you used to come home from long days at work with stories spilling out of you, filling the space with laughter and little details only he would care about.

you used to curl into him on the couch, half-watching your favourite shows, half-talking about everything and nothing at the same time.

your nights always stretched on, wrapped in the hush of whispered promises and the safety of the dreams you built together in the dark.

it isn’t like that anymore.

somewhere along the way, the laughter has thinned, the nights have gone quiet, and even your words feel too heavy to carry.

it’s been a long time since you came home with enough energy left in you to talk without forcing it. to meet his eyes without looking away. to show him that the person he fell in love with is still in there, somewhere.

maybe two weeks. maybe two months. maybe longer.

since then, it’s been the same routine; unlock the door, drop your bag, and try not to think about how heavy it feels to move at all.

tonight is no different.

your keys slip once before you get them into the lock. your shoulder aches from carrying your bag, and you don’t even have the energy to be annoyed about it until the strap catches on the doorframe and yanks you backwards.

you step inside, and your shared apartment is filled with the scent of garlic and soy sauce.

you know he’s cooking for you. you know he’s only doing it because he knows you won’t do it for yourself. you also know you’ll take about three bites before you push it away and claim you’re full.

“jagi?” his voice comes from the kitchen. warm, but still cautious.

“yeah,” you answer, setting your bag on the table. as you let go of the handle, it tips over, causing the pen inside to roll onto the floor and disappear underneath the couch.

of course.

you crouch down and try to reach for it. your fingertips brush the edge before it slides further back. you give up.

he comes out, wiping his hands on a towel. “dinner’s almost ready. you wanna eat at the table or on the couch?”

“couch,” you say. you want to be horizontal. you want to disappear.

you sink down into your usual spot on the couch, and start scrolling through your phone, trying not to think about the way the quiet between the two of you feels a lot heavier lately.

you honestly can’t quite remember the last time you actually talked. you’ve been too tired. too drained. even when he’s next to you, you can’t seem to get out of your own head long enough to meet him in the middle.

he sets the plate down in front of you, as he sits beside you with his own. “how was work?”

you shrug. “long.”

“anything interesting happen?” he asks, clearly trying to initiate a conversation.

you shut it down quickly. “no.”

it’s not that you don’t want to tell him things. it’s that every spoken sentence uses the same amount of energy as lifting something heavy over your head.

you eat two bites before setting the plate down. “i’m full.”

he glances at the plate, then at you, his brows drawing together. “that’s it?” his voice is low and careful, like he’s afraid of pushing too hard. “you barely touched it, aein.”

“i’m just not feeling good, hyun. i’m sorry.” you manage to say, as you reach for your phone again.

he sighs quietly and turns the tv on. you sit quietly beside him, the glow of both your screens lighting up the room.

this is what your evenings have become; parallel lives in the same space.

but tonight, he’s not letting it go.

after a few minutes of nothing but silence between the two of you, he turns the tv off and sets the remote down gently. “you know, i feel like i barely even see you anymore.”

you keep your eyes on your phone. “i’m sitting right here.”

“that’s not what i mean.” his voice is steady, but you can hear the frustration under it. “you’re here, but you’re…not here. not really. mentally, you’re somewhere else.”

you swallow hard. “i’m just tired.”

“you’ve been ‘just tired’ for weeks now, jagi.” he argues, his voice laced with concern.

something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten. “so what? i can’t help it.”

“i know you can’t help being tired,” he says, his voice a little sharper now, “but i’m doing everything i can to make things easier for you, and it still feels like it’s not enough for you. you barely even look at me anymore.”

you freeze. you know he doesn’t mean it in a harsh or judgmental way, but it lands in the softest, most sensitive part of you. the part of you that already believes you’re failing him.

“i didn’t realize there was a quota i had to meet,” you say quietly.

“that’s not what i—” he cuts himself off with a sigh, and runs a hand through his hair. “i’m just…i’m trying my best, and nothing works. i make dinner, i clean up, i try to talk to you, and you either give me one-word answers, or nothing at all. i just miss you. i miss us.”

your throat burns. “i’m sorry if i’m not enough for you right now. i’m trying my best too, you know.” you don’t mean for it to come out so aggressively, it just does.

his voice rises without him meaning it to. “that’s not what i’m saying—”

“well that’s how it feels!” you snap, much louder than you mean to be.

“i can’t keep guessing what’s wrong,” he says, matching your volume now. “you won’t talk to me, you won’t eat, you won’t let me help, and i’m terrified that i’m losing you!”

the sound of his voice, loud and frustrated, feels like someone dropped glass inside of your chest.

you stand abruptly, heart racing. “i can’t do this right now.”

you storm off to your shared bedroom while stomping your feet like a child, and slam the bedroom door shut behind you. the sound lingers, too loud in your ears, and vibrating through your bones.

you don’t even make it two steps into the room before your knees buckle, causing you to drop near the edge of the bed.

your whole body feels wrong; too tight in some places, too loose in others. your breath stumbles in and out, but not enough to pull a real breath in.

your hands are cold and unsteady as you press them to your temples, almost in an attempt to hold yourself together by force.

the first sob rips out of you without warning, jerking your shoulders forward. you clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t stop the noise. it never does.

your mind starts its usual loop of thoughts.

you ruin everything. you’re useless. he’s already tired of this. you’re nothing but weight. he’d be happier without you. they all would. you take up space you don’t deserve.

these thoughts are nothing new, they’re just louder tonight.

you pull your knees up to your chest, curling so small your back starts to ache. you shrink smaller and smaller, your body folding in tighter until all that’s left is the faint rocking, back and forth. another desperate attempt to keep you from falling apart completely.

the door bursts open before you can brace for it, the sudden crack of sound jolting through you. you flinch hard, eyes squeezing shut against the noise and the spill of harsh hallway light flooding the room.

you don’t lift your head, but you feel him; the rush of movement, the weight of his presence. he doesn’t hesitate. he’s on the floor in front of you in an instant, like nothing in the world could hold him back.

“jagi—” his voice cracks hard on the word. “oh god…oh my god, baby.” his hands are already on you, cupping your arms, your shoulders, trying anything he can to see your face. “i’m here. i’m—i’m right here.”

you try to speak, but only a broken sound comes out, your lips trembling too hard to form a proper word.

“don’t—don’t force it,” he says quickly, almost tripping over his words. “just—breathe. please, just—can you—fuck—can you try to match me?”

he shifts closer, pulling you into his chest, one arm firm around your back, his other hand at the base of your skull. he begins exaggerating his own breathing so that you can hear it.

you make the effort, chest straining to draw in a full breath, but it collapses midway, broken apart as another sob crashes through you.

“that’s okay, that’s okay, jagi,” he murmurs fast. “again—just a little—yeah, just a little bit at a time.”

you grip onto his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left, causing your knuckles to ache from the tension.

he’s breathing for the both of you now, the rise and fall under your cheek steady despite the tremor in his voice. “you’re safe,” he says into your hair. “you’re safe with me aein, i promise.”

“i…i can’t do this anymore,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you even know what they mean, like your chest is confessing what your mouth won’t.

he stills completely for a second. you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.

“w-what do you—” his voice stutters, then softens like he’s afraid of scaring you further. “baby…what do you mean?”

you try to answer, but the panic claws its way up your throat faster than you can control it. your sobs catching and breaking every word before it’s even formed. “i…i can’t—i don’t—” you choke, shaking your head hard.

his hand presses to your chest, desperate but gentle. “baby, breathe—please—just breathe with me, yeah? in and out…just a little, that’s all.” his own voice cracks, betraying how close he is to breaking too.

