and all I loved, I loved alone

Sighing, your lower back aches, still weighing heavy even after the birth. Despite your exhaustion, you grab a cloak to tie around your shoulders and over your slip as you head for your daughter’s nursery. If Lyonel isn’t in the shared chambers, surely he would be there watching over her like usual. Recently, he has taken to watching Juniper sleep for a few minutes after you have placed her down on her cot. With a keen eye, he watches little Juniper’s chest rise and fall protectively, and with his hand gently grasping onto her tiny foot.

But when you enter the nursery, you don’t find him there, nor your daughter inside her cot. Your mind must still be addled by the unbalanced humours from the birth, but you were sure that you have put Juniper to bed. You would ask her nursemaid but she would already be fast asleep. So you take a candle from the table and set off to find your family within the vast keep.

Storm’s End is much gloomier and greyer at night. As if there are ghosts lingering around the halls whilst the storm winds howl outside. But you continue on, a hand hitching the skirt of your slip whilst the other keeps the candle upright. No ghosts will stop you from finding them.

As you go through the winding hallway with numerous sculpted Baratheon ancestors on the walls, you see a light flickering from the open doors of the library.

Slowly, you peek inside, seeing a lone figure hunched over a table filled with dozens of thick tomes as the shadow sways softly like a ship on gentle tides.

“You’re well fed, changed, and thank the seven you’re not ill.” Lyonel’s voice whispers at the bundle in his arms. “Gods be good, Juniper, why won’t you sleep, hm? Have you no mercy for your poor mother and father?”

Your giggle takes his attention. His head immediately moves towards the source, the corner of his lips tugging into the signature Lyonel smile that you adore. “Your daughter is petulant.”

“My daughter?” You slowly walk across the threshold and over to him, tender gaze never leaving him. “She is yours as she is mine. And our daughter is merely a month old, it is impossible for her to be petulant.”

“She takes after you.” He utters affectionately.

“She looks the most like you, my love.”

You expect for him to hand the babe over to you, too tired to carry her or too annoyed, so you reach for her, but instead of giving the babe over to you, Lyonel leans her away from your waiting arms. He pouts, brows furrowed at you, as if you have offended him and his child caring skills.

“No, this is my duty, I shall not hand her to you until she has fallen asleep in my arms.” He even dramatically turns her away from you as you bite your lip to hinder the laugh in your throat.

Meanwhile, Juniper gurgles in her father’s arms, legs kicking about under her swaddle as her tiny hand grasps onto Lyonel’s doublet.

“She was already asleep when I placed her down in her cot.” Raising a brow, you accuse him of waking her up just so he could put her to sleep himself, an act he sees through as a jest.

“I did not wake her up.” Defending himself, Lyonel, points accusingly at you. “Mayhaps you didn’t put her to sleep well enough. When I went to check on her she was gurgling and kicking about happily. Now I’m not a midwife but that was a very awake child.”

“Babes wake up for no reason, my love.” You answer lovingly, taking a good look at the tome he was reading. Some of them have dust on the covers, the books seem to have been there for quite some time. And each one is about childbirth or anything pertaining to raising children. Your eyes glistens with unshed tears when you look back at your husband. “You’ve been reading…”

“Contrary to the whispers, I know how to read.”

“Oh, my sweet Lyonel.” Your hands reach out to him, and he meets you halfway, placing his face in your open palms as you cradle his face. “You were learning how to raise our Juniper.” Cooing, Lyonel feels good when he’s the one on the receiving end of your cooing for once.

“Of course, I have.” He says matter-of-factly, eyes closing as your thumbs run along his cheek lovingly. “I can’t let you have all the glory.”

Grinning, you pull his face closer to your own, nudging his nose with yours sweetly. Gods, you want another babe with him. Especially if they’ll have his nose too and his smile.

“Oh, you’re already doing so well, my stag.” The reassurance fills his chest with warmth, the same warmth he feels whenever you place his head on your chest in bed so he could sleep soundly, the same warmth he feels whenever Juniper holds his finger in her tiny hand. “Juniper is lucky to have you as her father.” Peppering his face with kisses, you kiss every inch of his face until you see him give you a lopsided smile.

Pulling away, Lyonel immediately misses your lips upon his skin. “Tell me more about how good I am.”

“You’re doing marvelously, my love.” A grin spreads across his handsome face, beaming at you as his hand pats Juniper to sleep. “How about I accompany you here whenever you read? We could learn together.” Your hands don’t leave his side, holding him and Juniper close.

“That is a tremendous idea, my wife, but you and I both know that there won’t be much reading when we are left to our own devices.” His dark eyes sparkle with something familiar.

You make a face, chortling under your breath, “that is true.” Chuckling, you go to check Juniper in his arms, only to find that the quiet wasn’t just because she’s safely tucked in and content in her father’s arms, but because she has finally fallen asleep. “Look at that, you did it, she’s asleep.”

Lyonel looks at his daughter and grins from ear to ear, as if he just unhorsed another Targaryen. “I did it.” He says it with triumph, that you want to paint his expression on a canvas to look at it whenever you please. “It’s all because I’ve been reading.”

“I am sure it was.” Taking his hand and the candle on the other, you lead him out. “Now come and put her back to her cot so we may do some reading of our own.”

Who is he to say no? “Yes, my love.” He gladly follows your lead.

The room is slowly growing darker with every minute you spend inside, the cozy decorations around the small space with its carved woodland creatures, lace doilies and fluttering curtains are nothing but a mockery to you and what’s gnawing in your head. Their shadows loom over the walls, shapes cageing you in.

It’s quiet inside the familiar bathroom, what was once held a fond memory for you is now marred by the recent memory of James begging for you to shoot him. You can still hear his cries, pleading, begging for you to end him to keep you and your baby safe. The way his hands shook, cradling the bleeding bite and how his voice gurgled in his own blood, and yet he still smiled at you towards the end. Even then he was trying to comfort you.

Your protruding stomach bops up and down in the water, belly button peeking through the mix of blood and soap. You haven’t let out a single tear since Hobie helped you inside the tub, hoping that a warm bath will help. When all it did was numb you.

Gazing at the ceiling, mold dotted along the wood, your eyes sting as you tilt your head down, face half submerged in the water. Waves lapping at the sides of your face. You miss James, he was your companion, a friend that helped you survive the first days of the apocalypse. He was your anchor through it all, the voice of reason when all you wanted was to run outside and look for your lost love. It’s ironic, compared to before the world ended, you and the rest of the band were the ones holding him by the scruff of his neck.

As you run your palm over your stomach, the pinky ring shines atop it, you promise to yourself that you’ll live on so that his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He would’ve wanted you to do just that, but that doesn’t make it alright. You have no idea how to tell Yuri and Ned that their best mate is dead, and that you killed him.

What if his parents are still alive? How would you tell them that their only child is dead? That he died protecting you while holding out hope that he would find them?

The door creaks open, and Hobie peeks through the crack. His cheeks are coated in dirt, and there’s soil underneath his fingernails as he knocks softly. He looks the same as you remember before you had to leave him in the car with hopes of coming back for him. You did come back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. For three months you wonder where he was, if he’s eating, or if he’s even alive. Now that he’s here, standing in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you, your heart feels like it’s beating once again. Albeit cracked, but alive, thumping quietly as it keeps you and your baby breathing.

“Love,” his voice seeps with fatigue. “You’ll turn into a prune.”

“You like prunes.” You answer softly, tone as tired as his. “Come sit with me please?”

“I’m all dirty,” His boots thump against the floor mats, tracking mud and dirt. His hand clamps over his eyes playfully. “and you’re all naked.”

You manage a small smile. “How do you think I got this?” Gesturing around your stomach, he peeks through his fingers.

“A stork?”

“Nope, birds and the bees, Hobs.” Opening your palms, you gesture for him to join you.

“Yeah, I think I remember that in biology.” Kneeling down, knees creaking in protest, he places his arm over the rim of the bathtub, chin resting on his elbow. “How do you feel?”

“Like sun dried shit.” Your attempt at a half assed joke.

He manages a smile. “The baby?” His eyes gaze gently down, worry etched on his brows.

“I think the baby’s fine. I’m not at the stage where the baby could start kicking like a horse yet. But everything feels fine, considering.” Sniffing, you lean against his arm, a cold cheek pressed on his warm skin. “I really wanted to tell you… I really did.”

Hobie’s free hand reaches to cup your chin, turning you gently to face him. “I know, lovie.” He sighs, thumb brushing along your damp skin. “When did you know?”

“At the party, with Yuri.” The mere mention of her has your heart squeezing in your chest. The same feeling is clear on his face too. “We got a bunch of tests after I got sick all over the bathroom floor.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Before…everythin’?”

“Yeah, I still have the test, kept it just in case.”

His eyes flick over to your growing stomach, belly button protruding above the surface like a buoy. “Well, I believe you, proof or no proof.”

You manage a small chuckle. “I’m way past doubting it. The morning sickness was the worst, and my feet are swollen.” Lifting a foot above the water to show him, Hobie’s brows knit in worry, it looks painful. You look like you’re in pain. He then sees the scar on your leg, a long scar tissue that is still red around the edges of skin. He doesn’t ask how it came to be when he doesn’t want to upset you even more.

He feels sorry that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t there from the start, holding you, making you feel better. He should’ve been there, he should’ve been here before you. Maybe, just maybe, James would still be alive, that he would hear the muffled shuffling of the undead behind the closet door, and end it before it started. And he would welcome you both inside with a relieved smile.

“My boots would fit you now.” Hobie stifles his hurt, eyes glancing away from swollen feet before staring at the same pain in your eyes.

“Maybe, I’m going to need maternity clothes soon.” Inhaling, you purse your lips together. “I’m going to wear all those old lady dresses with the plain daisies and bland colours. You won’t think I’m fit anymore.” Your knuckles brush alongside his arm.

“Nah, you’re still peng in my eyes, lovie. Even if you dress up as Yuri’s grandma.” Taking your hand, he twists it gently to hold onto you better. Water mixing with soil.

“Remember when she used to make us all those sugar cookies during band practice?”

“Yeah, I’ve gained weight durin’ that.”

“We all did, Hobie.” You gently smile, squeezing him once. After a beat, your smile fades. “Is it horrible of me to think that it’s a good thing that she’s already gone before all this shit happened?”

“No, love.” His thumb runs along your palm. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

The back of your eyes stings, heat behind them as you swallow thickly. “I should’ve— I should’ve come looking for you. When I came back to the car, you weren’t there anymore.” You fight the tears from spilling. “And then we ran to the docks, and the houseboat wasn’t there either. I’m sorry, I should’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder.”

“Just the thought of you comin’ to look for me is enough.” With a gentle hand, he moves a damp strand of hair away from your face. “I’m jus’ glad you weren’t alone.”

Your eyes fall on his fingers, the dirt digs into his nailbeds, darkened by mud and soil. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” Your nail scrapes at the dirt, trying to get it clean. And he lets you. “You should’ve seen him, Hobie, he was…he’s great.” Vision glistening, you stifle a sob.

“I think he was a scout when he was a kid.” A smile curls in the corner of his lips at the image of James wearing those uniforms when he was just a boy. Green and khaki complete with a beret and sash filled with patches. Hobie beats himself up for not remembering if James really was a scout. “I know he was great, lovie, jus’ seein’ you here is proof enough.”

“He went full on survivor. We were stuck at his parent’s condo for a bit until we ran out of supplies and the electricity in the city was shut off.” Your palm is pruning, but you’re afraid of leaving the comfort of the tub. “I got a baby book though.”

“Yeah? Like the one with baby names?”

He wants to tell you what happened to him in those three months, how he struggled, how he longed to see you alive, how he was seeing you in his visions. And what he saw, what he had to do to get back to you. You know that the houseboat is gone from his expression alone, if it wasn’t you two would’ve sailed out of the town before the blood dried on the floor.

You gently shake your head, water sloshing softly. “No, the kind that has instructions on home births.” Voice wavering, you hold onto him tightly, realizing what he has to do when the time comes. “I’m scared, Hobie.” Your throat betrays you, closing up as you let out a sob. “What if something happens to the baby? There’s no hospitals or doctors anymore—”

Hobie brings your face to his chest, shushing you tenderly as he rubs at your back. Despite the water drenching his sleeve, he still holds onto you as waves of tears flow out of you. He’s scared too, afraid to lose the baby, afraid to lose you. For ten years, he has loved you, and for those ten years, he never once thought of a day without you in it. He can’t lose you when he needs to love you for the rest of his life.

“It’s alright, we can do it, yeah?” He feels you nod against him as you shiver in his arms. “We’ve watched enough hospital dramas to know all about givin’ birth.” Joking, Hobie kisses the crown of your damp head as you manage a chortle.

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’ve got you and the baby. I promise that you two will be safe and sound.” Leaning away to cradle your face, he meets with your shining eyes, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I promise you.” Even if it kills him.

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you grasp at his wrist, a firm yet affectionate hold. “And I’ll watch your back, like always.”

Hobie smiles, the kind that reminds you of the days where he would play on stage, giving you that same reassuring smile as the lights flicker on his handsome face. “To start off, let’s get you dry and warm before you catch a cold.”

—

When you pictured saying goodbye to one of your friends, you never envisioned burying them at an age where they shouldn’t be six feet under. That it’ll just be you and Hobie, staring at the freshly packed ground right in front of you with a crudely made headstone. James doesn’t deserve one that is made out of a broken window panel, he deserved a headstone that is carved out of marble, where his name would remain etched on it forever. Not like how you wrote his name on the wood with a sharpie.

His father’s hunting vest feels rough in your hands. Dried blood staining the very same fabric that James once wore. You’ve been told that his father wasn’t the best, but the vest brought him comfort throughout his survival, a reminder, his fuel to continue living. Now it remains in your trembling hands, fingers digging into the dark blood.

“D’you want to say a few words?” Hobie utters softly amidst the strong wind as trees rustle nearby. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that his best mate doesn’t lie six feet under him. That he didn’t bury him there with his bare hands.

You shake your head, chest aching, eyes heavy and hot with unshed tears. No words could ever stifle your grief, there are no words in the world that makes this right, no worthy words to describe how great a man James was.

He understands your grief and your guilt, he knows you well to know what’s rushing inside your head. His eyes wander towards your shaking hands, and the façade he built to keep you steady and anchored almost crumbles.

“J–James Jameson,” his tone cracks, fists shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms. “You’re the best damn drummer I know, save us a spot up there, yeah?”

You heave, tears streaming down your face as you take a careful step forward. With your heart in your stomach, you kneel before the headstone, laying the vest around it, imagining that you’re putting it on him for the last time. “You’ve done well, James.” Your words are carried by the wind, palm placed atop the fresh soil, where his head could lie underneath.

Hobie’s arm curls around you, chin resting atop your head as he faces the grey sky.

—

The days have gone by with silence. The surrounding woods let out a whisper of leaves and a howl at night. But inside the cabin, grief lingers in the air, staining the wooden walls, slithering on the floorboards.

James’ presence weighs heavy between the two of you. Even though Hobie never said that he blames you for it, you still beat yourself up for what happened. If only you were quicker, that you didn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger. Every day Hobie lets you know that he doesn’t, for one moment, blame you for James’ demise. Through his actions, taking care of you, making sure that you’ve eaten, slept, taken your prenatal vitamins, and his touch, he lets you know that he loves you, that the world hasn’t ended for him because you’re still by his side.

The two of you have just been surviving on sparse supplies, and the water taken from a well behind the house that he has to boil before letting you take a drink. But the quiet, and the stifling air inside the space makes it more unbearable. You’ve tried to turn on the telly when the solar panels on the roof have recharged, but you’re only met with static. Not even the radio plays crappy music anymore, just an incessant buzzing. It’s as if you’re the only people left in the world.

The books and board games on the shelf meant for guests are gathering dust. You’d rather spend your days studying the baby book, every word memorized and carved in your head. Hobie made himself the handyman of the house, he fixed the holes on the front door where your bullets hit it, and he has reinforced all the windows with planks of wood he found in the tool shed. In case a shambler comes too close to the perimeter he set up that he agrees is abysmal when he only has strings and cans to work with. It’s a crude version of an alarm, and he wishes he could make something better for a precaution.

Hobie barely sleeps, keeping watch at night and day, taking naps in between when his body shuts down. When you see him dozing off on the couch, you sit beside him and he’s immediately magnetized to your side. You always tug his head down on your lap, letting him sleep there as your old cardigan that he managed to save from the houseboat is draped on his shoulders. Sometimes you see him reading the same baby book, folding the edges of the important pages when it’s your turn to keep watch. You miss him, even though you two sleep on the same bed with his arms wrapped protectively around you. But the easy conversations, the laughter, you miss those. This isn’t a way of living anymore.

You can’t help it when your eyes wander towards the spot where you held James one last time. No matter how much you scrub at the walls and floor, the stain stays. A macabre reminder of that day amidst the comfortable cottage decorations placed by the same dead man resting beside James’ grave.

The bowl of canned chicken noodle soup in front of you warms your cheeks as Hobie’s palm leaves your shoulder with a squeeze. Your eyes dart towards his side of the table, noticing that he doesn’t have supper, only a glass of room temperature water.

“Hobie?” Clearing your throat, your hand rubs at your stomach. Your shirt has gotten smaller, making you pull it down occasionally over your swollen belly.

He sighs in relief just from hearing your voice, pausing by the counter tops, hands reaching above the cabinets. “Yeah, love? Feelin’ alright?”

“Where’s your soup?” Craning your neck, you see the opened cabinets, seeing it nearly empty, save for a can of chocolate pudding, and a pack of dried beef jerky that’s still unopened. Just by the look in his eyes, he doesn’t need to say it out loud. “We need to go into town.”

“I need to go into town.” He leans on the counter, arms on his side as the dark circles under his eyes are illuminated by the electric lamp that was recharged by the solar. “Before you say anythin’, I’ll be quick.”

“And alone. You need someone to watch your back. We’ve got two guns for a reason.”

“Sure, I’ll jus’ ask one of the woodland creatures to come with me.”

