"You don't have to-"

"Shut up." He was already dressing. "You think I'm letting you ride into a tempest alone? Mother would skin me alive and use my hide for rugs. Besides." He shot her a look that was half glare, half something softer. "Someone needs to make sure that dragon husband of yours doesn't collapse before you get there."

She almost smiled. Almost.

"Thank you," she said instead.

"Thank me when we're not dead." He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door. "Move. We leave now or we don't leave at all."

They rode through the night, into the teeth of the storm.

Rain lashed them sideways, soaking through leather and wool until they were both shivering and miserable. Thunder cracked so close she felt it in her chest. Lightning split the sky in jagged white veins, illuminating the road for heartbeats at a time before plunging them back into darkness.

But she rode on.

And all the while, her hand kept drifting to her throat, to the ruby pendant warm against her skin. She held it while the wind screamed. She held it while the rain tried to blind her. She held it like a talisman, like a promise, like the only solid thing in a world gone liquid and wild.

Make sure you're unharmed when you do.

She would keep that promise if it killed her.

At Summerhall, Aerion stood in the ravenry, watching the storm lash the windows.

The servant behind him shifted nervously. "My prince, I've checked again. No word from Storm's End. But with this weather, the birds may not be able to fly at all. It doesn't mean that- "

"No response." Aerion's voice was flat. "Three days. Nothing."

"The storm, my prince it could b-"

"I said if she didn't write, I would drag her back myself." He turned from the window, and the servant took an involuntary step back at whatever he saw in those violet eyes. "She didn't write."

"My prince, you cannot ride out in this-"

But Aerion was already moving, shoving past the servant, his boots echoing hard against the stone.

"Prepare my horse," he called back without stopping. "Now."

The storm showed no signs of stopping. Her brother rode close behind her, a shadow in the rain, cursing steadily under his breath. Her hands were numb on the reins. Her face was raw. Every muscle screamed.

But she rode on.

And somewhere in the darkness, ahead of her on the road, another rider pushed through the same rain, the same wind, the same lightning-split sky.

Both of them riding toward each other.

The storm had not relented.

She had lost count of the hours in the saddle, lost feeling in her fingers, lost any sense of anything except the road ahead and the pulse of the ruby against her collarbone. Her brother rode behind her, a shadow in the grey, and when her mare stumbled for the third time he pulled alongside and grabbed her reins.

"We stop."

"No."

"We stop." His voice allowed no argument. "There's an inn half a mile up the road. I saw the sign before the rain got worse. We rest, we dry off, we eat something hot, and if the storm hasn't broken by dawn we make a decision then."

She wanted to fight him. Wanted to keep riding until her legs gave out or she reached Summerhall, whichever came first.

But her mare was trembling beneath her, and her brother's face was hard with concern, and she was so tired she could barely hold the reins.

"Half a mile," she said.

"Half a mile."

The inn was small and old and reeked of wet wool and woodsmoke. The innkeeper took one look at them; two soaked, half-frozen nobles with Baratheon colours bleeding through the rain and started barking orders at his staff without waiting for explanations.

By the time she had stripped off her soaked leathers and changed into the rough wool dress the innkeeper's wife pressed into her hands, she could barely keep her eyes open. Her brother guided her to a room, muttered something about checking on the horses, and she was asleep before he finished closing the door.

She woke in darkness.

The storm still raged outside, wind howling against the shutters, rain lashing the glass. She lay still for a moment, disoriented, the strange bed creaking beneath her. Then memory returned in a rush, the road, the storm, the ruby warm against her skin.

She could not sleep. Could not even try.

She rose, pulled on the rough wool dress, and padded barefoot down the stairs toward the common room. Perhaps a cup of something warm. Perhaps just the fire.

The common room was dim, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and a single candle guttering on a table. She descended the last few steps and stopped.

A figure stood by the fire, back to her, cloak still damp and steaming gently in the heat. Broad shoulders. Silver hair, plastered to his neck. A stance she would know anywhere, hands clasped behind him, spine rigid, holding himself together through sheer force of will.

Her heart stopped.

"Aerion."

He turned.

The firelight caught his face the exhaustion carved deep beneath his eyes, skin pale from the hours of hard riding, jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked like a man who had not slept since she left.

He looked how she felt.

"You're supposed to be at Storm's End."

The words came out rough, disbelieving, almost angry. She knew that anger, knew it was fear wearing a mask.

"You're supposed to be at Summerhall."

A long pause. The fire crackled between them.

"You didn't write." His voice trembled on the last word, just slightly, before he caught it.

"I know." She stepped closer, bare feet silent on the cold stone. "I came instead."

He stared at her. Violet eyes moved over her face, cataloguing every detail; the dark circles, the chapped lips, the way she held herself like she might collapse. Whatever he saw made something shift in his expression, some wall crumbling at the edges.

"You rode through that storm." Not a question.

"So did you."

"For you." The words came out rough, torn from somewhere deep. "I rode through it for you."

"And I for you."

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. When he opened them, they were bright in a way she had never seen.

"You could have died." His voice was stern but held no anger.

"So could you."

"That's different."

"It's not." She was close enough now to touch him. Close enough to see the tremor in his hands. "It never was."

Above them, on the stairs, a board creaked.

They both looked up. Her brother stood there in his shirtsleeves, hair disheveled, expression caught somewhere between shock and something that looked almost like respect. He had clearly heard enough.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then her brother shook his head, muttered something that might have been "seven hells," and turned without a word. His footsteps retreated back up the stairs. A door closed.

They were alone again.

She looked back at Aerion as her fingers reached up to touch the ruby at her throat.

"You told me to keep wearing it."

His gaze dropped to her fingers, to the pendant, to the place where his lips had pressed against stone. When his eyes met hers again, the wall was gone. Completely. She was looking at something she had only glimpsed before raw, terrified, hopeful.

"I thought you weren't coming back." His voice was barely a whisper.

"I told you I would."

"I know." He swallowed. "I didn't believe it. Not really. Not until-"

He stopped, the words strangled in his throat, not letting him finish.

So she did it for him.

She closed the last distance between them and pressed her forehead to his chest, right over his heart. His arms came up slowly, hesitantly, as if he was afraid she would vanish. When they finally closed around her, he shuddered, a full-body tremor that shook them both.

"I'm here," she whispered into his damp shirt. "I came back."

His arms tightened. His face pressed into her hair.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled. The storm raged. They stood in the middle of a stranger's inn, soaked and exhausted and utterly, completely whole.

"Don't do that again." His voice was muffled against her hair. "Don't ever make me wait like that again."

She laughed a wet, shaky sound. "Then stop hiding things from me. No more suffering alone. No more letters about roses when your dreams are drowning you."

He went still.

"Maekar wrote to me," she said quietly. "He told me everything. About the dreams. About the grey pallor. About the hands that shake." She pulled back just enough to look at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He looked away. "You were home. You were happy. I wasn't going to-"

"I wasn't happy." She caught his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I was learning to be. There's a difference. And I can't learn to be anything if you're burning yourself alive and hiding the smoke."

He stared at her, the black of his iris swallowing the violet.

"I don't know how to do this." His voice was rough. "I don't know how to need someone. I don't know how to ask."

"Then don't ask." She rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his forehead, soft and brief. "Just let me be here. Let me stay. That's all I want."

His hands came up to cup her face, thumbs tracing the places he had once bruised, gentle now. So gentle.

"I can do that," he whispered.

She smiled. It felt like the first real smile in years.

Above them, the storm howled on. But in the common room of a small inn on a muddy road, wrapped in each other's arms, they had finally found shelter.

The storm broke at dawn.

They woke tangled together in a narrow inn bed, her head on his chest, his arm wrapped around her like he feared she might dissolve into mist. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. They simply lay there, listening to the rain soften, listening to the wind die, listening to the world go quiet around them.

Her brother's knock came too soon.

"Rise and shine, lovebirds." His voice dripped with sarcasm even through the door. "If you're done being disgustingly tender, the storm's passed and I'd like to get home before the next one kills us all."

Aerion's arm tightened around her. "I don't suppose we could leave him here."

She laughed soft and sleepy as she pressed her face into his chest to muffle the sound.

"That's a no then." Aerion muttered through his teeth.

They emerged from the inn to find the world transformed; mud everywhere, trees stripped of leaves, the road a churning mess of water and debris. And there, standing miserably by the hitching post, were their horses.

Horses. Plural. Barely.

Her mare stood on three legs, the fourth held delicately off the ground, her dark eyes wide with pain. Even from the doorway, she could see the swelling, the way the animal trembled.

"No." She crossed the yard in seconds, her hands running over the mare's leg, finding the heat, the obvious injury. "No, no, no-"

"Stepped in a hole," the innkeeper called from the doorway. "Middle of the night. Broke free from the post during the worst of it. Sorry, my lady. She's a good horse, but you won't be riding her for a while."

She pressed her forehead to the mare's neck. Stupid. It was stupid to get emotional about a horse. But she had ridden this mare since she was sixteen. Had trusted her with her life a hundred times.

"I can double up with you." Her brother's voice, practical, already solving problems. "We'll go slow. It'll be fine."

She nodded, pulling herself together. Yes. Fine. It would be fine.

Then Aerion's hands closed around her waist.

She yelped as he lifted her, actually lifted her, like she weighed nothing and set her on the back of his war horse. Before she could speak, he swung up behind her, arms coming around to take the reins.

"What are you doing?"

"She's my wife." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll take care of her."

"I can ride with my brother-"

"You can ride with me." A pause. "I'm more than capable."

Her brother, who had been watching this entire display with an expression of profound amusement, burst out laughing. "Oh, this is rich. This is wonderful. You're actually jealous. Of me. Your good-brother."

Aerion's jaw tightened. "I'm not jealous."

