince Valarr and Princess Kiera?”

  “He did not give me cake!”

  “Margery, please don’t be rude–”

  “Please, my lady,” Kiera laughs softly, extending her hand to Margery, “We should remedy that! There is cake on the table at the end of the path, we could share some.”

  “Truly?” Margery asks, turning around to look at you for permission, “Mama, can I go? Please please please–”

  “If it is alright with Prince Valarr–”

  “Absolutely,” the young prince says, offering his arm to his wife as they begin to walk with Margery holding tightly on Kiera’s fingers. You can hear how Margery immediately starts talking.

  “I like your hair!” She says excitedly, making Kiera smile at her when she starts swinging their arms, “I like pink! I also like red! Like roses!”

  “Would you join me for a walk, my lady?” Baelor waits for your response, holding his elbow out for you to take, “We could stay behind them if it eases your mind.”

  “Oh, thank you,” you weave your arms through his, leaning a little of your weight on him as he guides you through the path, “She is going to talk their heads off.”

  “Good practice for when they would become parents of their own,” he replies quietly, resting his free hand on top of yours over his forearm, “Last might was…”

  “Magical,” you finish his sentence, smiling at him with a glimmer in your eyes. He chuckles and nods, remembering the vivid memories of last night with you tangled beneath his sheets, “I wish we could stay in those moments. You and me, hidden from the world.”

  “I wish you could stay,” he whispers, the words making your breath hitch, heart bursting inside your ribcage, “In the court, with me. Margery already loves this place, perhaps you could… find a position among our court.”

  “What exactly, Baelor?” You ask softly, shaking your head but smiling when you see Valarr pick Margery up, “As Princess Kiera’s lady in waiting? I am a widowed mother, no one would ever look twice my way.”

  “I would,” he stops, his grip on the back of your hand tightening slightly, “I would look more than twice. I wish I could look at you every day, my lady. Stay, I promise I will find a way to make it worth your while.”

  “We should not dwell on the unfortunate circumstances we are facing, instead,” you look around to make sure no one is actually paying you two any mind before leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek, gazing at him with a small grin, “We should find joy in the remaining moments we have.”

  “Would you want to… go somewhere less crowded?” He does not wait for an answer as he slowly leads you to a hallway that reaches the lower levels of the castle, crowding you against the wall as soon as you are out of sight.

  He kisses you without a second thought, only wishing to taste the fine morning tea you shared with the rest of your family. And taste he does with how passionately he licks and nibbles on your tongue, pushing his knee between your legs and pulling one thigh around his hips, caressing the exposed skin of your leg until it teases your garments.

  You moan and kiss him back, one hand fisting his clothes and the other clawing at the back of his neck to hold him closer. It is insanity how much you need him, the prince of the realm, the heir to the iron throne, but more than any of his titles, you need Baelor.

  His lips fall to your neck, sucking on the exposed skin and grinning against you as he notices the eye-catching green of your gown – the color of the Hightowers – you are wearing. Colors, not those black doomed dresses you would wear the first few days.

  You hear the clutter of the plates against the ground close, making you gasp and push him away with a force that nearly knocks him to the opposite wall of the hallway as you both pant and look at the servant who is visibly shaking and crying as she stares at the two of you.

  “Stay where you are,” Baelor commands gently, not a hint of anger in his voice as he approaches the maid slowly, “Do not be frightened.”

  “M-my prince! I- I…”

  “This shall stay between us, do you not think so?” He stands closer to her, clasping his hands behind his back as he looms over her a little, “There is no reason to fear me. If words do not get out, you can stay and keep your job in the Red Keep.”

  “I will not tell a soul, my prince!” She drops to her knees in front of him, clutching his boots, “I beg of you, please have mercy on me–”

  You do not wait to find out what he wants to say, instead, you flee from their company with a hand to your chest, tears burning your vision as you try to find the path ong the sea of flowers to go back inside.

  You can only hope the words do not find their way into the gossip of the court, or The Seven forbid, to the ears of your good sister.”

  ****

  What we hope for does not usually come true. What we love always comes with a price, and loving the prince of Westeros is the hardest of all. 

  You knew from the moment you set your eyes on him he would become the sun in your rainy days. He became so dear to you in the shortest time possible, not just someone you liked but someone you loved. 

  Baelor Targaryen is a maddening man with the most beautiful eyes someone can possess; a blue so rich you could paint the sky with it and a brown so pigmented you would think they have built the mountains of the hue of his iris.

  He is whole-consuming, humble, soft, kind, and he can make your heart explode if he touches you. He is everywhere in your dreams and thoughts, he was all over you the night prior, and now, he is nowhere to be found.

  It is not his fault that your good sister is yelling at you with her husband, Lord Leo Tyrell shaking his head in disbelief, Margery still clinging to Kiera and Valarr. For the best to keep her away until the issue is resolved.

  “How could you jeopardize our name!” She screams again, pacing around your chambers as you have personally offended her. “They will now write songs about your stupidity! What were you thinking? Getting involved with a prince, and not just any of them but the one who will become King?!”

  “Clearly she was not thinking–”

  “Would you two stop berating me like I’m a child?” You hiss at them, looking out of your window and at the calm water that slides over the sands, “I knew what I was doing. A mistake but I do not regret it–”

  “You should,” she grabs you by the elbow, pulling you closer by a harsh tug, “You have ruined our reputation. We are the most important vessel of the crown and you and your careless actions have put us in a tight position.”

  “The court is already talking,” Leo sighs, clearly less agitated than his wife, “They have seen you. The prince has danced with Margery, with you, you have been caught in a compromising… way. It is not looking good, sister. We were planning to wed you to a Lannister to ensure you have a good life but now… I doubt anyone would want to cross paths with you.”

  “You wanted to wed me without my consent? I have a child, a Tyrell child who belongs to Highgarden, you can not take that away from her, from me!” You pull your arm out of her grasp and walk past her, “I would rather die than marry someone I do not hold affection for again.”

  “The prince – who it seems, you like, will not marry you, get that into your head,” she scoffs and throws her hands up in surrender, “He has his hands full with responsibility. He has an heir, he would not care to marry another.”

  “You shall leave then,” Leo stands up, glaring at you, “At noon, with the first carriage you could find. Leave for Highgarden, we will decide your fate when we come back.”

  “You can not send me away–”

  “You have caused enough trouble, do not make me rethink my decision and marry you off to avoid the scandal you caused,” and with that, he leaves, his wife – burning with fury – follows after.

  You drop on the chaise in defeat, slapping your hand to your mouth to muffle the sobs that wreck your body. You are going to leave before you make your prince’s life hell.

  You do not know how long you cry, only that one second, your chest stops heaving and you fall into a dreamless slumber.

Day six

  “I have not seen her all morning, brother.”

  “Who the fuck are we talking about?” Maekar drops his weight on one of the small council’s chairs, propping his feet up on the stone table.

  “Lady Tyrell,” Baelor sighs deeply, staring into the distance from the balcony, trying to get his mind to cooperate and help him remember where he could possibly find you, “She… she has disappeared since yesterday. I saw her at the feast last night for a moment but she vanished again.”

  “Why are you looking for a Tyrell anyway?” Maekar scoffs, drinking his wine while he looks at his Baelor’s face with disdain, “I have never seen you interested in any woman that walks inside this fucking castle.”