“i don’t…i don’t want to be alive anymore.” the words fall off of your tongue before you can think twice about it.

everything in him freezes, like the air’s been ripped straight from his lungs. his arms tighten around you, shaking uncontrollably.

when he speaks again, it’s broken and fragile. “n-no…no, don’t say that, please. please, jagi.” you feel him swallow hard against your hair, his chest heaving under your cheek. “you’re my whole life. i can’t—i can’t lose you. i can’t.”

you can’t stop. the panic claws through you, faster than your lungs can keep up. “i can’t be here anymore,” you sob, words ripped apart by airless gasps. “every day it gets harder. i wake up and i don’t want to. i come home and i’m empty and—” your throat tears, your whole body shaking. “and i’m ruining everything. i’m ruining you.”

“no—god, no,” he chokes, shaking his head so hard his forehead presses softly against yours. his tears fall hot onto your skin, mixing with your own. “you’re not ruining anything. you’re hurting, baby, that’s all. hurting doesn’t make you less, it just means you need—” his voice cuts, trembling. “it just means you need me here. and i’m here. i’m right here.”

the guilt burns through you, bitter and sharp. “look at you,” you sob, your voice raw. “you’re crying because of me. i’m breaking you too.”

his breath shudders and he grabs your face in both hands, gentle even though he’s shaking. “then break me,” he says instantly, hoarse but sure. “if it means i get to keep you, then break me. i don’t care. i’ll take it, jagi. i’ll take all of it—every piece, even the ones you hate. just…don’t leave me. please.”

your whole body jerks with every sob, words tearing themselves out of you in broken pieces. “i don’t know how to stop it—i don’t know how to make it go away. i’m not the same anymore, hyun. i’m not the girl you fell in love with, and i don’t know how to be her again.”

his thumbs swipe across your cheeks, catching the tears that won’t stop. his face is wet too, eyes red and raw, but his voice stays low, steadying even while it trembles. “listen to me. i didn’t fall in love with you because you were perfect or easy. i fell in love with you—all of you. the way you laugh, the way you care, the way you just…exist beside me. you’re still her, jagi. you’re still mine.”

your chest heaves like it’s going to split open. “you don’t get it,” you sob, words torn apart by hiccups of air. “i’m hurting you, and i don’t know how to stop.”

his arms crush you tighter, like he’s trying to hold every piece of you together. his voice is wrecked, cracked through with tears. “no. no, baby, please. you aren’t hurting me. you…you are me. you’re my whole heart. do you understand? i’m not here despite you, i’m here because of you.”

“but i’m not her anymore,” you gasp, shaking your head so hard it makes you dizzy. “i’m not the girl you fell in love with. i don’t laugh, i don’t talk, i don’t—” your voice cracks, throat raw. “i don’t know how to get her back. i don’t know how to be enough for you.”

his forehead presses against yours again, his tears still slipping down your cheeks with your own. “stop—please stop, jagi.” his voice shudders, fragile and broken. “you don’t have to go back to anything. i love you. right here, right now. even when you’re hurting. even when you’re crying in my arms. i’d take you like this a thousand times over losing you once.”

your voice trembles through the sobs, breaking unevenly, but the thoughts still push their way out. “but i make you scared. i see it—i see it in your face. i don’t want to do that to you. i don’t want to break you too.”

he shakes his head hard, grabbing your face with trembling hands. his voice cracks open. “of course i’m scared, baby. i’m scared because i love you. not because of you. it’s never because of you.”

he pauses to let out a shaky breath. “i’m scared of a world without you in it. i’m scared because i didn’t see it—because you were drowning right in front of me and i…i didn’t know.” his whole body shakes with sobs, guilt pouring out of him. “i should’ve seen it. i should’ve asked. i should’ve been closer. i’m so sorry.”

your chest burns with the weight of it, guilt and grief colliding together. “i didn’t…i didn’t want you to see me like this. i thought—i thought it would hurt you less if i kept it in.”

“no,” he whispers, voice trembling but firm. “no, baby. it hurts more to know you’ve been alone with this. it kills me to think you’ve been waking up every day feeling like this and i—i just kissed your forehead and thought giving you space was enough. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, jagi. i love you. i love you so much.”

his arms tighten like he’s bracing against the idea of you slipping away. his tears won’t stop, now falling into your hair, his breath ragged and uneven. “please don’t go where i can’t follow you. break me, hurt me, scare me—i’ll take all of it. just…just stay. stay with me. i need you. more than anything, i need you.”

your sobs are jagged, tearing out of you until your chest burns. until every breath feels like it might be your last. your body shakes so hard it feels like you might come apart completely in his arms.

you squeeze your eyes shut. “i’m not—i’m not gonna do anything. i think i would get too scared to follow through with it.” you manage, your voice warping with every breath. “i just…i keep thinking about it. all the time. every day. i’m so tired, hyun. i just…want it to stop.”

his arms tighten a little, and for a second he just holds you like that’s the only thing he knows how to do. you can feel his heart beating against your cheek, faster than usual, and it makes your own chest ache worse.

“jagi…” he says it slowly, like it’s fragile in his mouth. “you’ve been...feeling like this, every day?”

you nod once, but it’s small, barely there. your face is still pressed into him, your breathing jagged and broken.

every inhale is a fight, and every time you try to speak for too long, it catches in your throat and falls apart into another sob.

he doesn’t rush you. his hand comes back to your chest, warm and steady, his thumb rubbing slow circles. “baby, feel my hand. just…try to breathe here, okay? not too deep, just…enough.”

you try, but your ribs barely expand.

his breath is uneven against your hair, but he forces himself to speak, his words shaky and tender all at once. “baby…let’s try our four breaths, yeah?” his thumb brushes over your wet cheek, while his hand stays trembling where it holds you.

four breaths wasn’t something either of you learned from anywhere.

it started on a night when you were panicking so badly, he didn’t know what else to do, so he just made something up. he had asked you to breathe with in him, while counting to four, hold it, and let it out slowly, while counting backwards from four.

you’d clung to the rhythm like a lifeline, shaky and uneven, and he stayed with you through every second. now, whenever he says it, you know it means more than just breathing; it means he’s here, holding you. loving you through it all.

his voice is still quiet and uneven, but he keeps it steady enough to guide you. “we’ll do it together, jagi. just like before. don’t push hard—just follow me.”

you close your eyes as he begins to count for you. you try your hardest, but the first breath stutters and collapses into another sob, your chest seizing before he can even reach three.

“shh, it’s okay,” he whispers, tightening his hold, his thumb stroking under your eye even though his own hand is still shaking. “it doesn’t have to be perfect. i’ve got you. we’ll try again.”

he breathes in slow, deliberate, his chest rising against yours. you fight to follow, your body still trembling too hard, but he anchors you; his hand on your chest, his arms around your back, his voice murmuring soft encouragements into your hair.

every time your breath falters, he catches you with his own, grounding you in the steady rhythm he refuses to let go of.

little by little, the jagged edge of your sobs softens, enough for one shaky inhale to stretch a fraction deeper than before. it isn’t clean, it isn’t easy, but it’s something.

he feels it the moment your breath doesn’t break all the way through, when the air makes it just a little deeper into your lungs before it shudders out. his forehead stays pressed against yours, and he finally lets out his own breath.

“there,” he whispers, almost in awe when your breath catches a little steadier. “there she is, there’s my girl…you’re here.” his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, his tears falling freely. “you’re doing so good, baby.”

your chest cracks with another sob, quieter this time, and you shake your head against him. “i don’t deserve you.”

his whole body jolts, like the words knocked the air out of him. “what?” his voice is raw, shaky, disbelieving. “jagi, no—don’t… don’t say that. please.”

you try to turn your face away, but his hands cradle you tighter, his thumbs trembling against your wet skin.

“baby, how could you ever think that?” his voice cracks again, desperate but still so gentle. “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. do you hear me? the best thing. i don’t care how dark it feels right now—nothing could ever make you unworthy of love. not mine, not anyone’s.”

your chest stutters with another sob, guilt clawing up your ribs like it’s trying to split you open from the inside.

he only holds you tighter, his palm pressed firm and steady against your chest, anchoring you to the rhythm of his own breathing like he’s begging his lungs to keep you alive when yours refuse to.

he’s always been your anchor; the steady weight that keeps you from drifting when everything else is pulling you apart.

you take another shaky breath against his palm, and it hurts less knowing his chest is rising with yours, like he’s promising to keep you tethered to the world.

he presses his forehead to yours once more, breathing you in as if you’re the only thing keeping his own lungs working.