"You just picked her up and put her on your horse like a caveman claiming a prize. That's the definition of jealous."

"I'm ensuring her safety."

"On your horse. Your very special horse. That no one else is allowed to touch."

"It's a horse. Anyone can touch it."

"Can I touch it?"

"No."

Her brother howled with laughter. Even she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

"Ride with me," Aerion muttered against her ear, low enough that only she could hear. "Please. I need you close."

The please undid her.

"Fine," she said. "But if you two argue the whole way, I'm throwing myself into the mud."

They argued the whole way.

It started almost immediately.

"You're holding her too tight. She can't breathe."

"She's breathing fine."

"She's turning blue."

"That's the cold."

"It's not the cold. It's your death grip."

Aerion's arms loosened, just slightly. She patted his hand in silent thanks.

Better? the gesture asked.

Better, she thought back.

"Did you just communicate without words?" Her brother pulled up on the other side. "That's disgusting. Stop it."

"We didn't do anything."

"You absolutely did something. I saw it. There was a pat. There was a loosening. There was silent understanding." He shuddered dramatically. "I'm going to be sick."

"You're always sick," Aerion muttered. "It's in your disposition."

"Ouch. Wounded. Truly wounded." Her brother pressed a hand to his heart. "And here I thought we were bonding."

"We're not bonding." Aerion spat as his face contorted into a deep scowl.

"We're absolutely bonding. This is what bonding looks like. Constant bickering and thinly veiled insults. It's beautiful."

"It's exhausting."

"You love it."

Aerion was silent for a long moment. Then, so quietly she almost missed it: "I tolerate it."

Her brother heard anyway. His grin widened. "Tolerate. That's the first step toward love. Ask anyone."

"If I ask anyone, will they tell me how to make you fall into a ravine?" The silver hair male asked his eyebrow raised in distain.

"Probably not. I'm very sure-footed." The reply was immediate.

"I'll push you."

"You'll try."

"I'll succeed."

"You're still talking."

"And you're still listening."

She lost the battle. The laugh escaped before she could stop it, bright and surprised and so utterly herself that both of them turned to look at her.

Aerion's arms tightened around her, warm and protective. Her brother's face split into a grin.

"She laughed," her brother announced to the muddy road. "I made her laugh again. That's twice now. I'm keeping count."

"You're insufferable."

"I'm delightful. There's a difference."

"Is there." Aerion's eyes rolled as he let out a sigh.

"Clearly. She's laughing. You're not. I win."

Aerion opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. His chin came to rest on her shoulder, just for a moment, just long enough for her to feel the smile pressed against her neck.

He was smiling. Aerion was actually smiling.

She leaned back into him and let the bickering wash over her like music.

It continued through muddy roads and dripping trees and grey skies that slowly, stubbornly, began to show patches of blue. It continued when they stopped to rest the horses, when they passed the halfway mark, when the towers of Summerhall finally appeared on the horizon.

By the time they reached the gates, she had laughed so much her stomach hurt.

Aerion helped her dismount, his hands lingering at her waist. Her brother threw his reins at a stable boy and stretched like a cat.

"Well," he said, surveying the castle with obvious satisfaction. "That was almost pleasant. You're not entirely insufferable, dragon prince. I might even visit again."

Aerion's expression flickered, something caught between horror and grudging acceptance.

"I'll prepare my condolences," he said.

Her brother laughed, loud and genuine, and clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him.

"See?" he said to her. "We're practically brothers now."

She looked at them, her ridiculous brother, her guarded husband, both of them standing in the mud of Summerhall's courtyard like they hadn't spent the whole journey trying to annoy each other to death.

"I'm going inside," she announced. "Before one of you does something stupid."

"I would never," her brother called after her.

She was still smiling when she reached the door.

The family dinner was Maekar's idea, of course.

She had barely washed the road from her skin, barely changed into something dry, when a servant appeared with the king's summons. Tonight. The family hall. Your presence is requested and expected.

"I'm requested and expected," she murmured to her reflection. "That's prince-speak for 'you have no choice.' "

Her reflection stared back, still tired, still thin, but different somehow. Lighter. She touched the ruby at her throat and reached for her wardrobe.

The gown she chose was neither red nor gold.

It was both.

A bodice of deep crimson, the skirts flowing into gold and black, her house colours and his, woven together. She had never worn anything like it, had never owned anything like it. The seamstresses must have made it while she was gone. Must have known, somehow, that she would come back different.

She descended the stairs with her heart in her throat.

The family hall was warm with firelight and the sound of voices. They all looked up when she entered; Maekar first, then Daella, then Aegon and Aemond, then Daeron with his perpetual smirk.

And Aerion.

Aerion, who stood so quickly his chair scraped the floor. Aerion, whose eyes went straight to her gown, to the red and gold woven together, to the meaning she had woven with it.

He said nothing. But his hand, resting on the table, curled into a fist. The only sign that he felt anything at all.

She took her seat.

"You're back!" Aegon abandoned all pretence of dignity, half-rising from his chair. "You're actually back. Did you bring it? Did you bring the sword?"

"Aegon." Daella's voice was sharp. "Manners. She hasn't even sat down properly."

But she was already laughing, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Patience. It's coming."

"Coming?" His face fell. "It's not here?"

"Not yet." She smiled at his obvious disappointment. "But soon. My brother's knights are bringing everything. They took the longer road, something about not wanting to die in a storm."

Aegon slumped back in his chair, but his eyes still sparkled with anticipation. Aemond, beside him, said nothing. But she caught the way his eye flickered toward her, quick and hopeful, before he looked away.

She hid her smile.

The doors opened and her brother strode in, looking far too pleased with himself. "Did I hear my name? Are they telling stories about me already? Good ones, I hope."

"You wish," Daella muttered, but she was smiling.

Her brother dropped into the empty seat beside her, slinging an arm over her shoulders. "Miss me?"

"You were gone for ten minutes."

"Ten minutes too long." He grinned at Aerion across the table. "Don't you agree, brother?"

Aerion's expression didn't change. "I survived."

"Barely, from the look of you." Her brother leaned forward. "You know, for a man who rode through a storm to find my sister, you're not very friendly."

"I'm friendly enough."

"You called me insufferable." Her brother stated accusingly.

"That was friendly. I have worse words."

Daeron snorted into his wine. Daella hid a smile behind her hand. Even Maekar's mouth twitched.

The meal passed in a blur of food and laughter. Aegon asked seventeen questions about Storm's End, most of which her brother answered with increasingly ridiculous lies. Aemond said almost nothing, but she caught him glancing at the door every few minutes, waiting.

Halfway through, a servant appeared and murmured something to her brother. He nodded, then rose with a flourish.

"Ladies and gentlemen. The moment you've all been waiting for."

He disappeared and returned moments later with a long wooden box, which he presented to Aegon with exaggerated ceremony. "For the young knight. May it serve you better than your current excuses for swords."

Aegon's hands shook as he opened it. The blade inside caught the firelight, single-edged, curved slightly, balanced for speed. Exactly as her brother had described.

"It's beautiful," Aegon breathed.

"It's deadly, there's a difference, you'll cut yourself at least twice before you get used to it" But her brother's voice was warm. "Your sister picked it, it's was my ancestor Orys Baratheon's first sword."

Aegon looked at her with something like awe. "Thank you. Thank you-"

"Practice first. Kill things later." She squeezed his shoulder. "You'll be a fine knight, Aegon. This is just the beginning."

Another servant appeared with a smaller box, which her brother took and placed before Aemond with considerably less ceremony. "Books. Boring, heavy, full of words. My mother's choice, not mine."

Aemond opened the box with careful, deliberate hands. The first volume was old, leather-bound, stamped with faded gold lettering. He traced the title with one finger.

"A treatise on Valyrian linguistics," he murmured. "I've never seen this edition."

"Probably because it's older than the Citadel." Her brother shrugged. "My mother has weird taste and it was amongst the many she collected, my sister asked for her to give you some. "

Aemond looked up at her, and for once he didn't hide what was in his eye. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said quietly.

He nodded once and looked back at the books, but his shoulders had relaxed. She counted it as a victory.

Daella cleared her throat. "And for those of us who aren't boys obsessed with sharp objects and old papers?"

Her brother produced a smaller chest from somewhere, she had no idea where he kept hiding things, and presented it with a bow. "For the ladies. My sister insisted you have the best. I merely facilitated."

Daella opened the chest to reveal bolts of fabric in soft blues and greens, delicate embroidery, small pieces of jewelry that caught the firelight. Her eyes went wide.

"These are from the Summer Isles," she breathed. "The silks- I've never seen anything like-"

"The jewels too." Her brother looked absurdly pleased with himself. "My sister has excellent taste. She gets it from me."

"You're adopted," she reminded him.

"Emotionally, yes. Spiritually, no."

Daella laughed and pulled her into a brief, fierce hug. "Thank you. Truly."

She hugged back, surprised by the warmth of it. "You're welcome."

By the time the meal ended, the table was a mess of empty plates and spilled wine and happy, tired faces. Daeron had made fewer jests than usual, perhaps because her brother kept interrupting with better ones. Aegon hadn't put down his sword. Aemond hadn't looked up from his books. Even Maekar seemed softer somehow, watching his family with something almost like peace.

When she finally rose to leave, Aerion was beside her instantly.

"Walk with me?" His voice was quiet, careful.

She nodded.

They walked through the corridors in silence, side by side, close enough that their arms almost brushed. The castle was quiet, most of the servants retired, the family scattered to their chambers.

They reached the junction where her rooms branched left and his branched right.

They both stopped.

She looked at him. He looked at her. Neither spoke.

The night at the inn rose between them, the narrow bed, the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek, the way his arm had tightened around her whenever she shifted in her sleep. The first time they had shared a bed in months.