  “Yes, because none of them were interesting to begin with,” Baelor rolls his eyes, exhaling so loud it makes Maekar snort, “If you don’t have anything remarkable to say, then get out of this room.”

  “I believe your lady has been suffering from the court gossip, your grace,” his brother laughs, and the words draw Baelor’s attention immediately, “I heard Keira talking last night. The ladies have seen her with someone inappropriately–”

  “Fuck,” Baelor’s eyes widen in panic, his palms finding the back of the King’s chair as he holds himself up, “It was me… I- I am the reason she did not attend the feast.”

  “It was you? Fuck me, I thought you had lost your charm,” another snort leaves Maekar, groaning as he sits upright before drowning the rest of his wine, “They saw her with a lord’s hand up in her skirts, unbeknownst to them it was the Heir himself. Instead of these games of cat and mouse, you could have just courted her.”

  “It was not my intention to fall for her!” Baelor’s calm tone finally breaks as the gravity of the situation dawns on him, “I have not felt such an intense desire for anyone since Jena, and now I am about to lose her because of my selfishness.”

  “You could go and ask about her whereabouts if you are truly so concerned about her,” Maekar shrugs, approaching his brother with a pointed look, “But if you do, that means you are turning the rumors into the truth. Do what you deem best.”

  “I have to find her,” Baelor shakes his head and skips his way into the room, ignoring Maekar’s voice calling for him. He must find you, he must.

  He goes for your chambers first, finding no guard stationed at the doors. He bursts through the door in hopes of finding you and Margery there, but he finds the place empty of you and your belongings.

  The bed is made, the closets already empty, the desk void of any tea glasses, no sign of toys or small clothes that could be Margery’s. 

  “No,” he exhales sharply before turning around to move and find someone, anyone, he can help him. “No, no, no…”

  He runs down the stairs, ignoring the questioning looks of the lords and the sound of his assigned guards’ armor as they follow him. He must find Lord Tyrell this very second, or he will go mad.

  And he is very successful in his hunt, as he finds him standing with his wife in a corner of a distant hallway, talking in anger and hushed whispers.

  “You,” he approaches them, grabbing the lord by the collar before he slams him to the closest wall. This is not him, this is not the calm and collected Prince Baelor, this is Baelor Breakspear who is angered and distraught. “Where is she?”

  “W-who, your grace?” Lord Tyrell swallows harshly as he utters the words and Baelor feels the bump in the lord’s throat moving against his knuckles.

  “Lady Tyrell and Margery,” he hisses, tightening his fists on the lord’s clothing, “Speak before I tell my guards to go and search for her. If they do not find her, you will pay the price–”

  “Please, my prince, let go of him–”

  “Where the fuck is she?” He yells, and he can see the fear in Leo Tyrell’s eyes for the first time, “Tell me instantly if you wish to have a place in my court–”

  “She has left!” Lady Tyrell cries out, grabbing Baelor’s sleeves to stop him even though he has not raised a finger on her husband yet, “She was told to leave at noon.”

  “You sent her away,” the realization breaks his heart as he lets go of the lord to look at the lady, his attention completely on hers, “When?”

  “An hour or so, your grace–”

  “May the Seven give me patience,” he leaves the couple without a glance as he marches downstairs and to the courtyard, grabbing the reins of the first stallion he sees before he puts one foot in the saddle and swings his body over the horse, “Hey!”

  He rides out of the gates with the King’s guard behind him, following the path that he is sure you and Margery must be on. He is not thinking clearly, his head is foggy and his hands are shaking.

  He needs you to be alright, he needs you to be close so he can get to you and bring you back. He can not, and shall never leave you again.

  He does not know how long he rides until he sees a lonely carriage on the dusty road, he only knows he has to stop it before it leaves his sight.

  His stallion gallops up to the carriage until he stands several feet away, forcing the boy behind the reins to pull a sudden stop to the horses. He waits patiently for his guards to come and take control before he jumps down and walks to the door of the carriage.

  “Prince Baelor!” Margery is the first to gasp his name, “You came for us!”

  You look at him then, with a soft pout and misty eyes. He is as equally teary as you are, body shaking with worry and agony as he stares at you. 

  There seems to be years of longing between the two of you, months of departure and pain, but it has only been a few hours. It feels as if they have chained you in a room on opposite sides without letting you speak to each other, as if you have lost him altogether in a terrible nightmare.

  “Baelor…”

  “My dear,” he holds his hand for you to take, a pleading look sent your way, “Come outside, let us talk.”

  “I have to go back–”

  “You will not go anywhere,” his tone is clipped, he is not responding to argue, “You will stay by my side, here, in King’s Landing.”

  “I can’t,” you breathe out a broken sigh before placing your palm in his, stepping out of the carriage with small steps, looking back at Margery who waits eagerly for a moment to speak, “stay inside, alright, sweetness? I will be back in no time.”

  “I wanna hear!”

  “After we’ll talk, I will let you ride with me back to the castle, alright?”

  “Do not promise her something that you will not be able to do–”

  “She will ride with me back to the Keep,” he cups your cheeks in his hands, pulling you close until his forehead rests on yours, “I am a man of my words.”

  “Baelor, this was… we did not think this through,” you whisper, placing your palms on the back of his hand, lips wobbling as you try to hold back your tears, “I have caused you too much trouble already. Allow me to leave so you can live in peace–”

  “I can not find peace if you are not with me,” he kisses the tip of your nose, letting his tears fall on his cheeks finally, “I did not get a lick of sleep last night. You are occupying every thought I have; what you are wearing, what you are eating, how your eyes crinkle when you smile, how you touch your neck when you are nervous. There is no mistake in loving you, it never was.”

  “People will talk, they already do! They think I have corrupted you, they believe I am manipulating you into taking my hand in marriage–”

  “Then you are very good at it,” he lets out a water chuckle before placing a gentle kiss on your lips, not even drawing back to talk, he allows his lips to brush against yours as he speaks, “I want your hand in marriage. I want you to become my queen when I take the throne one day, I want you by my side even more in the days ahead. Margery will become a legitimate princess if I ask my father–”

  “You can not say these things,” you shake your head tasting his salty tears on his mouth as you peck him once more, “You will find someone who is better suited for this role. I am already spoiled…”

  “Spoiled?” He forced your neck back a little to look you in the eyes, “You are the most perfect woman I have met since my wife’s passing. You are kind, generous, and gentle, how could I seek someone more loving than you when you exceed all expectations?”

  “You are a charmer,” you smile at him a little, and he sighs in contempt, “How would we do this? How would you be able to tame the people–”

  “That is my burden to bear,” he kisses you again, this time a little harder to make his point known thoroughly, “I will request an audience with the King this evening. I need you to have some faith in me, and I will make both of you the happiest women in the realm.”

  “Can I come out now?” Margery peeks at you from inside the carriage, “Please? I am hungry, I wish to eat lunchen soon!”

  “You heard the lady, dear,” he kisses the side of your head as he tucks you into his side, wrapping one arm around your waist as he helps Margery onto the ground slowly with his free hand, “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “No, Mama never lets me get close to the stable,” she pouts, “Can I go with the prince, Mama?”

  “If you promise to listen to him and follow–”

  “YES!” She grabs Baelor’s hands and tries to drag him to his stallion, “We will see you at the castle! Bye!”

