Lola

“Have you seen the knight who had trouble mounting up his horse?” Alicent laughed as Rhaenyra mimicked the poor man’s earlier catastrophe, your gaze moving between the two of them as you listened, none of which had entirely caught your attention. 

The crowds and your surroundings seemed to quiet down as you peer over to the line up of knights right in front of the grand stands, you knew some of the contenders, you knew that Prince Daemon Targaryen was there, as well as Ser Criston Cole amongst the others you could not remember by name. 

Your grip on your token, a beautiful ribbon that had adorned your house’s colours, had tightened—you were anxious to say the least, you merely wished you had kept to yourself in your chambers. Alicent gives you a knowing look and you smile at her to ease her concern, you tear your gaze away from hers, coincidentally landing on the knight that galloped towards the tiltyard, a dark green cape and the Hightower sigil etched onto his breastplate. His auburn hair caught your attention and his composure pulled you in. 

“That is Gwayne, is it not?” Rhaenyra asked Alicent as she counted the candidates who lined up for introductions as the latter nodded to confirm her question.

Gwayne, what a lovely name, you thought to yourself.

The crowds had gathered and made noise, yells, and chants towards the knights who were their favorite. The nobles and royals alike were in their seats, eagerly awaiting for the tournament to begin. 

You were drowning in your sorrows as Gwayne sets his sights upon you and it … changes something in him. Over a short glance, you made him swoon over you without even uttering a word nor knowing your name. He was well aware of your friendship with his sister but he hadn’t had the time to get to know you more. 

Your eyes meet, it simply messes with your equilibrium as his striking blue eyes stare back at you in the same curiosity you hold yourself to, it inspires more courage in you. 

The Master of Revels began to announce the knights in attendance of the tourney, one by one, they had gallantly showed themselves off, pride oozing from their presence. 

Rhaenyra pulls you and Alicent toward the edge of the grand stand to peer over the knights asking for favors. Daemon Targaryen does not hesitate to poke and prod allegiances and patience and asks for Alicent’s favor, she hesitantly gives her laurel wreath to him—a normal gesture to the naked eye, an awkward exchange to the ones watching closely. Rhaenyra confidently gives her favor to Cole’s lance, smiling coyly at him as he rides away.

You hid your token in hopes of not getting much attention, you always preferred the peace and quiet, a stability that you have not been able to achieve in such a long time.

Gwayne notices. 

Cueing his horse, cantering as the mud of the tourney grounds clings to his horse’s hooves, but you only look at the silver of his armor and the stark focus in his blue eyes. You were mesmerised, that in itself was an understatement.

Gwayne steers his massive destrier away from the line of competitors and guides it directly toward the royal box. The crowd’s roar thins into a tense, expectant murmur as he stops right beneath your box.

You eyes meeting once more, Gwaybe does not look at your father, or the King, or the gossiping nobles surrounding you—he looks only at you.

With a deliberate, agonizingly slow movement, he raises his gauntleted hand and takes his helmet off, his eyes lock onto yours, dark and entirely unreadable. Then, he lowers the heavy tip of his jousting lance until it hovers just inches from your hands, resting on the wooden railing.

“My Lady,” his voice cuts through the ambient noise of the arena, deep and steady. 

“The field is fierce today, but your token would grant me the strength of ten men. Will you bless my lance?”

Every eye is suddenly burning into the side of your face, the expectation heavy and burdened. Your breath hitches, you could feel Alicent and Rhaenyra’s scrutinising gazes on you. Even out of your sight, you can feel your father’s posture stiffen, but the knight is waiting, Gwayne Hightower is waiting. Everyone is waiting.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach up to the silk ribbon tied around your sleeve, and carefully place it on his lance. Gwayne does not smile victoriously, like the usual arrogance a man has, no, he smiles softly and genuinely at you. The small act kindled a spark within you as you did the same, causing the same effect on him too.

“I will win, for you, I will make sure of it,” he says earnestly.

You nod slightly, inwardly cursing at yourself to have said at least something to him before he rode off towards the line up once more.

Your heart pounding, your eyes stuck to his figure, The Seven may he win.

As the crowds roared as the rounds began, Gwayne successfully unseated half of his opponents, mercifully putting an end to their participation with little to no succumbing injuries. He was careful, thoughtful even but it was a stretch, you noticed quite a lot of things, and wanting more—you immediately stopped yourself from delving further into this madness, you grew timid and anxious nevertheless, he will get your full attention soon. Soon.

He must earn it, you suppose, when he wins, if he wins. 

“For the final challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen of House Targaryen! Prince of the City and Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks! As well as Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King!” The Master of Revels announced firmly, they were the last two men at the tournament, the one last round to finally reveal the grand champion.

Daemon spurs his horse forward, his confidence gleaming from his dark armor, he takes one last glance at the royal box with a smug expression, looking at Rhaenyra and King Viserys. 

On the other side of the arena, Gwayne doesn’t boast, he composes himself instead and then promptly looks at your ribbon, a short prayer to the Gods that he wins. 

The herald’s horn sounds, a sharp, piercing blast. Daemon lowers his lance and Gwayne does the same, the charge. The sound of thundering hooves fills the arena—you wouldn’t be able to know the difference between the sound and the pounding of your heart at this point. Daemon leans in, aiming squarely for Gwayne’s shield, fully expecting the Hightower to flinch or even break under pressure. 

Gwayne sees right through him, staying perfectly levelled, swiftly adjusting his aim as the last possible second.

Before you know it, a loud crash was heard. Daemon’s lance strikes Gwayne’s shield, shattering into useless splinters but Gwayne’s lance catches Daemon squarely in the centre of his chest piece—the impact incredibly deafening. The Targaryen Prince is ripped clean out of his saddle, hitting the dirt hard, his armor clattering against the wet soil. For a second, everyone was dead silent, then, the Hightower bannermen and nobles alike erupt into the wildest of cheers. 

Gwayne had won the tourney, everyone around you cheered as he took out Prince Daemon from his horse, with a huge smile, you applauded as loud as you could.

That had been the most exciting moment of your life. 

But that had been years ago. 

Your father had uprooted you from that life in the capital. He hoped to get you betrothed to a respectable Lord with plenty of riches and land. A naive dream a noble could have.

You had missed accompanying Alicent and Rhaenyra around the royal gardens, even if you had only listened while they gossiped, but it was who you were and you were not ashamed of your differences from the ladies of your standing. The occasional ravens from the Keep had comforted you as you slowly rotted into the soils of your house, time had been unkind to you as it emphasised its ability to be completely still and useless as you spent more time attempting to serve your house. 

Instead you had been tending to the flowers of the castle grounds, it was your way of escaping the pressure of your family … reading in the library had gotten trite. You plucked and plucked the dead leaves of your favourite flower bush, wishing that the hot weather would be kinder to your gardens.

“Ah, there you are,” a voice sneaked behind you, which had surprised you as you turned around to find the owner of the voice.

A Hightower sigil almost bumped into your face, your body quick to react as you added a respectable distance towards the stranger.

You look at those eyes, his eyes, the same ones that were strikingly fierce and blue, the same ones you tried immensely to remember and resist so tenderly. He had matured over the years and he noticed the same to you but more beautiful as the day he met you. 

All of the sensations you had felt, old and new, were so sweet and gentle—you could see in his eyes that he shares the same sentiments as you do.

Gwayne remembers the shy lady he met at the tourney, grown to a perfect image of a woman, the vision of love, which had moulded a special place in his heart. 

This feeling. This feeling turned everything into a sweet ache in both your limbs and you both found expression at last … but most importantly, you both found each other once more.

Your feeble attempt at shying away had made you notice something: a dusty ribbon that was tied to the hilt of Gwayne’s sword. Your eyes widened at the familiar sight of it.

“I assume you’ve seen my lucky charm? I carried it ever since,” Gwayne teased.

“After all these years? You’ve kept it for what?” You asked in complete awe, your hand moving towards the ruined ribbon but his hand caught yours, pressing a soft kiss on your knuckle.

“I believe I have unfinished business, but …” he pauses, his free hand guiding your face to look up at him. Gwayne’s gaze is tender, his expression genuine—clear as day, you vividly remember the young knight who won the tourney all those years before. Memory dealt the blow, leaving a wound only nostalgia could soothe. 

“I came back for you.”

© 2026 𝙂𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙉𝙀𝙎-𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂! i condemn plagiarism of any kind and feeding my work to ai, NO AI here! my writing may be shit but it is my shit.

Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.

Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.

Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.

He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.

With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.

Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.

“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.

You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.

And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.

Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.

“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.

“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—

“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”

Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.

“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.

He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.

However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.

“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”

One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?

And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.

“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”

You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.

“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”

Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”

You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.

What a fool he was.

He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.

He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.

Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.

“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.

“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”

“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”

“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”

The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.

He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.

“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”

You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”

So he had failed, again. Sigh.

What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?

Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.

Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.

With Criston Cole.

The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.

It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!

A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.

“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”

“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”

What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?

“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.

“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”

He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.

But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.

“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”

The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.

“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”

His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:

“May the best knight win, ser.”

Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”

Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.

You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.

Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?

“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”

That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.

He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.

You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.

Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.

However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.

Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.

Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?

Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.

Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.

The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.

And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.

With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.

Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.

Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.

The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.

“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”

“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.

Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.

But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—

“Do not touch me,” he rasped.

The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.

. . .

Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.

It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.

He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.

“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”

It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.

He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.

The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.

But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.

So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.

You are in love with him.

You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—

But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.

“Mrawgh...”

“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.

To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.

Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.

Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.

A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.

“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—

“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”

“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”

Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—

From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.

“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”

This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—

His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.

“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”

This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.

Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.

“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”

Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.

Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?

“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”

He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.

When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:

Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?

As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.

You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.

He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.

“Ser Gwayne!”

Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—

But then he heard you sob.

“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.

He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.

“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”

Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.

As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:

Has she... returned my feelings?