Neither of them had mentioned it since.

Neither of them had needed to.

But now, standing in the corridor with their chambers pulling them in opposite directions, the weight of it pressed down.

She could feel him thinking. Could see the war behind his eyes, the want, the restraint, the fear of asking for too much.

She could step forward. Could take his hand and pull him into her room, into her bed, into the warmth they had found in the storm.

Or she could wait. Could let him decide. Could see if he would reach for her first.

His hand twitched at his side.

"My room," he said. Quiet. Rough. "Or yours."

Not a command. Not even a question. Just an offering, a choice placed in her hands.

She looked at him. At the man who had learned to ask instead of take. At the husband who had ridden through a storm because she didn't write.

She reached for his hand.

"Yours," she said. "I want to see where you sleep. I want to know what you keep beside your bed. I want-" She stopped, swallowed. "I want to wake up next to you again. Not because of a storm. Because I choose to."

His fingers tightened around hers.

"You choose to."

"Yes."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles soft, reverent, the kind of kiss she had never imagined from him.

"Then come."

He led her down the corridor toward his chambers, and she followed without hesitation.

The walk to his chambers was short, but her heart hammered with every step.

Aerion's hand stayed wrapped around hers, warm and steady, and when he pushed open the door and led her inside, she felt something loosen in her chest. His rooms were sparse, neat, ordered, nothing like the chaos she had expected. A desk with papers. A wardrobe. A bed, large and welcoming, already turned down.

"I'll have a maid sent," he said quietly. "For... whatever you need."

She nodded, suddenly shy. They had shared a bed at the inn, yes, but that had been survival, two exhausted people clinging to each other in the dark. This was different. This was choice.

A maid arrived moments later, her arms full of fabric. She curtsied and disappeared into the bathroom, gesturing for her to follow.

"This is all we have, my lady," the maid murmured, laying out the nightgown. "With your sudden arrival, we couldn't prepare properly. I'm afraid there were no others ready."

She looked at the nightgown.

It was silk. Deep red. Cut low enough to be scandalous, with straps so thin they looked like they might snap. It was the kind of thing a mistress wore, not a wife. The kind of thing designed for seduction, not sleep.

She should have questioned it. Should have raised an eyebrow and asked for something, anything, else.

But she was so tired. Too tired to fight. Too tired to care.

And besides, Aerion had seen her body a thousand times before. In the early months, he had taken her with a hunger that left her breathless, had mapped every inch of her skin with his hands and mouth. A nightgown wouldn't change anything. He wouldn't care. He never had before.

She let the maid help her into it, then dismissed her with a nod.

The silk felt strange against her skin. Thin. Almost transparent in the candlelight. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly exposed, and stepped toward the door.

Aerion sat on the edge of the bed, waiting.

He had changed into his own nightclothes, loose trousers, nothing else, his chest bare and marked with the scars of training. His hair was still slightly damp from washing. He looked tired. He looked beautiful.

The bathroom door opened.

She stepped out.

And Aerion forgot how to breathe.

The gown was red a deep, rich red and it left nothing to the imagination. Silk clung to every curve, draping where it should, revealing where it shouldn't. The neckline plunged. The straps barely held. Her arms were wrapped around herself, trying to hide, but it only pushed her breasts higher, made the fabric stretch tighter.

She was shy. His wife, who had shared his bed a hundred times, was standing in front of him with her arms crossed and her eyes uncertain, and she had no idea what she was doing to him.

"Um." Her voice was small. "The maid said there were no other nightgowns. With my sudden arrival, they couldn't-"

"That's-" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "That's fine."

She bit her lip. "It's a little... much."

Much. She thought it was much. She had no idea. No idea that he was barely holding himself together, that every instinct was screaming at him to cross the room and show her exactly what that nightgown did to him.

He couldn't speak. Could barely think.

She shifted, uncomfortable under his silence. "Aerion?"

"You're beautiful."

The words left him before he could stop them. They hung in the air between them, raw and unexpected.

Her eyes went wide.

He had never said it before. Not once. He had shown her, with hands and mouth and the desperate way he took her in the early months but he had never said it. The words had always felt too soft, too vulnerable, too much like giving her a weapon to use against him.

But now they were out, and he couldn't take them back.

He didn't want to.

She stared at him, lips parted, arms slowly dropping to her sides. The gown did its work, revealing the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the dip of her hips. He followed the line of it with his eyes, helpless to look away.

This will be the end of me.

He was going to die. Right here. His wife, looking like she was sent to tempt him, and he was supposed to just... sleep? Beside her? With that silk clinging to every inch of her skin?

He cursed the maid silently. Viciously. This was deliberate. It had to be.

"Aerion?" She was still waiting for him to speak, still uncertain, still completely unaware of the effect she had.

"Come here." His voice was rough. He couldn't help it.

She crossed the room slowly, arms half-rising again before she forced them down. When she reached the bed, she stood before him, close enough to touch.

He didn't. He wanted to. Desperately. But he didn't.

"Lay down," he said quietly. "Sleep."

She blinked. "That's all?"

"That's all." He pulled back the covers for her. "You're exhausted. I'm exhausted. We sleep."

She looked at him for a long moment, searching his face for something. Then she nodded and slid into the bed, the silk whispering against the sheets.

He lay down beside her, close but not touching. The heat of her seeped across the space between them. He could feel it. Could feel her.

She reached for his hand under the covers. Her fingers found his, intertwined.

"Goodnight, Aerion."

"Goodnight."

They lay in silence, hands clasped, and slowly, finally, sleep took them.

He woke gasping.

Fire. Screaming. Dragons circling above a city that burned and burned and burned, her face in the flames, reaching for him, and he couldn't move, couldn't save her, couldn't-

His hand shot out across the bed.

Empty.

She wasn't there.

Panic clawed up his throat. He sat up, chest heaving, eyes scanning the darkness and then the door opened, and she was there, a jug in one hand and a cup in the other, her red silk glowing in the candlelight.

She took one look at him and dropped everything.

The jug shattered. Water flooded the floor. She didn't care.

"I just went for water," she said, crossing to him in seconds. "I woke up thirsty. I didn't want to wake you. I'm sorry, I should have-"

His arms locked around her, pulling her onto the bed, into his lap, against his chest. He buried his face in her hair and shook.

"Aerion." Her hands were in his hair, on his back, holding him together. "Aerion, I'm here. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. The dream still clung to him, smoke in his lungs, her face in the flames-

"I've got you," she whispered. "I've got you."

Slowly, gently, she shifted. She guided him down until his head rested in her lap, her thighs soft beneath him, her fingers threading through his hair. The silk soft and cool against his skin.

He closed his eyes.

Her touch was gentle. Steady. She traced patterns on his scalp, down his neck, back up again. She hummed something low and soft, a song from her homeland, the one she used to sing when they first married, before everything broke.

"I missed you," he whispered against her thigh.

Her fingers stilled. "What part?"

He lifted his head. Turned to look at her.

Her eyes were wet. The candlelight caught the tears trembling on her lashes. She was so beautiful it hurt.

He rose up on his knees, shifting so that his legs trapped hers, so that he hovered over her. One hand braced against the headboard beside her face. The other came up to cup her cheek.

He kissed her forehead. Soft. Reverent.

He kissed the space between her brows, where worry lived.

He kissed her eyelids, closed and trembling.

He kissed her cheekbone, her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

Each kiss a question. Each kiss a promise.

His lips hovered over hers, close enough to feel her breath.

"Every part," he whispered. "I missed every part of you."

Her tears spilled over.

He looked at her, at her eyes, at her lips, at her eyes again. Asking. Always asking now.

She nodded. Just once. Small.

He kissed her.

It was not gentle.

His mouth claimed hers like a man drowning, like she was air and he had been suffocating for months. His hand slid behind her head, cradling it against the headboard, protecting her from the force of his need. She gasped against his lips, startled by the sudden intensity and then her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer, kissing him back just as desperately.

One of his hands slid down her side, over silk, over hip, over thigh. He gripped her leg and pulled, dragging her flat against the bed, settling over her, deepening the kiss until there was nothing left but heat and breath and the taste of each other.

She arched beneath him. He groaned into her mouth.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, she was smiling. Tear-streaked and smiling.

"I missed you too," she whispered. "Every part."

He pressed his forehead to hers and laughed, a real laugh, which surprised even him.

"Good," he said. "Because I'm not letting you go again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He kissed her again, softer this time, and the night stretched on around them, warm and endless and theirs.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, instinctive and desperate, and when she pressed herself against him he went still, every muscle locked, breath frozen in his chest.

He looked at her. Violet eyes dark, searching, asking the question he would always ask now.

"Can I?"

She answered by pulling him down and kissing him.

Whatever restraint he had left crumbled.

His mouth claimed hers again, hotter now, hungrier, all the weeks of longing and fear and hope pouring into the way he kissed her. One hand caught both of hers, pinning them above her head against the pillow, fingers lacing through hers. The other found the hem of her nightgown, that ridiculously devastating nightgown, and pushed it higher, baring her legs inch by inch, the silk sliding over her skin like water.

She gasped against his mouth.

He pulled away just long enough to look at what he was doing. The red fabric was bunched around her thighs now, the skin of her legs exposed and gleaming in the candlelight. He traced his hand up the outside of her thigh, slow, deliberate, watching her face as he did.

Her breath hitched.

He smiled, actually smiled, and leaned down to press his mouth to the inside of her knee. Then higher. Then higher still, kissing a path up her thigh while she squirmed beneath him.

"Aerion-"

He hummed against her skin and kept going.

When he reached the apex of her thighs, he paused. Looked up at her through his lashes. She was watching him with wide eyes, chest heaving, the marks he'd left on her collarbone already darkening.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and it wasn't even clear what he meant; her, the moment, the way she looked at him like he was everything.