  “Have a safe trip,” you manage to steal one more kiss from Baelor before he is entirely focused on your little girl, picking her up and placing her on his shoulder as he walks to where they are keeping his horse.

  With one last look at them, you sit inside the carriage on your way back to the Red Keep.

  ****

  Baelor’s head is pounding. The audience with the king went surprisingly well, but he had to be careful about the way he talked to him, even if the king was his father. It did not matter if they were related in those moments, he had to make sure every step was carefully planned to achieve what he desired.

  He pushes the door open to his chambers slowly, walking inside and finding you and Margery under the covers, sleeping soundly without a care in the world. He smiles at the sight, warmth spreading through his body as he gazes at the two of you until his feet begin to protest.

  He strips, carefully placing the clothes on his chair, peeling layers of the day off until he is standing in only his breeches. He has even discarded the white linen shirt he wears.

  Walking quietly to the basin in the corner of the room, he washes his face and hands, letting the cool water flow over his lashes and lips. With a towel that has been placed nearby, he dries himself before approaching the bed.

  “Baelor?” You whisper into the dark, slowly sitting up and searching for him, mindful of the little body sleeping next to you. You reach for him when he slides behind you under the sheets, his warm chest solid against your back, “How was the king?”

  “Well and healthy,” he replies, kissing your shoulder over your nightshift, “I told him everything, from the first night to today, I do not remember the last time I have been this detailed about something.”

  “You were nervous,” you smile craning your neck to look at him and he takes the opportunity to kiss you softly on the lips, “What else?”

  “We agreed to postpone the wedding to a fortnight from now,” he rests his head on the hollow of your neck, “It was a little tricky to tell him I wished to get married again, but my brother helped and strengthened my argument.”

  “That is good, I was worried you were alone in the dragon’s den.”

  “No, my brother couldn’t lose this chance to see me beg our father for something,” he scoffs, wrapping his arm around you while the other one stretches over your body to caress Margery’s head, “He wishes to meet you, both of you.”

  “Really?” You sigh softly, already tensing at the thought of talking to none other than the King himself, “Whatever will we say?”

  “That I am unable to predict,” he kisses your shoulder again, settling beside you with a soft smile, “Sleep, my dear. No one is going to need us on the morrow, I have made sure of that.”

  “Thank you,” you squeeze his forearm, “For coming for us, for fighting for us…”

  “I will do it a thousand times more, never think otherwise.”

Day Seven

  Baelor Targaryen spends the entire day from today to his last breath cherishing the life he has gained after years of loneliness. 

Tagging: @sylasthegrim @venmondiese <3

He'll comfort you before eliminating whatever the threat was (that way he'll be to gaslight you that what he did after comforting you was just your hazed mind making things up).

Very composed for someone who was holding a very injured and bleeding person.

Composure does not mean his heart was not beating furiously as he caressed your head.

He'd leave his housemates to deal with the anomaly, it'd most likely get blasted by Shion tho as nobody hurts his 'spouse'.

Elias always wants to drag you away from the man evertime he calls you that, but he has to be polite to his juniors and risking an angry Shion is not worth is emotions.

The interaction at Mortkraken is awkward, Yuri just tells Jiro to bring you to the operating room and soon follows you two.

Elias would patiently wait outside, texting the others that he returned early.

He'd come into the room once Yuri and Jiro finishes, waiting for you to awaken.

"Mghhh..."

"Glad to see you're awake" 

He tries to talk to you, but your anesthesia drunk mind could only comprehend a hot guy sitting next to your bed, so all you did was giggle for the last 3 minutes.

That's fine, he finds your voice very cute :) 

10/10 very chill unless you become so injured you have blood everywhere and pass out, then the boss music starts.

Jo Kongoza 

"Shit, inspector!"

Immediately scoops you up into his arms.

"Where does it hurt?"

Tries to stop the bleeding before anything else.

He knows a thing or two, one because of Shion, and two was because some students get injured when doing a new trick or because of a technical error.

Talks to you the whole way, pls don't stop replying, he'd actually start losing his shit.

Like cold sweat but still locked in type losing shit.

That anomaly got no protection from Shion now, Darkwick can suck it because they can't do anything about it.

The Mortkraken doors were slammed open, Jo stepped in panting and sweaty, not because he was tired, ghouls have a shit ton of stamina.

But rather it was because of the sheer panic, his heart was beating faster than ever.

Yuri nearly jumped out of his chair, had Jiro not held his arm and put him back on the chair.

"She's hurt!"

Ofcourse the Mortkraken ghouls immediately got to work.

Jo restlessly sat in a chair, watching you get patched up by the pair.

He tries to calm himself down, but everytime he looks at you getting stitched up and bandaged, his heart just speeds up more.

"Ah..." He rubs his face into his hands.

As the captain, he should be more composed and put together, but this is wayyy too much for him.

When Yuri and Jiro was done patching you up, Jo would sit next to your bed waiting for you.

You'd wake up with a sleeping whos asleep on the chair, looking disheveled.

"Jo.." You ruffle his hair, to which he leaned into, his eyes opening halfway before closing again.

And he falls into a much more peaceful slumber.

Shion Genkai 

"Did you just hurt my spouse?"

The dynamic with you and Shion is that only he can hurt you and/or make you cry, if anyone or anything else does it? Hohoho they're in for a treat.

Boss music intensifies.

He's the most (openly) hostile in this situation.

Someone else will have to carry you, because Shion would be a little too busy with the anomaly.

"You don't deserve to be happy" By happy he means cry which meant the anomaly was shredded to pieces immediately.

Personally, I think he wouldn't be by your bedside, depends on if you two are dating or not.

If you aren't dating him (yet), then he'd go about his day but will constantly ask about you.

Reason?

"I'd like to give my wife some space until she heals" Which was kinda sweet.

Though the moment you step into Dionysia, he's back to treatig you like normal, maybe with a little more care for your wounds.

"Do you have any stitches?" "Why are you limping?" Yadayadayada he'd ask until you're fully good, just so he can go back to his more...extreme ways of making you happy.

A good husband is one that makes his wife happy.

Mio Susuhara 

"!?"

Mio was shocked, one second the anomaly was nowhere in sight, everything was clear...or so he thought.

It immediately aimed for you, having sensed you were physically weaker than Mio. "Inspector!" Mio calls out, catching you in his arms as your shirt became soaked with your blood.

"Ack!" You'd spit blood out of your mouth, the pain blinding and insistent. "We need to get out of here" Mio mutters under his breath, scooping you up into his arms.

The ghoul started running towards the exit, using his body to shield you from the anomaly.

"Shit shit shit!" You haven't heard Mio swore like that...so serious and kinda frustrated...it was kinda hot, so hot that you couldn't control the grin forming on your face, a dazed, pained grin.

Mio noticed your grin ofcourse, but he didn't address it until you two were in the Galaxy Express. "What're you smiling about?" 

You just chuckled, sending a little shiver down his spine, "You're kinda hot when you're serious like that" Mio thought you were insane for a second "I think you're losing too much blood"

You however, kept talking in a dazed manner, which made Mio very concerned but atleast you were awake?

You didn't even realize when you were put on the Mortkraken bed because you were very very dizzy, like the world was spinning dizzy.

"I'm gonna administer anesthetsia, please stay still" Jiro put the needle in you, which knocked you out good even before the anesthesia got to you.

Mio however was still thinking about your words, like, was the amomaly poisonous orrr?