“you’re here,” he says, voice cracking on the last word. “that’s all i need. you. just you.”

you want to tell him you’re not enough, that you’re just a shell of the person he once fell in love with, but his arms tighten like he’s hearing every unspoken word.

in that moment, you understand; he isn’t holding you because you’re whole, or because you’re easy to love. he’s holding you because you’re still you, even while broken into pieces.

your sobs keep coming in quiet waves, like your body isn’t quite ready to stop yet. every time you think you’ve reached the end, another breath catches in your chest, pulling you under again.

his hands stay firm and gentle, grounding you, as if to remind your heart that it still belongs here. “i’ve got you,” he whispers, the cracks in his voice only making it truer.

it isn’t a promise to fix you. it isn’t an empty string of words to make you feel better. it’s heavier than that; an oath.

that no matter how many pieces you break into, he’ll be there, holding onto every single one.

you want to tell him you’re sorry again. you’re sorry for being the way you are. you’re sorry for making him carry this weight.

instead, you allow yourself lean into him, the side of your face pressing against the loud thud of his heartbeat.

maybe tomorrow, the emptiness will still be waiting. maybe the doubts will still curl around your ribs in the same way they always do.

but in this moment, he doesn’t try to mend what’s broken. he just holds you tighter, his breath weaving through yours until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

nothing is fixed. nothing is certain. but you can hear it in his silence; the vow to love you, in pieces or whole, for as long as you’ll let him.

The house was already alive beneath her. Sharp voices floated up through the floorboards—her mother's brisk orders, her sister’s light laughter, the clatter of servants preparing trunks and parcels for the journey ahead. Another maid had mercifully taken the morning shift, sparing Margaret from having to sweep hearths and draw bathwater before she could even think to dress. A small grace, rare enough not to question.

She slipped from her thin mattress, wincing as the creaky bedframe gave a low, protesting groan that seemed far too loud in the stillness of early morning. Her toes met the chill of the attic’s wooden floor, the boards worn smooth with age and dust. The air smelled faintly of moth-eaten linen, old stone, and something else, perhaps something forgotten, like the lingering ghost of candle smoke from nights long past. Here, at the highest point of Briarbourne Hall, it always felt like time had stopped moving.

Margaret gathered the dress she had laid carefully at the foot of her bed the night before, a patchwork of hand-me-downs and salvaged fabrics, lovingly sewn together in the hours no one cared to notice she was missing. The soft square neckline complimented the frill at the bottom. She pressed the bundle of cloth to her chest and tiptoed across the attic, careful to avoid the loudest of the floorboards, until she reached the narrow, rickety stair that led down to the servants’ entrance.

The back door groaned on its hinges as she slipped outside into the pale breath of dawn. The world was still half-asleep; the gardens were blanketed in mist, and the stones of the courtyard were slick with dew. Margaret padded barefoot across the cold, uneven stones to where a fresh bucket of water and clean cloths had been left at the corner by the kitchen maids.

Kneeling beside the bucket, she set her dress safely atop a dry patch of stone and braced herself. The water was bitterly cold, biting at her skin like needles. She splashed her face, her neck, her arms, scrubbing quickly with a coarse linen cloth. The roughness scratched at her skin, leaving it tingling and pink, but it washed away the heavy fog of sleep from her mind.

The world around her stirred to life: the low hum of distant conversation, the rhythmic clink of metal as the lantern lighters worked the hillsides beyond the Hall. She could just make out their tiny figures moving against the horizon, their soft voices carrying on the crisp air as they hooked the last of the night’s lanterns onto tall wooden posts. First light was creeping steadily over Edevane now, spilling pale gold across the fields, catching in the lace of fog still tangled in the hedgerows.

Margaret hurriedly dried herself off, her fingers stiff with cold, and slipped into her homemade dress. It hung loose around her slender frame, the seams slightly crooked where she had sewn them by candlelight. She tied the thin, worn sash around her waist and smoothed the wrinkled fabric with trembling hands, willing it to look presentable—though she knew it never truly would.

For a moment, she lingered outside, drawing in the fresh, damp scent of the morning; the earth, the moss, the faint trace of woodsmoke from distant cottages. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it: the fleeting quiet, the freedom of being unseen.

But there was no time to waste. She turned back to the Hall, pulling open the back door once more, and crept up the narrow servants’ stair to her attic. The air grew thinner with each step, the ceiling slanting sharply until she had to duck to avoid the low beams. The attic was dim and cramped, but it was hers, and that counted for something.

Crossing the tiny room in a few strides, she knelt by the small, battered trunk tucked beneath the eaves. It was her secret trove, the only corner of the world she could call her own. Carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a neatly folded mended shawl, a handful of worn, dog-eared books, and a journal bound in cracked brown leather.

Sitting on the edge of her frail bed, Margaret let the worn journal settle in her lap, the cracked leather cool beneath her fingertips. She opened it carefully, mindful of the fragile spine, and a thin photograph, tucked between the first pages, fluttered free. It drifted down like a falling leaf and landed soundlessly against her skirt.

She stared at it for a moment before picking it up between her trembling fingers.

The photograph was aged nearly to sepia, its edges curling inward, browned and delicate from the slow burn of time. Yet the image it held was stubbornly clear, stubbornly sharp enough to sting. It showed her family standing tall before the pristine façade of Briarbourne Hall in its younger days, when the stone was still new, the paint still bright, the gardens lush and untamed.

There was Nora at the center, poised and regal even then, her hand resting lightly on Thomas’s arm. Thomas stood stiff-backed and unsmiling, a man already heavy with the expectations of legacy. Beatrice was a bright flare beside them, her hair in glossy ringlets, her small face beaming with the easy assurance of someone destined to be adored.

And there—off to the side, almost out of frame—was Margaret.

Three years old, dwarfed by the grandeur around her, her hair a wild tangle that caught the light like spun gold. Her small hand was curled tightly around her mother’s, her round cheeks flushed from play. She looked up toward Nora, wide-eyed, expectant, clinging.

A memory unspooled itself, as fragile as the breath of winter across glass.

They had been running, she and Beatrice, through the tall grasses in the field behind the house, where the earth still smelled sweet and alive and the wind tangled itself in their hair. Margaret remembered the feeling of the grass brushing against her legs, the sun hot on her back, her heart hammering in the way only a child's could—with no fear, only delight.

Beatrice, in a white muslin dress, ran ahead with all the effortless grace that would one day turn heads in every ballroom. Margaret stumbled after her, skirts hiked up awkwardly in both fists, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably from her lips. She could still hear it—the high, shrill giggle of uncontained joy.

Nora had stood by the great oak tree at the edge of the field, skirts gathered in one hand, her other hand shading her eyes as she watched them. There had been no sternness then, no sharp tongue or cutting glance. Only a laugh; light, unguarded, almost girlish.

"Margie, slow down before you topple!" her mother had called, her voice bright with laughter, the smile stretching across her usually severe mouth like a miracle.

‘Margie.’ The name hung in Margaret’s mind like a ghost.

It was a name she hadn’t heard in years, one that now seemed to belong to someone else entirely, a girl who had once been cherished, if only fleetingly. A girl who had once been seen.

The memory trembled like a flame in a breeze, threatening to go out. It felt brittle now, foreign, as though it had been pressed too hard against the waking reality of her life and had cracked under the strain. A dream she wasn't sure had ever truly belonged to her.

Margaret touched the photograph with aching gentleness, her thumb brushing the faded faces. She half-feared that if she looked too long, they might vanish altogether—this brief, golden sliver of a past that had long since been buried beneath years of cold glances and clipped orders.