He sat up slightly and reached for the straps of her nightgown. Thin red ribbons that had no business existing. He pulled them down her shoulders slowly, deliberately, watching the silk slide away, watching her breasts reveal themselves inch by inch.

When the fabric pooled at her waist, he stopped.

Just looked at her.

She was bare to him now, chest flushed, marks already blooming where his mouth had been. Her arms were still pinned above her head, hands tangled in his, completely at his mercy.

And she trusted him.

The realization hit him like a physical blow.

She trusted him. After everything. After the cruelty and the grief and the months of cold silence. She was here, beneath him, giving herself to him like he deserved it.

He leaned down and kissed her collarbone. Soft and reverent.

Then the hollow of her throat.

Then the swell of her breast.

He took his time. Kissed his way across her chest, leaving a trail of heat and wetness and the faint red marks of his mouth.

He smiled against her skin, learning what made her whimper and what made her moan.

When he finally pulled back, she was trembling.

He released her hands. She didn't move them, just let them fall limp above her head, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes.

He sat up, letting himself look at her. Really look.

She lay beneath him, flushed and panting, her nightgown a red tangle around her waist, her chest bare and marked, her hair spread across the pillow like a dark halo. The candlelight flickered over her skin, painting her gold and shadow.

"Fuck." The word came out rough, almost pained. "You're so fucking perfect."

Her cheeks flushed deeper. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

He reached down and pushed the nightgown higher, baring her completely, the curve of her hips, the soft skin of her belly. He let his gaze travel over every inch, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst.

When his eyes found hers again, his pupils had swallowed the violet whole. Black and hungry and full of something that looked almost like wonder.

"Do you know what you do to me?" His voice was low, wrecked. "Do you have any idea?"

She shook her head, breathless.

He leaned down, lips brushing her ear, his weight settling over her. She could feel him against her thigh, wanting.

"You're a siren." His breath was hot against her skin. "You've had me under your spell since the moment I met you. I just didn't know it."

She shivered.

"I know now." He pulled back just enough to look at her, and there was nothing guarded in his face, no walls, no masks, just raw, aching need. "And I'm not fighting it anymore. I don't want to fight it. I want-"

He stopped. Swallowed.

"I want you," he whispered. "All of you. Forever."

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, thumbs tracing his cheekbones, his jaw, the places where tension lived.

"I'm already yours," she whispered back. "I always have been."

He kissed her then, deep and slow and full of promise, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him down into her.

The night stretched on around them, warm and endless, and for the first time in months, neither of them dreamed of fire.

The morning came golden and warm, sunlight streaming through the curtains they had forgotten to close.

Neither of them left the chamber.

They made up for lost time with a desperation that bordered on reverence, touching, learning, remembering. Every kiss was a conversation. Every caress a promise. They moved together like they were trying to fuse back into one person, to erase the months of cold distance with heat and want and the simple, devastating relief of being allowed to touch.

By the time the sun was high, she could barely move.

"Aerion." Her voice was hoarse. "I need.... I can't-"

He lifted his head from where it rested against her shoulder, looking obscenely pleased with himself. "Can't what?"

"Move. Breathe. Exist." She pushed at his chest weakly. "I need a bath."

He smirked and kissed her forehead before rolling away. "Go. I'll be here when you return."

She stumbled to the bathing chamber on unsteady legs, her body aching in the most wonderful way. The servants must have anticipated her needs; a tub of hot water waited, steam rising invitingly.

Two maids entered behind her, ready to assist.

She turned to dismiss them and saw their faces.

Their eyes were fixed on her neck. Her chest. Her shoulders. The marks Aerion had left, love bites and bruises and the evidence of their morning scattered across her skin like a map of where his mouth had been.

Heat flooded her cheeks.

"That will be all," she said quickly, too quickly. "I can manage."

The maids exchanged glances, knowing, amused and curtsied. "Of course, my lady."

The moment the door closed behind them, she pressed her hands to her burning face.

Seven hells.

She sank into the tub gratefully, letting the hot water soothe her aching muscles. The marks floated before her eyes whenever she looked down at them, purple and red and dark, scattered across her skin like constellations. She traced one absently, remembering the moment it happened.

The door opened.

She startled, reaching for a cloth, but it was only Aerion. He stood in the doorway, looking at her with an expression that made her stomach flip.

"The maids fled," he observed. "Did you frighten them?"

"I embarrassed myself in front of them." She sank lower in the water. "They saw... everything."

His mouth curved. "Good."

"Aerion!"

"What? Let them look. Let them all look." He crossed to the tub, and before she could protest, he was sliding into the water behind her, pulling her back against his chest. "You're mine. I want everyone to know it."

She should have argued. Should have pointed out that modesty existed for a reason.

Instead, she melted against him, letting his arms wrap around her, letting the warmth of the water and his body surround her completely.

This was new.

They had shared passion before, fierce and urgent and consuming. But this? Sitting in a bath, skin to skin, with no urgency and no end goal? This was foreign. This was terrifying.

This was everything.

His lips pressed to her shoulder. "What occupies your mind?"

"That we've never done this."

"Done what?"

"Just... existed together." She turned in his arms, water sloshing, until she faced him. "We've had passion. We've had anger. We've had grief. But this-" She gestured at the water, at them, at the quiet. "This is new."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I like it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." His hands settled on her waist, warm underwater. "I like existing with you."

She smiled and reached for the soap.

"Your turn," she announced. "You smell like- well. Like everything we did."

He sighed but didn't argue, turning so his back faced her. She lathered the soap and began to wash, working the suds across his shoulders, down his spine.

He flinched.

She paused. "What?"

"Nothing."

She leaned around to look at his back and bit back a laugh.

Scratches. Dozens of them. Long red lines raking across his shoulders, down his back, some still faintly pink. Evidence of her nails, of her desperation, of moments when she had clung to him and left her mark.

"Poor thing," she murmured, tracing one gently. "Did I do this?"

"You did." His voice was dry. "I may never heal."

"You'll survive."

"Will I? Look at them. They're vicious." He twisted, trying to see his own back. "I didn't realise you were part cat."

"I'm Baratheon. We have claws."

"Clearly." He caught her hand and pulled it around his waist, drawing her against him in the water. "I'll wear them with pride."

She pressed her face into his back, laughing, and the sound echoed off the stone walls, bright and real and utterly, completely free.

They walked through the gardens at dusk, the sky painted in shades of violet and gold, and she found herself stopping at the familiar spot; the rose bed, the golden blooms, the place where she had told him she needed to leave.

He stopped beside her, following her gaze. Remembering.

"This is where you asked me to let you go," he said quietly.

She nodded. "And you did."

"I didn't want to."

"I know."

He was silent for a long moment, staring at the roses. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "I'd do it again."

Not if you needed me to. Just I'd do it again. A statement. A fact. Like breathing

She turned to face him, heart pounding. The words had been sitting in her chest for days, waiting for the right moment. There would never be a right moment. There was only now.

"Aerion." She took a breath. "My moon blood was late."

He went still. Completely, utterly still, the kind of stillness that cost him, that she had learned to recognize as the moment before he shattered or sealed himself away. His violet eyes searched her face, and she saw hope and fear warring behind them, naked and unguarded for just a heartbeat before he tried to mask it.

"Are you..." He stopped. Swallowed. "Are we-"

"No." She shook her head quickly. "No. I went to the maester. It's not-" She pressed her lips together. "He said it was stress. From the travel, from everything. My body catching up with what happened."

Something flickered in his eyes. Relief? Disappointment? She couldn't tell, couldn't read him through the wall he had thrown up, the wall that was always there even now, even after everything.

But then his hand found hers. Warm. Steady. His fingers intertwined with hers and squeezed, just once.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Not about the baby. About her.

It undid her.

"I am." She squeezed his fingers. "But I realized something. When I was sitting in the maester's chambers, waiting for the answer, I-" She looked away, toward the roses. "I wanted it to be yes."

Silence stretched between them. Long enough that she had to look back.

He wasn't masking anymore.

His face was raw, completely, terrifyingly raw. His eyes were bright, not with tears but with something she couldn't name, something that made her chest ache. He looked at her like she had just handed him something precious and he didn't know how to hold it.

She forced herself to continue. "I didn't expect that. Didn't think I was ready. Didn't think I wanted- " She stopped, swallowed. "But I did. I wanted it. I wanted a child. Your child."

He didn't speak. Didn't move. But his hand came up, slow, hesitant, and touched her face. His palm was rough against her cheek, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw like he was memorizing her. Like he was afraid she might disappear.

"You're giving me a second chance." His voice was barely there rough, broken, barely a whisper. "Every day. You wake up and you choose to stay, and I still don't-" He stopped. Shook his head slightly. His thumb traced her cheekbone. "I don't know why."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed his fingers gently against her lips.

"Let me." His voice cracked. Just once. "You want my child. After-" He couldn't finish. Didn't need to.

She caught his hand and held it against her cheek. "We're not doing that. We're not looking back. Not today."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he pulled her close, not gently, not hesitantly, but like he needed her pressed against him to believe she was real. His arms wrapped around her, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, and he buried his face in her hair.

She felt him breathe. Felt the shudder that ran through him. Felt his arms tighten, just slightly, like he was afraid she might slip away.

"Then we wait," he murmured against her hair. "Or we don't. Your choice."

No joke. No smirk. Just a choice, placed in her hands, heavy with everything he couldn't say.

She pressed her face into his chest and listened to his heart, steady now, calm. "I want you. That's all I know."

His arms tightened again. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then another, then another soft, reverent, like she was something sacred.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

She closed her eyes and let herself be held.