When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.

He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.

Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—

—and pressed your lips to his.

Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.

He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.

“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”

Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.

Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—

His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.

In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.

Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.

He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.

“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”

“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.

“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.

Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.

Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.

“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.

“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”

In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.

O N E

It's one of those annoying days; the kind that start with sleeping through your alarm and end with you scrambling into your new workplace. You forgo your usual morning coffee in hopes of saving a few minutes, and letting you arrive on time.

When you step out of your car you see the day is overcast, the sky drizzling. It seems especially appropriate for today. 

You drop your identification badge between your car and the front doors of the hospital, causing you to double back and retrace your steps. 

You find it there half in a puddle and give a small grimace muttering obscenities under your breath. 

Fuck this day. 

Fuck this life. 

Despite the frenzy of your morning, when you move through the bustling hospital doors, you do so with a sense of ease and calm. Even though it's only your second day here at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center you feel more than capable. 

A mother with a tear-stained toddler in her arms gives you a polite nod when you pass. An orderly with braces greets you warmly.  

Your heels click pointedly down the hallway, the one that smells of old food and sickness. You press the glowing button and wait for the elevator to take you to the third floor where your office waits.  

As you readjust the strap of your purse and glance down you notice a smudge of white toothpaste on your blouse. 

Shit. That's not going to look professional. 

You scrape at it with your fingernail, frowning. The elevator doors sweep open and you move forward, fingers still fumbling with your blouse. You press the circular 3 and go back to scraping, satisfied when the toothpaste begins to peel away. 

"First day?"

You give a small gasp and whip your head around at the sound of a male voice. A tall man with broad shoulders occupies the back of the elevator. One of his feet remains on the floor while the other rests against the elevator wall behind him; knee cocked just enough to make him appear nonchalant.

He's watching you with intense eyes and a tired smile. His salt and pepper hair is tousled, large biceps curled with a casual fold of his arms. A clipboard is wedged under one arm. 

He's very handsome.  

Sexy even. 

You scan his muscular form to see he's wearing dark scrubs, a stethoscope slung around his neck. He's one of the doctors here. He's still staring at you until you belatedly realize he's waiting for your response. But by now you've forgotten what he said. 

"Sorry, what?"

The smirk deepens. "I asked if it was your first day." 

He's got a light five o clock shadow. A personal weakness of yours. You focus on his mouth as he speaks, but only briefly as you fight to keep your voice steady. 

"Second." 

"Oh. My mistake." 

The elevator rises and you give him a shy grin before looking forward once more. You know he's still looking at you. You can feel it. Your ears are warm, pricked as you hear him move from the corner, shuffling your way. 

"Third floor," he observes from behind you. "That means Psych, right?"

His voice is raspy but warm, tinged with fatigue at the edges. You turn to look at him again; cheeks warm when you see he's much closer. His eyes look hazel in this light. Is he flirting with you? His eyes are scanning your own, dipping to your mouth briefly.

"Yeah." 

You don't offer more. This guy is sexy, but you don't know anything other than a guess of which department he works for. He could be a creep. You should be unnerved. That doesn’t stop you from questioning him though.

"What about you?" 

"ER." 

You watch his body nearing yours, the scent of soap and fresh sweat coming off of him. It activates something in your lizard brain because everything in your body begins to thrum. Goosebumps rise on the back of your neck. 

As if in slow motion his hand rises between the two of you, his head tilted slightly. 

"Welcome to the Pitt. My name's-"

He doesn't finish. The elevator doors have slid open and you walk through them like a battering ram. Unfortunately he's decided at that exact moment to step closer to you, hand extended. You stumble forward, shoulder sending his clipboard flying and his papers fluttering to the floor. 

"Shit -"

He drops to one knee, gathering the files quickly. And even though this isn't the time, you can't help but notice his wedding ring. 

Normally you would be on your hands and knees helping him retrieve the things you've knocked over, but the large clock at the end of the hall reads 9:05am. 

You can't even meet his hazel eyes as you step around the scattered pages. Because now all you can think of is how late you are and how bad that looks on your second day.  

"I'm really sorry, I have to go!" you say with a duck of your head. "Really, really sorry! I promise!" 

You don't wait for him to reply as you sprint down the hallway towards your office. You think you hear him calling out "hey!" from behind you, but the elevator doors close before you can reply. 

It wouldn't matter anyway; you're already sailing into the office, closing the door behind you. 

You twist the pendant of your necklace anxiously; legs crossed and foot bobbing as you sit at the table with the rest of your team. 

Hospital Psychologist for Staff Wellness is your official title. One of three in the department. The others are Ryan Killian, an older man with a white beard and circular glasses and Camille Dumont, a very attractive black woman with a light French accent. 

To your left is Diya Reddy, a younger woman with a nose ring and short black hair who works as the Wellness Coordinator. She smiles your way she sees you nervously playing with your necklace. 

The last person at the table is Dr. Denise Kim, Director of staff Wellness and you're immediate supervisor. She's a small, gray-haired woman with a serious countenance who flicked her eyes at the clock when you sailed in late, before giving you a meaningful look.  

Right now she's muttering something to the admin assistant Alvin, a young man with a thin mustache that seems even more nervous than you. He fumbles with his laptop, projecting a photo of he and his boyfriend on a tropical beach instead of the slide Denise was expecting.

You and the rest of the staff hide amused smirks behind your hands or coffees. 

"Yes, well, while you figure that out, I'll just get on with it," Denise says drily before casting her eyes around the table. 

She begins with a debrief of the hospitals restructuring, funding changes, and things like that. You should be paying more attention to the meeting, but you're mind is back in that elevator with that handsome doctor. 

The married one. 

How could you have thought he was flirting with you? Are you that deluded? Or desperate? Considering why you moved to Pittsburgh in the first place, that seems incredibly stupid. 

And yet, thoughts of his intense eyes and sexy smirk are in your brain as the meeting continues.

"Dr. Dumont I want you to show our new hire around the departments," Denise says in a flat voice, bringing you back to the present. "She needs to get familiar with the people she’ll be working closely with.”

"You'll need to know security," Camille says motioning to several men in uniforms standing by the doors. "They're invaluable when it comes to violent incidents." 

"Of course." 

You know a lot of these things already; this isn't your first job. But you don't want to rock the boat. Camille seems nice and considering you know not a soul in Pennsylvania you want to find connections, even if the time you’ve had this month on your own has been a dream.

You just nod when she shows you down to the human resources section and the hospital chaplains.You ask appropriate questions and act interested in her responses. She's always very clear and concise, her entire countenance warm and inviting. You assume she must be very good at her job considering this. She seems well liked by the staff you interact with, many charmed by her slight accent and beautiful features.

“The ER,” she says over her shoulder as the two of you enter.

The space is buzzing with people, coughing and screaming, the young and the elderly, the sick and the tired. You feel sympathy for every face you see knowing that it could be you in that very seat.

You sidestep two orderlies that stream past you, nodding to a young intern with greasy unwashed hair. They’re overworked and under supported in your brief initial observation. You hope you’re mistaken.

“Hey Cam- doin okay today?”

Your eyes move to an older woman in the center of the back, her body coiled with intensity. She’s got one of those heavy Pittsburgh accents you’ve become accustomed to since moving here; thick and full, turning everyday words into syrup. Camille raises a hand in greeting.

“Hi Dana, you have a minute?”

“Only if you make it quick," the woman replies distractedly as she hands a chart off to a young man with wide blue eyes. "We gotta full house." 

"Understood. Nurse Evans May I introduce our newest psychologist," Camille says with a small gesture your way, giving the blonde woman your name.  "We're just here to do a bit of training, so she knows her way around the departments." 

"Oh, well, good to meetcha honey," Dana says with a brief shake of your hand. "If I can help you, I will. Just not right this second." 

"I don't want to take up any more of your time," you explain honestly. "It was nice to meet you."

Dana nods and Camille is about to say something when a young nurse comes over to ask if she can speak to her quickly. Camille follows quickly, disappearing behind a blue curtain. 

Dana is going back to her files, everyone buzzing around you with purpose. You figure you'll stand to the side, out of everyone's way. You step backwards, your heel catching on the toe of someone's shoes.

Warm hands alight on your shoulders before you can fall. Despite the insanity of it, you immediately hope it’s the man from the elevator.

"Oop, kinda like a kitchen in here- gotta check behind you," a gentle voice says from above.

You turn, stepping back to see a man with warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiles at you. He's wearing a dark blue hoodie over his scrubs, his dark beard trimmed neatly.

“I should’ve watched where I was going,” you say with embarrassment. “I was just waiting for Doctor Dumont.”

"New face," the man says, holding a hand your way.

You shake it, introducing yourself. "I'm the new psychologist." 

His hand rapidly withdraws and you think you see a chill flash in his dark brown eyes when you hear the sound of Camille coming up behind you. 

"Hello  Doctor Dumont," the man says crisply, eyes moving to her. 

"Bonjour, Doctor Robinavich," Camille says in a voice that verges on icy. 

The two of them exchange a brief look, one that seems to hold weight before it's severed by a call of his name from across the large space. He doesn't look at either of you when he walks away. It's not that uncommon in this scenario. You had doctors like him at your old job. 

“Robbie’s not the emotional type,” Camille says, tapping the elevator button as you both move back into the hallway. 

“I’m not shocked,” you scoff. “Very few are.”

Camille smiles softly before looking your way again.

"Just wait until you meet Doctor Abbott. He's an absolute dream."

The shower had been running long enough for you to read the same paragraph three times.

Joel had claimed the heat might help his hand, although the doctor had prescribed ice, elevation and several days without gripping anything. The X-ray had shown no fracture. Joel had treated that information like permission to ignore the rest, trying to open the truck door with his injured hand before you had even left urgent care. By dinner, the bruising had spread in deep violet shadows across his knuckles, and you had needed soap to ease his wedding band over the swelling.