She closed her eyes and held the photo against her chest, letting herself feel, for just a moment, the ghost of the warmth that had once been hers.

“Margaret Jones!”

Her father's voice, sharp, commanding, and utterly devoid of affection, sliced through the thin attic door like the crack of a whip.

She startled, the photograph slipping from her fingers and landing soundlessly on the worn floorboards. Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs. Fingers fumbling, she gathered the fragile photograph and journal, tucking them hastily back into the battered trunk as if hiding away a guilty secret.

Below, the house had roused into a flurry of activity. She could hear the heavy thud of trunks being carried down the stairs, the shuffle of hurried feet on stone floors, the clipped farewells of servants they would leave behind. First light was brushing up against the horizon now, gilding the attic windowpanes in a thin, cold silver. The carriage would not wait for her.

Margaret smoothed her dress with quick, trembling hands, feeling the rough weave catch against her calloused fingers. She squared her shoulders, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, and slipped out of the attic.

The air grew colder as she descended the narrow staircase, the grandness of Briarbourne Hall pressing down with every step. The once-warm home of her childhood now loomed with the icy stiffness of a house grown used to her silence.

In the main hall, Beatrice spun before a tall, gilt-framed mirror, her new satin traveling cloak flaring out around her in glossy ripples, catching the light like water. She laughed—a light, tinkling sound rehearsed for the ears of courtiers—and Nora stood nearby, adjusting a fold in her daughter's sleeve, her face soft with approval.

Thomas stood apart, checking the time against his polished pocket watch, the glint of gold catching the edge of his cold gaze. He looked up briefly, his mouth thinning in irritation at the sight of Margaret before snapping the watch closed with a click of finality.

"You lot look lovely," Margaret offered into the charged air, her voice small, careful, the words as practiced as a prayer she no longer believed in. She kept her slim fingers clasped behind her, thumbs fiddling in anticipation. It had been months since Margaret had left the palace past the gates, besides for a usual gather for produce at the markets.

Beatrice turned just enough to catch Margaret's eye, her lips curling into a slow, triumphant smirk that didn’t reach her coldly shining eyes. Nora gave only the faintest of nods in acknowledgment, her fingers already back at work adjusting the angle of Beatrice’s bonnet, ensuring every ribbon and bow sat with effortless perfection.

Margaret bowed her head, murmuring another hollow compliment she knew they would not hear, and accepted the shawl a waiting maid thrust into her arms with mechanical indifference. She wrapped it around her shoulders, grateful at least for the meager shield against the creeping morning chill.

Within moments, they were ushered out into the courtyard. The air was sharp and biting, carrying the fresh scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Margaret flinched as the cold kissed her cheeks, but she kept her expression still, trained. Before them loomed the family carriage, grand and heavy, its deep blue panels freshly polished and emblazoned with the Fitzgerald crest—a bear rampant, roaring in silent pride.

Margaret climbed in after her parents, tucking herself into the farthest corner of the plush interior. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her fingers tightening until her knuckles turned white as the horses stamped and frothed impatiently at the bit, their breath pluming in the frosty air.

The carriage gave a lurch, the wheels groaning as they began their long journey northward. Margaret kept her eyes on the road ahead, refusing to look back at Briarbourne Hall, its chimneys silhouetted against the awakening sky.

The path stretched out before them—four long hours through misted hills, along roads that wound through shadowed woods where light struggled to reach. Alderham was waiting at the end of it, a place Margaret had only ever heard of in careful murmurs and wary warnings, a place of power and cold stone and royal blood.

She pressed her palm against the windowpane, watching as the mist thickened, swallowing the world in a pale gray hush.

Somewhere beyond that veil of fog, Wrosley Keep loomed, patient and immovable.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The great hall of Wrosley Keep stood as still as a tomb, thick with a silence that settled deep into the stone walls. Only the occasional crack of the hearth fire gnawing at its last stubborn logs offered any sign of life, the sound snapping sharply in the heavy air. Morning light, dim and shrouded by Alderham’s eternal mist, slanted weakly through the narrow, arched windows, painting long, wan stripes across the cold flagstone floor. The lingering fog outside made even the bold banners on the high walls seem muted, their colors dulled as if bleached by centuries of waiting.

At the end of the long black oak dining table sat King Harry Styles, solitary at the head, his figure carved out in stark lines against the throne-like chair he occupied. His posture was ramrod straight, every inch the king he had been raised to be, shoulders squared beneath the heavy cut of his dark jacket. The deep blue fabric, trimmed with subtle silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar, caught the faintest gleam of the firelight. As he meticulously adjusted the cuffs at his wrist, the small movements spoke volumes—rituals of control, of composure sharpened to a blade’s edge.

His hair, dark and thick, was neatly combed back from his brow, not a strand out of place. It gleamed faintly in the low light, the rich, natural wave of it tamed into order, like everything else about him.

Across the vast, yawning stretch of table—too long for comfort, too cold for true conversation—his twin brother, Edward, slouched in his chair with a boneless ease that seemed almost deliberately disrespectful. His ankles were crossed lazily beneath the table, boots scuffed with the dust of some unspoken misadventure, and his shoulders slumped as if the very notion of formality was a burden too great to bear.

A young maid, pale, slight, and visibly trembling, moved with silent urgency as she set down the last of the polished silver cutlery. Her hands fluttered like nervous birds. She offered a low, swift curtsey, her head bowed so low the limp ties of her apron brushed the floor. Without daring a glance at either brother, she backed out of the hall, the soft scrape of the door closing behind her like the final note of a funeral march.

Then Edward moved, quick and careless. He seized the metal lid covering his breakfast and tore it free with a theatrical flourish. It clattered noisily across the gleaming surface of the table, spinning and skipping like a tossed shield until it collided with a silver pitcher at the center with a metallic bang.

The echo rolled through the cavernous hall.

Harry’s jaw tightened so sharply a muscle leapt in his cheek, the only betrayal of his irritation. His hand paused mid-motion, fork hovering just above his plate.

"Must you behave like an ungoverned hound?" Harry said without lifting his gaze, each syllable clipped and wrapped in the kind of low, withering disdain that could wither even the boldest spirit.

Edward only chuckled, a deep, lazy sound, utterly unfazed by the rebuke. He speared a thick slab of meat with a single, cavalier jab of his fork, dragging it toward himself with a scraping sound that made Harry’s teeth grind.

"Morning to you as well, brother," Edward said around a mouthful of food, his voice warm with amusement and irreverence.

Harry returned to his meal with the same rigid, silent discipline with which he did everything else. His knife sliced through the ham with clean, efficient strokes, movements so precise they might have been measured with a ruler. Every bite was deliberate, not a crumb or smear of sauce left as evidence of indulgence.

In sharp contrast, Edward wielded his utensils with the gracelessness of a street brawler—switching hands without care, sawing into bread and meat with the same dull knife, elbows planted firmly on the table as he leaned forward like a boy who had never been taught a single table manner. He lounged and sprawled and ate without shame, his dark hair tied back haphazardly in a leather cord, the ends curling rebelliously against the nape of his neck.

After several minutes of taut silence, broken only by the muted scrape of silver against china and the distant whisper of the fire, Edward flung his fork down with a clatter that rang out across the cavernous hall. He leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, the legs of it creaking beneath his lazy sprawl. His long hair, having worked itself free from its earlier binding, spilled in unruly waves over the crumpled shoulders of his shirt, the loose strands catching the weak light like dulled copper. His collar was undone at the throat, exposing the smooth, bronzed skin of his collarbone, and his sleeves were shoved up past his elbows in a careless, half-drunk sort of fashion.

"So," Edward drawled, his voice rough with sleep and sarcasm, "the illustrious Fitzgeralds are due to arrive today?"

Harry did not immediately respond. He merely gave the smallest nod, so slight it might have been mistaken for the tilt of a shadow, his attention never once wavering from the careful, measured cuts he made into his meal. His movements were slow and deliberate, each slice of his knife a whisper against the plate.