The sky darkened above them. The roses bloomed gold at their feet. And for the first time in a very long time, she felt like she was exactly where she belonged.

The months passed in a blur of growing a belly and growing closeness, and by the time her eighth moon arrived, she was convinced she had married a man who had lost his mind.

Aerion was insufferable.

He hovered when she walked. He frowned when she ate. He glared at any servant who came too close, as if they might accidentally bump into her and shatter the precious cargo she carried. He had taken to pressing his hand to her stomach at least a dozen times a day, murmuring things to the babe in Valyrian that he refused to translate.

"You're being ridiculous," she told him one morning, catching him adjusting the pillows behind her back for the third time.

He tucked a fourth pillow behind her. "I'm being careful."

"The difference is that one of us is pregnant and the other is acting like I'm made of glass."

He paused, considering this. "You're carrying my child. You are made of glass."

She threw a pillow at him. He caught it and tucked it behind her anyway.

The arrival of her mother and brother sent him into a new spiral of protective insanity.

Her mother swept into the room with the calm authority of a woman who had birthed 3 children and feared nothing. She took one look at her daughter, nodded approvingly, and immediately began rearranging the furniture to her liking.

Her brother, meanwhile, made a beeline for Aerion.

"So." He circled him slowly. "You did this. To my sister. I should be angry."

Aerion's jaw tightened. He said nothing.

"I've seen you with her." Her brother grinned. "You're pathetic now. Followed her around the garden this morning with a cushion. I saw it."

Aerion's eye twitched. "If you value your life-"

"Mother!" Her brother cupped his hands around his mouth. "The dragon is threatening me!"

"Probably," her mother called back without looking up from the curtains. "But I'm busy."

Her brother grinned. Aerion stared at him with flat, murderous silence.

She laughed despite herself, and Aerion's gaze snapped to her, not angry, but something close to betrayed.

She shifted on the chaise, one hand resting on her belly. "What? You're both ridiculous."

Her mother finally looked up, a rare smile crossing her face. "She's right." She returned to the curtains. "The yellow ones would be better. Who chose these?"

"Daella."

"Daella has no taste. I'll have new ones sent."

Her brother dropped onto the chaise beside her, too close. Aerion's hands curled into fists.

"So." Her brother leaned in. "Tell me about fatherhood. You ready? Read any books? Know which end the baby comes out of?"

Aerion's voice was flat. "Move. Now."

"Or what?"

"I'll show you."

Her brother opened his mouth. Her mother's hand closed around his bicep.

"Out." She dragged him toward the door. "You've done enough."

"Mother- I wasn't-"

"You were." The door closed behind them.

Silence.

She was still laughing, hand pressed to her stomach, tears pricking her eyes. "The baby- I can't-"

Aerion crossed to her, dropping to his knees beside the chaise. "Stop laughing."

"I can't." She gasped. "You should see your face."

He glared. It only made her laugh harder.

When she finally subsided to hiccuping breaths, he pressed his hand to her belly. The familiar flutter of movement against his palm.

His expression shifted. Softened.

"He's kicking."

"He." She smiled. "You're so sure."

"I'm sure." His hand moved in slow circles. "He'll have my hair. Silver-white. My eyes. Violet. Everyone will know he's mine."

She watched him for a moment. Then, gently: "Baratheon genes are strong. He might have my hair. My eyes."

He stilled.

She continued, quiet. "Dark hair. Storm-grey eyes. The look of our house."

He looked up at her. Something flickered across his face.

"Your ancestor was Aegon the Conqueror's brother." His voice was low. "Orys Baratheon. He had Targaryen blood. Which means you have Targaryen blood." A pause. "I wouldn't have married you if you didn't."

She blinked. She had known. But not like this. Not as his reason.

"The babe will have Valyrian features." Firmer now. "The blood is strong. It will show." He looked back at her belly. "And it will be a boy."

She smiled softly.

"I don't care what he looks like," she said. "Boy or girl, dark or light, my eyes or yours. I only want the babe to be healthy."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her belly, right where their child moved beneath the skin.

"Healthy," he murmured. "And ours."

She ran her fingers through his silver hair, watching him with his face pressed to her stomach.

This was peace. This was home.

This was everything.

The labour lasted half a day, and every scream tore through him like a blade.

Aerion paced the corridor outside their chambers, heedless of the servants who pressed cups of water into his hands, heedless of his mother-in-law's calm assurances, heedless of everything except the sounds of his wife's agony. The midwives had barred him from entering. The maester had agreed. Birth is women's work, my prince. You will only be in the way.

He had listened. For hours, he had listened.

Then another scream tore through the door, raw, broken, nothing like the woman he knew and he stopped listening.

He threw the door open so hard it cracked against the wall.

The room was chaos. Blood on the sheets. Sweat on her skin. Her face contorted in pain, eyes screwed shut, hands gripping the linens with white-knuckled desperation. The midwives hovered, the maester muttered, and she, she was crying.

"Aerion?" Her voice was small, disbelieving. "Aerion-"

He was at her side in an instant, dropping to his knees, catching her reaching hand. She crushed his fingers as another wave took her, and he didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just held on.

"Make it stop." Her voice broke. "Please, Aerion, make it stop hurting-"

He looked at the midwives, at the maester, at anyone. "Give her more milk of the poppy. Now."

"We can't, my prince." The midwife's face was tight with strain. "Any more and she'll lose consciousness. The babe- if she can't push-"

"I don't care about the babe!" The words tore from him before he could stop them. "I care about her-"

"Aerion." Her hand tightened on his. "Aerion, don't-"

He looked at her. At the pain in her eyes. At the fear.

And he broke.

"I can't lose you." His voice was barely a whisper, meant for her alone. "I can't. Not now. Not after everything-"

"You won't." She gasped as another contraction hit, her face contorting. "I'm not...I'm not leaving you-"

"Push, my lady." The maester's voice cut through. "I can see the head, push now-"

She screamed and pushed, and Aerion held her hand and prayed to gods he had never believed in.

A cry split the air.

Small. Angry. Alive.

Relief flooded him so fast he nearly collapsed. He looked at the midwife, at the squalling bundle in her arms, at the tiny face visible above the blanket-

"The babe is healthy, my prince. A boy." The midwife smiled. "You have a son."

A son. They had a son.

He turned back to his wife, relief plastered on his face.

"There's another head."

The maester's voice was sharp. Urgent.

Aerion froze.

"What?"

"The second babe- there were two- she's still carrying...my lady, you need to push again, now!"

She was already crying, already gasping, already reaching for another wave of pain. "I can't-I can't-"

"You can." Aerion grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. "You can. You're the strongest person I know. You survived me. You can survive this. Push."

She looked at him for one breathless moment.

Then she pushed.

The second cry came faster, angrier, even louder than the first. The midwife caught the babe, her face a mask of astonishment. "Another boy, my lady. Two sons. You have two sons."

She smiled a weak, trembling smile and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Aerion." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Are they-"

"Healthy." He didn't know. He couldn't look away from her face. "They're healthy. You're healthy. Just- just rest. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded, just slightly, and slipped into unconsciousness.

He held her hand for a long time after that.

Three days.

For three days, she slept and woke and slept again, her body healing, her strength returning slowly. For three days, Aerion refused to leave her side. He ate at her bedside. He dozed in the chair beside her. He held her hand and watched her breathe and did not look at the nursery.

Her mother brought the babes to her. Her brother made jests about tiny dragons. The maester pronounced them both healthy, robust, perfect.

Aerion did not look at them.

She knew why. She understood, even in her haze of exhaustion and milk and healing. He would not look at them until he knew, truly knew, that she would survive. That they had not cost her life.

On the third day, she woke to find him asleep in the chair, his head pillowed on his arms beside her hip. His hair was a mess. His face was pale. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.

"Aerion."

He woke instantly. "You're awake. Are you in pain? Should I call the maester?"

"I need to see my babes." She smiled softly. "Our babes. Both of them."

He stilled. "They're-"

"I know. The maester told me." She reached for his hand. "But I haven't seen them. Not properly. Not with you."

He looked away.

She squeezed his fingers. "I'm here. I'm fine. And I want to meet our sons. With you."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and called for the nursery.

Her mother arrived first, one babe in her arms, her face glowing with a pride she rarely showed. Her brother followed, carrying the other with exaggerated care, as if the child might explode.

"About time." Her brother deposited the babe into her waiting arms with surprising gentleness. "They've been demanding to meet you. Very loudly. Your son has lungs, I'll give him that."

She looked down at the tiny face in her arms.

Dark hair. A full head of it, thick and soft with a single bundle of white in the back. And eyes, bright violet eyes, staring up at her with the unfocused gaze of the newborn.

"Aerion." Her voice caught. "His eyes. They're your color."

Aerion stepped closer, hesitant, and looked at the babe in her arms. Something flickered across his face, wonder, fear, love, before he masked it.

"The hair is yours," he observed. "Almost all dark."

"Look at the other one." Her mother was holding out the second babe. "Go on. Take him."

Aerion looked at the tiny bundle like it might bite him. Then, slowly, carefully, he reached out and took his son into his arms.

The babe fit in the crook of his elbow like he had been made for it. Silver hair, mostly silver, with a single streak of brown at the temple. And those same violet eyes, bright and impossibly dark.

"He has your coloring," she said softly. "Mostly."

Aerion stared down at the babe. The babe stared back.

Then the tiny mouth opened in a yawn, and something in Aerion's face cracked wide open.

Her brother cleared his throat loudly. "Right. Well. This is disgustingly sweet. Mother, I think we're needed elsewhere."

"Absolutely." Her mother was already moving toward the door, dabbing at her eyes when she thought no one was looking. "We'll check on you later. Rest. Both of you."

The door closed behind them.