He'd wait for you to be fully healed by your bedside, texting his clients they'd have a bit of a move in schedule. (Which will make you feel kinda bad...)

When you wake up, Mio would be looking at you "Ah, you're awake" he says with a smile.

"Do you remember anything?" You shook your head, everything was a haze and you could only remember different parts seperately. "Well first you called my concerned face 'hot'"

"Oh I remember that well, that was intentional" You nodded, now Mio really froze.

Horror wasn’t sure what to make of Dust.

There were plenty of weird people at university - himself included. But Dust was… a particular flavour of weird. The kind of weird that made you wonder if he was actually a person or just some cryptid that had wandered onto campus and decided to stay.

He was easy to spot, at least. Always slouched, always in a hoodie and sweats, shuffling around in slippers with his ever-present red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. The rest of him looked like a disaster - his clothes wrinkled, his eyelights wild, his expression somewhere between dazed and vaguely amused - but that scarf? Pristine. Always clean. Always neat. It didn’t make sense.

But then again, nothing about Dust did.

Horror had seen him around. The first time, he’d assumed the guy was just some perpetually sleep-deprived student, muttering to himself and shambling across campus like a ghost with a caffeine addiction. But the more he saw him, the more odd details he picked up. The way vending machines never seemed to reject his money, no matter how finicky they were for everyone else. The way he always had a pen and would scribble random equations on napkins or receipts. The way he never showed up to lectures but somehow still aced exams.

And then, of course, there was the talking-to-himself thing. Not in the casual way people muttered under their breath, but full conversations. Arguments, even. Horror had walked past Dust in the library once and caught him saying, “That’s a fucking terrible idea,” to thin air, pausing, and then sighing. “No, it would not be funny. Stop.”

Horror had quickly pretended he hadn’t heard anything.

So yeah. Dust was weird.

But Horror didn’t make a habit of judging people too harshly. He knew he wasn’t the most approachable either, being a big guy with a scarred-up face, a thick build, and a permanent case of looking vaguely pissed off even when he wasn’t. Add the head wound that made his memory spotty and his hands a little shaky, and he figured most people saw him as some sort of brute. He got it. He didn’t blame them.

Which was why he didn’t really plan on ever talking to Dust.

Until the egg incident.

-

Horror liked the communal kitchen at night.

It was quiet, for one. For another, it meant he could take his time cooking without anyone hovering or making jokes about his size versus the tiny cakes he liked to make. And tonight? Tonight, he was making one of those tiny cakes. Or at least, he had been until he realised he was missing an egg.

“Shit,” he muttered, staring at the counter like the egg might magically appear if he glared hard enough. “Thought I had enough…”

He checked the fridge. No eggs. He checked his grocery bag. Still no eggs.

With a groan, he rubbed his face. It was a bigger issue than it sounded; he’d already pre-heated the oven, mixed most of the ingredients, and was at the point of no return. If he abandoned the cake now, the batter would go to waste. And after the day he’d had? He really needed this cake to happen.

Horror sighed, leaning against the counter. Maybe he could substitute something - banana? Yogurt? He wasn’t sure if he had either. Maybe he could knock on a few dorm doors and ask around. Or maybe he should just call it a loss and-

“Need an egg?”

Horror nearly jumped out of his skin as something heavy landed beside him. He turned sharply, hands clenching into reflexive fists - only to find Dust standing there, blank-faced as ever, dressed in his usual chaos of wrinkled sweats and that damn red scarf.

“Stars-” Horror started, his heartbeat still trying to settle. “Where the hell did you-?”

Dust cut him off by reaching into the pocket of his hoodie and pulling out… an egg.

Horror stared.

Dust held it out, wordlessly, like this was a completely normal thing to do. Like it wasn’t fucking insane that he had an egg just hanging out in his hoodie pocket.

Horror didn’t move at first. He wasn’t even sure how to respond. He had questions. So many questions. Where had the egg come from? How long had it been there? Why did Dust have an egg in his pocket? Why was he just handing it over?

More than anything, though, Horror was just… confused.

Dust raised an eyebrow. “You wanted an egg,” he said, like he was reminding Horror of some very simple, obvious fact.

“I- yeah, but-” Horror stopped himself. There was no logical way to approach this situation.

After a moment, he sighed, wiped his hands on his apron, and gingerly took the egg. It was cold. Fresh. Not cracked, not even slightly damaged from being in a pocket, somehow. Like it had just been taken out of the refrigerator a few seconds ago.

“…Thanks?” Horror said, though it came out more like a question.

Dust just nodded and turned to leave. No explanation, no lingering, nothing. Just a simple handoff, like a man on a mission, and then he was gone, shuffling back down the hall as silently as he’d arrived.

Horror stood there for a long moment, staring after him, before slowly looking back down at the egg in his hand.

“…What the fuck,” he muttered to himself.

But he used it.

Of course he did. He wasn’t about to let a perfectly good cake go to waste just because the circumstances around acquiring one single egg were deeply unsettling.

The cakes came out great.

-

Horror wasn’t the type to let things go. When something got stuck in his head, it stayed there, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts until he either dealt with it or let it drive him insane. And the whole Dust Egg Situation was one of those things.

So, he did what any reasonable person would do: he took a few of the finished mini cakes, packed them up, and went to find Dust’s dorm.

Tracking him down wasn’t hard. Identifiable was a good word for Dust. Everyone knew of him, even if no one really knew him. Horror asked a few people in the dorm hall if they knew where he stayed, and it only took two or three conversations before someone directed him to the right door.

Horror knocked.

There was a long pause before it swung open - except, the guy standing there was not Dust.

The monster at the door was big. Built, that was, because he was actually quite short. A scar under his right cheekbone and over his nasal ridge, wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants, arms crossed over his chest as he gave Horror a once-over with sharp, suspicious eyes. Horror blinked, momentarily thrown off by how Not-Dust the monster standing in front of him was.

“Can I help you?” Dust’s-maybe-friend asked, his higher than Horror had expected, but not unfriendly.

Horror cleared his throat, still a little thrown by the unexpected presence of someone so… imposing. “Uh, yeah, I’m looking for Dust. Is he here?”

Dust’s-possible-Roommate - who looked like he could bench press a small car - raised an browbone, “Did he give you something weird or did he piss you off? Cus I’m not his personal handler, but I’ll punch him in the face for you if you want.” He didn’t seem particularly bothered by the suggestion, more like he was offering a casual favour.

Horror blinked, unsure whether the guy was serious or not, but decided to keep his cool. “Uh, no, no, nothing like that. He just… gave me an egg. And, well, I made something with it, and I wanted to thank him. You know, for the egg.”

Dust’s-perhaps-brother’s face didn’t change. “He gave you an egg.”

“Yeah, just- It was helpful so I figured I’d return the favour..?” Horror trailed off, unsure how much more explanation would be necessary for the egg incident.

Dust’s-mayhaps-Lover started him down for a second longer, eyelights flaring in suspicion in narrowed sockets, before he seemed to decide that, yes, the situation was too weird to be anything but genuine. He deflated, letting his arms drop to his sides with a heavy sigh. “Yeah, that.. sounds like Dust. Right, fine, you can come in. He’s probably still in his cave.”

“Cave?”

“You’ll see.” He turned and called over his shoulder. “Dust! You’ve got a guest. Someone who wants to thank you for giving them an egg, apparently!”