Edward shifted, reaching for the nearest loaf of bread. He tore at it absently with long, calloused fingers, shredding the crust as a hawk might rip into a hare, his posture slouched and feral despite the grandeur around him. The pieces fell onto his plate in a rough pile, forgotten as quickly as they were made.

"What’s the fuss about, then?" Edward said, tossing a scrap of bread into his mouth and speaking around it. "Bit far to travel just for tea and pleasantries, isn’t it?"

Harry’s hand paused. He set his utensils down with almost surgical care, the faint clink of polished silver on fine china disturbingly soft. Without a word, he lifted his gaze; cool, commanding, and edged with warning.

"They need our help," he said simply, each word clipped and weighted, his tone stripped of any warmth or sympathy.

Edward snorted into his goblet, the low, derisive sound ricocheting off the stone walls. He tossed another piece of bread onto his plate with a bored flick of his fingers.

"Help?" he echoed, his mouth curling into a smirk. "Why would we waste our time bailing out a family with more pride than sense?"

Harry offered no immediate reply. Instead, he resumed his meal with mechanical precision, methodically cutting into another slice of ham. The blade of his knife bit through the tender meat with a quiet, clean hiss, like the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

"It is not a matter of want," Harry said at last, his voice low and implacable, like the slow shifting of stone beneath a mountain. "It is a matter of duty."

Edward tilted his head, studying his twin as if he were some curious artifact, grinning as though Harry’s words were the punchline of a particularly dry jest.

"Ah yes," Edward said, leaning forward with a theatrical air. "Our sacred duty. To lift the burdens of lesser houses. How terribly noble of us."

For the first time, a flicker of real irritation crossed Harry’s face. His fingers tightened minutely around the handle of his knife, the knuckles whitening, but he gave no other sign that Edward’s mockery had landed. He finished the bite he had prepared with methodical grace, then reached for the linen cloth beside his plate, dabbing the corner of his mouth with restrained, practiced elegance.

"You will remember your place when they arrive," Harry said after a beat, each syllable sliding out slow and deliberate, like the grinding turn of a rusted key in a stubborn lock.

Edward only grinned wider, raising his goblet in a mock salute that dripped insolence. His hair fell untamed around his face, the wild strands catching the muted gray light and turning it to glinting fire.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, sharpening into a cutting stare that could have chilled molten iron.

"And for God's sake," Harry said, the words bitten off as coldly as the northern cliffs outside, "bind your damned hair. You look like some half-bred poet loitering at court doors."

Edward laughed a low, reckless sound that spilled far too loudly into the solemn vastness of the great hall. It was the laugh of someone who cared little for consequences, who had built a life on poking at the sharp edges of his brother’s patience.

Still, under the weight of Harry’s blistering gaze, Edward eventually dragged a hand through his hair with exaggerated compliance, shoving the tangled mass back from his face and tying it off with a rough leather thong he fished from his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate, mocking.

"You do love your little spectacles of propriety," Edward mused, voice full of half-hearted admiration as he slouched even farther down in his chair, the picture of unruliness disguised as nonchalance.

"And you," Harry said, returning to his meal with a cool finality, "love humiliating yourself."

With that, the room lapsed once more into a brittle, strained silence, broken only by the steady scrape of knife against plate, the low pop of the hearth, and the distant, hollow thrum of the banners outside Wrosley Keep flapping against the oncoming storm.

The Fitzgeralds would arrive by afternoon. And Harry intended to be ready.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The carriage rattled over the uneven roads that wound through the countryside of Edevane, the early morning sun now fully risen and casting pale gold across the fields. Dust and the sweet, heavy scent of wet earth kicked up in their wake. The horses' hooves clattered rhythmically against the stone-laid roads, a steady drumbeat beneath the low chatter of birds darting from the hedgerows.

Margaret sat tightly beside her sister, her shoulder brushing against the overstuffed skirts of Beatrice’s traveling gown. The silk and tulle ballooned against the cramped quarters, forcing Margaret to shrink inward all the more. She folded her hands primly in her lap, her patched dress of stitched scraps looking even sadder beside her sister’s fine lavender silks, the fabric catching the light like mist.

Their parents sat across from them, poised and straight-backed despite the jostling of the carriage wheels. Lord Thomas Fitzgerald barely moved a muscle, his gloved hands resting on an ivory-handled cane, while Lady Nora kept herself busied with small, constant adjustments—pulling her shawl closer, smoothing the folds of her gown, glancing sharply now and then toward Beatrice.

"Remember," Nora said sharply, her voice slicing through the confined air, "head high. Shoulders back. Speak with care and caution. You are not merely our daughter today, you are the future face of this family."

Beatrice gave a demure nod, twirling the end of one pale glove between her fingers with a casual grace that was well-practiced.

Margaret said nothing. She pressed her forehead lightly against the cool windowpane, letting her gaze blur over the endless roll of green and gold hills, the shadowed woods beyond them. Occasionally, a village boy or a weary farmer would pause to watch the passing carriage, hats tugged low over their brows, but Margaret hardly saw them. She let the rhythm of the horses, the creak of the wheels, the distant shushing of the bushes along the roadside lull her into a quiet fog.

"How grand it shall be," Beatrice said, breaking the stillness with a voice touched by barely restrained excitement. "To show my face properly this time. To be seen not as a child, but as the next heir. Imagine it… the future of Fitzgerald resting in my hands."

She smiled, the kind of smile that was all white teeth and ambition hidden behind a curtain of charm.

Lady Nora offered her daughter a thin, pleased smile in return. "You have been groomed for this, Beatrice. Do not forget it. And should fortune favor us..." She leaned slightly forward, voice dropping low and intent, "you may well have the opportunity to become Harry Styles’ missus."

At this, Beatrice's cheeks pinked with barely concealed glee. Margaret sat still, her gaze dropping to her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"The more the brothers, moreso Harry, favor us," Nora continued briskly, "the better our standing. We require their allegiance as much as they require the appearance of unity. Do not embarrass us. And do not think for a moment they will forgive carelessness."

Thomas grunted in vague agreement, his eyes still trained out the window.

A sudden tap of fingers against the carriage wall snapped Margaret back to attention.

"And you," Lady Nora said sharply, her steely gaze fixing on Margaret like a hawk's on a mouse. "You will speak only if you are spoken to. When you greet the brothers, you will curtsy politely and say nothing more unless addressed."

Margaret turned her head, sitting straighter, folding her patched skirts beneath her with aching care.

"Yes, my lady," she murmured, her voice low, nearly lost beneath the clatter of hooves.

"You will stand behind us," Nora continued, voice crisp. "You will not interfere. You will not embarrass yourself, or us. Should you be asked to leave, you will do so without hesitation."

Thomas said nothing. He never did when it came to Margaret. His gaze remained pinned out the opposite window, as though she were merely another piece of luggage making the journey.

Margaret bowed her head obediently, feeling the familiar flush of shame rise up the back of her neck. Her palms, folded tightly in her lap, left small damp prints against the fabric of her skirt.

"Of course, mother," she whispered, offering a curt nod.

Beatrice gave a small, satisfied smirk and returned to adjusting the lace cuffs at her wrists, as if the matter were settled beyond all dispute.

The carriage jostled sharply over a rut, and Margaret’s head knocked lightly against the wooden frame of the window. She hardly flinched. She only turned her face back toward the glass, watching the misty hills of Alderham grow nearer with each lurching turn of the wheels.

The air seemed to grow colder the farther north they traveled, the fields giving way to long stretches of moorland, where the wind bent the grasses low and dark clouds loomed distantly along the horizon. Somewhere ahead, hidden among the hills and cliffs, lay Wrosley Keep—the seat of the House of Styles.

Margaret pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but it did little to chase away the chill creeping into her bones.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The long hall of the north wing was chilled with the breath of the early morning fog, a low mist pressing against the tall windows like ghostly fingers. Beyond the glass, the fields of Alderham stretched out in a pale, colorless sprawl, the sun straining through the mist in gauzy ribbons of gold, as if the world itself was still waking, hesitant to embrace the new day.