That had bothered him more than the pain.

He had watched you work the ring slowly over his knuckle, his mouth set in a hard line, and when it finally slipped free into your palm, his thumb had rubbed once over the pale indentation it left behind.

“Only for a few days, honey,” you had told him.

“I know, I know.”

But he continued staring at his empty finger until you placed the band on the bedside table beside your own things, safely within view.

You opened his painkillers, replaced his bandage and left him to shower while you climbed into bed with your book. But the water continued to run and you had retained nothing from the page before you.

You closed the book.

“Joel?”

No answer.

You glanced at the clock, set the book aside and crossed the bedroom.

Steam rolled through the bathroom when you opened the door. His discarded bandage lay damp beside the sink, his clothes gathered in a careless heap near the hamper. The mirror had fogged completely, but through the glass of the shower you could make out the broad, blurred shape of him standing beneath the water.

“Joel?” you called again.

No answer came, though beneath the steady rush you heard the faint scrape of skin against tile, followed by a low curse that was unmistakably his.

You undressed and stepped inside quietly, drawing a breath when the hot water struck your shoulder.

Joel stood with his back to you.

He had his head bowed and his right arm braced against the wall from elbow to wrist, protecting the swollen hand from bearing his weight. Even in the softened light, you could see the mottled bruising across his knuckles, his fingers held stiff and slightly apart. His left palm rested lower on the tile. His broad shoulders were drawn tight, every muscle along his back rigid beneath the water as it streamed through the silver beginning to thread the dark curls at the nape of his neck. It followed the shallow groove of his spine, split around the soft fullness above his hips and disappeared between his legs.

For several seconds, you simply watched him.

His left arm moved, but the motion lacked the steady, practiced rhythm you knew, his fist travelling over his cock with an awkwardness that seemed to frustrate him more each time. He adjusted his grip, tried again and shifted his hips forward, chasing a sensation his other hand could not quite give him. His shoulders tightened. A harsher curse slipped from him when his injured fingers flexed instinctively against the tile.

The sight sent heat through you with such sudden force that your breath caught.

Joel touching himself would always affect you—the thick length of him flushed dark in his fist, water shining over the soft curve of his stomach and the wet hair beneath his navel—but it was the vulnerability of the moment that drew you closer. This was the man who noticed when your shoulders hurt before you complained, who left water on your bedside table every night because you always woke thirsty, who could read the smallest change in your breathing beneath his hands and know whether you needed more, less, faster, slower. He had spent years learning every language your body spoke.

Yet he stood alone beneath the water, unable to give himself what he needed, too proud to call for you and too stubborn to stop trying.

You stepped closer without speaking.

He was so absorbed in the effort that he did not hear the shower door close behind you. He did not notice the water shift when your body interrupted its path or the quiet whisper of your bare feet against the tile. It was only when you placed your mouth between his shoulder blades, lips pressing softly to the center of his wet back, that his entire body jolted.

“Jesus!”

His head turned sharply. Pain flashed across his face when his injured fingers contracted against the wall, and he forced them open again with a hiss.

“Didn’t hear you, darlin’.”

“I noticed, baby.”

Your lips moved over his back once more, slower this time. Water ran between your mouth and his skin, tasting faintly of soap. Up close, the heat of him felt different from the heat surrounding you, deeper and alive, held taut beneath skin that shivered when you kissed the raised ridge of an old scar near his shoulder.

“What’re you doin’ in here?” he asked.

“Checking on my handsome husband.”

You rested your chin against him and looked down the length of his body. His left hand had gone still, the grip around himself loosening now that he knew you were watching. Embarrassment was not something Joel wore easily; on him, it appeared as a stubborn tilt of his chin and a refusal to look directly at you.

“Looks like I was right to worry.”

“Ain’t anythin’ to worry about.”

“You’ve been in here twenty minutes.”

“Lost track.”

“That so?”

Your palms settled at his waist and moved around him, spreading over the curve of his belly. He had grown softer through the middle over the years, his body shaped by long workdays, evening beers and all the second helpings he accepted after insisting he was full. You loved the weight of him, the solid breadth of his chest, the coarse hair flattened beneath your fingers. You loved the familiar scars and the places age had begun touching him. You loved that you could stand behind him with your eyes closed and know precisely where your hands rested.

“Seems like you’re hurting yourself because you’d rather wrestle with the wrong hand than call your wife,” you murmured.

“Wasn’t hurtin’ myself, sweetheart.”

“No?”

Your nails travelled upward through the hair on his stomach before descending again, leaving pale trails across his flushed skin. Joel’s breath changed when your fingertips passed beneath his navel.

“That hand doesn’t seem to be accomplishing much either.”

His jaw tightened, but his hips shifted subtly into his fist.

You closed the remaining distance between you and pressed your naked body to his back. The instant your breasts touched him, his breath caught. Your mouth found the side of his neck while one hand remained spread over his stomach and the other followed the dark line beneath his navel.

“Couldn’t get it right?” you asked softly.

“Left hand don’t feel like mine.”

There was so much quiet frustration in the admission that your teasing softened.

“You could’ve called me.”

“Didn’t wanna bother you, baby.”

You lifted your head. “Joel Miller, I don’t care if I’m reading, sleeping or halfway through the best dream of my life. Asking me to touch you is never going to bother me.”

“Ain’t exactly somethin’ you should have to—”

“No.” You kissed the back of his shoulder as your hand slipped lower, fingertips barely grazing the coarse hair at the base of his cock. “You take care of me so often that half the time I don’t notice you’re doing it until it’s already done. So let me have my turn.”

The rigid set of his shoulders loosened by a fraction.

His left hand opened around himself, although surrendering even that unsatisfying contact made his hips follow your hovering fingers.

“Need a hand, don’t you, cowboy?” you teased, catching the edge of his ear gently between your teeth.

A strained breath left him, somewhere between a groan and a protest.

“You gonna help or keep makin’ fun of me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” You clicked your tongue. “You do look awfully pretty struggling, baby.”

“Christ, woman.”

“Although…” Your hand settled over his left wrist and guided it away from his cock. He allowed you to place his palm on the tile, but his body remained tense, caught somewhere between wanting what you offered and resisting the act of receiving it. “I suppose I could lend my favorite cowboy a hand. If he asks nicely.”

Joel lowered his forehead to the wall.

Water slipped through the grey in his beard and fell from his jaw. Pride held him silent for another moment. You could almost feel the struggle taking place inside him—the same man who would carry too many grocery bags rather than make a second trip, who would work through a fever and insist he was only tired, who treated being needed as though it were the simplest form of love but had never learned how to need someone without apology.

You spread your palm over his bare ring finger.

The touch made him look down.

His gaze rested on your hand covering his, your wedding band shining through the water while his finger remained pale and empty beneath it. His thumb moved once against the tile, reaching for yours before remembering the awkward angle.

Then his weight shifted back into you.

“Need you,” he admitted quietly.

You waited with your lips resting against his shoulder, though the answer had already travelled through you. Joel asked for so little that sometimes you resented him for it. He would mention that his boots needed replacing only after the soles had begun admitting water, would say he was hungry once you had already placed a plate before him, would carry an ache for days until you noticed the careful way he avoided turning his neck. Even now, naked and hard between your arms, he had tried to make the request smaller than it was. Need you. Two words offered in place of everything his body had already confessed, as though wanting something from you was still harder than enduring without it.

His breath left him slowly. His empty ring finger shifted beneath your palm. When you still did not move, his hips pressed back against you before rolling forward, his cock brushing heavily against the hand you kept just beyond his reach.

“Please,” he said, whatever remained of his pride finally yielding to the need roughening his voice. “Put your hand on my cock. Stroke me. Been tryin’ to come for so goddamn long, and I can’t—I need you to do it for me.”

Joel had trusted you with his home, his daughter, the parts of his past he still struggled to name. He had stood before everyone you loved and placed a ring on your finger with hands that had trembled more than his voice. Yet this small surrender seemed to cost him something too.

You kissed the pale place where his wedding band belonged.

“Good boy.”

Joel went utterly still.

His breathing stopped for one suspended second, his stomach turning rigid beneath your forearm and his left palm pressing flat against the tile. His cock pulsed before you had even closed your fingers around him.

Slowly, he looked back at you.

Steam had gathered in his lashes. His dark eyes found yours over his shoulder, surprise exposed there before he could conceal it, followed by a heat so immediate that your thighs drew together behind him. A flush travelled higher along his throat. He appeared almost offended by the force of his own reaction, as though his body had answered you before his pride could intervene.

“What’d you call me?”

“You heard me, baby.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Say it again.”

A smile touched your lips, but you did not laugh at him. There was something too open in his expression, too uncertain beneath the want.

“Later,” you promised. “Face the wall and lean back against me. Let your wife take care of you, big boy.”

Joel held your gaze for another moment before looking forward again. His forehead settled against the tile as his shoulders gradually loosened beneath your arms. He moved back until the curve of his ass pressed firmly against your lower stomach, giving you more of his weight than before.

You kissed the center of his back and slid your right hand down.

This time, you did not stop.

Your fingers curled around the base of his cock, and Joel’s entire body answered.

His abdomen contracted beneath your forearm. His left palm slipped before flattening against the wall again. A sound left him—low, involuntary, pulled from somewhere beneath the frustration he had carried into the shower—and the thick length of him hardened further in your grip.

You held him without moving at first, letting him feel the fit of your hand around him although your fingers could not quite meet. Heat pulsed beneath the slick skin, his heartbeat fast and heavy against your palm. You adjusted the showerhead until the strongest part of the spray struck his back rather than your joined hands, then tightened your grip. Another broken breath warmed your cheek.

“There,” you murmured. “Better?”

“Fuck, yes—”

“I thought so.” You stroked him slowly from base to tip, watching his stomach pull tight beneath your arm. “Next time you need my hand around your cock, come put it there.”