“I don’t want to fight, Hobie.” Standing up, hand braced under your stomach, you close the small distance towards the kitchen. The cabin used to carry good memories, now it only bears agony. “Please, let’s not argue.” Hands rubbing his arms, you gaze at him softly. “I’m still not that far along, I can still run if we need to.” You don’t want to tell him that your scarred leg aches when you run.

You feel all the heaviness that James left in your heart, but you can’t let it hinder you forever when you’ve got Hobie and the baby to think about. They’re now your reason to survive, just like how James held on because of the baby and in hopes of finding his best mates and his parents.

Hobie avoids your eyes, sighing as he takes your hands in his. He feels the small indents from the scars that you told him about after another night of crying. He doesn’t want to look at it when it only makes his heart break at the thought of you getting hurt. So he keeps his eyes on the promised ring around your pinky instead, the same one he saved for months just to get it for you.

“What if we see those things? Or worse, run into people?”

“We hide or run, and if need be, we fight.” You look at him with determination and with untapped bravery he hasn’t seen yet. “I don’t want you to starve yourself. Or for you to die when I’m stuck here waiting for you to come home when I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.” Reaching over him as his hand falls on your hips, you take the beef jerky and the lone can of chocolate pudding. “So which one will it be for tonight?” With a small smile, you weigh both in your hands. “I need you full of energy tomorrow.”

Chuckling, Hobie takes the beef jerky and then takes your chin daintily in his hand. “The last time you told me that was before a concert.”

“I remember.” Sunlight passes by your eyes. “You killed it that night.”

His eyes wander behind you where his guitar case is tucked in-between an armchair and the telly. He still hasn’t opened it. “You follow me, yeah? When I tell you to run, you run, when I tell you to leave me behind, you do just that.”

You take a second before nodding.

“Let’s share the puddin’” Throwing his arm over your shoulder, and a peck to your temple, he leads you back to the table.

Kissing his cheek, you giggle, the very first genuine laugh you’ve let out in a couple of weeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”

—

Hobie hesitated before taking the car into town. The engine could draw unwanted attention, or it could break down in the middle of a drive. But he can’t exactly make you walk for miles on end when you’re almost four months pregnant. If only he had a bicycle on hand, and go on a ride with you like when you were teenagers sneaking out to go wherever you please.

“I hope we find a shoe place.” Your mumbling gets his attention, hand reaching towards your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. You place your hand atop his, squeezing once as you smile fondly at him. It reminds you of a similar memory when the two of you were driving in his old car to a gig or a date at the park. Not driving towards what could be a dead town filled with rotting corpses. “Some new trainers would be good for my sasquatch feet.”

His piercings catch the light, glinting from the sun shining on them. Hobie looks incredibly handsome, you’ve always said that the sunlight suits him more, and he would always say that the moonlight fits you best. His locks are tied into a ponytail that you helped him with. He desperately needs a haircut when his curls are starting to cover his eyes that you always have to move them away, covering a new scar he got from the car crash right on his forehead. It’s not because you think it makes him look awful, but you hate the fact that he got hurt, that he had to tend to his wounds himself. Your guilt refuses to let you look at the scar.

Hobie snorts, noticing your lighter demeanour now that you’re out of the cabin. “I’ll keep a look out.” Thumb drawing circles over your jeans, he squeezes again. “And your feet aren’t that big, love. I’ve seen bigger.”

Pinching the back of his hand, he lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, yours.” Your eyes warn him before he could even smirk. “And don’t say it.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” From his smirk alone, you could tell that he was in fact ‘gonna.’

Smiling, for a moment you forgot that the world ended, that James isn’t laying six feet underground just beside the living room window.

Hobie senses the negative shift in your demeanor. From all his reading on the baby book you brought, he has read that when the mother is in good spirits, and not stressed, the baby will turn out healthy and happy. He has made it his mission that you and the baby remain in okay spirits, impossible to make it better on account of the things around you, but he still wants to try. After James and everything else, something as small as new trainers could help brighten you up. He’s even contemplating that the cabin might not be the best environment for you, but where would he bring you that is safer than a cabin in the middle of the woods?

“I’ve been thinkin’” Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat with the town now in sight.

“A lot, I imagine.”

He glances at you with a small smile. “Yeah, too much.” Sighing, he slows down the car once the town’s faded banner greets him. The place doesn’t look any better like before, but it doesn’t look worse either. “What if we look for other places we could stay? Somewhere safer, quieter and away from cities for when the baby is born.”

“The cabin is already all of that.”

“Yeah, I mean…somewhere that doesn’t remind you of what happened.”

Your eyes cast down at your lap, index mindlessly picking at a hang nail as you gaze at your ring instead. “I don’t know, Hobie, James is there, he’d be alone.”

“He’ll understand, love.” Sighing, he parks the car on the side of the silent fishing town. “We don’t have to make a decision now, jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” With a hand on your thigh, he squeezes you reassuringly, and you smile right back at him with the same kind of comfort. “I see a cobbler over there, maybe someone didn’t pick up their shoes.”

Like always, he helps with your seatbelt gently, even avoiding grazing your stomach with his hand. Maybe it’s him being careful with you, but it’s as if he’s afraid to really hold onto your stomach, afraid to face the baby that could possibly end your life.

He smells faintly of the watered down minty shampoo and a coconut body wash that the last renter left at the cabin. While you probably smell of the milk formula for mothers that you’ve been rationing since you left the condo with James. Even then, Hobie pecks your temple sweetly.

“There, you ready?”

Taking his hand, you place his palm with apprehension on top of your stomach, letting his warmth ebb through your skin. “I’ve read that babies tend to already know their parents in the womb, but you haven’t been there the first months so I want them to get to know you more. Is that alright?”

His lips tug into a smile, chuckling softly as he feels around freely. “Yeah, ‘m the dad, love, of course it’s alright.”

You match his grin. “Just checking.”

Kissing your cheek, his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. He looks around with bated breath, making sure that there aren’t any surprises lurking around the corner shops. The town is quiet, eerily quiet, like in one of those apocalyptic shows Yuri pestered them into watching with her.

Cars are left on the road, some doors still open as the wind and rain ravage the leather seats. From the pink and yellow banners around, and the wilted flowers all tied with a pretty ribbon around the lampposts and shop windows, he’d think there was some celebration happening before the world ended. A flyer fluttering by gets stuck in the windshield wiper, it answers his question.

“‘Happy Mother’s day.’” You read solemnly. “Fuck me that’s ironic.”

Hobie scoffs a laugh, patting your stomach gingerly as he inhales deeply.

He doesn’t see any movement from the streets, no rustling, just some trash getting carried by the wind. But he spots something in the corner of his eye, a flash of movement inside the cobbler’s store, a quick shadow darting in between shelves of shoes.

“What is it?” You ask, brows furrowed as you feel his trepidation. “You okay?”

“We should move on.” Hobie starts the car again, as something gnaws at the back of his mind, telling him to move, telling him, ‘not here, there’s death lingering here.’

“I thought…” you don’t argue, trusting his instincts. “Okay. Maybe a house would be better.”

The car jolts to life as Hobie keeps his steely gaze on the road. “Yeah, the neighborhood is probably better to look through.”

The two of you drive around in silence, the fear sits between the two of you, heavy and permeating as the car rolls into a suburban area with white picket fences and blue windowsills. The place looks normal, still pristine and untouched by the dead and survivors.

Hobie looks around, car slowing down as he spots a two story home that he has probably seen dozens of times in his life. It looks fine, no blood on the walls, no corpses laying around, just an overgrown lawn and dusty windows.

“This is the one?” Your eyes narrow as the sunshine reflects onto the car windows and onto your eyes. It was a gloomy day when you went out, but the sun wanted to be seen for a moment. It’s a good reprieve from all the grey and darkness in your mind.

“Got your gear?” Hobie clicks his seatbelt off and then over to yours in a swift calculated movement.

“Yep,” you inhale deeply, taking his helping hand as you get out of the car. There’s a small ache on the pit of your stomach, and you chalk it up as nerves. You fix the hold on the backpack, a hand feeling for the kitchen knife on your belt and the gun hidden underneath your coat and tucked into your jeans. “Yours?”

“Ready,” Hobie shows you his backpack and the shotgun strapped on his shoulder, he then pats the hammer dangling on his belt before nudging your hand, resisting the urge to hold it instead. He needs his hands free to protect you. “Food and water first.” He instructs. “I’ll keep a lookout for shoes.”

“If we find the stuff we need for the home birth should we grab it? Or should we save space for food and toiletries?” You’re careful where you place your feet as you both walk onto what was probably a pristine lawn before the dead walked around.

“If we still have space in our packs, I don’t see why not.” Hobie keeps a careful eye around, making sure his hand never leaves the handle of the machete. And that you’re within his vision at all times.

“Maybe we’ll find some strings for your guitar too. They’re small, so it’ll fit my pockets.”

Hobie falters for a moment before stopping in front of the door. “You opened my guitar case?”

“Yeah,” you say as you cup your hands around a foggy window whilst you try to take a peek inside. When you’re met with silence, you lean away to look at him. “Am I not supposed to? I’m sorry, I got curious.”

“No, love, it’s alright.” His pinky brushes along the back of your hand. “It’s jus’ that I haven’t opened it since the houseboat broke down.”

“Oh, well, it’s fine, just that the stings are a bit fucked. No water got in or even a scratch on it.”

“That’s good.” With a relieved sigh, he gently taps the glass window to double check that there aren’t any shamblers hiding inside.

The two of you wait for a bit, but when a minute passes by without the sound of a pained groan or movement inside, Hobie grips the door handle.

He sees a wind chime a second earlier before he could open the door. With his height, he easily stops the chiming before it could chime out with a hand. Hobie then yanks it out, and gently places it on the ground.

“Good eye.”

“Thanks—” he’s about to push the door open, until your hand catches his wrist.

“Alarm.” You mutter with a shaky tone, pointing at the sign hidden behind the tall grass of the overgrown lawn. ‘This house is protected by Octavius security.’ It reads in big bold letters.

“Fuck me.” Slowly, he lets go of the door knob. “What are the chances that they don’t have power either?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t risk it.” You swallow thickly, a hand brushing along your stomach for comfort. Pursing your lips, you remember a conversation you had with James on one warm evening, warm enough that he made popsicles for you both. Yours was mango because he said that fruit was better for the baby, and he had chocolate instead. You’ve been craving mangoes nowadays, but can’t say anything to Hobie to add more to his stress. “I’ve got an idea, follow me.”

Slowly, with a hand on your knife, you carefully tread the lawn and over to the side of the house. Hobie follows closely behind, too afraid to lag behind you, afraid that you’ll get lost in the tall grass, or get snatched by one of the dead.

There’s a fallen kid’s bicycle on the ground, half buried in grass and dirt. Once upon a time a kid rode that up and down the neighborhood, now it lays there, rotting, slowly rusting, like the world around you.

“Here.” Clearing your throat, you both make it to the back door without a hitch. So far so good. “Okay, let’s hope that—” you begin to bend down, but Hobie stops you halfway with a hand on your chest.

“Let me. What are you looking for?” Crouching, Hobie looks up at you as the grey clouds start to obscure the sun behind your head, covering the halo around you.

“A key under the welcome mat.”

“Lovie, I don’t think…” and yet he still lifts the dirty mat, only to find a single key under it. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

“Already did that.” You cheekily joke, helping him stand up with a hand wrapped around his lean bicep.

Hobie smiles, really smiles, the kind of smile he would flash at you during lazy mornings where you two have nowhere to be that day. “You offerin’?”

Chuckling, you snatch the key from him as you insert it inside the lock. “Maybe if you find me some shoes.”

“Promise?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile, one that you’re incredibly familiar with.

“Yes,” biting your lip with a stifled laugh, you take a step back for him. “Could you please open the door?”

“How’d you know that the key would be there?”

“James’ dad owns a security company, and he told me that some people would usually forget their codes, or are afraid that when there’s no power they won’t be able to go inside because the system automatically locks the house. So sometimes they’d ask to not have an alarm at the back door, for big houses that is. For the key, well,” you shrug smugly. “I just applied common sense.”

He smiles proudly at you. “I keep forgettin’ that his dad had his hand in a lot of pies.”

“Just open the bloody door, Hobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks a salute, unlocking the door slowly as the door creaks. Hobie peeks through the gap, waiting for any shamblers to appear. Tapping his blade on the door, once, twice, he waits some more, a precaution. Whilst you keep watch of the surroundings, heart beating loudly in your chest. “I think we’re good, lovie. Just need you to stay close to me, yeah?”

You nod, mouth feeling dry as you grip at the hilt of the kitchen knife. Your feet feel like you’re standing on warm sand, and your belly does somersaults, the baby could probably feel the tremors in your body as you enter the home with Hobie right in front of you.

This time, you’re making sure that you see the threat before it happens. The two of you sweep the kitchen first, the pantry has some food left but no monsters lurking in it. He finds the laundry room, same thing, no dead nor a soul inside.

You breathe a little better, and Hobie gives you a reassuring look, nudging your arm in a simple, ‘we’re okay,’ gesture.

While you keep watch, Hobie ransacks the pantry.

One thing has caught your eye though, on the counter, there is an empty flower vase with yellowing water, and beside it is a wilted and long dried up bouquet of roses. You take a peek inside the card, and it reads, ‘happy mother’s day!’ Scrawled by tiny hands written in crayon.

He loads up the duffle bag with food first, canned foods are the priority as he avoids the perishables. You wanted to check the fridge whilst he’s doing that but he can’t, or won’t let you out of his sight. You did promise to watch his back, so you did with your hand on the pistol right on your waist as he stacks cans upon cans of food.

Then he sees the biscuits, chocolate coated ones that he knows you like the most. He takes a box of those, checking the expiration date wouldn’t have meant anything when he has lost track of the date already. But if it doesn’t smell or isn’t covered in mold, it could still be good, so he packs it instead of another can of peas. He grabs a few seasonings too, and what’s left of the rice they had. He read that rice is good for the baby, so he takes it even though it weighs a ton.

The duffel bag is filled to the brim already when he finishes packing.

“Love.” He can’t help but smile, turning around to face you. “We’re not goin’ to starve.”

Chortling, you give him a quick yet loving peck on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“There’s more in the fridge, and there are still jugs of water in here.” He whispers, in case there are lurkers upstairs.

“We also need soap.” Your eyes glances over to the laundry room. “What do we do?”

Pursing his lips, his eyes darts from the fridge, where there are magnet souvenirs and family photos on it, then over to the laundry room. He really needs clean clothes too. “We load this up in the trunk, dump it all in there then come back here.”

“Greedy, but I agree. I can’t sleep for another day in those sheets.”

With your approval, and a squeeze to your hand, the two of you trek back to the car, and carefully dump the canned goods inside the trunk of James’ car.

“I’ve never asked.” Hobie starts, a hand clasped around a can of peaches. “What happened to the window?” Glancing at the missing window at the back that was hastily wrapped in tarp and taped by duct tape, you follow his gaze.

“A horde got to us when we were leaving the condo building.” The stacking pauses on his end. “We were okay, we made it out by using molotov cocktails.”

He smiles fondly as something swims in his eyes, pride perhaps? Or perhaps jealousy. “You learned from the best.”

“We did, Hobie.” You tap the back of his knee with your foot as you finish your side. “I hope we find deodorant.”

Nodding, Hobie shuts the trunk as quietly as he could as he takes the empty duffel bag in his hand. “You smell great, love.”

“It’s because your brain started blocking the smell.” Giggling, you start your trek back again with him in tow. The steps are lighter, less careful now that you know what to expect.

“Nah, I think it’s your pheromones, you smell fit.”

“Never say that word ever again, Hobie.” That earns a kiss from him as he steals one from behind, right on your nape, before stepping around you to get to the laundry room before you could.

It goes like that for an hour, when the bags get full, he dumps it into the car and goes back again. It’s routine for the two of you, one that he refuses to go in and out alone when he can’t bear to leave you outside or inside the house for that matter. Even though it was tedious, going back and forth, he would still do it if it meant never straying too far from your side. He lost you once, he’s not planning on losing you ever again.

Both of you have cleared out the first floor, you found laundry detergents, food and water, now you’re on a mission to get some new clothes or maybe some pillows and blankets while it’s still light outside.

The walls of the house have grown familiar for you, the pictures on the walls of an unknown family, all strangers, and yet you found a connection to them. Somewhere in between taking their supplies, you wonder about them. Did they prefer beef over chicken when everything you found in their freezer was beef? Did their son ask for snacks before dinner like every kid does? How were they living now? Did they escape together? Or perhaps they’re shambling somewhere together with the rest of the dead.

Brows furrowed, your feet are on fire as you take a breather on the steps, taking hold of the bannister as you inhale through your nose and exhale out of your mouth. A breathing exercise that you read in your book.

“Love?” Hobie calls your name with worry. “You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just that…my feet are really fucking swolen and it kind of hurts. And I sort of need to pee.” Wincing, you give him an apologetic smile.

“Alright.” He sighs in relief, almost smiling. “I’ll take you to the loo.”

Hobie does a quick sweep of every room, there are only two bedrooms upstairs, and one office that is under lock and key. Every room is quiet and pristine, except for an odd smell coming from the master bedroom. Once he deems it safe, he helps you into the bathroom, keeping watch just outside the closed door.

Hand on his weapon, he keeps finding himself looking at the nursery right in front of him. It has light blue walls, powder blue like the sky on a good day in London, and it’s painted with fluttering birds and flowers. There’s a crib in there too, pristine, probably newly bought when there is still plastic wrapped around it. On the other side of the room is a small bed, meant for a toddler with rocketship bed sheets and glow in the dark stars tacked on the ceiling. In between them is an old rocking chair, oak and probably older than Hobie. And sitting on top of it is a box of trainers, with a neat pink bow on the lid. It’s from the brand that he knows you have been saving up for before the dead started walking.

He glances at the closed bathroom door, hearing you shuffle on the other side. The door is closed, and he didn’t find any undead inside the whole house. The place is safe and the nursery faces the loo where he could still keep an eye on you, so he takes a step away from the door and over to the rocking chair.

Hobie makes his strides quick and quiet, crossing the short distance over to the box as he takes it. He opens the lid, finding the same soft blue inside, the shoes seem to be larger than your usual size, but it would now fit you.