Silence fell, broken only by the soft sounds of the babes; little breaths, little movements, little proof that they were real.

She looked at Aerion. He was still holding the silver-haired one, his arm curved around the tiny bundle like he was afraid to move. His face was pale. Exhausted. He hadn't looked away from the babe since he'd taken him.

"Aerion."

He looked up.

She held his gaze. Said nothing. Just looked.

He crossed to her slowly and sank onto the bed beside her. Close, but not quite touching. His eyes went to the dark-haired babe in her arms, then back to his own.

"They're perfect," she whispered.

He said nothing. Just looked down at his son. The babe's tiny hand had curled around his finger at some point, she hadn't noticed when.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. Felt him tense, just slightly, then relax.

They sat like that. Watching the babes breathe. Listening to the soft sounds they made.

After a long moment, his arm came around her. Careful. Gentle. Pulling her closer.

She closed her eyes.

For now, this was enough.

Notes:

Sorry this update took so long guys, I was preparing for my University interviews, I still have a few more left so the updates may still be slow but as soon as they're done I'll continue to post more regularly <3

This chapter concludes 'My Cruel Prince' :( but rest assured I will be making a prequel and a sequel for this series!

Taglist:

@bripsilvslano @heavengirls111 @saracasticxx @dreamerofvalyria @marreader8 @thekingswin  @mommyoftwoo @somewhereindorne @icebearcucumber @holypartyfantoadv @mademoisellepetite @astraea89 @mxddymay @auroraking9 @genuinelyintrepidcurator @risefallrise @br0ke-b1tch @eisaslvr

2026 PRESENT DAY

University. The very time in a young person's life where they still clutch tightly onto the tethers of being young and free; little responsibility weighing on their shoulders as they party most nights and procrastinate on assignments due in a few hours time, surviving off cup noodles and dreams that remind them of just how much closer they are to being an adult with bills and mortgages to pay, families to feed and nine-to-fives with no end in sight.

You were stuck in that limbo at age twenty-four choosing your degree after a gap year of travelling, now stuck in a shitty room with a shitty roommate. The desk you were sitting at was like a magnet for your head as your elbow did very little to stop the force of you banging your head against the wood; “Fuck!” you shot up and pressed your hand tightly to the sore spot, standing in that same spot until the pain turned into an annoying throb and you slowly sat back down “I really need a coffee” you crane your head slightly and notice your roommate snoring soundly in the bed just a few feet from where you sat.

You shake your head slightly, the chair creaking slightly as you stand and push your phone in your jean pocket. The room is dim as you blindly fumble for your wallet and airpods case and placing them into the safety of your coat, there was a cool breeze you could vaguely remember from hours ago when you were walking across the campus grounds. Cold enough that you were angry with yourself for not bringing a coat to any of your classes.

You won't forget this time.

With ease you pushed the door to the dorm block open whilst simultaneously pulling your phone out from the denim pocket. The last track you were listening to not even minutes ago illuminating the screen

Thriller.

And the sound of Vincent Price’s voice filled your eardrums as you unpaused the song and began your very short walk down to the local 7-11. It was a route you’d memorised from the past year and one you were confident you could walk blindfolded.

However as you got closer to where the usually well-lit store would be instead stood a dilapidated building. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you pushed the door open and stepped into the musky smelling room

“Hello?” no answer, of course. The building looked like it had been abandoned over forty years ago “I must be dreaming..” You shook your head and stepped out the door

You had barely taken a step when the sounds of Human Nature cut off with the suddenness of a cold slap and the ringing in your ears began. If anyone was watching it probably looked like a foal walking for the first time as you staggered, hands cupped tightly over your ears as you tried to shut out the uncomfortableness of…everything. It was like your body was protesting its surroundings, rejecting a change you were still unaware of.

It wasn’t until you peeked an eye open for everything to stop.

And it was like something shifted. Like the world had suddenly fallen into a settled silence. The cold night air had turned warmer and everything felt…less constricting.

“Okay…” On shaky legs you stood from your kneeled spot, and craned your head only slightly when you were back on your ass again

Surrounding you was a crowd of zombies, black goo drooling from their lips as they staggered closer “What the fuck?!” you scramble back and fumble for something- anything to protect yourself with, “Back off!” with a rock grasped in a palm you hurl it forward blindly

“Ow.”

CUT!”

Wait what?

You look up and see the zombie who got the rock to the face clutching their eye in pain as the one beside them used gentle hands to look at where the sharp end of the rock had scratched their brow and rubbed the..makeup off.

This must be some sort of trip. Did the 7-11 have some sort of carbon monoxide leak that was making you hallucinate?

“What do you think you’re doing?” A man sitting on an elevated chair overlooking the set exclaims as he drops down and rushes to the scene, beige coat catching as he strode closer to you, “Who let her in?” there was a murmur from onlookers and he lets out an exasperated sigh

“I’m sorry I-” you slowly stand to your feet once more in time for the man to stop just short of where you stood

“How did you even get onto..” he trails off, eyes darting to the side where a trailer sat in the shadows of the bright floodlights. You follow his gaze with squinted eyes as you try to make out the writing but with no success, the words a jumbled mess on the placard “God fans these days..”

“Excuse me, I don't even know what’s going on!” you snap “I was just trying to get coffee from the 7-11 and-” You stopped with a grimace when you realised the once irritated expression had turned to confusion on the face of a man who was starting to seem more familiar as the seconds ticked by

He stares for a moment, then with a scoff he turns away, “Yeah, sure.” He makes his way back to the raised chair overlooking the set “Can someone please escort her out of here.” And within moments a man in a dark charcoal suit appeared, exhaustion written all over his features as he nudged his head towards the exit

“Miss,” You hesitated, still looking around and trying to grasp onto a reality that was slipping through your fingers like sand

Why wouldn’t anyone tell you what was going on?

“Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” You nodded in resignation, letting the man grasp your shoulder gently and guide you away

You passed by the extra who you threw the rock at being attended to a medical professional and winced at the damage you had done, “Hey I’m really-” He glares and looks away

Yep. Deserved

The security guard dropped you at the streets outside of what you had now realised to be a studio and not a closed off neighbourhood.

Coffee.

That was all you wanted. Just a cup of shitty coffee which would always burn the tip of your tongue and kill your tastebuds with the bitterness of burnt coffee beans- And your bed; Tough as rocks and always leaving you with an ache in your lower back was something you had never desired for until now. The wall of the studio, even just a pile of bricks, looked like a fine compensation, “God could this night get any worse?” You pressed your back to the wall and slid down into an awkward scrunched position

It was all so loud…Even in the darkness of the night it was like the sounds had been dialed up max and you couldn’t help but flinch at the smallest rustle of something in the trees or even car tyres screeching in the distance. You tried in vain at thinking of anything but the events that unfolded only minutes ago, but that just made it worse. You looked down and finally realised through blurry eyes that your hand had been shaking uncontrollably since the moment you sat down.