There was a muffled voice from the back room that might have been a groan, or might have just been Dust making a noise for the sake of not coming out.

“Sit tight,” the guy said, stepping aside to let Horror in. “I’m Cross, by the way.”

“Horror,” he replied, ducking slightly as he stepped through the doorway. It was an old habit - he’d hit his head on too many low frames over the years, and more cranial trauma was the LAST thing he needed.

The dorm was… something.

Half the room looked like it had been touched by divine light and a military bootcamp at once - neatly organised bookshelves, immaculate floors, a faint scent of lavender and clean linen. The other half?

Chaos.

A storm of paper scraps, half-disassembled gadgets, what might have been a melted kettle (or possibly modern art), open textbooks stacked in precarious towers, mismatched mugs everywhere. Clothes strewn about, socks somehow pinned to the ceiling. A white noise machine hummed in the background, mingling with the low patter of rain sounds from a speaker in the corner.

Horror didn’t need to ask which half belonged to Dust.

Cross gestured vaguely toward the disaster zone. “Help yourself to the couch - if you can find any of it under that mess.”

Horror took a careful step forward, spotting a relatively clear spot on the edge of the couch and lowering himself down with the grace of someone trying not to break a student-loaned piece of furniture. He still clutched the small cake container in his hands like it was the most reasonable object in the room.

A minute passed. Then two.

He was about to ask if Cross had meant to actually retrieve Dust, or if this was some kind of weird hazing ritual, when he finally heard soft shuffling from the back. There was a faint clunk, a muttered curse, and then - Dust appeared.

Well. “Appeared” might have been generous. He half-limped, half-drifted into the room like a hungover ghost who’d overslept by a decade. His hood was up, his scarf wrapped tight, and his slippers made a soft sht-shhh noise against the floor as he dragged one foot slightly as he moved. He blinked at Horror like he wasn’t entirely sure he was real. His red scarf was perfectly wrapped, of course, but everything else looked like he’d just escaped a lab explosion - and maybe had.

“…Cake guy,” Dust said, voice low, rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

“…Egg guy,” Horror replied, equally flat.

There was a beat. Dust tilted his head slowly, sockets narrowing a fraction. “Did you come to give it back?”

“What- the egg? No. I used the egg. You gave me the egg.”

Dust considered this. “Yes.”

“I brought you cake,” Horror said, holding out the box like a peace offering. “To say thanks. You know. For the egg.”

Dust stared at it like it might explode. His hand didn’t move.

“…You don’t have to eat it right now,” Horror added quickly. “Or at all. I just thought- I mean, you saved my baking session, and that doesn’t happen a lot, so I figured it was polite.”

Finally, Dust reached out and took the box. He didn’t open it. Just looked at it, then back at Horror. “..Why’d ya do that?”

Horror blinked. “Do what? Bake something?”

“No.” Dust’s voice was soft, distant. “The returning part.”

Horror scratched at the back of his neck. “It’s… just manners, I guess. You helped me out. Didn’t have to, but you did. Figured I’d say thanks.”

Dust hummed, almost like he was tasting the words, turning them over in his mind to see if they made sense. “Weird.”

“Yeah,” Horror agreed, deadpan. “The egg part was already weird, though, so I figured we were past that.”

Dust ust stared at him, wonky eyelights staring into Horror’s soul, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sank down onto the edge of the couch, cake box balanced carefully on his knees, like it was something precious - or volatile. Horror watched him pick at the tape, fingers careful despite the ambient chaos that clung to the rest of him like static.

They sat in silence for a bit. The rain sounds in the background filled the space between them with a calm, distant rhythm, and the white noise machine hummed like the inside of a shell. Cross had vanished down the hallway at some point, giving them the kind of privacy that didn’t feel intentional but was deeply appreciated.

Eventually, Dust peeled the box open and peeked inside.

“They’re tiny.”

“They’re mini cakes.”

Dust blinked at them, brow faintly furrowed as though he was trying to solve a riddle, or maybe just trying to remember how food worked. “Why would you make them tiny? You’re… huge.”

Horror shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Big hands. Makes them look smaller. People laugh.”

Dust looked up. “You like that?”

A pause.

“I like feeding people,” Horror said eventually. “And tiny food makes them smile. Plus, it’s easier to make in batches. Less risk of it going bad before someone eats it.”

Dust stared at him for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he nodded. “Huh.”

He reached in, took one of the little cakes with oddly reverent hands, and just… held it. Didn’t eat it. Just looked at it like it was some tiny miracle that had fallen into his lap. Horror wasn’t sure if he was offended or flattered.

“Y’can eat it, you know,” he prompted after a moment.

Dust blinked once, twice. Then slowly, with the awkward focus of someone who hadn’t quite decided whether this was a trap or a gift from the gods, he lifted the mini cake to his mouth and took the smallest possible bite.

Horror watched him chew, dead silent, like he was observing a wild animal trying fruit for the first time.

Dust froze mid-chew. His sockets went wide, eyelights dilating with something close to awe. Then he gave a tiny, breathy exhale that might’ve been a laugh.

“Oh fuck,” Dust whispered. “She’s delicious.”

“She?” Horror repeated, both amused and slightly concerned.

Dust gestured vaguely with the half-eaten cake. “Her name’s definitely Susie.”

Horror blinked. “You named her.”

“You do,” Dust said, head tilted in confusion like a dog, “Thought I’d return the courtesy.”

“…How do you know I name them?”

Dust licked a crumb off his thumb with casual, unblinking focus. “You talk to them.”

Horror’s mouth opened. Then shut. He floundered for a second. “… I do not,” Horror managed, cheeks burning. “I don’t- talk to the food.”

Dust didn’t look up from where he was licking frosting off his finger with alarming dedication. “You told the last batch ‘sleep well, little guys’ before putting them in the fridge.”

Horror stared. “You were there?!”

“Library window. Good view. You hum badly when you bake.”

“I- okay, rude- ”

“Wasn’t a complaint,” Dust interrupted smoothly, finally looking up at him again. His expression was unreadable, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth that might’ve been a smirk, might’ve been a tic, or both. “Just an observation.”

“Observation,” Horror muttered, folding his arms. “Right.”

Dust didn’t even blink. “You were whispering sweet nothings to a lemon tart last Tuesday. Called her Lilith.”

Horror’s soul attempted to exit his body through sheer embarrassment. “Okay, that’s- nope. We’re not doing this.”

Dust took another bite of the cake - Susie - and chewed thoughtfully. “She deserved it. Good crust. Solid flavour profile. A little clingy, though.”

“You are not psychoanalysing my pastries.”

Dust raised a finger in solemn objection. “They’re people too.”

Horror ran a hand down his face with a groan, but he was laughing under it, helpless and hoarse. “Stars, you are so fucking weird.”

“‘Says the guy who named a cinnamon roll Benjamin.’”

“I never said Benjamin out loud- ”

“You muttered it. Real soft. Like you were ashamed of how much you loved him.”

“Okay,” Horror huffed, looking vaguely to the ceiling as if asking some divine power for strength, “you’ve clearly been eavesdropping for weeks, and this is officially harassment.”

Dust shrugged, entirely unbothered. “You’re welcome to file a complaint. I’ve got a form somewhere.” He began patting himself down half-heartedly, as if he genuinely might produce a complaint form from his hoodie pocket.