Harry Styles stood in stillness at the window, one gloved hand resting lightly on the cold stone ledge, his eyes lost in the view that had become so familiar it barely registered anymore. His reflection, sharp and princely, stared back at him through the pale glass, the contours of his face sharpened by the dim light. His dark blue coat, cut sharply across his broad shoulders, swept neatly to the tops of his polished black boots, the fabric rich and heavy, like the weight of his title. A brooch bearing the House of Styles sigil, a lion crowned with ivy, clipped his heavy velvet cloak at the throat, glimmering faintly under the low sun. Beneath the cloak, a crisp white cravat was tied precisely at his collar, the folds symmetrical and flawless. His black waistcoat fit snug against his chest, the fabric stitched with faint embroidery in thread so dark it was barely visible unless caught in the right light, a detail most would miss but one that only added to the meticulous perfection of his appearance.

A pocket watch gleamed in his hand, the silver casing flashing briefly as he thumbed open the lid and checked the time. They were due any moment now.

The Fitzgeralds.

Their meeting had been arranged through a careful back-and-forth of handwritten letters, sealed with too much wax, and couched in the kind of formalities that Harry found irksome but unavoidable. The need for this meeting was not one born of mutual respect or kinship, but necessity. The Fitzgeralds needed money after the unfortunate, very public collapse of a portion of their estate wealth. It had become a scandal, one that could not be ignored, especially given how they had once been among the most influential families in the kingdom.

Harry, urged by Edward’s strange, persistent prodding, had agreed to this... display of generosity. At first, it had seemed like nothing more than an act of diplomacy, an arrangement to maintain the delicate balance of power between noble houses. But Edward had insisted, his voice heavy with persuasive charm, that this could be more, much more. Pity, Edward had argued, was not weakness if wielded properly. It was power: the power to bestow favor, to raise up those who could not stand on their own, and in doing so, show the kingdom that King Harry Styles was not just a ruler but a savior.

The thought of it left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth. It was so very... calculated. So very Edward. He had always been the one to see power in places where others saw only weakness, to turn the very act of charity into a tool of dominance. And Harry, always the more cautious, had reluctantly agreed. There was no real danger in extending a hand to the Fitzgeralds. They would remain beneath him, as all others did. Their presence at Wrosley Keep was a show, nothing more—proof of his strength disguised as kindness, as benevolence.

The thought lingered in his mind, cold and steady, until a sharp voice echoed down the hall, dragging him from his thoughts.

"Your Majesty."

The voice was unmistakable. Edward.

Harry didn’t bother to turn, his expression already sliding into a mask of polite restraint.

Edward emerged from the west wing archway, his wild hair now tamed into a neat bun tied with a slim ribbon of red silk at the crown of his head. He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves tucked into a black waistcoat, silver buttons gleaming, and fitted dark trousers tucked into knee-high riding boots. There was a rakish elegance about him, like a man pretending at courtly behavior but unable, or unwilling, to hide the scoundrel underneath.

"You’re late," Harry’s lips tightened, the words slipping out like the snap of a drawn bowstring. His hand flexed once around the smooth casing of the pocket watch before he snapped the lid shut with a sharp click and tucked it back into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. The movement was crisp, exacting, as if even small gestures could not afford to be careless.

With a slow, practiced stillness, he turned toward the direction of the voice, his frame rigid beneath the heavy drape of his cloak. His face, honed into an expression of distant resolve, betrayed none of the irritation that simmered low beneath his skin.

Edward grinned in response, wide and unbothered, his stance a study in irreverence. His dark cloak hung open and loose at his sides, the finer points of his attire rumpled with a careless charm that somehow only made him look more princely, not less.

"I’m early by my own clock," Edward said lightly, voice lilting with amusement as he strolled forward, hands tucked lazily behind his back.

Harry’s eyes flickered once, a brief roll of temper he was too well-trained to fully show. "You don’t have a clock," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Edward, as he brushed an invisible crease from the sleeve of his coat and adjusted the cuffs with slow, deliberate precision.

"All the more reason I’m never wrong," Edward replied with a shrug, his voice rich with self-satisfaction. He came to stand beside Harry, their twin reflections caught faintly in the dim glass of the window—two halves of the same whole, yet impossibly different.

The hall stretched wide around them, a cavern of stone and echo, lined with suits of armor that glinted dully in the thin, reluctant light. Tapestries bearing the ancient crest of their house stirred slightly from the draft seeping through the cracks in the stone walls. Every sound, the scrape of a heel, the breath of the fog beyond the windows, seemed amplified by the vast emptiness.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath controlled, tempered, as he turned his gaze toward the distant outline of the main gates, barely visible through the thick white gauze of mist that clung to the outer courtyard. The carriages would be there soon, he knew. The sound of wheels grinding over gravel, the snort of impatient horses, the flutter of banners—he could almost hear it already, ghosting through the cold air.

Without looking at Edward, Harry lifted one hand, a sharp, commanding gesture, and called out, "Open the gates. They’ll arrive shortly."

His words cracked across the space like a whip. Down the hall, the guards straightened at attention, the polished steel of their armor flashing briefly in the dim light. With practiced efficiency, they bowed low, the motion deep and synchronized, before sweeping away toward the outer doors with the hollow thud of boots against stone and the low, rhythmic clank of armor plates shifting.

The brothers remained where they stood, silent as sentinels.

For a moment, there was nothing but the hush of the empty hall, thick with waiting, and the soft, ceaseless groan of the wind pressing against the high windows. Somewhere farther off, the faint metallic moan of the gate mechanisms starting to turn echoed up through the stone like the slow stirring of some great beast waking from slumber.

Harry watched without moving, his posture a portrait of patience sharpened into a weapon. Edward, beside him, rocked back slightly on his heels, humming a soft, tuneless sound under his breath, as if the moment's gravity did not touch him at all.

As Edward rocked idly on his heels, the soles of his boots made the faintest creak against the flagstones. He tilted his head, casting a sidelong glance at Harry, who stood rigid as a drawn sword beside him.

"Tell me again why we’re offering a lifeline to a family that couldn’t even keep their coffers guarded?" Edward asked, his voice low, coaxing, almost playful.

Harry’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the skin as he remained unmoving, his gaze locked out toward the mist-veiled road. The fog lay thick and heavy, muting the edges of the world beyond the gates into little more than ghostly outlines.

"Because it is our duty," Harry said at last, his tone clipped and cool as a blade's edge. "A king does not merely conquer. He uplifts, when it suits him."

His words held the weight of a rehearsed lesson, something he had long ago carved into himself with careful precision. Yet even now, the bitterness laced subtly through his voice, a reminder that duty rarely tasted sweet.

Edward smirked, slow and crooked, the kind of smile meant to provoke. "Sounds like you’re going soft," he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed mischief.

In a single, fluid motion, Harry turned to face him. His cloak snapped behind him with the sharp crack of heavy velvet slicing the cold air. The movement was so sudden, so forceful, that Edward instinctively straightened, the lazy smirk lingering but his posture subtly less mocking.

Harry’s glare pinned him where he stood; cold, searing, and honed with the precision of a dagger’s thrust.

"Say that again at court," Harry said, his voice low enough to be a warning, "and see how fast you find yourself posted to the borderlands."

The threat, though spoken softly, hit like a slap. The borderlands, windswept, treacherous, and crawling with unrest, were not where one went to bask in favor. It was where inconvenient men were sent to fade into obscurity, or die.

Edward raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, the chain at his wrist glinting faintly as it caught the dim light. Laughter flickered in his dark eyes, the easy, reckless kind that had always marked him as Harry’s greatest frustration, and perhaps his only true equal.

"As you say, Your Majesty," Edward teased, sketching an irreverent half-bow that was far too casual to be respectful. His tone danced on the edge of mockery, but there was an acknowledgment buried beneath it, a deference neither of them would ever admit aloud.