Joel’s hips followed your fist as it descended. “Knew you’d enjoy this.”

“You knew correctly.”

Your thumb swept over the broad head before your fist travelled down again. At the base, you loosened your grip and slipped your free hand beneath him. Joel groaned when your palm cupped his balls, the swollen, heavy weight of them filling your hand while the other continued moving slowly along his cock.

“Oh, baby...” You rolled them gently beneath your fingers, and his hips pressed forward as though even that small touch had reached somewhere deeper than he expected. “No wonder you were getting so frustrated. These are awfully full.”

“Don’t start.”

The words lacked any real warning. They came roughened by the careful twist of your wrist, Joel’s breath catching when you tightened your fist beneath the head. You smiled against his shoulder and gave him another long stroke, refusing the faster pace his body was beginning to seek.

“I’ve already started.” Your lips followed a rivulet of water toward the sensitive place behind his ear. “You should’ve seen yourself, hiding in here with all of this aching for relief.”

“Enjoyin’ yourself?”

“Very much.” You squeezed the weight in your palm once more, tender enough to make his thighs tense. “I’ve got my handsome husband naked in my arms, getting harder every time I tease him. I can feel how badly he needs to come, and he’s making the prettiest noises while I take my time giving him exactly what he asked for.” Your thumb gathered the slickness from the tip and spread it beneath the head. “What’s not to enjoy?”

“Mean woman.”

The complaint dissolved into a groan when your fingers tightened around him. His hips followed your hand instinctively, cock sliding through your wet fist while you maintained the slow rhythm already wearing away his restraint.

“Mm. And you love me.”

“Yeah.” His answer came without hesitation, broken slightly by the next stroke. “More than anythin’.”

The words entered you with the familiar weight of truth. Joel could spend ten uninterrupted minutes complaining about traffic, Tommy or the price of lumber, but anything that mattered was pared down until only its simplest form remained. More than anythin’ was extravagance from a man like him, offered with his forehead resting against the shower wall, his injured hand held carefully before him and his body surrounded by yours.

You kissed him behind the ear and released the heavy weight beneath his cock, bringing your free arm around his middle. Your palm spread over his stomach as you drew him more securely against you.

“Good,” you murmured. “Then be sweet and let me take my time with you.”

You kept the first strokes long and measured, your fist gliding over every thick inch before closing more firmly on the descent. Joel attempted to follow you, but impatience made his hips arrive too early. You adjusted without comment, refusing to hurry; the next time he thrust forward, you slowed near the head and held him snugly in your palm until a strained breath escaped through his teeth.

Water ran over his shoulders and divided around your arms, gathering briefly in the dark hair beneath his navel before disappearing between your joined bodies. The shower could not conceal the low sounds he made whenever your grip changed or the unconscious contraction of his stomach beneath your palm. You understood what he wanted—the shallow movement of his hips asking for more speed, his left hand spreading against the tile to brace for the pressure he preferred—but kept him at that patient rhythm a little longer. By the time you tightened your fist, frustration no longer held his shoulders rigid. He was waiting for you, and his cock pulsed heavily against your palm.

“That’s it,” you whispered, your mouth close to his ear. “You can move with me now.”

Joel released a deep, uneven breath and rolled his hips forward. You met him, your fist descending as he pushed into it and closing more firmly when he reached the base. On his retreat, you stroked upward, letting the swollen head drag through the circle of your fingers before guiding him into the next movement. He followed more carefully this time, the rhythm hesitant only for the first few strokes before pleasure taught him what you wanted.

“There you go, baby.”

“God—feels so damn good.”

You held him close and let the rhythm develop between you. Each thrust grew deeper, Joel’s ass pressing into your lower stomach when he drew back before he drove forward again. Your fist worked over him in time with the motion, no longer making him wait, though you retained enough control to keep his impatience from carrying him too quickly toward the edge.

The change reached his breathing first. Those deep, measured pulls of air began catching halfway into his lungs, his mouth opening against the tile to release the low sounds he had tried to suppress when you entered. Soon he no longer seemed aware of them. His attention had narrowed to your fingers around his cock, your palm against his stomach and the body supporting him from behind.

You kissed the wet slope of his shoulder.

Joel had touched you in darkness and sunlight, slowly and with desperate hunger, had learned your body so thoroughly that sometimes a single adjustment of his hand could make you fall apart. Yet this felt different from simply returning the pleasure he had given you over the years. Tonight, he could not reach back and distract you with your own need. He could not turn, gather you against him and assume the responsibility of taking care of both of you. All he could do was remain inside your embrace and trust that being wanted did not depend upon what he could offer in return.

Your grip tightened. Joel groaned and drove forward with enough force to push the air from your lungs. You widened your stance and continued meeting him as the movement grew rougher, each thrust dragging his cock rapidly through your closed fingers before your hand followed him back to the base. Wet skin moved against wet skin beneath the shower, punctuated by his heavier breathing and a broken curse whenever you changed the angle of your wrist.

You pressed your mouth beneath his ear.

“Take it, baby,” you murmured. “Use my hand exactly how you need.”

Joel stopped trying to follow each movement you gave him and began taking the friction for himself, thrusting through your fist with all the force he had been restraining. You let him, your hand closed and steady around him while your other arm held him against you—until his injured fingers curled instinctively against the tile. The hiss that left him cut through the pleasure. You caught his wrist at once and drew his arm away from the wall without slowing the motion between his legs.

“Give me this one.”

Joel allowed you to fold his arm across his chest. You tucked the bruised hand against his opposite shoulder and covered it with your own, your forearm securing it safely in place.

“Ain’t bad,” he managed.

“Shh.”

You kissed the uninjured edge of his wrist. Your fist continued working steadily over his cock as though caring for one hurting part of him required no sacrifice from the rest.

Joel’s chest rose beneath your arm. His bruised fingers gradually relaxed against his shoulder, and his left hand left the tile to cover yours where it held him. His thumb searched through the water until it found the smooth band around your finger and rested there.

You turned your face and kissed his cheek.

Joel leaned into it for a fleeting second before the next stroke pulled a groan from him. His thumb remained pressed over your wedding band as he settled farther back, giving you more of his weight without looking to see whether you could hold it. You planted your feet, tightened your arm around his chest and did.

He was letting you have all of his need now: his injured hand held safely beneath yours, his balance entrusted to your body, his pleasure naked in every sound he could no longer contain. When your fist moved faster, his hips answered immediately. The rhythm that had belonged to both of you began to unravel as he pushed forward too soon and retreated only far enough to thrust again, each movement shorter and rougher than the last.

You adapted without breaking pace, concentrating the friction where his body responded most strongly. A rough curse left him when you repeated it, his cock almost painfully rigid within your fist, the pulse against your palm heavier and more insistent. His thighs began to tremble as the measured roll of his hips disappeared altogether. He was no longer fucking your hand with any discernible rhythm; he was chasing it, moving on instinct whenever your grip reached the sensitive head.

Your own breathing quickened against his back. Heat gathered low in your stomach as you watched the man who could reduce you to pleading with the smallest movement lose himself in your arms. You pressed your thighs together, but every sound he made travelled directly through you, every desperate thrust sending another pulse of want between your legs. None of it made you want to turn his attention toward you. Tonight, his pleasure was enough.

Your mouth found the place beneath his ear that always made his shoulders rise.

“Look at you,” you whispered, affection wrapped around the teasing words. “You were so determined to handle this yourself, and now you can barely keep those legs steady.”

Joel tried to answer, but your fist tightened and the words collapsed into a hoarse moan. You smiled against his skin.

“No clever answer for me?”

“Hard to—” He broke off, thrusting roughly into your grip. “Hard to fuckin’ think.”

“That’s all right, baby. You don’t need to.”

You increased the pace until the movement became relentless, your slick fist closing around him as quickly as his hips could push forward. Joel’s forehead pressed against the tile, shoulders drawing tight as pleasure gathered beyond his control. His breathing fractured into rough, shallow pulls, each ending in a sound he no longer attempted to swallow.

His left hand abandoned yours and flattened against the wall, fingers splayed wide for purchase. Your wedding ring remained warm beneath the place his thumb had pressed it. He drove into your fist once, twice, then faltered, the next thrust arriving shorter as his cock throbbed heavily in your palm. You felt the approaching release before he spoke—in the sudden rigidity of his stomach, the way his thighs locked as if bracing might delay what your hand was already pulling from him, the helpless twitch that travelled through his cock whenever your grip reached the head.

“Baby—” His voice cracked around the word.

You kissed his jaw. “I know.”

“Close—”

The admission came through clenched teeth, barely louder than the water. You kept your fist moving at the same firm pace, refusing to startle his body with any sudden change.

“How close?”

“Real fuckin’—close.”

Joel attempted another thrust, but the rhythm had abandoned him entirely. His hips jerked into your hand and stopped, leaving you to carry the movement while he trembled within your arms. His weight tipped backward. You accepted all of it, your forearm held securely across his chest and his injured hand protected beneath yours.

“Please,” he rasped. “Don’t slow down—”

“I won’t, baby.”

Your fist travelled over him in fast, complete strokes, drawing the tension tighter with each pass. His cock pulsed violently against your palm, so close now that every movement seemed to pull a broken sound from the deepest part of his chest.

You caught his earlobe gently between your teeth.

“Every drop for me?”

“All yours.” The answer came instantly, stripped of breath and pride. His head dropped as his hips gave one final, desperate drive through your fist. “Every fuckin’ drop.”

A tender satisfaction spread beneath the heat in your chest. You tightened your embrace, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your hand gave him the exact rhythm his body had been seeking from the moment you entered the shower.

“That’s my good boy,” you whispered. “Give it to me.”

The praise undid him.

Joel came with a sound so raw it seemed torn from the center of him.