Grinning, his mission is accomplished. He shoves the pair inside the duffel bag, turning around with a triumphant smile on his face. “Love.” He shows you the box just as you exit the bathroom. “Look.”

The sheer happiness on your face makes his chest warm. He hasn’t seen you have that expression in a long while, it’s as if he’s a thirsty wanderer who finally found an oasis. For the first time ever since the party, he grins widely, the unabashed carefree smile that tugs at the corner of his lips first, right next to the piercing, a lopsided smile that never fails to turn your legs into jelly.

“Please tell me it’s my size.” Your hands reach for the box, squealing giddily once you see the size on the side.

“Open it.” His stomach thrums with excitement.

“Yes, new—!” Your face falls at the emptiness, and once you turn to look at the father of your unborn child, his cheeks are puffed, trying and failing to stifle a guffaw. “You wanker.”

“I couldn’t help it, lovie.” Tossing the box away that lands into the crib with a thump, he leads you to the rocking chair as you scowl at him like back when he accidentally ate your cheesecake in the fridge that you were saving for the end of the day. Hands on your shoulders, he’s still smiling at you, crouching down as he retrieves the shoes from the duffel bag. “‘m not evil.”

Your expression melts from annoyance to giddiness once again. “It’s blue.” You utter softly, lashes batting as Hobie slowly unlaces the old dirty shoes you have on.

“It is.” Chuckling fondly, he gently takes off your shoes, palm carefully cupping your heel, a thumb brushing along the hill of skin before slipping the new shoes on you. “Brand new too, we hit the jackpot.”

“I think it’s the exact same one I was saving for.” You still remember the road to and from work, where a shoe place is situated right on the road home, where you always look at the display longingly, waiting for the shoe to go on sale. “Just in blue.”

“What was the colour you wanted?” He slips the next one on your other foot, tying it twice, making sure that the laces won’t suddenly untie and make you trip and fall.

“Black,” you admire the shoes on you as you wiggle your feet about. “Easier to pair with my clothes.”

“Either one suits you.” Taking both feet, he taps the heels together playfully. “They fit you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Hobie.” You follow his smiling eyes as he stands up, a hand perched on the armrest of the rocking chair as his knees creak.

“Thank the bloke who got it.” His head tilts to gesture at the room. He wonders if the man who lived here got the shoes for his wife on mother’s day, or just because he wanted to show his love for her. Hobie knows he would do the same for you.

The irony doesn’t escape you when you find yourself sitting in the middle of a nursery. Maybe in another life, you and Hobie are refurbishing the spare room in his houseboat, the room you both use as a workspace slash art room slash library. It was littered with trinkets from you and Hobie the last time you saw it. You don’t remember much what was on the shelves when it’s been so long but you do remember the feeling whenever you spent a whole lazy afternoon with him in there.

The soft rocking of the boat would lull you to sleep whilst you read on an old lazyboy you two found abandoned on a street corner, the same one you had to call in James and Yuri to help haul it in the van. You would read and Hobie would tinker with his gadgets, sometimes taking odd fixing jobs from friends, fixing an antique clock, a radio, or a fan. The sound of the tinkling metal, the curses under his breath, and the water splashing against the side of the boat, it felt like home. It was warm and cozy, but it was colder in the winter when the space heater doesn’t help much with the chill. Those were the days where Hobie would huddle close to you on the armchair underneath all the blankets even when you both don’t fit in the chair. You miss those soft days, the peaceful days where you don’t have to be careful where you step, where the stench of death and decay doesn’t stick to your nostrils. It was just living, now all you know is surviving. Surviving to see Hobie for another day. Surviving to see the day your baby is born.

“Love,” he senses your heavy thoughts, hand reaching out to your chin, lifting it with his knuckle softly. Hobie doesn’t have the right words to comfort you, maybe there are no right words that will ever comfort you, but he tries, the only way he knows how, the only way that could get your mind out of the plague that is your mind. “You wanna take a look around? Maybe they’ve got something we could use for the baby.”

“We’re in a nursery, Hobs,” you say with a teasing tone. “I’m sure there’s baby stuff here we could use.”

Hobie chuckles, exhaling through his nose as he helps you off the rocking chair. He wonders if he could fit the chair in the car, the baby would love it, you would love it. The cabin already has a rocking chair but it’s old and weathered, looking like it’ll keel over once someone sits on it.

“I’ll check if they have books on giving birth.” His hand lingers on your hip before turning to the bookshelf with colourful children’s books.

“I’ll raid the closet.” Your hand instinctively brushes along your stomach, feeling the heaviness weigh you down.

You didn’t plan to get pregnant, moreso get pregnant during the end of the world where society has collapsed. You always knew from the moment you saw those two red lines that it wouldn’t be easy for the two of you, but now, you just feel regret and shame. Regret that this happened so soon in your life. Ashamed that you can’t be of any help to Hobie as the months go by. And when the inevitable comes, you could die, and you don’t want to leave the love of your life all alone in this world with a newborn to take care of. Or worse, you both don’t survive, and Hobie’s truly left alone.

You’re tired, exhausted already from carrying the extra weight on you. Bones aching on a microscopic level, as if you have a sack of cement on the small of your back. If you feel this tired just after a few months in your pregnancy, you fear for the coming months. What if you end up being bedridden? You’ve heard countless horror stories from women in your family at how terrifying it is to give birth. They said that when you’re giving birth, you have one foot buried in the ground. But they had doctors and medicine, while you have a book from the 90’s about childcare. You might die in front of Hobie while covered in blood and screaming in pain. You don’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of you.

Fists clenching, you feel the indents left on your palms. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that stress isn’t good for the baby. So you start to distract yourself instead. You stare at the adorable clothes on the rack, all colour coded, from dinosaur onesies to tiny coats and matching beanies, you have the urge to take it all. The owners of the house have great taste, and you feel guilty for even being inside.

Taking a red and white plaid onesie that has matching socks, you turn to show Hobie.

“Lovie, look.”

“Hobs, look.”

You simultaneously turn to face the other.

You smile as he mirrors your expression. “‘Oh, the places you’ll go,’ really?”

“It’s a good read.” Shrugging, he shoves it in the dufflebag. “But look, baby names.”

You’re supposed to be happy, to smile at the book and imagine the names you could name the bundle born out of love, but you can’t find that happiness as you feel a lump on your throat form. Baby names are the last thing on your mind right now.

“That’s great, Hobs.”

“Couldn’t find any books about births, though.” Placing it inside the bag, right beside a teddy bear he nicked from the crib, Hobie smiles at the small pile he gathered. If he noticed your faltering expression, he doesn’t say anything about it. “What’d you find?”

“It looks kind of punk, doesn’t it?” Lifting the onesie, you peek over it, trying to hide your wobbly expression.

“Lovie…” taking the fabric in your hands, he grins fondly at the onesie. It’s so small, barely the size of his forearm, and he can’t help but imagine a little version of you wearing it. “This is the most fuckin’ adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Take it?”

“Absolutely.” Peeking behind you, he sees more, eyes going wide at the swaddling cloths, tiny booties and the cutest bear onesie he has ever seen. “I say take ‘em all.”

You snort, backing away as he helps himself to the baby clothes. “That’s greedy, Hobie.” Despite your words, you help him shovel in the small socks and cute bibs. “Take some towels too, I read that they drool a lot.”

A laugh escapes his throat, barely contained as he almost forgets where he is, what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house. “Love, look at this one.”

He lifts up a plain yellow shirt with the bold pink letters that reads, ‘Daddy’s favorite.’ You clamp your mouth shut, before spluttering out a giggle.

“D’you think they have an adult sized version of this?” His eyes sparkle with playfulness. “For you, I mean.”

“Fuck, you’re so annoying.” And yet you shove the tiny shirt inside the bag with your cheeks aflame and a laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Love you too.” Pecking your temple, he moves away from the closet. “C’mon, we gotta move on to the bedroom.”

Your brows raise to your hairline, heat blossoming in the pit of your stomach. “What, right now?” You haven’t done that in a while, fuck, you just now realized that you haven’t done it since you found out about the baby. Your hands are suddenly at the hem of his shirt, desire filling your chest.

Hobie’s brows furrows for a moment before realization flickers on his expression. Eyes drifting down at your pawing, and then back over to your half lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, love, not that. We need sheets and new clothes. Although that’s temptin’.” He pecks your pouting lips, giving you a sly smirk through the kiss. “Maybe later if you play your cards right, hm?” Now he’s in the mood too. It just crossed his mind when all he thought about recently was how to survive and finding you alive.

If your cheeks weren’t searing before then it’s fiery now. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” Groaning, head tilted back to hide your flustered expression, you walk past him towards the master’s bedroom.

“C’mon, lovie, that’s the reason why you’re pregnant.”

You flip him the bird on your way out that makes him smile even more. For a moment there he felt normal, that everything was back to normal and he’s at home with you while the houseboat rocks gently.

The two of you make it to the bedroom, and the smell hits you before he gets a whiff of it. It’s dank, like mold clinging to the damp walls, like the smell of wilted flowers downstairs, only stronger, more prominent.

“God, what is that smell?” Plugging your nose, you wince. “It kind of smells like teeth at the dentist. I’m gonna hurl if we stay here long.”

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Hobie moves you aside gently before treading the dry carpet to open a window. The sun is beginning to set outside, and worry gnaws at his chest. Soon this place would be crawling with the undead. “We need to hurry, this is our last run before we head out.”

“Yeah, gotcha.” You don’t argue as you hastily grab everything you need. Some clothes that might not fit either of you perfectly, even a few maternity clothes you found, a couple of thick coats, and the sheets you’ve been eyeing.

The bags are almost full when you finish grabbing the things you needed, and Hobie even managed to find a couple of camping backpacks to fill it with two pillows and more blankets. He’s ready to leave when you remember the towels.

“Shit, Hobie, we need towels.”

“Love, we can wash the ones we already have.” Fixing his hold on the bags, he checks the ticking clock on the wall and the sun setting in the horizon that paints the sky a deep bloody orange.

“Those are threadbare, Hobie, I could the count strings on it. I’ll be quick, promise.” You’re already at the bathroom door, opening it as it creaks, the sound echoing through the hallway.

“Lovie, wait, let me—”

The stench permeates through the bedroom from the bathroom, stinking up the whole place, the same wilted flower smell. Teeth, it wasn’t just teeth, it’s bones.

“Fuck…” The bile rising up your throat and the spit filling your mouth almost made you retch. But the sight of the bodies hugging in the bathtub, surrounded by dead flowers makes your heart fall to your stomach.

The door is shut before you could let out a sound. Hobie holds you in his arms, and you stay there, frozen, still staring at the door, as if you could still see them decaying inside the tub.

“C’mon, love, we need to go.” Hobie whispers in your ear, gentle and reassuring as his hand rubs up and down your arm. He calls your name with the same gentleness, honeyed and saccharine, trying to get you to move.

Once you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, you turn to Hobie with an unreadable expression. There were three of them in there, no, four, a family, one still in the mother’s cleaved open belly. Their skin has turned to leather, sun dried, stretched over blanched bones.

“Love?” His thumb traces the length of your jaw, grounding you to the present. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, let’s go—”

There’s a shadow in the doorway.

It hunches in the dark, breathing, watching.

You act first, grabbing the shotgun from Hobie’s back as you aim.

Hobie exhales, eyes wide, before yanking at the barrel, pulling it up and away from the figure.

The shot rings out through the house and out of the opened window.

Pieces of the ceiling fall on the carpet, paint and wood cracking and splintered, falling upon the stranger like raindrops.

The figure now crouches, grasping at its ear, while a hand, a wrinkly old palm stretches at you, surrendering.

Your ears ring, a shrill deaf tone that rattles your teeth inside your mouth whilst Hobie nurses his singed hand.

“Fuck!” You yell, but you don’t hear your own voice.

The sounds are muffled in your ears as Hobie grabs the gun from your hands.

“What are you doing?!” His voice fades in and out in your hearing. His eyes are wide, frantic as he points at the crouched figure. “He’s alive!”

The words strike you like a fist.

“What?” You ask, befuddled, heaving heavily as you stare wide eyed at the stranger in the doorway.

“I’m s–sorry…” a trembling voice says, spluttering and weeping on the floor. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to—” he chokes on air, coughing as he desperately tries to clear his throat.

Narrowing your gaze, honing in to make out the man’s face, you see an old man cowering from your stare. Guilt gnaws at your conscience.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” you wipe your hands at your jeans, as if it’ll clean the gunpowder on your skin. As if it’ll undo what you have done. “I didn’t know, I thought you were one of them.”

“Mate,” Hobie’s words feel dry on his tongue. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?” If the man was dead, he wouldn’t be so afraid, as he eyes you underneath his bucket hat. If he was, he wouldn’t have wasted time staring in the doorway instead of devouring you. Hobie’s wary as he stands in front of you protectively. He might’ve saved the stranger’s life, but he doesn’t know him and what he’s capable of. “You can stand up, we’re not goin’ to hurt you if you don’t try anythin’.”

You stand still, breathing heavily as you keep your weapon close while your hand shields your stomach.

The stranger is old, trembling as he stands up as instructed, back hunched, and messy hair untrimmed; his dirty blonde hair is matted under his hat. He looks frail, and you could easily outrun him, but you’ve learned never to underestimate anyone in this world.

“My—” his voice is crackly at the edges, tongue trying to wet his dry lips. “My name is Norman, I’ve been here since…since I don’t know.” His tone is weak and rough like someone who has a cold. “My son, he has a place here, but—but I forgot where it was, and I got lost. He…he said that he’ll meet me here in town.”

“Old man,” Hobie takes a step closer, while his free hand holds onto your wrist, keeping you close, all the while his other hand grasps at the weapon on his hip. “We’re not ‘ere to fight, but if you could jus’ move away from the stairs. We need to get out of ‘ere before any of the dead come.”

“I– I don’t know where I am.” His lips wobble, sniffing as his big brown eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, who…who are you, lad?”

Hobie slowly inches towards the door as you hold onto his shoulder, blade at the ready as you peek over him.

Something in you pities the man. He reminds you of Yuri’s grandmother when she got sick, when there were days she wasn’t herself. You recognize the same condition in the man, how in the world has he survived this long all alone?

“Hobie, I think he’s unwell.” You whisper to him, feet feeling the dry carpet below you, the sky outside is going dark, and the automatic lights inside the hallways open. There’s power, and you could see the office door that was locked is now wide open.

“I know, love. We jus’ need to get out of ‘ere.”

The old man’s eyes pleads you for help. His face is gaunt underneath his salt and pepper beard, the skin around his eyes are darkened, and eyes beady. His nails are awfully long, curved and yellowed at the end. He has been surviving on his own whilst his own mind attacked him.

“He needs help.” Your grip on Hobie’s shoulder tightens desperately.

James would’ve helped him. Just like he helped you.

“Love.” The protest is on the edge of his tongue. But when Hobie turns to the man and his raggedy clothes, and the gaunt of his cheek, skin blemished and blanched, it reminds him of the people he would meet at the soup kitchen he volunteered at. The same place where he used to come to when he was struggling. “Norman, right?”

The old man reluctantly nods, as if he’s trying to recall his own name.

“C’mon, before the dead get ‘ere. They would’ve heard the shot.” Hobie grabs the fallen bags from the floor, glancing at you briefly as your expression is a mix of regret, relief, and pity. “Lovie, stay close. You too, Norm.”

“I haven’t heard that name in awhile.” He mutters under his breath, nodding along to his instructions.

Hobie lets him walk first, keeping a close eye on him, in case he is bitten. If he followed behind you, his mind wouldn’t be at peace if that was the case.

The whole house is lit up the moment the sun faded from the horizon. In the warm yellow lights, the place doesn’t feel so eerie. In another world he would have a place like this with you and the baby, maybe have the kid grow up in a nice house like this. It was near impossible before the world collapsed, now it’s just wishful thinking. Like how one would imagine winning the lottery.

“Where did you two come from?” Norman asks, arms curled around himself for comfort.

“The woods, we’ve got a cabin there.” Hobie adjusts his hold onto the bags, crossing the threshold towards the kitchen and to the back door where you two entered. Where he propped a can of peas on the door to keep it ajar just in case.

You watch as Norman’s face furrows, as if he’s trying to recall something deep in his mind.

“We have to hurry—”

Hobie sees it happen in slow motion, Norman’s hand wrapped around the door knob of the front entrance, tugging at it out of instinct.

“Norman, no!” You scream, but it’s too late.

The alarm blares around the house, echoing throughout the neighborhood. If the shot didn’t gather the dead’s attention, the alarm would.

There are rushed bare footsteps slapping against concrete outside.

“Run!” Hobie grabs you harshly, yanking and pulling you towards the back door as you reach your free hand over to Norman.

He takes your hand desperately. In his addled mind, he recognizes danger, and it makes him sprint behind you.

Hobie lugs the bags around his back and arms, whilst leading you outside. The same carefulness when you two arrived is out of the window the moment he heard gurgled groaning.

He turns his head towards the cul-de-sac, and he sees a gaggle of the shambling dead run at break neck speed towards him.

Their limbs flail right behind them without a care, they’re caked in blood, jaws unhinged, claws raised up as the wall of rotting stench follows them. Blood drips from their eyes, gnashing their teeth in the air as if they’re tasting him on their blackened tongues.

He makes it to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat and helps you inside the passenger seat before going around the hood to the driver’s side and hops in quickly. Thank fuck he had the foresight to not lock the doors. It was a horrible decision back then when there was danger of getting the car nicked, but he figured that you two were the only survivors in the whole town. He thought so at least.

“Love!” He yells your name, whilst you frantically put on your seatbelt. He could see the corpses run in the reflection of the side mirror.

“Norman!” You scream, waking the stranger from his terrified stupor, frozen just beside the car. “Get the fuck inside!”

The old man scrambles inside, tossing his whole body in the car whilst Hobie doesn’t waste time in starting the car, or even waits for Norman to shut the door.

The engine splutters weakly.

“Fuck you! C’mon you stupid, cu—!”

The pained shrieks of the dead come close as the car roars to life.

Exhaust fumes exit out of the car as Hobie steps on the gas. The wheels screech on the cement, leaving tire tracks as he drives quickly out of there.

A can of peaches rolls out of the backseat and onto the street just before the opened door beside Norman slams shut as Hobie turns a corner, watching the corpses fade in the rearview mirror.