Instead, he pulled out a gum wrapper. Then another pen. Then - concerningly - a paperclip chain long enough to strangle a mid-sized dog. He looked at it blankly. “…This is not a form.”

Horror stared at it. “What in the actual- why do you have that?”

“For emergencies,” Dust replied, as if it were obvious.

“Emergencies that require four feet of linked paperclips?”

“You’d be surprised,” Dust said. Then tucked it back into his hoodie.

Horror didn’t even have the energy to press it. There were some battles you just let go.

He watched as Dust delicately finished Susie off in three more bites, licked his thumb again, and held the empty wrapper up like it was a treasured artifact. “She was magnificent. May she be remembered fondly.”

Horror blinked. “You… want more?”

Dust tilted his head. “Do I look like I can feed myself?”

Fair. Horror’s eyes flicked briefly to the apocalypse that was Dust’s half of the dorm, to the open coffee cup that was growing mold, to the charred whatever-it-was in the sink. “…You shouldn’t be allowed near ovens.”

“I’m banned from four.”

“Of course you are.”

Dust leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers tapping the empty box like he was deep in thought. ““…I like your cakes.”

The words were simple, but the way Dust said them made Horror pause. They weren’t just polite. They weren’t said out of obligation. They came out like a confession. Like something that had been sitting on the edge of his ribs for a while, waiting for the right moment to tumble out.

Horror glanced at him, surprised. Dust’s expression hadn’t changed, not really, but there was something in the way he held himself - shoulders dipped a little lower, hands relaxed against the cardboard like they trusted it. Like he trusted him.

“…Yeah?” Horror asked, quieter than before.

Dust gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

The silence returned, but it didn’t feel awkward now. It sat between them like a cat, warm and vaguely smug, purring into the hum of the white noise machine and soft rain.

Horror shifted on the couch, resting his forearms on his knees and letting his hands hang between them, relaxed. “So… do you do this often? Hand out emergency eggs to strangers?”

“Strangers?” Dust echoed, sounding almost offended. “I’ve watched you make cakes for a month.”

Horror arched a browbone. “That doesn’t make me not a stranger.”

Dust shrugged. “You hum the same song every time. You like lemon zest even when the recipe doesn’t call for it. You do the little wrist shake when you mix batter. That’s not stranger shit.”

Horror rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks burning faintly. “Alright, stalker. You’ve made your point.”

Dust grinned. “Observer.”

“Stalker.”

“Enthusiast.”

“Psycho with an egg in his hoodie.”

Dust blinked at that. Something flickered behind his sockets - not hurt, not quite - but something sharper, something smaller, like a twitch behind the eyes you weren’t supposed to see.

Then he blinked again, and it was gone, replaced by a flat sort of amusement that was a little too practised.

He let out a soft huff. “You wound me.”

Horror didn’t miss the shift - but he let it go. Just tilted his head and gave a snort. “Good. You’re weird as hell.”

Dust perked back up like nothing had happened. “So are you.”

“Yeah, well, I own it.”

Dust’s grin stretched wider. “You name your cakes.”

Horror groaned. “We’re back to this.”

Dust held up the now-empty box like it was evidence. “I just think if they’re going to die delicious, they deserve an identity.”

“They’re not dying-” Horror stopped himself. Took a breath. “Okay. Technically, yes. But they’re pastries. They don’t have souls.”

Dust tilted his head again, eyes sparkling with something unnameable. “That’s speciesist.”

Horror opened his mouth to argue, stopped, then narrowed his sockets. “Are you telling me you believe in pastry souls?”

Dust didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set the empty cake box on the coffee table - or at least the vague pile of books and laundry that might have once been a coffee table - and looked up at Horror with that eerie sort of sincerity he wore like a second skin. “I’m just saying, if someone whispered loving affirmations to me while I was being born into a 350-degree oven, I’d probably haunt them forever.”

Horror stared at him. “That’s not-”

“And,” Dust continued, voice solemn, “if I came out golden and perfect and was immediately devoured, I’d want a name.”

“Jesus Christ,” Horror muttered, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge.

“Dust, actually.”

Horror let out a bark of laughter despite himself. “You’re cracked.”

Dust’s eyelights flared with delight. “That’s egg-cellent. Keep going.”

“No.”

“One more?”

“Absolutely not.”

Dust grinned wide. “You’re yolking.”

“Dust.”

“Egg-xactly.”

Horror buried his face in his hands. “Stars help me.”

“Don’t worry,” Dust said, patting his arm solemnly. “I’m egg-stremely supportive.”

“Stop.”

“I shell try.”

There was a pause, then a wheezing snort that bubbled up from Horror’s chest before he could stop it. He tried to smother it with his hand, but Dust caught it, grinning like he’d just discovered gold in his couch cushions.

“I knew you had a laugh in there,” Dust said, pleased with himself.

“I do,” Horror admitted, tone dry. “You’re just lucky I didn’t choke on my own tongue trying not to.”

Dust gave him a mock-bow where he sat, sweeping his scarf dramatically. “My talents are many. Inducing laughter-related cardiac events is just one of them.”

Horror squinted. “Is that why Cross offered to punch you for me?”

Dust gave a lopsided shrug. “He likes to feel useful.”

“And what, being a pain in the ass is your way of helping him stay busy?”

“Exactly. I’m a very giving person.”

“…You gave me an egg.”

Dust pointed at him. “See?”

Horror shook his head, fighting another smile. “Stars, you’re unreal.”

Dust leaned back against the lopsided couch cushions with a pleased sigh, hands folded over his now box-less lap like he’d just performed some ancient rite. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m not sure what it is,” Horror muttered. “But it’s definitely something.”

“‘Something’ is better than nothing,” Dust replied, then leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Nothing is boring. You’re not boring. Therefore, we’re friends now.”

Horror blinked slowly. “…That’s how this works?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure. You bring someone a tiny cake named Susie and laugh at their egg puns - friendship sealed. Boom. Social contract.”

“That’s not a social contract, Dust. That’s a hostage situation in a bakery.”

Dust looked thoughtful. “Could be both.”

Horror chuckled again, low and reluctant. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” Dust said, lolling his head to the side with a crooked grin, “you haven’t left.”

“…I haven’t.”

They let the quiet hang for a bit, letting it stretch comfortably. The rain on the speakers hadn’t stopped - still steady, still rhythmic - and the hum of the white noise machine had become less noticeable, folding into the atmosphere of the room like background radiation.

Dust shifted, his scarf slipping slightly down one shoulder. Horror glanced at it - still perfectly clean, like it had been pulled out of a sterile museum display instead of worn by someone who looked like they bathed in espresso and nightmares.

“Where’d you get the scarf?” Horror asked, surprising even himself.

Dust blinked, slow and owlish, like the question had been in a different language. “Hmm?”

“Your scarf,” Horror said again. “It’s always clean. Even though you’re…” He gestured vaguely at Dust’s Everything.

“Oh.” Dust looked down at it, fingers brushing it lightly. The change in him was small, but immediate - the faintest shift in posture, the way his hand lingered just a bit longer than necessary. “It was a gift,” he said simply.

“From who?”

There was a pause. Then:

“My favourite hallucination,” Dust said, matter-of-fact.

Horror blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Dust didn’t look up. “Nope.”

“…So, a hallucination gave you that scarf. And you… kept it?”

Dust nodded.

“How.”