His entire body locked in your arms. His cock jerked hard in your fist, the first hot pulse spilling over your fingers before the shower could carry it away. His hips punched forward with the next one, wrenching a broken groan from his throat as another thick streak struck the tile beneath him.

You kept your hand moving, drawing every stroke from base to tip while release continued to pulse from him. Each one seized a different part of his body—his stomach clenching beneath your arm, his thighs jumping, his shoulders drawing taut beneath your mouth. You felt the force of it pass through him until there was nothing left with which he could hold himself upright.

His knees buckled.

You caught his full weight before either of you could fall.

Your chest pressed tightly to his back, your arm banded across his ribs and your palm protecting the swollen knuckles tucked against his shoulder. Joel trembled through every aftershock, forehead resting heavily against the wall. His cock gave one final, helpless pulse into your slowing hand.

“Fuck,” he choked. “Baby—”

“Easy. I’ve got you.”

You continued moving until the last throb softened beneath your palm. Only then did you loosen your fingers, careful of the sensitivity that made his hips flinch when your thumb grazed the head. The water washed your hand clean, carrying the evidence of his release toward the drain.

Joel remained folded against the wall, his breathing coming in ragged pulls. You kept him gathered within your arms, lips moving over his shoulder and along the nape of his neck while the final tremors passed through him.

“Take your time, baby,” you murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His left hand covered your forearm where it crossed his chest. His thumb rubbed slowly over your skin, Joel still searching for some way to touch you even while you bore most of his weight.

Eventually, he lifted his head.

“Need to turn around.”

“You steady?”

“With you holdin’ me? Yeah.”

You helped him move carefully, keeping his injured hand against his chest until his back met the wall. The moment he faced you, his left arm came around your waist and pulled you against him.

Joel kissed you before you could speak.

The kiss held none of the frantic hunger that had taken him apart moments earlier. It was slow and open, his lips moving over yours with an exhausted tenderness that left you more exposed than anything he had said. His damp beard scraped gently across your chin as he kissed you again, lingering this time, breathing you in as though the release had stripped him down to the simplest things he knew.

Your hands settled against his chest.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You never have to thank me for touching you. Your needs are my needs too.”

“Ain’t only that.”

His hand moved slowly up your back, keeping you close.

“Been meanin’ everything else.”

You traced the wet line of his jaw with your thumb. “Joel…”

He watched you, something tired and unguarded in his eyes.

“You’d do the same for me,” you said.

“In a heartbeat.”

“Then quit acting like it only works one way, my love.”

The corner of his mouth lifted before he kissed you again. His hand travelled down your arm until his fingers found yours, and he raised your left hand between you. His thumb passed over your wedding band with quiet concentration.

“Feels strange not havin’ mine on.”

“I know.”

“Kept reachin’ for it all night.”

“I noticed that too.”

You guided his injured hand closer and pressed your lips to the bare place where his ring belonged.

“Still all mine without it.”

His eyes softened. “Always.”

You stayed beneath the water until his breathing settled, holding each other in the humid quiet. When you finally turned off the shower, Joel allowed you to dry him, although he complained when you knelt to run the towel down his legs.

“Can dry my own damn feet, darlin’.”

“With which hand?”

His mouth closed.

“That’s what I thought.”

You wrapped the towel around his waist and guided him into the bedroom with your palm resting at the base of his spine.

The wedding band remained exactly where you had left it.

Joel looked at it while you sat him on the edge of the mattress and knelt between his knees with fresh gauze. You worked carefully around each bruised knuckle, smoothing the bandage without pulling it too tightly. He watched your hands throughout, quiet and heavy-limbed, his left palm resting warmly against the back of your neck.

When you finished, you raised his injured hand and kissed the pale indentation once more.

His gaze moved from his bare finger to the ring on the table.

Then he reached for it with his left hand.

“Joel, you can’t put it back on yet.”

“I know, baby, but I was thinkin’…” He picked up the band and held it toward you. “You still got that chain in your jewelry box? The one you don’t wear?”

Your heart gave a small, painful pull.

“I do.”

You retrieved the thin chain and sat beside him. Joel placed the ring in your palm, trusting you with it as he had trusted you with everything else that night. You threaded the chain through the band before fastening it carefully around his neck.

The ring settled against the damp hair on his chest.

Joel looked down and touched it with two fingers. His thumb passed slowly over the familiar curve before he closed his hand around it, holding it against his sternum. The tension that had lingered in his face since you removed it finally eased; his shoulders dropped, and the breath he released sounded deeper than any he had taken since leaving urgent care.

“Better?” you asked.

“Yeah.” His eyes lifted to yours, tired and unmistakably relieved. He gave the ring another small squeeze but did not release it. “Much better.”

You covered his closed hand with yours. “You really hated having it off.”

Joel glanced down at the pale indentation around his finger. “Kept feelin’ for it.” His thumb rubbed over the empty place as though demonstrating a habit his body had not yet learned to abandon. “Every time I looked at my hand, somethin’ felt wrong. Like I’d left part of myself sittin’ on that table.”

The quiet confession tightened your throat. It was only a circle of gold, small enough to disappear inside his broad palm, but Joel had worn it through years of work, sleep, arguments, dinners and mornings when neither of you had anything more important to say than asking who had finished the coffee. He had grown so accustomed to carrying the visible proof of your life together that its absence had left his hand feeling unfamiliar to him.

You curled your fingers around his, pressing the ring gently against his chest. “It was never going anywhere.”

“Know that.” His gaze returned to yours. “Still didn’t like bein’ without it.”

You leaned forward and kissed the crease between his brows, lingering until it softened beneath your mouth.

“Come here,” you murmured, drawing back the covers. “Let me hold you, my love.”

He lay down without argument, his injured hand elevated safely on the pillow. When you settled beside him, Joel rested his head against your chest and curved his left arm around your waist. The ring lay cool between his skin and yours, warming slowly where your bodies met.

His thumb found your wedding band once more.

“Mine safe, sweetheart?” he asked, already half asleep.

You covered the ring resting over his heart.

“Right here, baby.”

Joel released one final, tired breath against your skin. His entire body softened into the mattress, giving you its full and familiar weight.

This time, when you held him, he did not try to hold you up in return.

This was the man who noticed when your shoulders hurt before you complained, who left water on your bedside table every night because you always woke thirsty, who could read the smallest change in your breathing beneath his hands and know whether you needed more, less, faster, slower. He had spent years learning every language your body spoke.

dude............. they way you write joel................... your characterization of him is so fucking perfect i just want to DIEEEEEE

Pride held him silent for another moment. You could almost feel the struggle taking place inside him—the same man who would carry too many grocery bags rather than make a second trip, who would work through a fever and insist he was only tired, who treated being needed as though it were the simplest form of love but had never learned how to need someone without apology.

seriously im going to fucking COMBUST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! not even talkin g about the good boy situation............................ i cannot survive him asking to hear it again............................................

the wedding ring thing also fucking killed me!!!!!!!!!!!!! him being so upset about it!!!!!!!!!!!! i love this man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! he loves his wife!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! husband material so badddddddddddd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Y/n, I-" he starts, but you don't let him speak; "Hang on."

Holding a finger up to silence him, you keep your eyes glued to your ceiling. You suck in a breath; "Wait here."

Your feet move faster than your brain as you speed out of your room, past the stairs, and straight into the bathroom. Hands gripping the cold porcelain sink, it takes you a full two minutes to muster up the courage to look at yourself in the mirror. When you finally do, your eyes immediately drop to your lips, swollen from the kiss. Your face is bright red and flushed, and your physical reaction to something so stupid makes you clench your jaw, frustrated.

"What have you done?" you whisper to yourself, meeting your own eyes in your reflection and letting out a guttural groan.

Back in your bedroom, Jamie has perched himself on the end of your bed, eyes focused on the small picture of him on your wall. "Fucks' sake," you mumble, purposefully leaving your door open before leaning against the desk, facing him.

"Like I said," even though you finally manage to look at him again, Jamie doesn't look at you, "don't flatter yourself. Gia and I split a pack of trading cards and I kept yours. You're Richmond's top striker, and I want to be Richmond's top striker. You can't blame me."

Jamie finally shifts his focus from the card to you, and the blue in his eyes has returned as his pupils have shrunk. The thick tension between you starts to dissipate after your breaking of the silence, thank god.

"Yeah," Jamie finally responds, nodding his head before sheepishly glancing at his lap; "I had a poster of Roy on my wall as a kid."

His confession brings a small smile to your face. It oddly humanises him; imagining Jamie as a football-obsessed little boy who grew up to play with and be coached by his idol. Shame he grew up to be an arrogant prick.

The hot tension is slowly being replaced by awkward anticipation, and you need to put a stop to it. You shouldn't have let him into your bedroom at all. And you definitely shouldn't have let yourself be enticed by his stupidly handsome face. And his stupidly soft lips. And his stupidly big biceps, hands, and thighs. And Jesus Christ, you should've never put your hands anywhere near his rippling six pack.

But no take-backs -- you've put yourself in this mess, so now you have to get yourself out of it before dinner's ready.

Despite the embarrassment tinging your cheeks red, you gather all the dignity you have left to address what happened.

"I'm sorry I kissed you. I don't know what got into me."

"I'm sorry I kissed you back..." Jamie responds, both of you avoiding holding eye contact for too long, "and for grabbing your arse."

His words make your breath hitch, and you clear your throat in attempt to brush it off. But your heart rate has doubled again, feeling the ghost of Jamie's hands still on you.

"I'm sorry for touching your abs."

"I'm sorry for getting a boner."

The words may sound apologetic, but neither of you put any actual regret behind them. Tipping your head back again, you stare up at your ceiling and take a few deep breaths. For what feels like the millionth time, you can feel your chest getting hot and knees starting to give in, so you lean your hands on the desk behind you to stabilise yourself.