Fuck, where the fuck were you?

~~~~

You didn’t know how long the time had passed. The shake which migrated to the rest of your limbs hadn’t stopped but the chill of the night air was a balm to the sweat clinging on your face and neck. But the unsteadiness of a change you still weren’t aware of had tipped you on your axis, like something had pinned you in place while everything continued to move around you. It was nauseating.

It was the sound of metal gates creaking open and a car pulling out of the studio lot which got your attention, looking up blearily in time to see the headlights of a shiny Rolls Royce appearing in your peripheral along with two night guards appearing beside the vehicle. It looked like it was about to drive off when there was a sudden commotion from inside and the door cracked open.

“You okay, miss?” It was a man. That much you could deduce from the voice, but it sounded so familiar. He stepped closer and the man driving the car got out quickly, his presence carefully watching the scene unfold

“I-” Your voice catches in your throat “I don’t know where I am” You sniffle and press the sleeve of your coat under your nose

He stepped into the light under the street lamp, and like a rock sinking into the pit of your stomach you realised with horror at who this man was

He tilts his head, almost like he was studying you, “You were the girl from earlier.” He states, “The one that wandered onto set and threw a rock at James.”

“How did you-”

“The director's assistant told me. Scared everyone too, apparently.”

“Didn’t mean to,” You reply, “Just wanted to get a cup of coffee is all.”

“You were scared.”

“Now that’s just ironic” You snort as you leant against the brick wall

“Huh?”

“Nothing…” You go silent and he shifts uncomfortably, “Are you real?” You finally murmur out

“Pardon?”

“Either you’re some hallucination from- I don’t even know,” you chuckle dryly, “Or you’re really Michael Jackson. And I don’t know which option is scarier.”

“I’m real.” He softly assures and goes to kneel when a hand on the shoulder stops him

“Michael,” The driver warns, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Michael shrugs him off, “If she was dangerous, she would’ve hurt me already.” He kneels down beside you, placing a comforting hand on your arm and giving it a squeeze “I’m real.”

You nod, teeth worrying a line into your lip “‘s good to know.”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me.”

“True.” You agree, “But it’s enough of an explanation for me.”

“Can I help you with anything?” He asks softly

“Never been to California before, so I don’t know where the nearest motel is.”

“So you’re a tourist?”

“Sure..You could say that.”

“I’m sure Bill knows where the nearest motel is, he can give you directions.” He nods Bill over, who appears within seconds and somehow having already produced a pen and paper

Do body guards always carry pen and paper?

He messily scribbles out instructions on how to get to some motel you didn’t bother to learn the name of and presses it into the palm of your hand, “Thanks, Bill.” You slide up the wall to a standing position and go to follow the directions when you pause

Michael was just standing there. Fingers fidgeting with the threads on his sweater as he too turned to go back inside the car, “Are you alright?” He stops short and turns around

“Just thinking…”

Your gaze slid across the studio lot and back to where he nervously stood, “It was Thriller, wasn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“The set I accidentally walked on to” You reiterate, “It was for the Thriller music video.” He looks down to the ground and nods shyly, a small smile on his face which falls seconds later “What is it?”

“I don’t think I should do it.” You cock your head to the side and he slowly continues, “The music video it’s just… I worry people are going to take it the wrong way” He lets out a small snort, “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know you.”

“It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

You shrug your shoulders and you press his hands into yours, giving them a small squeeze, “Call it a hunch.”

He almost looked unsettled as his gaze swept across your features for any hint of deception, finding none. Your words almost made it seem like you had already watched it on loop time and time again. “Thank you.” He steps back, releasing his hands from your grasp and dropping them to his sides “Have a good night, miss”

“You too.” You begin to walk away but paused mid-step and turned to face the retreating figure, “Hey!” He turns back, “Don’t let anyone make you feel like what you’re doing is wrong.”

“How did you kno-” But you’d already turned and walked off, “Bill, how did she know?”

『••✎••』

He tells himself it’s just a coincidence. That it doesn’t mean anything. That the seat just happened to be open, that you just happened to sit there, and that the space between you just happens to feel exactly the same as it used to.

Peter sits on the worn concrete steps of the library, the cool stone seeping through his jeans. The world around him is loud—a constant river of students flowing in and out of the brick building, filled with shouted greetings and ringing phones. None of it reaches him. His entire world has narrowed to the twelve inches of stone between his thigh and yours.

You’re rifling through your bag, brow furrowed in concentration. The gesture is so achingly familiar it sends a sharp ache through his chest. You used to do that before every test, bottom lip caught between your teeth, fingers searching for a pen you’d tucked away only moments earlier. He’d always have one ready, clicking it twice before handing it over—a silent ritual.

You don’t look up. You haven’t really looked at him since the semester started. Not in the way you used to. To you, he’s just another face in the crowd.

He watches as you pull out a pair of wired headphones, the thin black cord tangling around your fingers in a messy knot. A half-forgotten song leaks from the small speakers, tinny and faint in the open air. You sigh, that small, frustrated sound you always made when you couldn’t solve a problem—a soft puff of air that was more adorable than annoyed.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out his own pair of cheap wired earbuds. The cord is frayed at the edges from months of use. His thumb traces the scratched plastic. He hasn’t used them since… well, a while.

He clears his throat, the sound rough and unused.

“Need a hand?”

You jump, head snapping up. Your eyes, wide and surprised, finally meet his. For one fleeting, heart-stopping second, he sees it—the ghost of recognition. A flicker of warmth. Of him. It vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the polite, blank smile of a stranger.

“Oh. Thanks, but… I think I got it.” You hold up the now-untangled headphones as proof.

“Right. Cool.” He shoves the earbuds back into his pocket, the rejection stinging sharper than it should. He should stand up and leave. Fade back into the crowd where it’s safe, where he doesn’t have to look at you and see everything you’ve forgotten.

But he doesn’t.

His gaze drifts to the little speaker pressed against your left ear. He remembers the weight of your head on his shoulder, the scent of your hair, the way your laugh used to vibrate through his chest when he played you that ridiculous indie-pop song you claimed to hate but secretly loved. The memory is so vivid he can almost feel the warmth of your skin against his.

His brain screams at him. Don’t. Don’t you dare.

His heart doesn’t listen.

“Do you… uh…” He fumbles with the drawstring of his hoodie, the worn fabric his only lifeline. “Do you know what the best song to study to is?”

You tilt your head, a small, curious smile touching your lips. It’s different from the one he remembers—polite, guarded. “I usually just listen to classical. Helps me focus.”

He nods, the motion jerky. “Right. Yeah. Classical.” It was comforting to know that some things hadn’t changed. You being a liar, for one. It was one of your most endearing and infuriating qualities. You always told him you listened to classical when you studied, but in reality, you’d put on a podcast.

“The only thing more boring than my textbook,” you’d once said, laughing into his neck, “is a history podcast.”

Peter swallows hard, forcing the memory down before it chokes him. He shifts slightly on the step, the twelve inches between you suddenly feeling like twelve miles.

“I’ve got this playlist,” he says, his voice quieter than he intends. “Indie stuff. Kind of slow. It’s not classical or instrumental at all, but… It’s got a good rhythm. Helps when my brain won’t shut up.”

He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. His hands are shaking just slightly. He hopes you don’t notice.

You hesitate, eyes flicking from his face to the phone and back. There’s a beat of silence—the kind that used to feel comfortable between you. Now it’s heavy with everything left unsaid.

“Sure,” you say finally, polite curiosity winning out. “Why not? I’m kind of stuck on this chapter anyway.”

Peter’s heart twists—half relief, half agony. He scoots the tiniest bit closer, careful not to crowd you, and holds out one of his wired earbuds. The cord dangles between you like a fragile bridge.

You take it, your fingers brushing his for half a second. The contact sends a familiar spark racing up his arm. You don’t react the same way. Of course you don’t.

He starts the playlist. Soft guitar strums fill the space between you, gentle and warm—the same track that used to play in his tiny apartment while you both pretended to study. The one where you’d eventually give up, resting your head on the back of the sofa and telling him stories about your childhood. The one where, for the first time, he realized he was falling in love with you.

You settle back against the step, textbook propped on your knees, but he can tell you’re not really reading. Your head is tilted, listening. A small line forms between your brows as you concentrate on the music. He knows that look. You’re trying to place the song. Trying to remember where you’ve heard it before.

You won’t.

You won’t remember the rainy Tuesday you spent on his fire escape, both of you crammed under a too-small umbrella, sharing this same song through the same tangled earbuds. You won’t remember how you shivered—not from the cold, but from the thrill of being close enough to feel the heat from his skin. You won’t remember that it was the night he almost kissed you, the city lights blurring in the rain behind your head.

Peter’s gaze falls to your lips. He watches them part slightly as you listen, a silent question forming. He can almost taste the memory—the ghost of that almost-kiss, the electric tension thick and sweet in the air. The way your eyes had fluttered shut. The way he had leaned in, every nerve in his body screaming yes, finally.

He remembers stopping. The frantic buzz of his phone with a text from May. The distant wail of a siren pulling him back to reality, to responsibility. The disappointment in your eyes had hit him like a physical blow, one he still felt on quiet nights.

He’s leaning in again now. Just a fraction of an inch. An unconscious pull, like gravity, toward your warmth. The distance between you shrinks from twelve inches to six, to four. The world narrows to the space between your mouths, the soft music the only thing that exists outside this fragile bubble.

Your eyes lift from the textbook and meet his. They’re wide, questioning, a little dazed. For one breathtaking, terrifying second, you’re not looking at Peter Parker, the stranger beside you. You’re looking at him. The real him. The wall of forgetfulness cracks, and he sees a flicker of that same fire from the fire escape—the same hope, the same affection.

But you don’t know why you’re feeling it.

You pull back. It’s not harsh, but it’s definite. A subtle retreat. Your gaze drops back to the textbook, and the wall slams shut again. You pluck the earbud out and hold it out to him.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice perfectly polite. Nothing more. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

Peter takes the earbud back, his fingers numb. The tiny piece of plastic feels heavier than lead. He nods, a clumsy, wordless motion, as the world rushes back in—the laughter from a passing group, the distant wail of another siren, the rustle of you collecting your things.

He watches you stand with that graceful motion he has memorized for years. You sling your backpack over one shoulder and give him one last polite, empty smile.

“I’ll… see you around, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he manages to croak. “See you.”

You turn and walk away, swallowed by the crowd flowing up the library steps. You don’t look back. Of course you don’t.

Peter sits there for a long time, long after your form has disappeared. The twelve inches of concrete beside him feel like a vast, frozen tundra. He looks down at the earbud still clasped in his hand, the cord trailing to the phone on his lap. The song wasn’t finished—he could tell by the faint vibrations in the plastic—but your half of the conversation was over.

All he had now was the silence echoing in his own ear. The silence and his half of the broken piece of technology. It had broken months ago, not long after it happened. He never got around to replacing it. He didn’t need to. The one working side was enough for him when he wanted to remember.

And it still was, even when he shared it with you. Because while you were hearing the guitar and the soft piano, all he could hear—all he wanted to hear—was the memory of the rain on the metal fire escape and the ghost of your laugh.