“Holy fuck.” Panting, bad leg aching, you turn to Hobie with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” Your hand squeezes his trembling arm.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hobie swallows the bile in his throat, utterly relieved to be out of there. He takes your hand, and presses a heavy kiss on your knuckles whilst keeping an eye on the road. “You?”

“I’m good.” Smiling and chuckling, knees wobbly, you turn to Noman, who is still laying on the pile of canned goods and bags you got from the house. “You okay, Norm?”

The man’s lips stretches into an easy smile, “yes, thank you.”

You rub Hobie’s bicep, giving him a quick loving peck. “Let’s go home, Hobie.”

Sighing, your lower back aches, still weighing heavy even after the birth. Despite your exhaustion, you grab a cloak to tie around your shoulders and over your slip as you head for your daughter’s nursery. If Lyonel isn’t in the shared chambers, surely he would be there watching over her like usual. Recently, he has taken to watching Juniper sleep for a few minutes after you have placed her down on her cot. With a keen eye, he watches little Juniper’s chest rise and fall protectively, and with his hand gently grasping onto her tiny foot.

But when you enter the nursery, you don’t find him there, nor your daughter inside her cot. Your mind must still be addled by the unbalanced humours from the birth, but you were sure that you have put Juniper to bed. You would ask her nursemaid but she would already be fast asleep. So you take a candle from the table and set off to find your family within the vast keep.

Storm’s End is much gloomier and greyer at night. As if there are ghosts lingering around the halls whilst the storm winds howl outside. But you continue on, a hand hitching the skirt of your slip whilst the other keeps the candle upright. No ghosts will stop you from finding them.

As you go through the winding hallway with numerous sculpted Baratheon ancestors on the walls, you see a light flickering from the open doors of the library.

Slowly, you peek inside, seeing a lone figure hunched over a table filled with dozens of thick tomes as the shadow sways softly like a ship on gentle tides.

“You’re well fed, changed, and thank the seven you’re not ill.” Lyonel’s voice whispers at the bundle in his arms. “Gods be good, Juniper, why won’t you sleep, hm? Have you no mercy for your poor mother and father?”

Your giggle takes his attention. His head immediately moves towards the source, the corner of his lips tugging into the signature Lyonel smile that you adore. “Your daughter is petulant.”

“My daughter?” You slowly walk across the threshold and over to him, tender gaze never leaving him. “She is yours as she is mine. And our daughter is merely a month old, it is impossible for her to be petulant.”

“She takes after you.” He utters affectionately.

“She looks the most like you, my love.”

You expect for him to hand the babe over to you, too tired to carry her or too annoyed, so you reach for her, but instead of giving the babe over to you, Lyonel leans her away from your waiting arms. He pouts, brows furrowed at you, as if you have offended him and his child caring skills.

“No, this is my duty, I shall not hand her to you until she has fallen asleep in my arms.” He even dramatically turns her away from you as you bite your lip to hinder the laugh in your throat.

Meanwhile, Juniper gurgles in her father’s arms, legs kicking about under her swaddle as her tiny hand grasps onto Lyonel’s doublet.

“She was already asleep when I placed her down in her cot.” Raising a brow, you accuse him of waking her up just so he could put her to sleep himself, an act he sees through as a jest.

“I did not wake her up.” Defending himself, Lyonel, points accusingly at you. “Mayhaps you didn’t put her to sleep well enough. When I went to check on her she was gurgling and kicking about happily. Now I’m not a midwife but that was a very awake child.”

“Babes wake up for no reason, my love.” You answer lovingly, taking a good look at the tome he was reading. Some of them have dust on the covers, the books seem to have been there for quite some time. And each one is about childbirth or anything pertaining to raising children. Your eyes glistens with unshed tears when you look back at your husband. “You’ve been reading…”

“Contrary to the whispers, I know how to read.”

“Oh, my sweet Lyonel.” Your hands reach out to him, and he meets you halfway, placing his face in your open palms as you cradle his face. “You were learning how to raise our Juniper.” Cooing, Lyonel feels good when he’s the one on the receiving end of your cooing for once.

“Of course, I have.” He says matter-of-factly, eyes closing as your thumbs run along his cheek lovingly. “I can’t let you have all the glory.”

Grinning, you pull his face closer to your own, nudging his nose with yours sweetly. Gods, you want another babe with him. Especially if they’ll have his nose too and his smile.

“Oh, you’re already doing so well, my stag.” The reassurance fills his chest with warmth, the same warmth he feels whenever you place his head on your chest in bed so he could sleep soundly, the same warmth he feels whenever Juniper holds his finger in her tiny hand. “Juniper is lucky to have you as her father.” Peppering his face with kisses, you kiss every inch of his face until you see him give you a lopsided smile.

Pulling away, Lyonel immediately misses your lips upon his skin. “Tell me more about how good I am.”

“You’re doing marvelously, my love.” A grin spreads across his handsome face, beaming at you as his hand pats Juniper to sleep. “How about I accompany you here whenever you read? We could learn together.” Your hands don’t leave his side, holding him and Juniper close.

“That is a tremendous idea, my wife, but you and I both know that there won’t be much reading when we are left to our own devices.” His dark eyes sparkle with something familiar.

You make a face, chortling under your breath, “that is true.” Chuckling, you go to check Juniper in his arms, only to find that the quiet wasn’t just because she’s safely tucked in and content in her father’s arms, but because she has finally fallen asleep. “Look at that, you did it, she’s asleep.”

Lyonel looks at his daughter and grins from ear to ear, as if he just unhorsed another Targaryen. “I did it.” He says it with triumph, that you want to paint his expression on a canvas to look at it whenever you please. “It’s all because I’ve been reading.”

“I am sure it was.” Taking his hand and the candle on the other, you lead him out. “Now come and put her back to her cot so we may do some reading of our own.”

Who is he to say no? “Yes, my love.” He gladly follows your lead.

Rules:

Please please read my request rules for additional information before requesting over here!

Drabble requests only please

Character x reader only

Everyone is allowed to bring a +1! (Please limit your requests to two per person)

Requests must be sent through my ask box. For two requests please send them individually for a more organized request.

Always have a prompt together with your request. No prompt no request.

Check my navigation if you're not sure if I've already written your prompt!

Missed last year's summer flick screening? Here it is!

🎙️ Read my rules? Time to get married!

💍 Where's my husband? - could be their dating phase, or literally how they get engaged! Do you get to choose your ring? Or is it a surprise from him? Does he go down on one knee or do you go down on one knee for him instead? Or maybe a double engagement perhaps? 🤔

💍 Something new - a whole new AU for your chosen blorbo that I have never done yet! Or maybe a little something different to an existing AU! For example, pirate AU but MJ still lives, cowboy AU but R leaves with Hobie.

💍 Something borrowed - An AU from another piece of media/franchise that I haven't done yet. For example, hunger games AU, pride and prejudice AU.

💍 Something blue - Angst! Soul crushing Angst!

💍 Something old - Any prompt for any of my already existing AUs! Or a prompt pertaining to an older version of your blorbo, ie. Older! Hobie, older! Robert, Older! Eddie.

💍 Honeymoon - A prompt with them set in a different place just doing couple things.

💍 Then comes a baby in a baby carriage - parent/ Dad AU!

Confused? Here's a sample request - “can I get a something old with Hobie and Ekko? Just them being lovey dovey together with R when they're in their 50s in their own home”

OR “Then comes a baby in a baby carriage with single dad! Jason please! Where they tell Ollie that they're now together!”

(Please follow the event's format so that I know what you're requesting for during the event!)

If your request requires it, please specify your reader! Ie. Fem! Reader, gn! Reader, blackcat! Reader, pirate! Reader. Etc.

Don't have a request but want to chat with your wedding planner? Whether it's writing tips, talking about your OCs or just to chat about, feel free to send a 🥂!!

A/N: Has it been three years already?! Where has the time gone 🥺 as always thank you to every single one of you for reading and engaging with my works!! Even when I update a series once in a blue moon lmao It makes my whole day whenever an ask or a reblog passes by my notes and I'm eternally grateful to all of you for making last year tolerable. Writing and talking to all of you has literally saved my life more times than I could count, so if you've been here since the beginning or just passing through, thank you from the bottom of my heart. A big thank you to my moots, you know who you all are, for letting me yap until 4 am and you had to tell me to go to sleep or else 😆 this year I've written so much and gotten into new fandoms! Some of which I discovered because of you guys! To more fics and unhinged thoughts with you!! Cheers! 🥂

With so much love,

Katy ❤️

Special thanks to @cursed-carmine for the lace banners and for @hyperfix-wip for the help with the prompts! 💙 Go check them out!

The loss of his father didn’t come as a surprise to anyone, he was old, but it didn’t mean that it hurt less for him. You held his hand through the ceremony, fingers laced together as your husband kept his eyes fixated on his late father. He told you not to concern yourself too much when you grow heavy each day with the babe in your stomach.

Even though there is a sudden heavy responsibility hoisted upon his shoulders, he tries to make time for you and his unborn child. Lyonel would come back to your chambers looking disheveled, hair oily, hands stained with ink, and yet he leaves all that stress behind the chamber doors as he slithers underneath the covers beside you to press his ear against your swollen stomach. Sometimes he’d retell of his days to you and the babe, but as time went on, he just laid there atop you in silence. His worries grow, from his duties, to keeping his family safe when a rebellion looms over his own land.

“More minor houses have declared for my cousin, fucking idiots the lot of them are.” He utters atop your swollen belly, lips brushing along your protruding belly button. As his hands play along the edges of your night gown unconsciously.

Your fingers massage his scalp, trying to calm him as your eyes glance at the pair of armours in the corner of the chamber, waiting to be worn. “They will be met with a swift end. Your forces are greater than theirs.”

“My usurper cousin doesn’t seem to realize that.” His jaw sets, and you could feel the tension underneath your hand on his shoulder blade. “He’s fucking bold, I’ll give him that much.”

“It’s what he learned while he was squiring for you.” You say as he lifts his head with furrowed brows. “I did not mean that you taught him to rebel, what I meant is that you gave him that confidence, that bravery.”

“I should’ve let my horse kick him in the head, that cu—”

“My love.” Your palm cups his cheek, smiling softly. Your gentle eyes alone could silence him. “We will win this, I know of it. We’ve got powerful allies and I have sent ravens to the Vale. You need not worry.”

“I can’t help it when your life, our babe’s life is at stake.” Lyonel lets out a heavy breath. “I will not let his transgression pass. His betrayal would be his end.”

You take his chin in your hand, pulling him up as he crawls atop you, mindful of your belly. “I know, we will end his petty rebellion, we shall see to it. For your father, for us, and for our child. ‘Ours is the Fury,’ my stag.”

“Ours.” His determined eyes mirror your own. He kisses you softly, inhaling you deeply through his nose. He’d continue the kiss if not for the harsh kick he felt. “I think our child is encouraging us.” Chuckling, his mood swings to softness the moment he felt it.

You chortle, watching him crawl down to press his ear to your belly again. “He’s calling for war. A blossoming Baratheon even in the womb.”

Lyonel’s grin lightens and eases your heart. “He’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”

The said force turned out to be a girl, a little bundle with curls just like her father’s, and a voice just as loud as his. Juniper, you decided to call her shortly after the rebellion was vanquished. Your Juniper was born during one of the wildest storms the whole keep has ever seen.

Lyonel was the happiest man in the whole realm. Despite the maester and the midwives telling him to stay outside the birthing chamber, he pushed them aside, threatening to cut off their heads with a battle axe in his moment of frustration if they did not let him pass. For once in his life, he felt out of control.

He was there with you through the rough labour, holding onto your hand, cracking a few jests to help ease your worries. Despite his calm façade, inside, he’s absolutely terrified. The prospect of you dying, or the babe, or even both, doesn’t escape his mind. He doesn’t want to lose you, and with every pained scream you let out that echoes around the whole castle, waking the dead, his crafted façade crumbled.

But the moment he heard his daughter cry, his child, he felt as though the storm had calmed down inside him. Lyonel watched over the two of you the whole night, keeping you close and watching Juniper’s chest rise and fall inside her finely crafted bassinet gifted by your family. Every plight he survived, every obstacle that he had to claw himself out of was well worth it for this moment. He has his two loves in his arms, and he wouldn’t wish for anything else in the realm when he has everything he could ever need.

—

Juniper was merely a year old when you found out that you were carrying another so soon. Your mother was ecstatic about the news, whilst your brothers and father were shaking their heads at how quick it was. They just met your first born, and you were already carrying the second.

Lyonel was beyond happy that he organized a feast worthy of his daughter and in honour of the second. He did not spare any expenses, lords and ladies came from all the realm, and it was even bigger than the Ashford tourney. He was in his natural state, merry and adding to the revelry just from his presence alone. The feast did not truly start until the two of you walked in, and to his delight, just shortly after the feast and the tourney had concluded with him becoming champion and with you named as the queen of love and beauty, a son was born.

Ormund, he announced to the whole keep, kicking the birthing chambers open right after he kissed you and carried off the babe to show him to the waiting lords and ladies just outside. You would join in, if not for the exhaustion. Whilst your mother cradles you on the birthing bed, you fall asleep to the cheers outside and to Lyonel’s loud guffaws.

—

You’re still sore from the birth of little Ormund when you came back to your duties in your husband’s council. Ruling took some getting used to, but you were well read, trained by your father along with your brothers despite being a girl. He’d always include you during the meetings, no matter how small or important it is, you were there learning how to maneuver egotistical lords and their plights. It’s like a cyvasse game, the moves have to be precise, lest you accidentally start a rebellion that you could not snuff out. And just like your father, Lyonel wanted you beside him, ruling alongside him as lady Baratheon.

He wanted you to stay in bed for awhile and rest after having Ormund, but you’re as stubborn as him, locking horns with him before he surrendered to your whim.

Lord Swann lets out pointed veiled words at Lord Royce, the two old men battling it out across the table. Lyonel looks like he’s about to take his dagger and stab it right in the middle of them if they don’t stop their squabbling about their children and their broken betrothals to each other.

Your husband finds it a bore, and he has his attention fully upon your hand, twirling around your ring as if it’s the most important thing in the whole chamber.

Leaning close to his ear, you tug at his earring to get his attention, which he gives immediately. “How long do you think this will take? I fear Ormund might go hungry.”

Balancing your duties as a wife, and a lady of a great keep was hard work, but balancing the duties as a wife, a lady, and now a mother almost seems like an impossible feat. But with your Lyonel by your side, he helps carry the duties when it gets too overwhelming. He thought that he wouldn’t be a good lord paramount like his father, but after three years of being the lord of Storm’s End, he has proven to be a good successor, and an even better father to his children. The late lord Baratheon would be proud of his son.

“Our poor son is starving because the old lords can’t settle their petty dispute.” He exclaims too loudly to be a whisper, irked about the lengthy discussion.

“My lord?” Lord Swann looks like a fish out of water, whilst Lord Royce smugly scoffs at his opponent. “My apologies but this wretch—”

“This wretch could’ve been your kin if not for your fucking son going off to marry a bloody Redwyne!”

“My lords.” You say calmly, feeling the raging storm of a husband beside you as he stews in his own annoyance and frustration. Your hand squeezes him under the table, telling him that you shall take the reins this time on his behalf like a hundred times before. “There are more pressing matters to discuss.”

“But—!”

“It was for love, correct?” Your words have the whole chamber silencing. Whilst you feel Lyonel’s eyes upon you with a faint smile on his face. “The reason why Ser Gareth married Lady Redwyne?” Both men nod reluctantly. “Then there is nothing to be fought about, marrying for love is the best thing we could ever hope for our children, is it not, my lords?”

They grumble under their breath.

Lyonel grunts back with a glare hauled right at them that could cut stone, and they both immediately say yes.

“And I will make sure that Lady Royce will find a suitable husband.” Your eyes glance at the older Royce. “Perhaps I shall help in that matter, I know a few unwed cousins in the Vale that would be happy to marry the beauty of house Royce.”

“That would be too kind of you, my lady.” He could not believe it himself as he splutters out happily.

“It would be my pleasure. And perhaps your second son, Lord Swann, Barth, was it?” He nods. “I shall find him a suitable bride when he is of marrying age. This is my gift to you, my lords.”

Lord Swann looks awfully pleased about your proposal, even agreeing with his opponent whom he wanted to chop his fingers off a few minutes ago.

Your husband looks quite proud of you, he’d kiss you right now if not for his council being in the room. You turn to him, smiling smugly and he feels his chest warm, as if no time has passed since you first met him, and he’s looking at you from across the Baratheon pavilion whilst dancing without a care in the world. He’s still undoubtedly in love with his wife.

“No more fucking squabbling about, you bastards.” Lyonel adds, thumb brushing along your pulse point gently but his dark eyes don’t convey the same softness towards the pair. “Now,” leaning on the table, he sets his eyes on the parchment folded atop it. “We must speak of this spreading sickness from the Crownlands. Maester?”

“Lady Baratheon and I have received numerous ravens from King’s Landing to the Reach…”

—

The spring sickness did not reach your keep thanks to the early prevention you and the maester prepared. And partly from Lyonel’s help, if not for him, his vassals wouldn’t have obeyed your orders and a scholarly man, he was the one who made sure that they acted upon your order. Perhaps if he did not send all those threatening letters to each house the sickness would’ve reached your home, and you could not handle seeing your family fall ill to the deadly sickness.

The news of the old king dying from it reached you whilst you were heavy with your third, Orys, Lyonel have decided to call him, hoping that he’ll take after the warrior of great renown.

During the height of the sickness, your lord husband ruled the keep with an iron fist, he did not let anyone through the gates out of fear that they’re carrying it. He could not risk it when you are with child, and with his older children being just six and five. Lyonel would sooner put the bridges to the torch if it means keeping his house safe and healthy.

Your family wanted to visit you and the children, but with the news of the sickness blowing further up to the Reach, so close to home, you persuaded them to stay at home and bar the doors to the Eyrie.

In the end, the Stormlands had the least amount of bodies that died from the sickness, even though the harvest and trade was low, everyone else survived it. The same couldn’t be said to the Targaryens back in Kingslanding.