"Training was good, weren't it?" Jamie's voice should be neutral when saying that sentence, but the growl behind his words make you keep your eyes glued above you, scared that if you look at him you'll do something stupid again.

"Mhm..." you try to hum, but it comes out more like a whine. Fuck.

You dip your head down, switching your focus to your feet. The new angle shows Jamie shifting back onto his feet, and you hold your breath as you watch him take just one step forward. And that's all it takes for him to be right in front of you again. When he pushes his left foot between your feet, your breathing turns jagged. Without a second thought, you spread your legs a little bit wider, keeping your head down as you watch him step forward again, his left leg now squeezed between your thighs. Next, his hands come up, hovering next to your hips.

Thank god you're perched on this desk or else you'd be a puddle on the floor by now. No one makes your blood boil like Jamie Tartt, but you can't deny he's the first person in a while to make you this turned on.

Jamie's hands are held in the air beside you, and the electric current radiating from him sets you alight. The coil in your stomach twists tightly as you try so hard to resist the intoxicating buzz between your body and Jamie's hands. You know that the second you lift your head to look at Jamie, you're a goner. His hands will be on your hips in less than a second and you won't be able to stop yourself.

Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it.

Almost as if you've lost all control of your own body, you drag your eyes over Jamie's legs as you lift your head. And the second your eyes meet the returned tent in his joggers, your head rapidly pulls up. You hardly have to look in his eyes before Jamie's hands squeeze your hips and your mouths crash against each other, tongues immediately twisting together. Your teeth knock together as you moan into Jamie's mouth without a care. The sound makes him grunt too, squeezing his fingers around the fabric of your tank top as if he's stopping himself from ripping it straight off your body.

Reaching your own hands up, you finally let go of the desk, one hand finding the back of his neck while blindly hooking your fingers into the waistband of Jamie's joggers with the other, pulling him so close that you feel his hard-on poking your front.

Hands moving fast, you both feel up each other's bodies over your clothes. All rationality has flown out of the window as Jamie's silky tongue explores the inside of your mouth, and all you can hear is the wet sounds and small grunts coming from both of your lips. God knows how much time goes by before a different sound cuts through the groaning and smacking; "Guys! Dinner's ready!"

—

A mere 5 minutes later, the two of you were sitting in your spots on the sofa yet again, plates in hand. The whole evening was spent in complete silence, avoiding each other's gazes and only responding to Isaac and Gia with one-word answers. "What were you doing upstairs?" Gia had asked halfway through the meal. "Nothing." both you and Jamie answered in complete unison, keeping your attention on your dinner. It was nothing short of suspicious, but you hoped Gia would blame the awkward tension on the fight -- not on the make out.

That night, you barely slept a wink. Your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest, not a single method of relaxation helping you calm down. Your mind was just as busy as your body, mentally cursing yourself for kissing Jamie. And when you did finally drift into a half-sleep, your dream was just a replay of your 30 minutes with fucking Jamie fucking Tartt.

Your vow of silence continues into the next morning. Avoiding excessive conversation with Gia, only waving to Isaac, and saying absolutely nothing to the Mancunian giving you your routine lift into work. When you glance out of your window while getting dressed, you are surprised to see a messy-haired Jamie, dressed in an all-black tracksuit. The outfit is so different from his usual get-up that Isaac comments on it;

"What are you wearing, bruv? Y'alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, just didn't get much sleep." he mutters, perking your ears as you plop yourself in the back of his cramped car. As usual, you're sitting behind the driver's seat, hiding your face with your gym bag. But as Jamie speeds out of the driveway, your eyes flick up to the rearview mirror, meeting his. The memory of how his dark blues had looked at you while he was inside you flashes in your mind, forcing you to tear your eyes from the mirror and take a deep breath.

A hand rests on your shoulder; "Hey, is everything okay?" Gia whispers, and you do your best to paint a convincing smile on your face as you nod and say: "Yeah, of course. I'm just tired."

Your words cause Jamie to clear his throat, and you both flick your eyes to the rearview mirror again. This time, you recognise a playfulness in his eyes, emphasised by his subtly raising eyebrows. Even though you're shooting him daggers, you still have to try your best to suppress the strange fluttering feeling in your stomach.

Training has you properly nervous this morning, stuck in a loop wondering how you're going to be able to spend any time with Jamie. The girls are pure chaos this morning, the chatter and laughter ten times louder than usual -- unless it's just your busy brain overwhelming you. As you stare down at your boots, lacing them up, your fingers are trembling. The sound of your teammates blends together in a low hum, their words indiscernible, and it's not until you're on the grass pitch that your hearing returns.

Sam meets your eyes the moment you step into the cold morning air, smiling so wide it warms your chest. He waves, and a pang of guilt cuts through you as you wave back, trying your best to paint a genuine smile on your face.

"Alrighty folks, here's what we're gonna do!" Ted chirps, cutting through the noise of both teams. But whatever he briefs, you don't hear it -- the hum in your ears returning just as quick as it had left.

Jamie appears beside you. He matches your stance, both of you now standing with your hands behind your back, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. The heat radiating from him should be impossible in this weather, and the buzz it sends through your shoulder and straight into your chest makes keeping a steady breath a hopeless feat. Your lips part, a jagged sigh breaking through and puffing a cloud into the cold air, but you don't react any more than that. Jamie teasing you at work is simply a recipe for disaster.

So you say nothing. You just stand there and desperately hope that your focus comes back soon. Turning your full attention to your breathing, you count between inhales and exhales, squeezing your eyes shut and try your best to replace the memories of last night appearing behind your lids.

When you remember the soft feeling of his thumb grazing your cheek, you try to remind yourself of the way he spoke to you at Sam's restaurant. But you're quickly pulled to the memory of how hard the ridges of his muscles felt under your touch. So instead you think back to how much he bitched and moaned during your first training together, that childish pout painted across his face. But that only makes you think about his lips, and how forcefully they pressed against yours.

And as the tug-of-war continues in your mind, soon enough you run out of bad memories to outweigh the unbelievably flustering ones from last night. You're left borderline panting at your thoughts, eyes fixed on the quick puffs of mist coming from your mouth. The blood rings in your ears, face going hot, and when you bring your hands up to run your fingers over your smoothed-back hair you notice just how hard you're trembling.

The blushing face, heavy breathing, and trembling hands; are you worked up with anger, nerves, or arousal?

When your hands fall back down to your sides, the hope of finding an answer dissipates as you feel Jamie's fingers brush the back of your right hand. The touch is so light you worry you might be imagining it, but it doesn't matter whether it's real or not, because it still sends an electrical current through your entire body. Once again, purely out of nervous reflex, your hands fly up to your hair.

It's only seconds later when you feel that same large hand ghosting up your back, not touching you enough that you feel pressure on your skin, but the tug on your loose training shirt tells you enough. Suddenly your head tips back, caused by a slight pull on the end of your ponytail. But by the time you've registered Jamie's action, the whistle blows and he's darting towards Roy.

The group disperses, and Jamie leaves your side. You want your feet to move, but you feel like they're nailed into the ground. From the corner of your eye, you watch Jamie animatedly throw his head back as he talks to Roy, both of them starting their routine walk to the other side of the pitch. He seems annoyed about something. You know you should follow him to start your training, but while your whole body stands vibrating in place, the only thing you can do is focus your eyes on the tunnel leading into the centre. After sucking in a quick breath, you rush inside with long, unstable strides, ignoring any looks and comments coming your way.

After turning a few corners and dodging some Richmond staff, you finally reach the women's boot room. Stumbling inside, you realise you've been holding your breath the whole way there, making you pant as you pace up and down between two tall shelves. With your fingertips massaging your temples, you try to slow your breathing to the rhythmic sound of your studs hitting the ground with each step.

No hookup has ever made you feel this crazy. Hell, no one has ever made you feel like this at all. Your head hasn't stopped spinning since your lips first met Jamie's; his scent and warmth soaked into every inch of your skin. When he finally left yours last night, you had a scorching hot shower and even changed your sheets -- not that you got any actual sleep in your crisp new bedding. As much as it pains you to admit, there's no denying he isn't a good kisser. But under no circumstances can it ever happen again.

"Y/n? Are you in 'ere?"

"Fucks' sake..." you mutter to yourself, pacing coming to a halt, "Leave me alone, Jamie."

"What're you doing?" he trots in as if everything is completely fine, as if you aren't losing your mind all because of him.

"Nothing. Just go, I'll be out soon." you turn away from him, leaning your forehead on the grey wall in front of you. As you squeeze your eyes shut, you silently pray Jamie lets it go and leaves.

But alas, he's still Jamie.

"Oooh..." his voice drops an octave or two, "I see what's goin' on."

The clicking of his studs get louder and louder as he approaches you, not stopping until he's standing so close to you that he's almost touching you. The heat generating between your training kit-clad bodies is so overwhelming you can't help but puff out a deep sigh.

"Jamie-" you whine, completely prepared to lay into him. But a large hand pressing into your lower back interrupts you, its weight heavy as your breaths return to pants.

"Y/n," Jamie purrs in your ear, leaning his head down so you can feel his breath fan your skin, "Is this about yesterday?"

You're stubborn in your protest as you mumble out a weak "Maybe.", brain spinning from the proximity. Almost against your will, your head tilts ever so slightly towards Jamie's face, secretly hoping that the small movement will connect his lips with the side of your face. Instead, the only touch you feel is his right hand on your lower back spreading its fingers before drifting across your back and over your hip, leaving a burning sensation in its wake.

"D'you want it to happen again, y/n? Is that it?" the low rumble of his voice heats your core, and the hand slowly wrapping around the top of your leg isn't helping. Jamie's fingers splay over the front of your thigh, his chest now pressing against your shoulder blades as he applies slight pressure. The push from his hand threatens your knees to buckle, but with a small shift of your feet you regain your balance. Except now your ass is pressed fully against him, and the feeling of his member slowly starting to poke against you turns your vision blurry. His fingers creep over the crease where your thigh meets your hip, dangerously nearing your now-throbbing heat.