Harry said nothing in return. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back beneath the heavy drape of his cloak, adjusting the set of it until it fell in precise, commanding folds. His gloved hands smoothed down the front of his coat, each movement methodical, controlled.

Without another word, the two of them turned and began to move in measured strides down the long hall toward the main entrance. Their boots struck the stone floor in a steady rhythm, echoing faintly through the cavernous space.

The air between them, though outwardly casual, thrummed with an electric tension—the constant, unspoken current that ran deep between twin brothers who had been raised together yet shaped by the crown to walk entirely different paths.

Outside, the ancient iron gates had begun to groan open, the sound deep and grating, like the yawning of some slumbering beast. Mist coiled greedily through the widening gap, spilling over the gravel like thick smoke from an unseen fire.

From beyond the wall of fog came the soft, rhythmic crunch of hooves meeting gravel, steady and deliberate.

The horses slowed, their breath misting the cold air in great silver plumes. A black carriage, lacquered to a mirror shine and bearing the Fitzgerald family crest, emerged slowly from the mist and drew to a halt before the steps of Wrosley Keep.

“S’matter, jellybean?” He asked you, as he leaned himself against the railing. Having seen you space out again. Happened alot, but he noticed it more than ever now. As if he wanted to leave you to be stressed after all. This should be a happy time, but somehow it wasn’t.

“Just….Thinking.” You muttered, as you played with the end of your sleeves. You could hear him sigh, a deep one, as he watched. As if he knew something. Something you wish he didn’t. Seemed such a worry was made a reality, when you were both suddenly apparated into his office. A place for privacy, after all.

He’s been suspicious, but a constant wizarding war tends to take your mind off things. Along with busy with a school year, and starting up a business. Made any doubts get overrun with work, and stress, get covered. Not today, though. Not today.

“Love, we need to have a talk. A serious one, please.” That made your heart drop, as he would motion you to join him on the couch. You felt so terrified, as you were forced to sit next to him on it. Now having your hands held by his.

“You know I love you, and I want to take care of you. I love you so very much. We’ve been through so much together. You’ve been there for me, and I want to be there for you. You know that, right?” He asked, as you gave a sheepish nod. Wondering where this was going, but deep down knew he figured it out. He’s had it figured out for a while.

He’s not stupid, after all. You could only hide something like this for so long. Why you never turned on the light, how you used Umbridge as an excuse for anything that was accidentally seen. How you always wore long sleeves, even when going to bed. If you could hide your body, you did. But now? George could understand that pain, and he wasn’t having you suffer in silence anymore.

“Love, it’s ok. You know that, right? I’m not here to judge, or make fun of ya. Gonna be the last person to do that. I mean, look at me. Look at Billy boy. We know a thing or two about getting roughed up.” He tried to not directly say what he wanted to say, in a means to let you be the one to say it. To let YOU be in charge of it.

After the war, he just wasn’t the same. When Fred went in that coma, oh he was in utter hell. He was already recovering from his ear. Now he had to spend every day, wondering if his twin would live or die. How Umbridge caught wind of such a thing, and tried to pull something. Like trying to say Bill was qualified under the Werewolf laws. Oh life was hell, and he had to project somehow. Not the same as you, but to say there wasn’t a taste is an understatement.

“George, I really don’t want to talk about this-“ You tried to weasel out, but his grip on your hands only tightened. The sadness in his eyes left you frozen in place. He wanted to take care of you, and make sure you knew you were safe with him. Such a complicated mess it all was. Just made you feel worse, if anything.

“Love….Let me see you. Please. Let me see all of you. You see me, can I see you?” He tried, and your tears just welled up more. You couldn’t understand why he was doing this. Why he cared. Your brain just didn’t accept that people can love you. It’s hard to grasp.

“This is different-“ You tried. “Why is it different?” He rebutted. “It just is. It’s different when I do it-“ How the brain was complex, and a pain in the ass to have. Luckily, George knew a thing or two about them. You learn alot when running a joke shop. Kids come to you with so many problems. You learn things you don’t want to.

“I don’t want to force you, but I can’t have you suffer like this anymore. I’m not doing this to hurt you, Jellybean. You were there when I lost my ear. When I thought I was going to lose Fred. Umbridge, everything. Let me be there for you-“ He begged, as he forced your hand onto the side of his head.

Your palm would feel over the scars from the Potion Master Made Spell. How deep they were, and never seemed to properly heal. How familiar the texture was. The smoothness of cut flesh, as he no longer could hear. The lines that cut into his hair, cheek, and even face. It was nothing like what Bill suffered, but it hurt. Hurt no longer being identical.

With a shakey breath, you gave in. Ready to accept him screaming at you in disgust. To say all the mean things people have said to you before. Attention seeker, that you need to make them deeper already, that you look like a cutting board. Every insult, every mean remark. All of it. You accepted your fate, as you rolled up your sleeves.

The air was silent, but it wasn’t heavy. No, it was calm. Like the air was clear. For once, the weight was gone. You couldn’t understand why there was such a feeling of peace. Why wasn’t he looking at you with disgust? With hate? Why was he smiling?

“Hm, kinda remind me of Charlie. He’s got ink like crazy, same for Bill. You’ve seen them. Bills got these protection ruins, and Charlie has as many dragons as possible. You would look good with sleeves.” He smiled, as he gently held your wrist. Truly looking at them, and not flinching at all. He was looking at you. And wanting to make you feel like there was a chance you didn’t have to hide. That you were the center of it all. Not the scars. Not even asking why you had them. He didn’t need to know. He just wanted to know if you knew he could keep you safe.

The fact he started to kiss them was what had you sob. He was kissing something you hated so much. He was accepting it as a part of you. This was just what was part of your life. Your struggles. Your fears. Your hate. He was accepting that, because he loved you. You were what he cared about. Not what people thought.

It was such a tender moment, as you were able to let yourself cry. Let yourself have that good, needed, cry. All the while George took care of you. Kissing your scars, and holding you close. Just wanting you to know you were safe with him. Not rushing you. You never rushed him when he bursted into tears, no matter how random it was. So, you deserved that attention all the same.

“George…You know how I said I wanted us to wait until we were married?” You asked him, as you wiped your eyes. He would brush them aside, as well, as he nodded to you. Keeping his eyes glued with yours, as he tried to show you his full attention.

“It was kinda a lie. I didn’t want you to see me….But I think I’m ready now. I think you can see me now.” You consented, as he smiled. Clearly proud of such a big step. His pride made you want to cry more. There was no shame, or doubt, in those big brown eyes. He didn’t see you as any less, as before the topic was broached. It was as if you simply dyed your hair. It’s still you, under it all.

“I’ve been waiting for this, and I was willing to wait for never even.” He chuckled, as he kissed your cheek. Another reminder he was there for you. Not for some end goal. There was no end goal, with love. There was a continue. A continue for as long as the hearts wanted.

With a gentle kiss to your lips, the two of you were side alonged back into your shared flat. Fred would be able to handle the shop just fine, after all. It’s near closing anyway. With how close those two were, you wouldn’t be surprised if he knew where George went. Even as far as why.

“I’ve always wanted to see you. So badly.” He sighed, as he kissed you again. Gentle, and sweet. Not this heated passion in the books or movies. Just tender, and making sure you were taken care of. In every sense of the word. This was love, not sex.

Just gentle kisses, shared between you two, as he helps remove your clothes. Allowing more and more of you to be seen on the surface. Every cut, bruise, stretch mark, imperfection, whatever you had. He was able to finally see it all, and wouldn’t stop kissing each little dot on your skin.

It was so scary. Scary to allow him. He was so proud of you to allow him. To allow him to witness you whole. He was so damn proud. Couldn’t stop his kisses all over your skin. Along with a few little playful ones, like right on your nose. Just wanting to make you smile. Know that you were safe. No matter how vulnerable you were. You allowed him to feel safe, when he lost so much. It’s a crime to not return the favor.