Orys was an easy birth, he was quiet when he was born, giving you a fright, especially when there were only four people allowed in your chamber to lessen the chance of contact. Lyonel usually favours the company of at least half the keep especially during feasts and times of revelries, but he was glad of the peace and quiet this time around. The atmosphere even fits the new addition to house Baratheon, when Lyonel has dubbed him the quiet storm, after being awfully silent despite just being born.

The way his face softened when you said that he looks the most like him, just taller. It would put the rumours to rest of him being Ser Duncan’s after he visited with Egg during your nameday tourney. But alas, he was born during a time of great grief and the folk were looking for entertainment and gossip, unfortunately the rumours about your son was the one they fixated on.

You and your husband don’t care for it when you both know the truth, you just hope and pray that the rumour doesn’t last. That it’ll soon fade away and be forgotten.

“Another son, m’lady.” Juniper, your oldest friend has been stuck in Storm’s End with your family because of the sickness. You can’t deny that you’re glad that she is here with you during a tough time. “My sincere congratulations.” She holds your clammy hand, as you both watch the Laughing Storm bounce your son in his arms, trying to coax a giggle or a mirthful sound from his lips. “He is doing quite well.”

“He is.” You wipe away the stray tears still clinging on your lashes as the Maester lights up an incense.

“I’m not talking about little Orys.”

Chuckling, you nod with a tired smile. “He’s a wonderful father.” You utter without a single doubt. “I cannot believe I ever doubted him when I got the news of our match.”

“The gods work in mysterious ways, a bit cruel, but they’re usually correct.”

You squeeze her hand, as Lyonel turns to you, beaming down at his son with unconditional love. “I am glad that I snuck away that day.”

“I am glad that I let you.” She sends you a cheeky wink, before moving away to let Lyonel place the bundle in your arms, and the babe immediately takes after you, a fist reaching out to grab at your chemise.

“I’m afraid he does not like me very much.” He jests, gently brushing his finger along his chubby cheek.

“Give him time, he will grow to love you just like I have.”

His nose scrunches, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Did you not love me the moment you saw me, hm?”

You roll your eyes, sinking down onto the bed as you lay your head upon his bicep. “I am too exhausted to argue.”

Lyonel chuckles and pecks the top of your head. “Wonderful job, my love. You are a vision.”

The mother has truly smiled down upon you.

—

Life at Storm’s End could not be any more happy for the Baratheons. Especially during supper, where everyone joins in to eat together. Whenever you’re all together in one place, the voices and laughter could rival the booming sounds of thunder outside. Your family is boisterous, but you wouldn’t have them any other way.

And yet despite the warmth and Juniper’s rambling about her new horse courtesy of her father, and with Ormund babbling how much of a bore his lessons are whilst Orys quietly reads beside you, you feel awful. Like you’re about to fall ill.

“Isn’t that right, mother?” Ormund grins toothily at you, showing off his missing front tooth from a training yard spar with a stableboy. He’s getting better at wielding a sword, but he lacks the patience and control that is usual for a boy his age.

“Hmm?” You blink away the fatigue that slithers up your spine. “I’m sorry, my love, what were you saying?”

Ormund sighs whilst Juniper shares a look with her father. “That I should’ve been allowed to join the tourney at Tarth!”

“You are far too young for that.” Chuckling, you feel a familiar rough hand atop your thigh. “Stop trying to convince us, you can join the lists once you are six and ten.” You then face the source of the tender hold whilst Ormund sinks in his seat.

“You’ve been feeling unusually tired these days, my doe, how are you faring, hm?” Lyonel asks, always so in tune with your needs. “Is the roast not up to your taste?”

“You always loved a good roast, mother.” Juniper shares the same worry, expression looking awfully like her own father’s.

“I do, it’s just that…” You bite the inside of your cheek as you feel your husband squeeze you. Orys catches wind of the conversation as he pauses his reading to listen in worriedly. “It seems that I could only stomach honeyed dates and porridge these days. I think I am coming down with something.”

“Mother, it’s best for you to see the maester about this.” Orys quietly adds, his head that is usually buried in a book is now lifted up to gaze at you with similar worry.

“Oh, I’ll be fine, my gentle heart.” You pat his head lovingly with a reassuring smile.

“Nevertheless, you need to eat, my sweet.”

“Shall I call for the cook to send a plate of dates, father?” Juniper looks to him for guidance.

“Perhaps.” The Laughing Storm’s eyes gloss over for a moment, as if a thought passes by his mind that has him pondering so deeply. “I remember that you only liked honeyed dates when you were carrying Juniper.”

“And I usually hated them.” Your laughter fades slowly, as you both realize it. “I think Orys is right.”

Lyonel’s chuckles turn wobbly as his palm caresses your belly out of instinct. “I’m afraid so.”

“I am always right.” Your youngest, or soon to be an older brother, utters smugly, chest puffed up, none the wiser to your condition.

Juniper is the first out of the siblings to realize. “Gods, another one?”

—

“You cannot go.” Your tone trembles as you hug yourself, holding your belly protectively as you lay abed.

“I have been called by the king.” Lyonel has his back against you, arms raised to his sides as his squires, including your oldest son, fits him in his armour. “I have to answer it.”

“You can just...” You try to sit up, but your swollen belly that seems to look like an incredibly large pumpkin is making it harder to do so. “You don’t even care if the rebellion succeeds or not!” If your eyes could set the letter from King’s Landing ablaze, it would.

He sees your struggling movements through the reflection in the looking glass, and he waves the hands away, turning to face you and cross the short distance. He walks to you with purpose, metal clanking with every step as he helps you sit up.

You wave him away, anger ebbing out of you. The squires look away, and Ormund’s jaw clenches at the sight of his mother struggling. “Please do not go and risk your life, please, my love, Lyonel.” Pleading, your palm cups his cheek, whilst looking into his conflicted eyes.

Lyonel’s dark eyes gaze upon your state, awfully worried for you, especially after the maester has concluded that you are in fact having two babes. If he knew that you would be confined to the bed the whole time, he would’ve been more careful. He did not wish for you to suffer, nor bear him children until your body collapses. He is happy enough to have the children he already has, but you were blessed with two more fawns. He should be grateful, joyful, but you look ill, and it terrifies him.

“Leave us.” The Laughing Storm calmly says, whilst he keeps his eyes on you. He hears the shuffling of feet, but he could tell that one is tarrying. “That includes you, Ormund.”

“But, father…” brows furrowed, he looks at you for an answer.

You take a deep inhale, a breath that is getting harder to catch in your state. “Go, sweetling. See to it that Juniper isn’t donning her armour and that your little brother hasn’t locked himself in the library again.” With a hand reaching out to him, your son takes your sweaty palm in his, giving you a gentle squeeze before reluctantly leaving.

A moment passes between the two of you, and the tension rises with every laboured breath you take.

“I have to go, my doe.” The lord of Storm’s End breaks the silence as the rain starts pouring down upon the keep outside. “You know that I have to.”

“Just tell me that you are joining the war because you love wielding your sword, and the heat of battle more than staying with your family and defending our keep.” You talk viciously, a side effect of your condition, but your words weigh true, you don’t want the love of your life to die in a senseless war that he has no business fighting. “Years ago I wouldn’t have protested, but things have changed, Lyonel! We have children now! You’ll miss their birth!” You gesture towards the twins kicking in your belly, bedridden because of them. Because of your own selfish want.

You could perish because of some prophecy you heard once a decade ago.

He has sworn an oath to the Targaryens, yes, and it’s honourable what your husband is doing, but you cannot face the reality of him gone, missing the birth of his children and probably your last breath.

Lyonel takes your face in his hands, cradling you gently, forehead pressed against your own as he holds you. “I must. For if the Blackfyres win, they’ll come for us next. I am not doing this because of bloodlust or to advance our house in the eyes of the king, fuck him and his blood, I could not care less for what happens to him, but I do care for us, our family. The rebellion might not be at our doorstep but it will soon be if we do not cut it off before it gets here.”

“You could die.” You whisper with bone crushing fear. “I do not want to lose you.”

“And, I, you, my love.” Palm gingerly atop your belly, you have never seen Lyonel look so afraid in his whole life. Not of the war to come, but for your life and the lives growing inside you. “I will be back, I’m not planning on turning you into a widow.”

Sniffing, you could feel the tears prickle in the corner of your eyes. Relenting, this is a fight you can’t win. “You best be back here before they are born.”

“I will be, I promise.”

“Take care of Ormund, he is far too young to witness the horrors.”

Lyonel cannot find it himself to lie to you. “I will try.”

“That is enough for me.” With a desperate kiss that could be the last, you mutter a prayer to the seven against his lips.

—

“Push, m’lady!” Juniper, your oldest friend and former handmaiden, has come to your aid from the Vale the moment she heard that your husband has left to fight.

The pain drills into your pelvis, a searing pain like a hot metal poker is stabbing right at you. “I need Lyonel!” Your screams echo around the keep, you have barred your children out of the chamber and away from the noise to spare them from witnessing and hearing your plight. “Send a damn raven to him!”

“We already have, my lady.” The maester replies frantically, trying to wrangle you back to bed whilst Juniper holds you up against the bedpost. “This cannot wait.”

“I am not trying to tarry, old man! They refuse to come out!” You shriek, despite the maester being your elder brother’s age. That reminded you that the damn war also has them fighting in it. “I want my Lyonel! Where is he? He promised!”

“To think I came all this way for you to call your husband, hm?” The older Juniper tries to jest, only to be met with your glare. “I must remain quiet, of course, my apologies.” She clamps her mouth shut, a hand caressing your sweat drenched back.

“Lyonel! Fuck!” You feel sweat trickling down your neck. “I want my mother!” Sobs wrack your body as you’re led to the bed.

“The babe is almost there, my lady—!”

The chamber doors open, followed by the clang of metal and the stench of crimson.

It’s as if your pain subsides for a moment when you see him walk in his golden Baratheon regalia. Lyonel has an intense look in his eyes, adrenaline still rushing in his veins, blood still coating his armour and cheek. When he sees you, he immediately rushes to your aid.

“My stag…”

Yelling your name desperately, he doesn’t even shed his armour as he grasps your outstretched hand. “I am here, no need to scream my name further.”

“You’re late.” Despite the pain, you let out a relieved chuckle. “Ormund?”

“With his siblings, I told him to comfort them to his dismay. He’s safe.” His armoured digits intertwine with your clammy fingers. “We are both fine. We won, and I have fulfilled my promise, now it is your turn to win the battle.”

You would feel relieved if not for the pain.

“F–fuck you!” You scream out, squeezing his hand in your steely grip that would be more painful than a stab from a dagger.

“That’s my doe! Come on!”

The crying of a babe is music to everyone’s ears. And not a moment longer, another cry echoes around the keep to Lyonel’s delight and relief as he holds you and his twin boys in his arms.

—

Lyonel never expected for another to be born right after the twins. Robert and Robin were merely four when Ella was born on a midsummer day, during your husband’s own nameday. It was a particularly cold day, cloudy, and the winds were restless, adding to Lyonel’s worry. He did not plan to have six children, nor did you, but the seven works in mysterious ways it seems.

She did not stop crying until you held her, and Lyonel, gods, the man almost fainted from the fear of losing you during the labours. You’ve had six babes, carried all of them with your head raised high whilst ruling alongside him. You’re the bravest person he knows, the strongest too for surviving each one. He has faced countless battles but losing you was much more terrifying than facing a whole army.

It wasn’t a hard one unlike with the twins, but he was deathly afraid when Ella, little Ella, who has him wrapped around her finger immediately after birth, is the sixth of his children. He has every right to be afraid, and so were you, but somehow, you just knew that she would be an easy birth after what you experienced last. She went out like a drop of rain on a leaf.

Balancing six children and managing the keep with the rest of your duties as lady Baratheon isn’t easy. You never thought it would be easy, but with Lyonel, and with your kin helping, it helps take the weight off your already heavy shoulders.

You and Lyonel wanted to raise them all by yourself, which wasn’t an easy feat to begin with, but you two did it anyway. The cooperation, the sleepless nights, and a few arguments here and there, you two somehow made it work, and your fawns are alive and happy— not an easy task in this world.

You wanted them to be good people, raising them to be honourable, kind, and caring. They’re all quick to temper, yes, but they have learned to rein their rage in. They’re all well read, especially Orys, and they all know how to defend with a sword, moreso for Juniper and Ormund’s case. Your children, ones that you never thought you will ever have, more so have six, are growing up well.

Every child was treated equal, Ormund might be the heir, but Juniper is given the same treatment as him and her brothers. She chose to study the sword, so you two let her. Lyonel always makes a point to let them know that they always have a choice, a voice in every matter. One that they sometimes exploit to annoy each other or even their father. They’re glad children, not sorrowful nor forgotten in favour of the other. You and Lyonel always made sure of that.

They’re the light of Storm’s End.

Your life with them and your husband aren’t always blissful, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re glad that you snuck off from your pavilion during the Ashford tourney, that you followed Ser Duncan and Ser Raymun inside the Baratheon tent, and that you finally looked at Lyonel after hearing him laugh.

Fate had other plans for you, but you are glad for it.

The Stormlands are faring well under your house’s rule. It’s peaceful. The crops are well, there haven’t been any Dornish raids in a few years, and any rebellions or sickness are managed before it could worsen. Your Lyonel has proven to be a great and just lord. But he’d say that he couldn’t do it without you by his side, without your wit and wisdom the Stormlands would’ve fallen to disarray under his rule, to which you always rolled your eyes at but the kiss you always give him after says that you feel greatly appreciated. You’re always included in every decision, in every council meetings, that whenever Lyonel couldn’t be there, you would be his voice, rule under his stead.

It’s hard work, being everything all at once, but at the end of the day, you get to lay down beside your Lyonel, your stag, and laugh and hold each other until sleep takes you both. It’s a glimpse of the seven heavens, it’s a dream fulfilled.

And Lyonel, he feels as though he has everything he could ever want or need in his life. He has you, his fawns and his keep, he could not ask for anything else.

—

“Where are my children?” You ask loudly to the staff, looking around the great hall, hoping to find your husband or at least one of your children.

“Last I saw them was in the kitchens, m’lady.” A young Baratheon man at arms curtly answers with a practiced bow.

“Thank you, Ser.” Gathering your skirts, you carefully walk on the stone floors towards the kitchens. Your belly hasn’t grown as much just yet, and you’re glad of it when you’re always roaming around the keep looking for your wandering children.

Making a beeline to the kitchen doors, the staff greets you with a polite nod, opening the doors for you as the smell of freshly baked pastries waft through your nose. Your mouth waters at the sight, from pigeon pies to roasted beef, it has your stomach grumbling. The kitchen staff are frantically walking around, cooking and preparing for the feast, whilst the heat blasts right at your face.

You don’t find all your children inside, but you do find a certain former hedge knight and a son of yours that is almost as tall as the good Ser.

Orys looks up at Ser Duncan with large eyes. The poor knight looks down with gnawing dread in his chest. They do look similar in stature, but from the lordling’s eyes alone, he’s truly Lyonel’s son. A true Baratheon, Duncan doesn’t doubt it when he sees Lyonel in him.

“You need anythin’, m’lord?” Duncan says in between chewing a raspberry coated pastry.

“Were you here during my mother’s nameday tourney ten years ago?” Orys, in all his ten year old might, the usually quiet Baratheon, looks at the kingsguard without faltering his words.

“Aye, I was with my squire and Ser Raymun Fossoway.” Duncan swallows thickly, his gaze noticing you in the doorway as his cheeks flush in deep red. “W–why?”

“No reason, good Ser.” Your son has his hands tucked behind his back, sizing the knight in his gaze. “Just curious.”

You decide to put a stop to the conversation lest it reignites the rumours. “Orys, there you are!” Putting on your best smile, you sidle beside him, taking his arm on instinct. “The maester is calling for you, it’s time for your lessons.”

Orys looks at you then to Duncan with narrowed eyes. “I thought there wouldn’t be any lessons today because of the king’s visit?”

“I thought so too but it seems that the maester changed his mind.” Chuckling nervously, you usher him away with a smile. “Go, and if you see your siblings tell them that it’s time for their lessons. Especially Ormund, please get him away from the wine until the feast.”

He lets out a sigh, looking back at Dunk with a purse of his lips. “Of course, mother.” The boy walks away, snatching a slice of lemon cake on his way out.

“He’s just like you, m’lady.” Duncan finally lets out a breath.

“How so?”

“He’s not very good at lying.” A cheeky grin spreads across the knight’s face. Duncan has aged quite remarkably, white hair dusted on his hair, and a beard to match. There are crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes, and smile lines around his mouth. If he wasn’t a kingsguard, king Aegon would’ve easily found a match for him.

Chuckling, you shake your head at your old friend. “I’m afraid so. All my children unfortunately got that trait from me, nothing slips by their father. I do hope it won’t be their downfall.”

“You and Lyonel raised them well, they will be alright.” With a gentle grasp on your shoulder, Duncan pats you fondly. “It is good to see you again, lady Baratheon, but I must return to my post.”

“Of course, I shall see you at the feast.” Giving him a curt nod, and with Dunk bowing in return, he walks away. Something catches your eye that is tucked inside the crook of the metal plates on his arm, a white handkerchief that has turned yellow from age, embroidered with a falcon. He kept your favour.

“Gods…” tears prick in your eyes. “Where did the time go?” Your hand caresses your stomach as you head out to find the rest of your children.

You find your girls in the gardens, it’s a cloudy day outside, but warm enough to lounge around in the gardens. Juniper braids her younger sister’s hair as Ella frowns deeply at her doll. You hear the familiar pitter patter of feet, and you immediately know where the laughter comes from.

“I’ve got your doll, Ella!” Robert, or is it Robin? Snatches the toy from his younger sister.

“Give it back, Rob!” Juniper defends her immediately, giving her younger brother a glare. While little Ella looks like she’s about to weep.

“Or what?” He taunts, and his twin appears from behind the bush, wild curls covered in twigs and leaves. “You’ll tell father?”

“No, I shall tell mother!” She stands up, almost a woman grown as a satisfied smile tugs on her lips from how her brothers’ smug smiles disappears. “Now apologize to Ella, she’ll be queen someday, and she might cut off your heads for being rude to her.”