Dust tilted his head again, sockets wide like it was the most reasonable question in the world. “Wouldn’t you keep a gift from someone who only exists when your brain’s on fire?”

Horror opened his mouth. Closed it again. Thought about it.

“…Okay, when you put it like that, it just sounds metal.”

Dust snorted softly. “It is kind of cool.”

“Also a little terrifying.”

Dust grinned. “That’s me.”

Silence again. Not the bad kind. The kind that said you don’t have to fill this space if you don’t want to.

Horror leaned back, hands folded across his stomach now. He wasn’t sure when his guard had dropped. He wasn’t even sure he’d noticed it going. But something about Dust’s honesty - off-kilter, raw, matter-of-fact - was weirdly comforting. The guy wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Wasn’t even really trying to be understood. He just was.

It was kind of… refreshing.

“So,” Dust said after a while. “What are you gonna name the next batch?”

“…You think I’m gonna tell you?” Horror asked, amused.

Dust put a hand over his chest in mock betrayal. “After all we’ve been through? Susie would be heartbroken.”

“She’s crumbs in your hoodie now.”

“She lives on in spirit.”

“Again: pastries do not have spirits.”

“You just lack faith.”

Horror let out a slow breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Alright then. Fine. I’ll tell you one.”

Dust perked up instantly.

“Next batch,” Horror said, smirking slightly, “I was thinking of making little lemon cakes. You know what that means?”

Dust’s sockets brightened in anticipation and maybe hunger.

“Her name will be Ethel.”

Dust gasped like he’d just been given the nuclear launch codes. “Ethel.” He whispered it like a prayer. “She sounds regal.”

Horror couldn’t help it. He laughed - real, warm, unguarded. “Regal?”

Dust nodded solemnly. “You don’t name a lemon cake Ethel unless she’s got secrets. Unless she’s lived through at least one world war, three marriages, and still wakes up every day to terrorise the HOA.”

Horror laughed harder, shaking his head. “She’s got four lemon zests and a grudge.”

“She made her first lemon tart during Prohibition and never looked back.”

“She serves it to her enemies.”

“She is the enemy.”

Dust smacked the arm of the couch. “Ethel was born spiteful. She’ll stain your teeth with citrus and judgment.”

“She haunts fridges.”

“She is the fridge!”

They both broke then, giggling like teenagers, breathless and wheezing - Dust collapsing sideways with a strangled little sound that could not be real.

It wasn’t even a laugh - it was a full-on, wheezy, high-pitched giggle that sounded like it had snuck out without his permission. It tore out of him like a balloon deflating through a kazoo, helpless and shrill. Like a dying tea kettle mixed with a cartoon hyena.

Horror stared.

Dust clapped a hand over his mouth too late, eyes wide in panic.

Horror blinked at him, clearly startled. “…That’s your laugh?”

Dust froze, then slowly tugged his hood lower over his face like a turtle retreating into its shell. “No it’s not,” he mumbled, absolutely mortified.

Horror was still staring. Then - slowly - he grinned. A full, amused, genuine grin, the kind that didn’t come easy to him but felt worth it now.

“Stars,” he said, and laughed again, softer this time. “You sound like a broken whistle.”

Dust curled a little more inwards, clearly trying to die on the couch. “I will kill you and bake you into a pie. I swear.”

“You’d name it after me.”

“No, I’d name it Sharon.”

Horror snorted. “Why Sharon?”

“Because Sharon tastes like betrayal and too much nutmeg.”

There was a long pause. Then they both cracked, dissolving into laughter again - Dust’s a shrill wheeze muffled by his scarf, Horror’s deep and gravelly and coming from somewhere in his ribs. It was ridiculous. It was stupid. And it felt better than anything had all week.

Eventually, they both slumped against the couch like they’d just survived a war.

Dust sighed, defeated. He melted deeper into the couch, arms folded and scarf now halfway up his face like a security blanket. “I liked you better when you were just Cake Guy.”

“You mean when I hadn’t named your pastry’s soul and witnessed your horrifying laugh?”

Dust gave a one-finger salute from beneath the folds of fabric. “Exactly that.”

They fell into silence again, but it was different now. Softer, more lived-in. The sort of quiet that came when you realised you didn’t have to be funny, or clever, or particularly normal anymore. You could just… be.

Horror stretched his legs out, one heel knocking over a pile of newspapers that had definitely been there since the semester started. Dust didn’t even react.

“I’ll bring you more cake,” Horror said eventually.

Dust blinked at him, surprised. “Why?”

Horror shrugged. “Because you named Susie. Because you laughed like a dying goose. Because you’re weird.”

Dust tilted his head again, blinking slowly, expression unreadable for a moment - and then a soft, genuine smile bloomed on his face. Not the cracked little grin he used when he was plotting something unholy, or the sharp-toothed smirk that usually came with caffeine-fuelled chaos. This one was different. Quiet. Honest.

“Cool,” he said softly. Then added, even softer: “I’ll save you an egg.”

Horror blinked.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have felt like anything. But something about the way Dust said it - like it was sacred, like it was some kind of promise - made Horror’s chest tighten just a little.

He chuckled low in his throat, rubbing the back of his head. “Well. Clearly, I owe you a whole carton now.”

“I take payment in baked goods,” Dust said solemnly. “And firstborns.”

“I’ll give you muffins,” Horror replied dryly. “And you can pretend they’re the children of my labour.”

Dust’s whole face lit up, alarmingly fast, like a child being handed a flamethrower. Horror could actually see the exact moment he came up with the joke, and braced for impact.

Dust opened his mouth-

“Don’t say ‘bun in the oven,’” Horror said instantly, jabbing a finger at him. “I swear to god.”

Dust’s jaw snapped shut with a tiny squeak. His shoulders trembled with held-back laughter, eyelights wide and manic.

“But- ”

“No.”

“C’monnnn.”

“I’ll take the muffins back.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Dust whispered, scandalised.

“I will eat Susie’s siblings in front of you.”

Dust gasped, hand to his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “You’re a monster.”

Horror gave him a toothy grin. “So I’ve been told.”

Dust’s eyes sparkled with unspent mischief. “Okay but… what if I do say it?”

“I’ll egg your bed.”

Dust threw his arms wide in theatrical defeat. “I’m already sleeping in crumbs!” he wailed. “Do your worst!”

And Horror looked at him - really looked - and realised with a sharp, unexpected certainty that somehow, without meaning to, they’d crossed a threshold.

This wasn’t just banter.

It wasn’t just some weird night and a weirder cake exchange.

It was a beginning. Something small and strange and alive, like the whisper of a song you hadn’t meant to hum, or a name carved in icing, or an egg from a strangers pocket.

And so, he smiled.

And Dust, scarf slipping loose, cheeks flushed with laughter and too many terrible puns, smiled back.

“What do you think, Recluse?”

What did he think? In all honesty he hadn’t been paying attention too closely. The weather had taken more out of him than he thought it would. Who on Earthbread would have been able to predict such a snow squall? It wasn’t as if he could have chosen to stay home either, it struck in the middle of his journey and it had been too late to turn around. A day sooner, an hour sooner, and Recluse wouldn’t have been able to make the journey at all.

 Fate conspired against him. It always did when it wanted to garner favor from the Sage of Truth.