The closer his fingers get to where you need it most, the more your panting speeds up, and the sound quickly turns into small moans. Jamie clearly gains motivation from them, his left hand fiercely clutching your waist. The newfound security of his grip allows you to relax your weight into him, tipping your head back to lean on his shoulder. And Jamie doesn't ignore the way your neck stretches, giving him the perfect space to latch his lips onto, pressing hot kisses all over your tingling skin.

You officially lose all sense when Jamie presses his middle finger right to your clit, somehow expertly finding it through your shorts, before rubbing delicious circles over it.

"Fuck, Jamie-" you moaning his name comes suddenly, suprising both of you. You both temporarily tense up, but Jamie doesn't slow his fingers. In fact, he speeds them. Vibrations shoot through your body at the feeling, and despite the alarm bells ringing loudly in your skull, you involuntarily silence them with another small whine.

Jamie's warm lips lift from your neck, hovering over the shell of your ear as he whispers; "This alright, love?"

"Fuck..." you whine in both frustration and arousal, but before you can lie and protest, Jamie dives his fingers into your waistband. With a loud gasp, your hands fly up, one covering your mouth while the other reaches back to grab onto the back of Jamie's neck. He groans into your hair; "I think I asked you a question, y/n."

You lift your hand for a split second, just enough time to whisper a breathless "Yes."

"Yes to me having asked a question or yes to this being alright?"

You don't care enough to respond, simply rolling your eyes to yourself as you keep your mouth covered in fear of any more moans escaping. This is still the boot room after all.

"C'mon, love. Use your words." the low grumble accompanying his teasing tone makes your hips buck as you moan out an eager "Yes,". You instantly regret it, since Jamie's unsurprising response is to push your panties aside and dip his fingers in, running them from your clit, through your folds, and right to your opening; "You're fucking soaked, love."

But your regret doesn't last as Jamie dips the tip of his middle finger into your slick entrance, the feeling seemingly cutting off all the oxygen going to your brain. Feeling your head getting red hot, you have to manually tell yourself to keep breathing, completely overstimulated by the simple touch. He pushes the digit further inside of you at an agonisingly slow pace, and you can hear all of the blood rushing through your body as you lean your full weight against him. Jamie wraps his left arm around your side, pressing his hand against your stomach as he holds you up. The feeling is nothing but delicious; the combination of Jamie's thick finger curling up inside of you, his lips grazing your jaw, and his hand pushing flat against your lower stomach. God, this feels good.

"Jamie..." you moan out, dropping the hand that was covering your mouth and reaching it behind you. You push it between your bodies, reaching down until you're palming Jamie through his shorts. Now it's his turn to moan your name right into your ear, the sound only adding to your wetness. And Jamie definitely notices, as he speeds up until his finger is thrusting up into you at a blissful angle. Keeping up your stroking of his clothed cock is a struggle when you're melted like putty in his arms, but you're determined to make him as much of a mess as you are.

Spinning around in his arms and facing him again, he pulls out and holds his hands up beside his head in surrender, expectant eyes searching your face for any signs of discomfort. You do the same, studying his face for a few seconds. His eyes are dark again, just as they were last night, and his plump lips are parted slightly to let out his breathless pants. Mirroring each other, you both await for one of you to make the next move.

You take a step closer to Jamie, your heaving chests pressing against each other with every breath. Unblinking, he stares down at you. He seems hungry.

Just as you're about to hook your own fingers into his waistband, he starts lowering his hands. His left hand comes to your face, hooking his pointer finger under your chin and resting his thumb on your pouty bottom lip. The other goes to his own mouth, and you almost black out at the sight of him taking the middle finger that was just buried deep inside of you between his lips. His eyes don't leave yours for even a second as he sucks it into his mouth, making a spectacle of cleaning you off of his finger.

The sight makes your pussy go from pulsing to fully throbbing, clenching around the memory of Jamie's finger. Lips parting to an O-shape, Jamie takes the opportunity to dip the tip of his finger between them, grazing the edges of your bottom teeth. And just as you tilt your head forward, prepared to take his thumb in your mouth, he drops both of his hands to his sides.

Struggling to lift your head back up, you stare at Jamie In absolute disbelief. As your consciousness returns to your body, you register the layer of sweat all over your body. You're hot with arousal, frustration, and a deep embarrassment. Jamie can read your shame all over your face while your eyes widen, and he mirrors your expression.

Just like last night, your voices are raspy as Jamie mutters "Shit." and you whisper "Fuck."

—

If it wasn't for you pushing past Jamie and beelining back to the pitch, who knows how far you would have gone with him. You trained alongside Jamie in complete and utter silence -- refusing to even glance in his direction as you tried to push every nervous twist out of your stomach by running quicker than him, kicking harder than him, and doing more reps than him.

Which is of course why, when Gia and Isaac let you both know that they had to stay back longer at the training centre for a meeting with the coaches, your heart rate acts like you've just been on a sprint. How could you possibly ignore your sexually deviant morning-act when alone in a car with him for the entirety of a 15 minute drive?

And that's the question running circles in your head as you drop yourself into Jamie's plush leather passenger seat. You've never been in the front of his car; you're used to the safety of the driver's seat separating the two of you. But now, his pinky is but an inch away from you as he pulls the gear stick out of park.

With a blank expression, you stare down at his hand. His thumb rubs small circles on the leather seam covering the gear stick, and the sight makes your breath hitch. That's the same thumb you almost sucked just this morning. This memory pulls your eyes towards his right hand, resting casually on top of the steering wheel as he expertly manoeuvres out of AFC Richmond's car park. And that's the hand that was dug inside of your shorts as he fingered your wet cunt.

The memory makes you adjust in your seat, hands squeezing the bag in your lap tightly as you move your gaze out of the window in front of you. Don't say anything. Don't say anything. Don't say anything.

"So..." Jamie starts, an awkward-yet-teasing lilt in his voice, "I think we should talk about earlier."

You take a deep breath in, pursing your lips together for a moment before putting on your most convincing tone; "There's nothing to talk about."

"Eh, I'm not gonna lie, y/n. I think me fingering you in the boot room first thing in the morning should be talk about."

"What is there to talk about?" you stubbornly repeat, "We're just going to forget it happened and move on."

Jamie barks out a loud laugh, making your head snap around to look at him. He glances at you with an amused glint in his eye; "D'you really think I can ever forget fingering a girl in a boot room? I've fingered in a lot of places but that was definitely a first."

"Oh my god! Stop saying the word fingering! You barely even fingered me!" your voice comes out a loud, frustrated squeak.

"Barely fingered you?" Jamie mocks, "You were like two seconds away from cumming!"

"Oh please. You wouldn't know what a real orgasm looks like if it hit you in the face."

Your words only pull more laughter out of Jamie; "Well, y/n. I'll have you know that I've had quite a few orgasms hit me in the face."

After letting out a loud, immature groan, you stare at his smug face in a mix of disbelief and disgust. With a smirk glued on his lips, Jamie keeps his eyes on the road. And if you didn't know any better, you're pretty sure he's reliving those facial orgasm memories right now.

"Ugh," you attempt to break his trance, "You are unbelievable."

"Yeah, unbelievably good at making people cum."

"Oh yeah?" sarcasm drips from your voice.

"Yeah." Jamie's very good at making single words sound extremely cocky.

"Prove it."

Your words don't register until they've left your mouth. Squeezing your lips together tightly, you turn your attention back to the familiar road in front of you, hoping that in some magical way Jamie didn't hear you.

With your heart beating even faster than when you got in the car, you can't tell how many seconds of silence actually pass until Jamie finally speaks up; "Prove it?"

Now it's your turn to stay quiet for almost a full minute before saying; "No," sheepish at first, before scoffing another "No."

"No?" Jamie repeats again.

"I was kidding! It was a joke!" you laugh, completely unconvincing to both you and Jamie.

Now the car officially falls into a deeply awkward silence. If only Jamie hadn't kissed you yesterday -- or did you kiss him? You don't even remember how it happened. All you know is that ever since it did happen, you haven't been able to shake the buzzy feeling moving through every nerve in your body. The buzz has only become more overwhelming since this morning, a permanent ringing lingering in your ears during the day.

Maybe there was some truth to your words. Maybe you do want him to prove it.

The car bumps over the curb of the pavement as Jamie drives into you and Gia's driveway. Pulling the handbrake, he stops the car in the exact same place he always does. On any other day, you unbuckle your seatbelt as quick as you can and get out of the car without a word. But today, you can't bring yourself to move at all.

You and Jamie continue sitting in complete and utter silence.

His hand stays between you, once again resting on the gear stick. Your eyes are drawn to it, and the sight of his thick fingers have you sucking in a deep breath. The tension in the car is so sharp you could cut a knife. The longer you two sit beside each other like this, the more you can feel your core dampening. And when you notice how hard Jamie is gripping the round head of the gear stick, your heartbeat moves from loudly beating in your ears to pulsing in your heat.

It's undeniable and unspoken -- you both want him to prove it.

"Follow me." you say stern and curt, not looking at Jamie once between getting out of the car, unlocking your front door, and darting up the stairs. Jamie obeys, following you without a word.

Once you're in your bedroom, you quickly check find my friends to see Gia and Isaac are already on their way home.

"Fuck."

"What?" Jamie's voice sounds rushed and even a bit needy.

"Gia and Isaac are walking home."

"What the fuck? I would've waited for them."

Instead of wallowing in horny frustration, you discard your phone on your bedside table and look Jamie dead in the eyes. His pupils have darkened his blue eyes, and his eyebrows are furrowed in a look you can only describe as disappointed. His posture is shy and boyish, as if you weren't eating each other's faces in this exact spot a mere 24 hours ago.