“No, she won’t!” And yet he still hands her the toy.

Ella sniffs and hugs the doll tightly. Her curls flow on her back like the deep dark end of the sea, a stark contrast to her light yellow gown sewn with images of flying falcons.

“Ella, you won’t do such thing, won’t you?”

“We’re your brothers!”

Little Ella, barely seven, slowly looks up at the twins with a cold glare that could rival your own. “Maybe I shall.”

The boys gasp, taking a step back from their baby sister. All the while Juniper looks at her proudly. She’s the first to notice your presence under the archway.

“Mother!” Her smile blooms and lights up her features, your old dagger is strapped on her hip. “Is it time for the feast?”

The identical pair winces, while Ella vaults from her seat and rushes over to you.

“Not yet, flower.” Your youngest’s arms curl around your legs, sniffing and nuzzling the silk of your gown. You reach to caress her head, and she melts instantly from your touch. “How about you go see the queen, hm? See how she’s faring and if she has need of anything.”

“Can I?” Juniper beams.

“Of course, but remember to be kind and respectful. Watch your words.” Smiling, you watch her skip away. “As for you two, come here.”

The twins share a look with each other before shuffling towards you. “Yes, mother?” They simultaneously say.

“My boys, you know how I adore you both, but you cannot pick on your sister until she is in near tears.” You pick the leaves out of Rob’s hair, and wipe the mud off the other Rob’s cheek with a handkerchief. “It’s best to make people laugh more than to make them cry. Do you understand?” You take each of their chin in hand. “You both are the light of Storm’s End, I shall not extinguish that light out of you but in turn you cannot smother out other people’s light, especially your younger sister’s.”

“My apologies, mother.” Robin, you now know after taking a closer look, has his head down apologetically.

“We wanted to cheer her up, that’s all.” Robert finishes the sentence for him.

“Oh my gentle hearts, don’t apologize to me, apologize to your sister.”

“We’re sorry, Ella.” They say at the same time, genuine and with remorse.

Your little Ella gives them a stare, before reluctantly nodding and hiding her face in your skirt once again. As your hand pats her back, you feel her hold grow tighter around you.

“Now go bathe then find Orys and Ormund.” Crouching down, you take Ella in your arms, carrying her despite the ache in your lower back.

“We don’t smell!”

“Yes, but you two look like you crawled out of a dragon, now go.” Ushering them away, they turn meek but lets their emotion show by stomping away. Once they are out of earshot, you whisper to Ella. “Let us go find your father, shall we?”

Lyonel labours over papers as the fading sunlight illuminates the look of exasperation on his face. His doublet is half open, chest bare for the whole realm to see as you could see every inhale and exhale. His hair has gotten too long, tied at the end to keep it away from his face, the tresses are more salt than pepper than a few years ago. He has smile lines, proof of all the laughter in his life, and skin folded in between his brows, proof of all the plights that have plagued him but survived. Even though time has marked him, he’s still as handsome as when you first met him at the Ashford tourney. You could still hear the first booming laugh you heard from inside his pavilion.

“My love.” Your voice echoes around the expansive council chamber.

Lyonel’s head turns immediately to you, sighing in relief as if you were just what the maester ordered, a reprieve from his boring duties. “My doe, come here.” Beckoning you over, he notices the lump you carry, clicking his tongue in worry at the sight before taking Ella from your arms. He groans at the weight, but he could still carry her effortlessly. “You have to stop lifting in your state.”

“I couldn’t help it.” You whisper, a palm resting on his chest as you kiss his waiting lips chastely. “She’s sad.”

The words immediately has Lyonel concerned for his little girl. “Why?” He whispers back, the laughing storm, who is loud and boisterous, always making sure that everyone knows that he is in the room, whispers to not upset his daughter further. “This feast is for her.”

“I think that’s exactly why.”

Taking a deep breath, he leans away, moving Ella from his shoulder to take a good look at her tear stained cheeks and wet lashes. His face contorts into deep worry.

“Sweetling, what’s wrong?”

Her frown wobbles, and she breaks once again when you reach to rub at her back. “I–I don’t want to marry the prince.”

“Oh, my heart.” He holds her gently, pulling her close to his heart and bouncing her like when she was still a babe. “I’m terribly sorry,” pecking the crown of her head, Lyonel looks to you for help.

“Ella, sweet girl.” You hold them both, chin resting above your husband’s shoulder as you smile warmly. “The betrothal isn’t set in stone, that is why we’re having this feast, so you and the prince can decide for yourself if you like the other. Or at least befriend one another.”

“What if I don’t grow to like him? That he’s rude and takes my doll?” Her eyes are red, and Lyonel feels utterly guilty for the match.

“Then you won’t marry him.” Your lord husband utters the same words you were about to say. “Simple as that.”

“Your father is right.” Wiping away her tears gently, you hold onto her tighter. “Or you might find yourself liking him, just like I have with your father. I thought he was a brute before I met him, but when I truly got to know him,” the memory alone warms your heart, as you feel Lyonel squeeze the plush of your hip lovingly. “I soon grew fond of him.” You meet with his eyes. “Not once have I regretted giving him a chance.”

“My doe…” smiling, he nuzzles your cheek, holding onto your chin and going for a quick kiss. He then turns to little Ella, too young to understand court politics, but smart enough to know what the match entails. “Just say the word, sweetling, and the match will not happen.”

“You’ll make it so?”

“Yes,” nodding, he pecks her wet cheek. “Your mother and I promise.”

“Thank you, father.” With her arms thrown around his head, she embraces Lyonel, whilst you smile at the sight.

“What about dear old mother?” You jest as Ella softly smiles, turning to embrace you the same. “Shall we go? We shan’t disturb your father any longer.”

“Disturb me? You have given me great relief.” Chuckling, Lyonel wishes that he has something to capture the moment as his hand rub up and down your back.

“We’re just your excuse to shirk your duties.” Teasing, that earns you a bright grin and another squeeze.

“I cannot deny it.” Laughing, a deep rumble in his chest, he pecks Ella once more before placing her down. “Now, what shall you do if the prince harms you?”

“Kick him in between his legs.” She answers confidently while you stifle a laugh.

“That’s my girl.” He exclaims with pride, a thumb wiping away any remnants of her tears. “Go, your septa must be looking for you.”

“Can I wear my crown tonight?” She bats her lashes, knowing that she will get what she wants.

“Absolutely, show the Targaryens what a real crown looks like.” With the confirmation from her father, she finally grins, lighting up the whole room before bolting out.

“Do you think she’ll be alright?” You wonder out loud, leaning against his side as he slithers his arm around your middle, knuckles gliding along your stomach. “That they’ll be fine without us come the day the stranger takes us?”

“Do not think like that.” Lyonel utters beside your cheek without malice or a condescending tone. “We will be here for a long while, my love. And I know they will be, our house is in good hands.”

Craning your neck to face him, you touch his earring, grasping lightly as he lets out a deep chuckle that you could feel reverberate in his chest whilst he pulls you closer. “I hope so.”

“If not then we shall wake from the crypt to chastise them.” Nudging the tip of your nose with his own, you can smell the rain and sun on his skin, a familiar scent that is home to you. “We’re faring well with them, my love, you needn’t worry.”

“You’re right.” Closing your eyes, you pull him closer by his nape. Muscles easing, softening from his gentle touches. “My stag.”

He smiles atop your lips, chasing you for a kiss. “My doe.”

A/N: there will be more of lady arryn and lyonel!!

The Ashford tourney changed you in more ways than one. The things you witnessed and experienced there made you see things more differently, in another angle of sorts. And the people you met there, whether they had a positive impact on you or not, helped sculpt you to the woman that you are right now.

You’re betrothed now, happily that is, to someone you chose, to someone who loves you back. It was your decision, one that was easily decided even though you should’ve done it ages ago when the letter with a crowned stag stamped on it landed in your hand.

No matter how it started, it ended with you happily donning on your wedding frock. Lyonel Baratheon, your betrothed is just a few doors away from you whilst you gaze at yourself in the looking glass. Hopefully he’s getting ready just like you are, instead of nursing his heavy head after the drinking he did with half of your family. They’ve taken him in with open arms, it wasn’t a surprise to you at all that they did when Lyonel has a habit of becoming everyone’s friend. He’s so charismatic that he managed to chisel away at the Arryn brood that doesn’t welcome anybody so easily into their flock.

Your brothers seemed to have taken him in as their third brother, the last you saw of them was last night before you reluctantly retired to bed. The three of them were dancing and drunkenly singing along to a tune above the feasting table. It seems as though Lyonel was always supposed to be their brother by law. As would fate have it, he fit in between them perfectly.

Even your mother loves him, your mother, who doesn’t like anyone new, who is so used to routine that she frowns at any disturbance that ruins her usual day to day; loves Lyonel even when he invited himself to her morning stroll, and has gifted her new tea when she has been drinking the same brew for years. If it was you or even your father who would do the same thing, you’d be cast out of her presence with an annoyed frown. But not Lyonel, who has become the favorite overnight.

Your father likes him enough, like any father of a daughter who is about to see her marry off and move away from home. He’s at least polite to the heir of Storm’s End, and you have even seen him calling for Lyonel specifically whilst the two of you were canoodling in the library. The poor page boy had to hide his red ears with the collar of his doublet. When you asked what they talked about after he was gone for what seems to be for hours, Lyonel just gave you a big smile, arms enveloping around you giddily. Perhaps they talked more than the wedding and more about your future with him. That your father passed on the torch to him when it comes to your wellbeing, protecting you and loving you. Lord Arryn has approved of him it seems, all the drama from the tourney must’ve been told to him and is probably behind your father now when Lyonel used his charms.

From your cousins, to your nieces and nephews, and even the Vale’s bannermen, they all came to the same conclusion— Lyonel is the perfect husband for their lady Arryn. There was no doubt about it, especially when they saw the way you looked at him the moment you slid your palm upon his hand whilst he helped you off the carriage. Everyone could see it, you two are madly in love with each other. Absolutely besotted to one another. All their protests that lingered on the tip of their tongues died the moment they saw Lyonel reciprocate your affection with a peck to your knuckles, eyes seemingly never leaving your smiling face.

Lyonel was forced to wait for a few days in your home to recuperate after the trial. It was dreadfully awful for him to wait when all he wanted was to marry you. So much so that whenever the caravan would pass by a town with a sept on your way to the Vale, he’d look at you with the same face— batting his lashes, gentle eyes gazing right into your own with longing and with a pout unbefitting of a Lord, but you’re not one to judge when you love that look on his face. It just means that he could not possibly wait for another moment that he isn’t married to you. The number of times he wanted to carry you off to elope was staggering, if not for your pleading eyes telling him to patiently wait, the two of you would’ve already been wed days ago. And possibly the talk of the whole realm, weaving their own stories about the stag that stole the lady Arryn right out of her carriage.

The wedding was supposed to happen in Storm’s End, where his old father would be able to witness the union, but that meant your whole family would have to go there too, and the two of you couldn't possibly wait that long to marry. It had to be done quickly, your future lord husband is very much impatient to say the least.

“Storm’s End is a drab place to hold a wedding, my love.” Lyonel once said against your temple after a loving kiss whilst the whole caravan rests beside a hill on your way to the Vale. He has you in his arms, tucked safely as the carriage hides the two of you from everyone’s sight. “And you deserve nothing of the sort.”

Lyonel was itching to hoist you upon his shoulder and grab the nearest septon and elope with you, or at least that’s what he playfully threatened whilst your head was on his lap in the gardens whilst your mother asked for a few days to prepare the keep for the ceremony and the feast. You wouldn’t protest that of course, you wanted to marry him just as much.

So when the day finally came, with both of your houses approving the union wholeheartedly, especially his father sending a raven stating that he is quite happy about the turn of events— it’s time to intertwine your lives together, just like how it was meant to be from the start.

“Don’t be nervous, m’lady.” Juniper utters as she fixes your already perfect hair. “It’s just your Lyonel.”

“I know, Juniper.” With a palm taking her hand atop your shoulder, she rests her chin on the other, gazing at you through the mirror with a sigh and a small smile. “But everyone from the Vale will be there. My palms are clammy just thinking about it.”

“Don’t forget that a few lords and ladies from the seven kingdoms will be there too.”

“Thank you for reminding me.” Rolling your eyes, you glance at yourself in the mirror.

The gown is the finest you’ve ever seen, velvet, and chiffon underneath to keep its shape. It’s in a brilliant blue, light and airy whenever you move, as if you’re wearing a puff of clouds on your body. The sleeves are puffed, not too much, giving you a very regal silhouette. There are golden ribbons around the sleeves, all tied with a neat bow as embroidered stars made from golden threads are stitched on the fabric. For once, there is no falcon nor a half moon on your bodice, instead, the corset is laden with feathers made from the same golden thread that is also around the hem. If that wasn’t enough to tell your guests that you are the bride, the long train that drags behind you would be enough. It’s gorgeous, stitched with a tapestry of both the Baratheon sigil and your own. But it tells a story, where a crowned stag runs along a field with a falcon soaring above it. Roaming the peaceful fields together.

You have to hand it to your mother, she knows how to fashion a gown. You’ve heard from one of the servant girls that she barely slept just to finish the train in time. Your mother was particular about every minute detail of your ensemble, stating she has been dreaming of this day since you were declared a girl on her birthing bed. She had a silver circlet fashioned just for you, made right in the Arryn forge, and designed by her and your sisters by law. It’s simple yet graceful, decorated with sapphires and a pair of wings on the sides to mimic the crown of your ancestors.

She even had Juniper working for her vision, instructing her on how to do your hair exactly how she pictured it. Now you find yourself with pearls and flowers in your hair, and smelling like a field of wild flowers. Your mother visited whilst you were getting ready, but she could not stay for long when her tears would blur her vision and Juniper had to whisk her away lest she turns hysterical right before the wedding. You don’t remember her being like this for either one of your brothers’ weddings.

“I’m gladdened that you decided to stay with us for a while, Juniper.” You utter with a swallow of your nerves. “It would be awfully dreadful if you weren’t there with me.”

She gives you a genuine smile, taking your hand away from picking at your nails. “Of course I chose to join you. That, and Ser Andros has agreed to become your protector for the time being while you get yourself settled in.”

Chuckling, she helps ease your worries. “I would be most comfortable with the two of you there by my side. Besides, you promised me that you would visit whenever you can.”

“I will, every nameday I will be there.” She slaps your hand away from taking your braid. Clicking her tongue, she sends you a stern look. “You needn’t worry, m’lady, the ceremony will be over soon,” she gives you a good squeeze before clasping a silver rope of sapphires around your neck. “and before you know it, it’ll be the beddin’ ceremony.”

“There will be no bedding ceremony.” Lyonel’s voice booms from the doorway, steady, and yet tender.

You turn to him with a gasp, finding that he’s covering his eyes. “Why are your eyes closed, am I that ghastly to look at?”

Juniper curtsies, stifling a grin as she leaves the room.

“No, I thought you wouldn’t like me seeing you before the ceremony?” He feels around, grasping onto the side of the door lest he falls over. “We need a compromise lest you want me to fall on my face and you’ll be marrying a man with one less tooth.”

“Lyonel.” Chuckling, you cross the distance of your solar to hold onto his hand. You note of his attire, he’s still in his cotton undershirt, ties untied down to his chest, and he’s still in the same trousers from last night. “Gods, you’re not ready yet?”

“It will take me just a minute to get ready.” Shrugging, he still has his hand on his eyes. “Can I see you?”

“Just for that, no.” You tease, taking hold of the ties on his undershirt to cinch it tightly until it closes around his neck. “Go bathe and go get ready or I shall throw you out of the moon door.”

His grin spreads across his cheeks. “That sounds enticing, my love. But you wouldn’t be able to see your wedding present if so.”

“I can see it later, please get ready!” Chortling, you find your face cradled by his hands whilst his eyes are tightly closed just to tease you. “My mother will be displeased.”

“She can be displeased for a moment more.” He rummages inside his pockets, whilst his thumb traces along your jaw, as if he could make out your whole appearance just from that alone. “Aha!” He pulls out a neat oak box with the Baratheon sigil on it. “Open it.” Blindly pawing for your hand, he manages to find it as he places the box in your palm.

Eyes narrowed, you try not to show your giddiness as you bite your lip. “You’re not drunk, I know you cannot still be drunk.”

“I am glad to announce that I am not.” Leaning forward, Lyonel presses his forehead atop yours, his curls falling over your eyes as he smiles, eyes still shut. But you don’t need to see them when his smile and touch around your waist and face tells it all the same— he’s unabashedly lovestruck. “Just drunk on you, my love.”

“Is it too late to sail to Lys and follow the prince?” You jab your finger on his chest, earning a scoff and a scrunch of his nose.

“Do not even jest about that lizard.” He brushes his lips along your own for good measure. Jealousy crawling up his neck.

You smile against the chaste kiss. “I am drunk on you too but I am more sensible for I am ready to get married whilst my betrothed still stands before me in his britches.”

That earns a loud guffaw from him, head tipping back, curls bopping around as he keeps his hold onto your waist. “Oh, I cannot wait to hear your voice every morning to chastise me how I'm always wrong.”

Brushing your knuckles along his jawline, he leans into your touch. “Not always, you’re sometimes right.”

He hums with amusement, head falling in the crook of your neck as he takes a deep breath of your perfume. “You smell nice,” his hands run along your back and sides, cataloguing your gown with just his touch. “you feel nice.”

Pecking his cheek, you finally open the box. A golden band encrusted with a pearl right in the middle greets you. It’s a simple yet beautiful ring, where a pair of stag antlers hold onto the precious stone that has a pinkish hue to it whenever the light catches it.

All your annoyance for the man before you melts away as you take it gingerly in your fingers. “Lyonel, this is gorgeous.”

“I promised to give you a new ring.” He blindly gestures around to where he thinks the ring is. “I had it made the moment we arrived here. I’ve had that pearl with me since my first trip across the narrow sea for luck.”

Now he considers you his lucky charm.

“Oh, my love.” You pepper the side of his face with loving kisses. “I love it.”

“Can I open my eyes now? I want to see your face.”

“That depends,” your index and thumb takes him by the chin, turning his face towards yours. “do you want to be surprised when I walk in during the ceremony, or are you that impatient?”