He had long given up on turning towards Sage’s window in hopes that the raging storm had quelled some of its fury and instead resided himself to a comfortable spot in the chair by Sage’s desk. Said desk was currently a mess of scratched out parchments and ink stains, clearly indicative of hastily changed lesson plans.  Recluse wouldn’t have been all that surprised if he had been reworking lesson plans since he spotted the first specks of snow outside.

“What do I think?” Recluse repeated, “I think you are overthinking and putting in more effort than your students will notice.” There was no use beating around the bush, it was a bitter truth, but Sage would never ask him to dull the blade of his words. His honesty was appreciated, especially when others were too worried about speaking their minds to the all knowing and wise Sage of Truth. 

And that fear had isolated Sage.

A relatable loneliness in Recluse’s opinion, but loneliness all the same.

Sage clicked his tongue and made another tiny note with the quill in his hand. “You're such a pessimist my Dear Recluse.”  His cheek had a rather large ink smudge on it that he doubted he even noticed. For an individual who fancied white, Recluse was surprised he didn’t have more stains on his clothing with how furiously he scribbled away.  Not just in his notes and ledgers, but in the hundreds of letters sent to his own quiet tower.

“But perhaps you're right, they won’t appreciate the work I put in.” Sage strutted across the room, heels clicking as he scanned over the parchment once more, his hair flowing and shimmering in what little light filtered through the room. Then he smiled, “But they will certainly appreciate a snow day or two, and I’m doubly certain they will appreciate an engaging and condensed lecture to make up for missed time in class.”

Such an optimist, this one. 

“I just have to decide what I wish to move around. The substitutions of alchemy must remain unedited and intact for safety purposes, and taking out anything in regards to the Witches is out of the question… Forbidden magic perhaps? But what if that makes it too enticing? I wouldn't-”

“Sage, will the entirety of my visit be consumed by your spiraling rambles?” Recluse stood from the chair as Sage's head finally snapped up from the document. Perhaps his chilled bones and the fact that he had trudged against  the storm against reason had made him less tolerant for it all. Or maybe he wished to discuss something more meaningful than those thoughtless and thankless sheep.  “If so I don’t know why you invited me over.”

And he would head home… if he could. Alas, there was no choice with the raging storm.

“Oh my Dear Recluse, I apologize!” Sage abandoned his parchment. He always moved quicker than Recluse anticipated, flitting to and fro like a honey bee buzzing from flower to flower. He had a bountiful garden of tasks, all of which required his attention and none of which he could organize properly. Recluse tried, trailing behind him, redirecting his attention, helping him place importance. How he managed before him, Recluse had no idea. 

“I just want to make sure they get the most out of my lesson plans and my teachings. The storm throws a wrench into the plans I made you know. There are so many topics to cover and such little time! Oh! How about tea? I can have a fresh pot brewing in no time,” his words were quick in their succession, yet each syllable was given the same prompt punctuation as the last. Sage was a gifted speaker and Recluse couldn’t help but believe that if he really wanted to he could group two of his lesson plans together  without the fear of expanding his scheduled time for his students. “Do you have a preference of flavor?”

Recluse shook his head, “Not particularly. I am fond of most of the blends you acquire.” 

“Lucky for us Herald sent me some new blends and they arrived before the storm hit. What do you say we sample them together?”

And so Recluse continued to listen as Sage yammered on and on. He talked about the blends themselves, the plants which they came from, their medicinal properties, folk lore he’d read about them, favored blends among his friends, visiting his friends... This was the thing about Sage: everything was connected. He himself was one long string of unending thought, a run on sentence personified. At one point, Recluse may have found his voice grating and agitating when compared to the silence of his home.

Now? 

He found a strange comfort in it. Something that soothed a dullness in his very soul. 

“I apologize that you will be stuck here for the foreseeable future,” Sage sighed, taking a seat next to him once more on the chaise. “I know you like to return to your solitude to recoup after visits.”

“Think nothing of it.” It was times like this when a small part of Recluse wished he could force more emotion into his voice. His words sounded so flat even to his own ears. But he couldn’t so he decided to add more to his words. “You do not drain my energy nearly as quickly as most.” 

He meant that. He really did. From the deepest parts of himself. 

Sage was a special person to him, and their time together was something he cherished. Why else would he make such a trek so far from his home? Why else wouldn’t he turn around in such a treacherous storm? He could lie to himself, say that it was too late to turn around and head home, but he knew the truth. Seeing Sage was something he enjoyed, even with all of his constant yammering. He liked when he chose to walk, letting his heels click against the smooth stone tiles. He liked the way his sentences would trail off into a hum or a click of thought before continuing on. He loved their debates, illuminated by candlelight and carried off by soft summer breezes.  

“You were contemplating your lessons before,” Recluse said, taking a sip of his tea. It warmed his bones and the spices lingered on his tongue. “You could use teas or other herbed consumables  to shorten some of your lessons on potions. Use it to show them how different ingredients can come together. You could also use it as a metaphor for the Witches and creation.”

There was silence, and then a light warmth against his cheek, which transformed into a weight on his shoulder.

The heat that rose in his cheeks had nothing to do with the spices in the tea. 

“Some may disagree with me, but I think you are very kind Recluse.”

“I think the some may be many.”

Sage snorted and his laughter shook Recluse’s shoulder. He had to sip at his tea once more to hide his own smile. A kiss on the cheek and laughter? Oh how the Witches were spoiling him. Sage had a unique laugh and when his jokes landed it made him feel proud. After all, many found his dry humor more concerning than funny, but Sage understood.

Sage pulled himself closer,  wrapping his arms around Sage’s and making himself more comfortable on his shoulder. The silence stretched on and settled over them comfortably so. Every now and again the wind would rattle the windows as the storm continued to rage on. There was no telling how long it would continue on nor when his path would be walkable, but neither mattered. 

“Dear Recluse?”

Sage’s voice was softer. Soft in a tactful way lest he shatter the fragile atmosphere that settled over them. Soft in a way that was so different from his normal boisterous tone. His fingers were carefully tracing along him, gentle meaningless meaningful shapes. He was also holding on tight in his softness.

Almost as if he feared scaring Recluse away.

“I am… fortunate that we can spend this time together…. It means the world to me.”

The shapes stopped and Sage’s fingers twitched as the anxiety settled over him, his grip tightening around Recluse’s arm. 

Recluse mulled over his next words allowing the silence to settle from its disturbance once more. He wanted it to settle before he caused his own ripples in its smooth surface. He set his tea down, letting it clink against his saucer and settled Sage’s anxieties with the weight of his own head on top of his. That would have been enough, Recluse knew it was more than enough, and yet tonight he would go the extra mile. Tonight he would make Sage’s heart flutter with the delicate wings of joy. It wasn’t conceit that inspired these thoughts. He noticed the way Sage looked at him, the secrets he thought he kept so hidden from the world. 

This was no secret.

This was simply unspoken.

But that didn’t make it any less real, any less true.

“My Dearest Sage. Our time together is not something I would trade for all of Earthbread.”

For once, Sage had nothing to say. His arms tightened around Recluse. It was an act of desperation, an act of unfathomable happiness. Perhaps they were both dreaming, and in the morning the raging storm will have been nothing but an act of some higher power playing with the yearnings of their hearts’ deepest desires. 

But for now they were together.

Just them and an unspoken but known truth stretched between them. 

And for now, just for now, that was more than enough. 

Oh how lucky Sage was that Fortune favored him.