Open mouth kisses would trail over your body, as he helped you lay down on the bed. Slow, sweet, and savoring it. Understanding just how important it all was. No need to rush. No need to treat it as a one and done. This a moment to share, between two people who loved each other. So very very very much.

“You really are beautiful. I know I know. I can say it all I want, but I mean it-!” He whined at the end, making you smile. Ever playful, no matter the mood. Was very soothing. Made any heavy topic easier to deal with. He just made life easier, and his smile could sooth any coals under your feet.

There was one more little kiss to your nose, before he finally allowed himself to strip. His own body full of scars from so many things. War, failed experiments, Umbridge, death eaters, blood purest’s, friends turned enemies, the list goes on. Those scars felt different to you. He didn’t ask for them, yet wasn’t ashamed of them either. The mind can truly be so warped, but George was always one to be fascinated by the world. Willing to dive into that hellscape you call a brain, because you are in there after all.

“You are so beautiful.” He just kept on saying, before his naked body was pressed against yours. Playful little kisses were pressed all over your face, as your skin felt his. Felt his scars on yours, yours were felt on his. Just pure skin contact, as he was holding you close. Loving every little part of you. If it was you, he loved it. Scars and all.

“I’m ready when you are. And if ready is never, eh. Who gives a shit?” He would place another kiss to your nose, before your hands were around his neck. You were trying to mentally psych yourself up, and he was more than happy to wait. Happy to just admire you. Big ole Brown eyes, and a freckled smile.

“Yeah. I’m ready.” You nodded, as he gave you another kiss. One arm was used to prop himself up, as the other found your slit. Just being very gentle, and stroking it. Not yet intruding, but just taking it nice and slow. He was no virgin, after all. But you were, and he was going to treat you right.

Slow, steady, and calculated. A man who was that of an inventor. He knew how to move his fingers. Gentle over your slit, almost ghosting it even. Made you crave more, in such a simple gesture. Those rough fingers on such a sensitive part of your body. All exposed to him.

A kiss to your neck was given, as he finally slipped them in. Had you shiver, but he kept planting kisses on you. Easing you into such a feeling you were growing costumed to. How you always loved his big and rough hands. Always brought you comfort. Now they were bringing you pleasure.

“You already feel so wonderful. Bloody amazing.” He whispered, as he would kiss along your jaw. Just two fingers pushing in and out of you. His thumb even working at your clit, and it had you whimper a bit. Such new stimuli, but he was keeping it slow and gentle. Easing you into it.

“Don’t be shy. I can only hear so much, have mercy on me.” He teases, as it helped bring you back to earth. That this isn’t just sex. You were making love with someone you love. Made you smile, as he kissed the corner of your mouth. Drinking in the soft little breaths you left for him, before he snuck a third finger in.

“Oh you are going to feel so bloody good. I just know it. I can hardly wait any longer.” He moaned for you, as he was picking up his speed. That earned him more sounds from you, as your walls were coating his fingers. Showing you were enjoying yourself, when your voice was lost.

“Are you ready, or was this enough for one day?” More reassurance. That even now, when he’s so close to getting his turn at pleasure, he wanted you to know it didn’t matter. You matter. Almost made you cry.

“I’m ready, Georgie. I mean it. For once, I’m ready.” You would cup his face, and admired him. Those warm eyes, that imperfect unsymmetrical face. Those freckles, those scars, and that beautiful toothy smile. That’s your man, and he was all yours. Never thought you deserved such a wonderful man in your life. In this moment though? You finally accepted it. Even if it was temporary, you were able to fight your brain long enough to say you deserved this man. Seemed George could even see it in your eyes, as he pulled you into a deep kiss.

The tip of his cock felt so hot. As if he was just twitching in need. Had you feel so beautiful. Beautiful to know he was that excited to be with you. Hard to fake a feeling like that, after all. That feeling of a throbbing cock. Just hungry to finally feel you. Feeling you, he did. Finally slipping inside, as you pulled him closer. Moaning into his mouth, as the gesture is returned.

You swore he might be feeling more pleasure from it than yourself. There was a morbid comfort in that. Knowing your body could do such a thing. Ever after so much, it could still do good. Made your body relax, and had you enjoy the ride all the better.

The feeling of his hips meeting yours, and how he rolled them. Feeling those hip bones against your soft flesh. It just itched a scratch you didn’t know you had. Feeling this slender man above you, with his arms tense. Those muscles showing themselves off to you. Freckled and scared. So beautiful to you.

The moans he gave you had you drunk. They sounded so good. You swore you could get off from them alone. The feeling of him moaning into your mouth, as he kept rolling his hips into yours. Fingers tangled together, as you both just enjoyed each other. No need for words. Just embracing what your bodies wanted. The feeling of connection, and love.

It was like a beautiful dream. Nothing else mattered, in that moment. Just the two of you. Making love, and enjoying each other’s company. To feel the air grow heated, and sweat build between you both. How those easy rolls grew in speed, and had you both gasping each other’s names. Fingers holding on tighter to each other, as if afraid to melt into nothing.

“You feel so good-“ He spoke so breathlessly, as he would keep thrusting into you. All the while you moan openly for him. Your hands were trapped under his own, and you would give him squeezes of delight into those callused fingers. Allowing yourself to be louder. A mixture of allowing yourself to enjoy it, and a need to make sure he could hear how much you were indeed enjoying it. It’s the least you can do. Small acts go a long way, and you witnessed such first hand tonight.

“I don’t think I’m going to last much longer-“ He admits, sounding so embarrassed. It was cute. He was always so cute. Had you smile, and he smiled back. Your smile seemed to comfort his blushing cheeks, as you two returned another kiss. A kiss, as his hips begun to thrust in an uneven pattern. Had you whimper for him, as he kept true to his word. He didn’t last any longer, and he was soon moaning your name into your mouth. Tangling it in your tongue, and his.

The heat inside felt so satisfying. To let yourself ride a high, and have it be with him. How your legs couldn’t stop themselves, and wrapped around him. Needing to have him as close as your bodies could allow it. As if needing to become one. It was truly like being a fire work. A burst of pleasure, and sounds. It all felt so good, and it truly did feel like it filled a void in your heart that you didn’t know you had.

Coming down from the high was treated slowly. The both of you savoring it. With him holding you, as he stayed where he was. His head snuggled into your neck, as you played with his hair. Your turn in giving him the gentle comfort. Allowing him to use his working ear to enjoy your breathing, and heart. No need to worry about words. Just gentle affection. Embracing each other, and enjoying a moment of existing.

“Worth the wait-?” You asked, as you two were finally in a more clear headspace. He took a moment to think, as he pulled out you. Had you whine, as you liked the feeling. That made him chuckle, as he was soon pulling a blanket over you both.

“Yes. Very much worth the wait.” He would reassure you, as he was now your big spoon. Making sure you felt safe, in yet another vulnerable moment. His legs tangled with yours, as he wrapped his arms around you. Giving you a hug, as he pressed his face in your neck. Enjoying your scent.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but not out of sadness anymore. But pure relief. You will still have your dark days, but you had a bundle of sunshine to stay there. Stay, and wait, for when you could speak again. He wouldn’t leave you behind when things got rough. He was making sure of that. Not even processing how much this simple act of spoon was bringing such joy. He existed, and it made you existing easier.

“Love you, Georgie.” You said, as you stole a hand to kiss. His own lips returned the gesture, as they were right on your cheek. “Love you more, Jellybean.” He yawned.

That comfort of another body, it was just what you needed. For once, in a long time, you weren’t scared to fall asleep. You were happy to sleep. To get rest, even excited to wake up again. Because you knew one thing, and one thing that changed everything.

He would be there when you woke up, and that was what mattered. He would be there, every time you woke up, and sometimes that’s all it takes to make you wake up.

Your sunshine, always there when the rain clouds came. Always there, and will never leave.