“You know me well enough that I am a very impatient man.” Cracking his eyes open, his gaze immediately lands on your face, to your lips, to your hair then downwards to your gown. “The maiden and the mother have favoured me this day.” He says, almost breathlessly. Lips curling into a grin, he laughs boisterously, taking you in his gaze with shining eyes. “You’re stunning, my doe. A masterpiece. I feel as though I should thank your mother and father for making you.”

You match his grin, laughing alongside him. “Thank you, although you are severely underdressed. I will forgive you once you are properly dressed.”

“I will, but before I go…” his hand slips from your arm down to your wrist, before pressing a sweetened kiss right on your pulse and taking your hand. “The ring please, my love.”

With a thudding heart, you have your own little ceremony right in your chambers as you watch him slip the ring in your finger slowly. The pearl shimmers underneath the sunlight as Lyonel kisses the ring, all the while keeping his gaze on you.

“You are a romantic, Lyonel Baratheon.” You utter with so much love that he could feel it underneath his ribcage.

“You are my greatest love, Lady Arryn.” He straightens up, giving your cheek a lingering kiss, leaning closer against your ear as you feel his breath fan your cheek. His big rough hands squeezes your sides with longing, with hunger as his beard grazes along your neck. “I cannot wait to rip this off of you tonight.”

—

The great hall of the Eyrie looks splendid in the light. Flower garlands hang high above, sweet scents permeating towards every corner of the expansive room. Candles are lit inside to give a warmer light inside despite the sunlight striking right through the colourful stained glass windows that depicts the seven. The mother and the maiden peer down upon you as you glide along the marble floor, walking towards your betrothed as he waits for you by the throne.

Lyonel looks strikingly handsome, curly hair properly coiffed, while a more simple version of his stag crown sits upon his brow. The circlet is golden, laden in jewels whilst there are antlers curled all around the fine metal. He has forgone the cotton undershirt for a dark blue velvet doublet partnered with a golden tunic tied around his middle that has an intricate flowery embroidery. He almost matches with you, especially with the navy blue sash draped around his chest and with the velvet hose dangling from his waist in the same hue. But most of all, he’s wearing the same cloak he lent to you during the tourney, clasped in the same golden stag heraldry. You can feel the fine fabric from where you stand.

He has his sword at his hip, ready to take a stand against anyone who is brave enough to protest the union. You’d like to see them try when you have your own dagger hidden inside your gown.

His smile is the best of all, the moment you stepped foot inside and the trumpets sang heavenly together with the harpsichord— Lyonel could not stop smiling. The sunlight blankets behind you, covering you in a halo of light as you grin up at him, rounding around the moon door, almost quickening your steps to move the procession along.

Your family looks upon you with wobbly smiles, your mother most of all as she stands beside your father, her hand clasped tightly around his. Your lord father’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears, whilst trying to keep a straight face in front of his vassals and guests. Juniper stands just beside Ser Andros, tears fully streaming down her face as the good knight hands her a handkerchief.

Your brothers are still loopy from last night’s revelry, but despite their fogged up visions, they couldn’t help the mirthful smiles on their faces.

Hiking up your skirt towards the steps, Lyonel crosses the short distance to you with a helping hand reaching for your own. It wasn’t needed when there are only three short steps towards the waiting septon, but it’s appreciated nonetheless, especially when his hand refused to let you go.

“You’re beautiful, my lady Arryn.” He whispers to you, eyes softly gazing at your happy expression.

“And you’re handsome, my Lyonel.” You squeeze his hand for good measure, as your ring and his shine underneath the rainbow lights of the windows.

The septon smiles upon you with genuine warmth as he asks you and Lyonel to recite the vows. The old man hands him a white ribbon, as Lyonel ties it around the intertwined hands.

“I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

“I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

The vow echoes around the domed ceiling, bouncing off the ancient marble walls of your home, etched into the very stone.

Lyonel beams at you warmly, completely lost in your eyes, almost forgetting that he has to take the marriage Baratheon cloak from your father’s waiting arms.

The small fumble has the crowd chortling in amusement as he takes the heavy cloak with a polite acknowledgement to your lord father. He mumbles something to your husband to be, and Lyonel nods warmly, bowing down courteously before going back to you.

Draping the cloak over your shoulders that bears both Arryn and Baratheon sigils at the back, a union of both houses, a sign that you are now one with him, you meet with his tender eyes.

The septon announces that you are now wed to the love of your life to the cheers of your kinsmen.

“My lady Baratheon.” He takes your chin in hand gently, and places a sweetened kiss that makes him officially yours, and you his.

—

The soft silk blanket falls off your shoulder, that is wrapped around your bare form as you stare at the broken leg of your bed. It’s all lopsided, the wrinkled blankets and pillows falling down from the angle. The two of you did not waste any time after the ceremony.

“I did not expect that.”

Lyonel scoffs a laugh. “I did.”

You turn to him, gazing at him through the haze of your need as you see him stand beside you with a sheen of sweat covering his skin, his back marked with your nails, standing beside you as naked as the day he was born.

The moonlight streaming through your windows illuminates his bare skin, and you had to unstick your gaze away lest you attack him with kisses upon his neck once again. The marks you left on him are as clear as day.

“We broke the bed, my bed.” You try to be angry or at least frustrated at him but you could not find it in yourself when your legs wobble under you and your own sweat clings to the fabric of the blanket. “Where would we sleep?”

“It’s an ancient bed, my love.” Lyonel comes closer to comfort you, not even hiding his clear intentions of continuing the strenuous activity that had the two of you panting. “Besides, we still got your settee.”

You follow his gaze, seeing the powder blue settee that has been there before you were even born. It barely fits two people, moreso two people who are recently married and very much in love.

“Lyonel, it’s small, we would not fit.”

He hums, an arm curling around your middle as he leans closer. The candlelight illuminates his face, skin clammy and pink, a hue you haven’t seen him in a while unless it’s after a sparring session or a blood pumping trial of seven. His beard is covered in sheen as he gives you a sly smirk. “Oh, we’ll fit, you said the same thing to me about my—”

“You’re crude!” You grin and giggle despite your palm meeting his shaggy chest with a smack. He’s not even fazed as he bites his lip, pulling you closer to his warmth, nuzzling your temple as you could smell yourself on him. “I married an insatiable man, oh, the gods take me—!” The silk falls on the floor with a quiet thump after he takes your wrists in his hands with a low chuckle. You don’t even protest nor pick up the fallen blanket. “My stag, that bed is as old as this keep. I believe it’s been here since the Andals.” You try to keep a straight face but your smile betrays you.

“The Andals have no need for it anymore.” He keeps his hungry eyes on you, a brow raised, pressing his forehead against your own. “For now, shall we?”

“Yes—!” You’re suddenly lifted up from the floor, carried on his shoulder, his large rough palm landing on your behind as Lyonel’s laughter echoes around the whole chamber together with your squeals of mirth.

—

Saying your goodbyes to your family and the keep you’ve called your home all your life was the hardest part of leaving. But you’re glad for it because you found your new home in Lyonel. You’re a Baratheon now, and it’s evident in the warm yellow of your gown that he has made particularly just for you. It billows in the wild breeze from the mountains of the Vale, as you embrace your mother wholeheartedly.

“I will send ravens everyday that the whole rookery will start to fear me whenever they hear my heels click.” You jest, making her laugh.

“You were always the one trying to make me laugh.” She cradles your cheek, pecking the tip of your nose just like she always had when you were a babe. “It’s only appropriate that you marry the Laughing Storm. The gods have an odd way of intertwining our fates together.” Gazing into your eyes, she leans once more, giving you a squeeze. “Oh, my gentle heart.”

“I will be fine, mother, I promise.” You utter against her hair, holding her gently with a sigh. “As you will be without me here.”

“Why do you need to leave so soon?” Brows furrowed, she turns her attention to her new son by law. “Why do you need to take her from me?”

Lyonel matches your amused smile. “I’m not trying to, my lady. But your daughter has all the answers.” That garners a stifled laugh from your older brothers, who has taken your husband like he’s their own.

“My sweet girl, you don’t have to leave.”

“Mother, I have to, I have duties now in Storm’s End.” Her embrace squeezes your insides out. “And I have to meet with my father by law.”

Moving away, she cradles your face in her hands. “Remember all your lessons?”

“I do.”

“You will visit, yes?”

“I will, just like I have promised.”

“And if anything is wrong, if your husband forsakes you,” Lyonel makes a face when he hears her words. “you are always welcome here.”

“I know, mother. But I am in good hands, there will be no need for that.”

Your father sidles beside the two of you, hands on each of your backs with a gentle smile. “Release our daughter, my love, we can’t hold her hostage for long lest we garner the wrath of our kin.”

“Oh, he won’t do such thing!” Playfully smacking your father by his shoulder, your mother presses her cheek against yours, turning your head towards him. “Look at her, remember when she used to cling to us?”

“I do, and I remember you whinging about how annoyed you are.”

You laugh as she scrunches her nose. “You are horrid, I do not whinge.”

“Yes, you do, mother.” Jon appears, smiling at her, a hand placed on her arm. “Let go or they’ll be caught in the storm.”

“Or Ser Lyonel would pry you away from his lady wife.” Robert adds with a bittersweet smile. “But I could take her now and lock her inside her chambers before he could follow us.” He whispers, garnering a laugh from her.

“Oh, hush, Rob.” Taking a deep breath, she leans away, holding you at arm’s length. “Send letters, be good, and give him an heir or two.”

“From what we heard every night since the wedding, that wouldn’t be a problem.” Jon snidely remarks, earning a weak punch on his shoulder from your mother.

“You’re the one to talk when your chambers aren’t the closest one to hers.” Robert makes a disgusted look on his face. “I had to sleep in the library last night—”

“Shut up, Robert.” You look just like your mother when you glare.

—

The day you arrived at Storm’s End was the day you truly felt rain upon your skin. The storm welcomes you with raindrops that soaks through your thick cloak. Granted that you have felt rain before, it rains in the Vale too, but this kind of rain is unlike any other, as if it wants to destroy the whole castle with its assault of rain and lightning. Despite this, your father by law has sent a generous welcoming party to greet you and Lyonel from the gates.

Your husband has expressed his displeasure for the keep, how it’s such a bore, how the grey walls make him feel insane just from staring right at it. But from how he smiles the moment he held your hand from the carriage, and how he introduced the staff and showed you the great hall, he has great fondness for the place. He is right about one thing though, there is too much grey around the keep.

The throne room is vast, and the dome ceiling above looms overhead like a stormy sky. His lord father sits upon his throne, taller than Lyonel, much taller, perhaps as tall as a certain hedge knight. He has the same dark curls as his son, cropped shorter, and his beard is trimmed to perfection with no hair out of place. His robes are much simpler, black with gold trimmings and a golden stag pin right on his chest. He looks old, older than your own father, and his white hair is much more prominent than the black hair on his head and chin.

You expected for him to be stern and straight forward like prince Maekar, but instead you see a grin break on his face the moment he sees you walk in, and a laughter that booms around the expansive chamber that could rival his own son’s laughter.

Lyonel soon joins in, not bowing before his liege lord, but instead he opens his arms to receive his father. They embrace and his father clasps his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear and retelling him the feats his heir has done in the tourney. They smile the same, and the thought warms your heart.

“You have managed to find yourself a wife too!” He boastly uttered to everyone as you stood there, not knowing what to do with your hands. “My dear, come, let me take a good look at the new lady Baratheon.”

The lord paramount of the Stormlands was endearing in every way, very welcoming and warm towards you. You see where Lyonel got his charms as you find yourself smiling in your father by law’s presence. You’ve forgotten why you were so nervous in the first place.

Lyonel showed you to your new chambers himself, citing that he will share this one with you rather than sleeping in the adjacent chamber like tradition. There was no peep of a protest from you, and he gladly received your excited words with a kiss upon your waiting lips.

The feast that followed your arrival was enormous, it spanned for nearly a month of celebrations before his lord father grew tired of the celebrations.

You were exhausted but incredibly happy. Lyonel danced and drank by your side, never leaving your presence too long as if one of his vassal lords would sweep you off your feet.

By the time you recovered from the feast, it was time to sail away to an adventure with him as promised. Ship Breaker’s bay was uncharacteristically calm just for your journey, and to Lyonel’s relief. It took only a week to land at Essos, the whole time on the ship you would spar with him when the sun was up, subsequently, you would wrangle in the sheets when the hour is late. It was utter bliss, especially the times you won against him.

Your time across the Narrow Sea would be the happiest days of your life that could rival your wedding day. Lyonel showed you everything he has encountered before during his numerous journeys. You saw different cultures, clashing together in harmony in the ports. And the large marble castles that reach high above the sky in the cities. You tasted food that you never thought would exist that you know you’ll always look for when you get back home. And the nights spent with him, days in luxurious inns, straw huts, glamorous chambers in a merchant’s keep, and sometimes in a carriage, it was heavenly. You two would stay anywhere, and fortunately, Lyonel has a lot of friends along the way.

The Laughing Storm is proving to be the best husband a lady could ever ask for. You feel incredibly lucky, and he feels like you are a blessing from the seven.

You have noticed that his eyes would always scan through the crowd when you were at Lys though, perhaps the place isn’t quite safe. But you did hear whispers of a certain platinum haired prince lingering around the place.

When the duties start to call your names through a raven, Lyonel didn’t want to come home at first, and you didn’t either. But it won’t be honourable to stay and be merry and spend your lives in revelry when you both have duties. So with reluctance, and one more night spent atop a balcony of some silk merchant’s home, your limbs intertwined, sharing a breath as the two of you stare at the sky with a promise that you would come back here with him.

—

The journey back home was unpleasant. The waves crashes along the sides of the ship, making your stomach turn. There is a light drizzle of rain from above, not enough to be a concerning storm, but enough to have the tides turn. Grey clouds are overhead, as the chill runs down your spine. You should be inside your cabin, preferably abed beside your husband curled around you for warmth. But alas, the breakfast you had this morning rises up your throat and down onto the crashing waves below.

“Gods be good…” You spit out, heaving onto the side of the ship as your hand instinctively caresses your stomach. You weren’t sure before, but from the symptoms you have been having, you know it well when you have seen the exact illness befall your sisters by law. “Mother protect me.” Eyes shut, you rub at your aching temples, feeling the pressure subside when a familiar hand bundles your hair away from your clammy face.

“So this is where you ran off to? I thought we would spar.” Lyonel’s arm curls around your waist, head tilted to gaze at your sickly expression. “Fuck, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, this is only natural.”

“My love, you weren’t sea sick when we first sailed.” Concern swims in his eyes as he wipes away the sheen off your forehead. “I knew that we should’ve brought the maester with us.”

“The same maester that you call a bumbling oaf?” You manage a chuckle, pressing yourself to his side as your cheek rests upon his shoulder. “We have no need for a maester when I know what I have.”

“The foreign food doesn’t agree with your stomach, hm?” His hand rubs up and down your stomach for comfort, whilst his lips brush along your forehead lovingly.

“No, my stag, I am with child.” There is no ounce of nervousness in your tone from your announcement. You know him well that he’d be glad about the news, that it isn’t a surprise when the two of you have become rabbits in heat whenever it’s just you and him.

The two of you weren’t in a rush for heirs, especially when the both of you were enjoying the marriage bliss, but it seems that the seven had other plans.

His wide eyes stare at you in clear shock. “Are you sure?” Voice low, his palm gently cups your belly protectively out of instinct. As if it’s in his nature.

“Lyonel, we’ve been at it like rabbits for three months straight since we wed.” Your grin grows as a smile slowly appears on his face. “It does not come as a surprise when this is the natural result of our coupling.”

Lyonel laughs boisterously, as if he wanted the whole realm to hear of his happiness. The ship crew’s attention was enough as they turn their heads at the commotion on board. His arms lift you off your feet, garnering a squeal from you as he pressed his ear to your stomach.

“The babe isn’t making any noise yet, my love.” Your hands rake through his curls, as you watch him look up at you with reverence, shining eyes and the widest grin you have ever seen on him since the wedding. “You’ll be a father soon.”

“Gods…” Feet back on the ground, he cups your face tenderly, gazing upon you with utmost love. “You have given me the greatest joy, my doe.”

There are tears gathering in your eyes as you lean closer to press a much awaited kiss to his lips.

Hobie’s almost permanent glare on his face is evident every time the camera pans to him. From the mail room to the break room, he’s scowling, either at the wall or at a particular brunette office mate just across the bullpen.

“How are you doing?” The producer asks him, finally managing to get a one on one with the angry punk.

“What the fuck do you think?” He purposely curses to give the editors a hard time to bleep it out. Whenever he notices the cameras on him, he’s flipping them the bird, or straight up leaving the room.

“Why are you so irritated?” The woman with the tablet asks once more, unfazed by his petulance.

His eyes stare at the expensive camera lenses, as if his glare alone could light it on fire. Jaw clenching, he takes a deep breath. “‘m constipated.” His lackluster reply garners a tight lipped expression from the people behind the cameras.

“Is it because she hasn’t been here for three months?” Jared the cameraman, with balls of steel, asks the punk who has broken a few camera lenses before like he’s best mates with him.

Hobie’s expression softens briefly from the mere mention of you, not a moment too soon, he blinks the tenderness away as he swallows thickly. “What’s it to you, Jared? You’re not invited to our gig anymore.” Vaulting out of his seat, he rips the mic out of his dress shirt, the fabric riding up to reveal a bit of his toned stomach that would have the female viewers wanting more. “Fuck this.”

Jared looks guilty, the other camera turns to the crew member, and he fixes his expression right away. It’s like poetry. The cameraman becomes the subject.

“Mr. Brown, need we remind you of your contractual obligation?” The producer states with a steady tone. Hobie hates this new producer more than the other when the last one at least had the decency to give them space. “If you leave right now you’ll be suspended without pay.”

Hobie runs a hand over his face, surrendering and plopping himself back on the chair. He really wants to punch the lights out, the literal blinding lights of the crew. “Mate, I work a nine to five job that pays me less than what ‘m owed when the white men in suits upstairs buys their fourth yacht. When Darius from shipping had to make a donation page for the treatment of his broken leg when it happened right in the building but the higher ups won’t pay for jack shit. You askin’ why I’ve been so annoyed? That, that’s why ‘m annoyed. Any more questions?”