He told himself it was a coincidence. That it didn’t mean anything. But sitting here now, with the sun beating down on the back of his neck and your scent already fading from the air, he knows he was wrong.

It meant everything.

I DEFINITELY didn’t base the song off cigarette daydreams or anything... I wouldn’t do that 🫪

Your relationship started slowly, a natural progression from shared classes and late-night study sessions that turned into late-night talks about everything and nothing. He wasn’t a man of many words, but with you, he didn’t have to be.

You understood the silent language of a shared look, the comfort of a hand slipping into yours without a word. You had built a life together, a comfortable rhythm of lazy Sundays and shared headphones, your world intertwined with his in a way you never thought possible. You were his anchor, and he was yours.

That’s why the betrayal hit so hard. It wasn’t a sudden blow, but a slow, agonizing realization. You knew something was wrong the moment you saw Suho in the hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and machines, his usual fierce energy replaced by a terrifying stillness. The doctors couldn’t tell you much, only that he’d been in a fight. A brutal one. Your gut twisted, a cold dread coiling in your stomach.

It was when you found the money. A wad of cash stuffed in a hidden pocket of Wooyoung’s jacket, more than he’d ever make from his part-time jobs. And the messages on his phone, deleted but still recoverable, detailing a job, a payment, and an opponent. The opponent was Suho. The pieces clicked into place with a sickening finality, and your world, the one you had so carefully built with Wooyoung, shattered.

You waited for him to come home, the crumpled bills and the phone clutched in your hands. The door opened, and he walked in, his usual cheerful greeting dying on his lips as he saw your face.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern, but you only felt a cold emptiness.

You held up the money, then the phone. "This is what's wrong."

Wooyoung’s eyes widened, a flicker of panic crossing his face before it settled into a mask of guilt. He looked away, unable to meet your gaze. "I…I can explain."

"Can you?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "Can you explain why you were paid to put my brother in a coma? Can you explain that to me, Wooyoung?"

He finally looked at you, his eyes full of a pain that almost mirrored your own. "It wasn't supposed to be like that. I didn't know it was him until it was too late. The money… I needed it for us. For our future."

"Our future?" you scoffed, a single tear finally escaping and tracing a path down your cheek. "You think we have a future after this? You think I can look at you and not see my brother's broken body in a hospital bed? You think I can ever trust you again?"

He took a step towards you, but you flinched away, and the hurt in his eyes was palpable. "Please, just listen to me. It was a mistake. A terrible, stupid mistake. I'm so sorry, [Reader's Name]. I'm so sorry."

But the words felt like dust. They couldn't erase the images in your head, the feeling of betrayal that had settled deep in your bones. "Sorry doesn't fix this, Wooyoung," you said, your voice breaking. "Sorry doesn't wake my brother up. Sorry doesn't make me forget that the person I love is the same person who did this to my family."

You turned and walked away, picking up the small bag you had already packed. The silence of your apartment without him was deafening, a constant reminder of his absence. The world felt muted, stripped of its color. You were adrift, navigating a sea of grief and betrayal, the twin feelings warring inside you.

Wooyoung, for his part, was a man lost. He tried to reach out, sending texts that went unanswered, calling you only to be sent to voicemail. He’d stand outside your apartment for hours, just hoping to catch a glimpse of you, to see if you were okay.

The guilt was a physical weight, a constant ache in his chest. He knew he deserved your anger, your silence, your absence. But he also knew he couldn't give up. He'd do whatever it took, no matter how long it took, to earn back the trust he had so carelessly thrown away.

Wooyoung's world had become a series of routines centered around the hope of seeing you. Every morning, he’d wait near your bus stop, watching as you walked past without a glance in his direction. Every evening, he’d sit in his car, parked a block away from your apartment, until the lights went out in your window.

He wasn't a stalker; he just couldn't bear the thought of not knowing you were safe. His friends, especially Ben, noticed his withdrawal. They tried to get him to go out, to fight, to do anything to distract him, but their efforts were useless. All he could think about was you.

The days bled into weeks, and the silence from you was a physical wound. He knew he deserved it, but that didn't make the emptiness any easier to bear. He’d replay your confrontation over and over in his head, each word a fresh cut.

“Can you explain why you were paid to put my brother in a coma?”

“You think I can ever trust you again?”

Your voice, so full of pain and betrayal, haunted his waking hours and his dreams. He finally understood the depth of what he had done. It wasn’t just a fight; it was an act that had shattered your trust, and with it, his entire world.

One evening, as he was sitting in his car, he saw you. You were walking home, your shoulders slumped, looking more exhausted and heartbroken than he had ever seen you.

His hand instinctively went to the door handle, a desperate urge to run to you, to hold you, to beg for your forgiveness. But then he saw the way you hugged your jacket tighter around yourself, a subtle, protective gesture that reminded him of how you had flinched from his touch.

He stayed in the car, a silent, lonely guardian. He knew that for now, the only way he could show he cared was by giving you the space you needed, even though it was killing him. He had to prove he had changed, not just with words, but with actions that spoke louder than any of the empty apologies he'd been sending. It was a long road, and he was only at the beginning, but he was prepared to walk it, every painful step of the way.

Two years. Two years of waking up every day and the first thing you did was check your phone, a silent, desperate hope that something had changed. Two years of visiting a hospital room that felt more like a tomb, talking to a brother who couldn't talk back, his stillness a constant, heavy weight on your chest.

You wrote him countless messages, not just on your phone, but in a journal you kept by his bed. You told him about your classes, the stupid things your friends did, the way the seasons changed outside the window. It was a one-sided conversation, but it was all you had.

During those two years, Wooyoung tried. Oh, how he tried. He would leave flowers on your doorstep, bouquets of apology you never brought inside. He'd text you, his words raw and honest, detailing his regret and the agonizing emptiness of his life without you. You read them all, a part of you aching to respond, but you never did. The betrayal was still too fresh, the image of your brother in that bed a constant, unforgiving reminder.

Then came the call. The one you had been waiting for, praying for, for a thousand nights. Your mother's voice on the other end of the line was shaky, but full of a joy you hadn't heard in years. "He's awake," she whispered, and the world seemed to stop spinning.

You ran to the hospital, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. When you saw him, he was thinner, his hair longer, but those stubborn eyes were open. He was awake. He smiled when he saw you, a weak, tired smile that still held all the warmth you remembered.

"Hey," he rasped, his voice rough from disuse.

You couldn't speak, the tears just flowed, and you fell into his arms, holding him tight. It was the most perfect moment you had ever experienced.

Later, when you were alone, you handed him the journal and your phone. "I wrote you everything," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "I didn't know if you'd ever be able to read it, but I needed you to know. Everything that happened."

He took them both, a look of profound seriousness on his face. "I'll read them," he promised, his voice stronger now. "Every single one. And then… you can tell me everything else." He paused, his gaze fixed on you. "I'm not just asking about what happened to me. I'm asking about you. Where have you been, really? I want to know about your life. And... I want to know about Wooyoung."

He had noticed his absence, of course. Wooyoung was a part of your life, and Suho knew it. He saw the empty space in your heart, the lingering sadness in your eyes, and his protective brother instinct flared to life. He wanted to understand not just what happened to him, but what happened to you.

He remembered. Not everything, not in a crisp, clean sequence like a movie, but he remembered the fragmented violence, the blur of fists and feet, the chilling cold of the floor against his back. He remembered Wooyoung's face—not with the wild, crazed fury of a true enemy, but a sort of grim resignation, a haunted look that had stuck with him even as everything else faded to black.

He'd seen the desperation in his eyes, the reluctant obedience to a power he couldn't fight. And he remembered Beomseok. Beomseok was the one who had taken it too far, whose brutal kicks were the final, crushing blows. Wooyoung had been part of it, yes, but he wasn't the one who had wanted to end him.

Suho read your journal and all the messages you sent him. He saw the two years of your life unfold through your words: the quiet loneliness, the struggle to move on, and the pain you felt every time a text from Wooyoung popped up on your phone. He saw the depth of your love for him, and the agonizing conflict of your loyalty to your brother. He saw the person you had become—stronger, yes, but with a piece of your heart still missing.

When he finished, he found you in the hospital cafeteria, staring out the window, a half-empty cup of coffee forgotten in your hands. He sat down across from you, his presence a grounding force.

"I read everything," he said softly, and your head snapped up, your eyes wide and full of fear.

"Suho, I-"

"He was there," he interrupted, his voice steady. "Wooyoung was there. But he wasn't the one who put me here. That was all Beomseok."

You stared at him, your mind trying to process his words. "But… but he was part of it. He took the money. He still hurt you."

Suho reached across the table and took your hand, his grip surprisingly firm. "I know he did. And what he did was wrong. But he was just a kid, caught between a rock and a hard place. Beomseok had him backed into a corner. Wooyoung did what he had to do to survive, but Beomseok… Beomseok was the one who wanted to see me broken."

He squeezed your hand gently, his gaze unwavering. "Wooyoung's been trying to get you back for two years. I read your phone. He's been begging you to listen, to forgive him. And you didn't, not because you don't love him, but because you were protecting me." He smiled, a hint of his old, mischievous self returning. "But I'm awake now. I'm okay. And you don't have to protect me anymore."

"You have to decide for yourself now, without me in the way," he said. "Do you want to live with the fear that he'll do something like this again, or do you want to give him a chance to prove he's changed? Because from what I've read... he's been doing that for two years.”

Suho’s words had been a key, unlocking a door to a room you hadn’t dared to enter. The fear was still there, a knot in your stomach, but now it was overshadowed by something else: hope. For two years, you had been a sister first, a girlfriend second. Now, Suho was telling you it was okay to be a person again.

You walked out of the hospital and found yourself on autopilot, your feet carrying you to a familiar street, a familiar building. It was late, but a single light was on in Wooyoung’s apartment. You stood there for a long time, watching the soft glow, a silent apology in your heart for every time you had driven past without stopping.

You finally took a deep breath and walked to the door, your hand trembling as you raised it to knock. The door opened almost immediately, and Wooyoung stood there, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked tired, his face a little gaunt, but he was still the same Wooyoung you remembered—just a little more broken.

"I..." he started, his voice a low rumble, but he couldn't find the words.

You didn't say anything either. You just stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. His body tensed for a moment, a second of shock, before he completely relaxed, his arms coming up to hold you tight. It was a fierce, desperate embrace, as if he was afraid you would disappear if he let go.

"I'm so sorry," he finally choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "I am so, so sorry. I know I messed up, and I've tried to fix it, but I just… I couldn’t find the right way."

You just held on tighter, the warmth of his body a comforting reality after so long. "I know," you whispered into his shirt. "Suho told me. He woke up."

His grip on you tightened. "I heard. I was going to go to the hospital, but I didn't think I should..."

"It's okay," you said, pulling back just enough to look at him, your hands resting on his chest. "It's okay. You can tell me everything now. And... I'll listen."

You weren't back together. Not yet. The pain was still too raw, the trust still too fragile. But you were here, in his arms, and that was the first step. You knew it would be a long, difficult road, full of hard conversations and difficult memories. But for the first time in two years, you weren't walking alone. You had a partner, and you had hope.