Hatred roars through you, blood running hot. You hate Jamie. You hate all the different ways he makes you feel. You hate how much he consumes your mind, and his cruel words, and how good he is at football, and his ego, and how good he smells, and how amazing his hands felt on your skin, and how there's nothing you want more right now than to jump his bones.

"They'll be home soon," you choke out curtly. Jamie's hands politely fold over the raging hard-on you hadn't noticed. He stares back at you with expectant eyes; "Eh... do you know how long it'll take them to walk here?" he says quietly.

"About half an hour." you shrug casually, as if you're not soaking wet in front of your rock hard enemy.

Said enemy pulls his eyebrows up high, mouth curving into a pensive frown as he looks you up and down. Your expression stays hard, trying so very hard to resist your next move. But to no avail, you turn to your nightstand, pulling a condom out of the drawer before holding it out to Jamie; "I need you to prove it. I need you to fuck me."

He darts forward, eagerly snatching the condom from you, but you're quick to snatch it back: "But!" you say, making him roll his eyes at you, "But... you need to make sure I actually cum. Nothing half-arsed. You need to prove why you have such a big mouth." Jamie's about to smugly interrupt you, but you continue; " And I know you'll probably shoot your load within 20 seconds but you only have 30 minutes to make me do the same. Then we're going to go back to hating each other and training together and never speak about it again. It's gonna be like it never happened. Deal?"

"I have to make you cum in half an hour?" Jamie repeats in question, looking at you in disbelief.

"Yes," your words stay frank as you continue, "If you don't think you can do that then just go home."

Jamie saunters towards you, taking the condom from you again and holding it up to you between his pointer and middle finger. He towers over you, causing you to look up at him through your lashes. You hope you look somewhat unphased, but when his starving eyes turn dark again, you know you're a lost cause.

His lips ghost yours; "Y/n, love," he grumbles, "I can make you cum much quicker than that."

You gasp as he quickly scoops you up by your thighs, lifting you and dropping you across the mattress. Not wasting any of your precious time, you both strip yourselves down completely between messy kisses. Jamie props one knee on the mattress, his big and hard cock staring at you as you sit up on your elbows. He brings the condom to his mouth and rips it open with his teeth, momentarily snapping you out of your horny daze so you can roll your eyes at him.

"Does that usually impress the ladies you sleep with?" you tease, biting back a flirtatious smile in the hopes you still look unphased by the buzz between you two.

"How would you know who I'm sleeping with?" he questions you, sending you a stubborn know-it-all look. You can't help but giggle, completely enthused by the situation you've found yourself in, the anticipation both exciting and scary.

Jamie's quick to appear above you, positioning himself between your legs. As he reconnects your lips together feverishly, his hand comes down to your slick heat, sliding two fingers in with ease. You don't bother fighting back your loud moans as he works you open, not needing to do much before you're putty in his hands once again.

"Fuck, Jamie." you mumble in the few seconds he pulls away from you to line himself up with your entrance. And when he finally pushes his rock-hard dick in you, you gasp loudly, hands flying up to grip his arms supporting him beside your head.

As he starts to thrust, Jamie kisses you deeply, mouth completely covering yours, whining against your lips as he ruts into you. The kiss is something of pure hunger, moving at the same quick rhythm as his hips. Hands roaming Jamie's rock hard biceps and shoulders, you revel in the full feeling he gives you, blissfully allowing yourself to forget who is actually inside of you as you repeatedly moan your encouragement.

But that bliss doesn't last long, interrupted by him moaning your name into your mouth. Finding his pecs, you push against him slightly, causing him to lift his mouth off yours immediately.

His movements come to a halt, eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort. But all you can do is stare back at him in absolute disbelief; and the once-again daunting realisation that Jamie Tartt is inside of you right now makes you hate yourself.

"Y'alright, love?" his voice is drenched in concern. Love. God, that pet name. The word makes you clench around him so tightly that Jamie's eyes briefly roll back, and the flustered sight of him only makes you squeeze his dick tighter. The angry arousal boiling inside of you clouds your brain as you squint at him in challenge before using his shoulders to pull yourself up and off of him, turning both of you and pushing him down so he's now flat on the mattress.

You keep your eyes away from his, glued to how his hard cock hits his lower stomach. Wrapping your fingers around it, you pump your hand excruciatingly slowly, studying how flexed his abs are as you do so. Jamie's hands grip the sheets, tugging them so hard his knuckles turn white. He's still wearing his watch; "How long do we have?" you ask him, seemingly unphased by his moaning and writhing. But you'd be lying through your teeth if you said the reaction your touch has on him doesn't make you even wetter.

Jamie sputters out a laugh as he glances at his watch; "We have 16 minutes." he grunts.

"Perfect," you whisper, climbing on top of him while straddling your legs on either side of his massive thighs. You waste no time sinking down on his cock, all the way to the hilt, and you moan loudly at the feeling.

"Sssh, darlin'," Jamie whispers back, quickly sitting up and pressing a hand over your mouth, "Can't have the neighbours hearin' you, can I?"

The new position buries him even deeper inside of you, the new angle making your body tense even harder. Planting your hands on Jamie's shoulders again, you use the broad muscles to bounce yourself up and down slightly, taking time to grind your pelvis down on his every few thrusts. Moans threaten to burst through Jamie's fingers still covering your mouth, and your whole body grows more sensitive by the second. The hand that isn't covering your mouth is splayed on the top of your ass, adding more pressure to your movements.

The longer you bounce and grind and squeeze, the more your mind fogs over, blood rushing through your body at a rapid pace. Even your ears start to ring as all rational thinking flies out the window. You grab his wrist and tug it so his palm pulls off your mouth. Just like this morning, you're desperate for his thick fingers again. So you twist his hand, taking his pointer and middle finger in your mouth. Jamie stares at your face, absolutely dumbfounded by your actions.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you suck on his fingers, silencing your own moans by pressing them down on your tongue before licking between them. The heavy feeling of him in your mouth makes your head spin, and seeing as the hand on your ass goes limp and slides down, it's safe to assume Jamie's not thinking straight either. Both of your movements turn sloppy as you desperately chase your high, wet sounds filling the room coming from your mouth as well as your pussy. Jamie's fingers rest under your ass now, pulling you even further open around his dick. Your stomach clenches, tugging on the already-sore muscles caused by your intense training earlier today, and you know you're getting closer and closer to your climax with each swallowed moan.

Slick with your wetness, Jamie's hand slides from beneath you over your thigh, before gripping the crease at the hip and rubbing his thumb over your clit. You jolt on top of him, letting the fingers in your mouth slip further towards your throat. Finally letting your eyes meet his again, you're surprised to see his gaze is focused on your mouth, a deep blush painting his cheeks as he watches you deepthroat his digits. Like a man possessed, his soft dark eyes hardly blink. He's even failed to notice your own eyes have opened. Which is why you take it upon yourself to rake your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the strands to tip his head back. The movement makes his gaze drag up over your face, finally landing on your own glazed over eyes as you continue taking his fingers in your mouth and his cock as deep as possible in your heat.

The deep blue of Jamie's eyes has basically disappeared behind his blown-out pupils, and your chest fills with pure bliss as you stare at each other. His thumb is still drawing delicious circles over your clit, and both of your heavy breaths mix against each other.

Suddenly, the coil in your stomach comes to a painfully taut twist, and your orgasm hits you like a freight train; "Fuck, fuck, Jamie, fuck," you curse his name as you completely freeze, Jamie continuing the quick pace of his thrusts and movement of his thumb as he watches you cum with wide eyes. Pushing his fingers that little bit further into your mouth, the delicious combination of his thick cock and thick fingers both fucking into you at once makes your eyes roll back. All the air leaves your lungs as your climax waves through you, and you're left convulsing on top of Jamie, pussy clenching around his cock uncontrollably as the aftershocks of your intense orgasm pass.

You pull Jamie's fingers out of your mouth, head falling limp on his shoulder with him still buried deep inside of you. Blood rushing to your ears and eyes blurring, it's as if you've lost all of your senses.

"Fuckin' hell, y/n." Jamie pants, hands snaking around your back to hold you close to him.

Your breath fans his neck with the small laugh that escapes your mouth. As you catch your breath, you drag your fingertips over his muscular torse, tracing the sculpted edges of his abs and pecs. But it's only when your fingers drop down to the bottom of his stomach that you remember; "Wait, Jamie," you lift your head up to look at him, "Did you even cum?"

"Oh, love..." he grumbles with a chuckle, grabbing the bottom of your thighs, standing up and turning around, lifting you off his cock with utter ease, before gently laying your weak body down on the bed. Pushing up onto your elbows as Jamie takes a step back, your bare naked body suddenly feels vulnerable under his smug grin; "I came 10 minutes in."

———

hope u enjoyed some slutty Jamie + reader ;p

Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.

It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.

Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.

The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.

Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.

No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.

He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.

His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.

"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."

It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.

No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.

By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.

Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?

-

By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.

It was hardly the first time.

The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.

Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.

You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.

Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.

Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.

So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.

That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.

You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.

Just a little farther...

"You appear to be losing your battle."

The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.

You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.

A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.

You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.

You were in far too much of a hurry.

"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."

His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.

"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."

You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.

"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."

"You are trying to do something."

"I am not."

"You are."

A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.

"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."

"I am simply a guest in the Keep."

The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."

There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"

You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."

"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."

His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."

You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."

"Are you?"

"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."

A beat passed.

"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."

You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."

"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"

A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."

You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."

The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."

You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.

Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.

"...It's you."

The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.

He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.

When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."

The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"

You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."

Silence settled between them.

Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.

You did not look mad.

Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.

More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.

Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.

His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"

He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.

You said nothing.

For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.

His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"

You instinctively stepped back.

"I only jest," he said quietly.

Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."

Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.

Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.

I've dreamt of you.

Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.