The producer quietens down, jaw tight and gripping onto the tablet in her hands.

“No? May I go now?” Hobie says sarcastically. The moment she nods, he gets out of his seat, pushing the door open roughly that the thud is captured by the boom mics.

Harry stands on the other side of the door, having a glaring session with Hobie. He pockets his phone, smiling smugly, as if he won something.

The producer smiles at the interaction.

“Move.” Hobie says through gritted teeth as the cameras hone in on his closed fist.

“Have you heard from her?” Harry asks with a raised brow, looking over his nose like a pompous aristocrat. He doesn’t need to mention you by name when Hobie knows who he’s talking about. “She just sent me a picture of the Colorado mountains—”

He gets shoulder checked by Hobie on his way out, not giving him any more attention.

The camera hones in on Harry’s dissatisfied look, rolling his eyes as he sits in the same place Hobie left. “You wanted to hear from me?”

“So, she’s in Colorado?” The producer questions him, shaking off Hobie’s pointed words. “How’s the relationship going?”

“Yeah, I mean…” he leans back on the chair casually, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes wander around, except for looking at the lenses. “It’s going.” Shrugging, he clears his throat. “We text.”

“No calling?”

His index scratches at his cheek, nodding. “A few times.”

“Right.” Jared is skeptical, and Harry gives him a look.

The producer takes a deep breath, bored of the conversation. “Can you call in…” she scrolls through her tablet. “Oh, speak of the devil. I thought you said she’s in Colorado?”

“She is.” Harry’s brows knit together, taking out his phone to check. “Yeah, she said she is.”

“Not according to my schedule. Said she’s supposed to come back to the office today.” Her eyes shine from the prospect of a drama.

“Oh.” Harry smiles, but feels the dread in his chest.

—

Jared is the first to greet you, lugging around the heavy equipment as he exits the elevators and out of the building to get to the parking lot. He spots your car idling, windows rolled down, letting the air out. He sees you brush your teeth just outside, spitting onto the bushes as your hair is all mused, blouse skewed like you slept in the same bushes.

He’s about to call for you, until he sees the state of your car. Outside it’s dusty and muddy, dirt clinging to the tire rims, needing a clean. That’s no cause for concern when he has seen dirtier cars. But what’s concerning is the inside, he zooms in on the interior using the camera, and sees the mess inside. It’s a nest of luggages, blankets and pillows, books, art supplies and a few shoes. It looks as if you’re living inside your car.

Jared’s hands shake as the camera trembles in his hold. You are living in your car.

“Shit.” You say, muffled by the toothpaste in your mouth, eyes wide, toothbrush falling from your mouth. “I can explain.”

—

Jared looks at you with furrowed brows, more concern than pity as he interviews you beside your car. Your hair is now brushed, neater and you don’t have toothpaste in the corner of your mouth anymore. For once, he’s glad that he volunteered to do this alone rather than have a whole team behind him.

“So…” you kick a pebble, sucking in your teeth as you look at the blinking camera. “I’m living in my car.”

“What happened to the conventions?”

“I still went there and did my job, don’t get me wrong.” You chuckle nervously, biting your lip as your shoulders slump. “I think it’s best that I start from the beginning.”

—

“Fuck!” You punch your steering wheel, landing a harsh land right on the horn as it blares out into the neighborhood. Sighing, you rest your forehead against it, letting the tears out as you cry all alone with everything you owned inside your trunk and in the backseat.

Even after you sold almost all of your ‘abysmal’ paintings, you still don’t have enough for a down payment for any decent available apartment. You already used up your savings to get the car, and now you’re broke and living out of said car for the past five days. No one knows of your situation, and you like it that way. You don’t want them looking at you with pity, or offering help that you couldn’t possibly repay.

You’ve been apartment hunting during your breaks, and in turn, missing lunch with your friends. The lunch club said that they missed you whenever one of them would pass by you in the bullpen, and Gayatri has even asked if you’re doing okay. Which you have said that you are, a complete utter lie on your end.

Hobie has been trying to get you to talk about what happened on your birthday, but you usually just shrug with a tight-lipped smile. Citing that it’s all behind you now, and that he doesn’t need to worry about you when you’re doing alright. While Harry gives you the same worried look, they both try to reach you, when one would give you lunch, the other would try to share his with you. Which you both always decline when you always eat in your car in between looking for apartments.

Ironically, they seem to be getting on like a house on fire when it concerns your wellbeing.

Both men have shown their concern for you, but you shut them out, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes intentionally. MJ left you, your oldest friend, the one you shared a half of a necklace with that is now floating somewhere in the bottom of a river— if she could leave you, they would too. So you spare yourself the heartache, drowning yourself in work and being alone. It’s not going great though. You miss your friends, you miss your cozy room, you miss the days when you’d laugh with MJ whilst watching crappy reality TV. You miss your life.

You miss living.

Your eyes glance at the rearview mirror, seeing Hobie’s gifted cardigan laying atop the only remaining painting you kept. Instead of looking at it to give you some sort of motivation, you cover it some more.

You head back to work like usual, stomach filled with instant ramen, and yearning for something more filling for today. Rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you head back inside.

The day went on as usual, you avoided the camera crew despite them shoving the cameras and boom mics into your face, trying to get an interview with you. But you always manage to dodge them with a glare.

You do good work, not excellent, not abysmal either. Just good, enough to keep you on the payroll. As the sky turns dark, you ignore the heavy eyes staring at your back whenever you pass.

When the day is done, you head outside to breathe in the cool air, the weather is turning warmer day by day, and soon it’ll be harder to find shade to park under or else you’ll become a cooked salmon inside when you wake up inside the car.

People pile out of the building one by one, and you see the documentary crew pick up their equipment and haul it inside their van. You wave goodbye to the lunch club as they carpool together in Gwen’s beat up sedan. They gave you the same polite gesture, whilst hearing them ramble about an oncoming test that no one studied for. You sigh, missing them as they drive away.

“Lovie.” Hobie’s voice cuts through the darkness as everyone else heads out of the building and into their cars. “Headin’ home?”

For once you’re glad that the previous owner of the car had a really dark tint on the windows that made it harder to look inside. You have no idea why they did that or what kind of mischief they were doing inside that needed the dark tint, but you don’t care when you got the car cheaper than the market price. Is it legal though? Probably not. But you don’t have enough money to get rid of it even if you wanted to.

“Yeah,” you smile, one that does not reach your eyes. “I just want to take a long warm bath after that shit show of a meeting.” You’re not lying, you want to have a long soak in a tub that isn’t a grimy shower from a cheap motel that you occasionally rent just to have a shower.

“Yeah, Miguel really handed it to us.” Hobie sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “Listen, the band and I are havin’ a small get together this weekend in my houseboat since Ned’s movin’ out. You can come if you’re not too busy.”

You’d want nothing more.

But you can’t.

“I’m sorry, Hobie, I can’t.” You could cry right there and then, and you’re sure that he’ll let you cry on his shoulder. “Busy, my aunt’s visiting.” You must’ve given Harry that same excuse before, but not to Hobie. “I haven’t seen her in a decade, so...” You hate lying, especially right to your friend’s face, but you have to bite the bullet and retreat back into your shell that MJ wanted you to get out of so badly. It’s lonely in there, but at least you won’t get hurt, you won’t get left behind.

Past you would say, “maybe next time!” with a cheerful smile. But this version of you can’t.

“That’s fine.” He takes it in stride like always, he’s good like that. “Maybe next time.” It’s a strike to your soul. “Drive home safely, yeah?”

“Of course.” You smile, and it still doesn’t quite reach your eyes. If Hobie could see it, he doesn’t mention it.

The keys jingle in your carabiner, and you stare at the silver charm that Miguel gifted you on that fated night. It’s a cute little peanut with a top hat, smiling right at you. The reference doesn’t go over your head, and you always smile whenever you look at it, proof that you left a mark on someone’s life that is worthwhile.

You don’t notice another pair of eyes looking at you until he’s crossing the distance over to your car.

“Hey, princess.” Harry tilts his head, ducking to meet with your downturned eyes. “Having second thoughts about going home? Or did you forget something inside?” Chuckling, he misses the sad look in your eyes when you could blink it away.

“Oh, no, I’m just spacing out. Tired, I guess.” You give him a half hearted smile.

“Yeah, we got our shit kicked in by Miguel.” He sniffs, playing with his car keys. “Listen, I talked to my dad about MJ and that you’re about to move out so he offered to let you rent one of his apartments downtown. What do you think?”

If only he knew that you already moved out, or to put it properly, kicked out.

“That’s nice, how much is the rent?” There’s hope under your ribcage.

“It’s not much.” He shrugs, “a thousand a month, he gave you a discount.” Smiling, your own smile falls. His expression falls. “It’s a two bedroom, and near a lot of restaurants.”

“Harry, that’s—” you try to think of more polite words. “That’s kind of him, but that’s way out of my budget. Sorry.” You’re not really sorry. But you know his heart was in the right place.

“Right, yeah, I guess it is.” Clearing his throat, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ll keep asking around though.”

“Yeah, thanks.” You reply, already halfway inside your car.

“And uh…” Harry leans against your window, thankfully you had the insight to only open it a smidge. “I kind of rambled on about you to him, so now he wants to meet you.”

The revelation wakes you up more than a triple shot of espresso. “What?”

“Dinner, just dinner at his place, nothing much.” Harry looks like he’s digging his own grave.

“Oh, I’ll think about it, Harry.” You feign a smile. “Busy, you know.”

“Yeah, your, uh, cousin is staying with you guys, right?” His eyes stare into the small crevice of the window that you cracked open.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s just, really sad about the divorce, so I have to be with her and try to lighten her mood.” Sucking in your teeth, you start the ignition. Another blatant lie let out. “Speaking of, I gotta go.”

“Sure, sorry.” Stepping back, Harry watches you drive away.

The lights from the lampposts flicker past you as you drive around and around until you reach the office once again. All the parked cars are gone, and the only lights inside is the one in the lobby where the security guard is snoring away whilst a baseball game is playing on a tiny TV.

Everyday it’s the same thing for the security guard, Warren, you come to learn from his nametag— he has a giant donut and a burrito for dinner, opens the portable TV and within a few minutes, he’s snoozing away when he’s supposed to be guarding the place. It’s good news for you when you can sneak back in, have a cold shower in the office gym, warm your food that you got from the convenience store in the microwave and head out in just twenty minutes. It’s foolproof, and you always try to avoid the security cameras, but it’s not worth it anymore when you learned that the footage is deleted within twenty four hours, so by the time the morning shift would clock in, last night’s footage was deleted at six am sharp.

You’re getting too good at it, sneaking about, that maybe you should plan a heist at a bank or something like in your favorite heist movie. You just need a team of intelligent women to back you up.

You just got out of the shower, still shivering from the cold as you hug Hobie’s cardigan around yourself. It smells like your car’s air freshener and the instant noodles you had last night, despite that, it’s still soft and brings you comfort. You should probably head out to a laundry shop to get your clothes washed when it’s starting to pile inside the trunk. You’re in an old t-shirt from college that’s slowly fading away from time, and a pair of checkered pajamas that was at one point MJ’s.

With a sigh, the microwave finally beeps, signaling that your dinner is ready. Tonight’s dinner consists of convenience store pasta that might give you food poisoning, and this morning’s leftover breakfast sandwich that you splurged on to keep morale up. The only plus side of your abysmal dinner is that Hobie always kept your tea stocked inside the cupboards, even when you haven’t bought a box in awhile. You made yourself a cup like always, and the first warm sip ebbs from your chest to your stomach, a much needed warmth.

You take your meal carefully, hands wrapped in a small towel as you place it on the breakroom table. The office feels eerie this time of day, it’s dark and liminal, that sends shivers down your spine. It feels wrong to have it be this empty when it’s usually so full of overworked and underpaid employees. Hobie’s ghost story about a nightshift janitor doesn’t faze you anymore whenever it wiggles its way inside your head during times like these.

During the first few days of being alone after getting kicked out from MJ’s apartment because the realtor couldn’t possibly sell the house when you’re still living in it— you stayed at a cheap motel that smells like roaches and day-old boiled eggs. But the money soon ran out, draining your already dried up savings within just a few days. Plus your card was declined in the same place, you’re embarrassed to go back. So now you had to resort to sneaking inside the office during off hours, eating at the same breakroom where you could sometimes hear Hobie’s laugh whenever you sit down that’s adjacent to his usual seat.

You feel yourself going insane, especially when MJ never bothered to speak to you after what happened to your birthday. She just packed her bags one day, told you that the realtor is coming the next day and she moved away that very same day. She didn’t even try to hear you out after the stunt she pulled, the house was a wreck, the decorations you had painstakingly made were strewn about, trampled on the ground. When you did try to talk to her, voice stern yet wobbly, and eyes brimming with tears, she laughed. She really laughed in your face and said, “I didn’t ask you to do this for me, y’know.”

But she did, she fucking did, and now as you’re stewing in your seat, you question yourself whether she did ask it. Or did you just assume that she asked for a big party like every fucking year? Nevertheless, you got mad, you snapped at your best friend, and you said some words that you couldn’t possibly take back.

And she snapped right back at you with more ferocity, like it came so easy to her. That the words were already on the tip of her tongue, left to curdle inside her mind until it was time to be let out.

She accused you of jealousy. How you would always cling to her side, never leaving her alone. That you were the one holding her back. When all you did was try to be the best friend she deserved, the same girl who let her cry on your shoulder before a school trip because her parents didn’t let her join. But you stayed behind, lying that yours didn’t let you join either when the letter with their signatures is tucked safely inside your ladybug jacket that you adored so much.

You played together all day in the school’s playground until your classmates came back, and you stayed the whole time, you stayed with her even when her parents kicked her out during high school and you let her crash at your place. You stayed even when she asked out the guy she knew you had a crush on. You stayed even when you had to juggle classes and part time jobs and come back to your dorm only to see that she had another party and she’s once again passed out on your side of the room. You stayed, you wore the same cheap half of a best friend necklace that turns your skin green because it’s the first gift you got from her when she hasn’t worn hers in years.

You stayed, and yet she left.

Before you could stop it, tears streamed down your cheeks like waterfalls that your vision turned blurry and the show playing on your phone fell in the back of your mind.

The fork falls in between your fingers as you cry in your hands, weeping in the empty breakroom, the harsh fluorescent lights whirring above as the rest of the bullpen is as dark as the night sky outside. Maybe MJ is having the time of her life right now at her penthouse suite with her bandmates, and she already forgot about you.

Your name is suddenly called, but you chalk it up to your sorrowful state, ignoring it.

A big hand squeezes your shoulder, and you jolt back, screaming bloody murder as you see a blurry face in your eyes.

“Fucking fuck!” You fall back in your seat, back hitting the cold floor as your dinner clangs beside you, pasta sauce falling in a splat of red and convenience store cheese.

“Shit! It’s okay, it’s just me!” Miguel, your boss, the same man you saved during the holiday party stands before you in a more casual attire— a pair of denim jeans and an old fading ‘Star Trek’ shirt. His hands are up, trying to calm you down. “You okay?”

“Mr. O’Hara?” Eyes wide, you stare at him in horror. “Oh fuck…”

“Hey, it’s okay!” He’s immediately on the defensive after seeing your tear stained cheeks. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, still feeling the remnants of your crying session in your chest. “No, I’m okay.” Miguel gives you a helping hand that you shake off, standing up by yourself with your hand perched on the table for leverage. “I’ll go, I’m sorry.”

“No, just—” he moves to stop you, completely looming over you. His eyes dart down to your fallen dinner, and he lets out a breath, eyes gazing at you with sympathy. “You hungry?”

“What?” You rub your eyes with your sleeves.

“I can get us a sandwich from the deli place. They’re still open.”

Shuffling your feet in place, you would refuse, but the growl from your stomach answers for you.

“Okay.” You answer in a small tone. “Can I get one with extra cheese and a soda?”

His expression softens. “Sure.”

When Miguel came back with the food, he half expected you to be gone. But you even surprised yourself that you stayed.

“Cold cuts with extra cheese.” Taking out a footlong sandwich, the paper wrapper crinkles as he places it in front of you. “And a soda. I didn’t know which one you wanted so I got the usual. I got you a chocolate bar too, it was on sale.” The full sized bar is pushed to your side as you feel your heart squeeze in your chest.

“This is good, thank you.” Sniffing, you open the can gingerly.

“You cleaned?” He asks, sitting adjacent to you as he takes out another sandwich and a bottle of orange juice.

“Yeah, I didn’t want the sauce to smell.” You’re immediately taking big bites of the sandwich the moment you opened it. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s good, you showed incentive.” Miguel squeezes out two packets of hot sauce in his sandwich, before taking a generous bite.

A beat passes, you chew, he takes a sip of his juice, and you stare anywhere else other than your boss.

“Can I ask?” He starts, and your glimmering eyes stare at him with worry that he regrets it immediately. “Just…you good, kid? You’re not in trouble or anything?”

You contemplate your answer as you watch the mayonnaise drip from the sandwich onto the paper wrapper. “I— I’m not in trouble. I don’t know about being good though.”

“Do you need my help? The company’s?” Miguel’s voice is uncharacteristically tender, as if he’s speaking to his own kid, or perhaps a wounded animal. “I’m sure I can do something, whatever it is.”

Your nose wrinkles, swallowing down the meat and cheese as you take a big gulp of your drink. “A million bucks would be lovely.” You joke, and he lets out a laugh through his nose.

“You and me both, kid.” He wipes at the corner of his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his seat. “There are programs that could help with whatever you’re struggling with.”

Your jaw clenches as you let out a breath. “Remember my birthday?”

“Yeah.”

Shutting your eyes, you rub with the heels of your palms before taking a deep breath. You tell him what happened, and how MJ means to you. You’re not retelling the story because you’re looking for pity or for more harsh words towards your best friend, just someone that would listen, lend an ear for you to ramble on and on, someone to help take the load off of you.

He listens and hangs on your every word, nodding every so often, as if you’re in the conference room showing off a presentation. But it’s not a presentation, and you’re in your pajamas, crying in front of your boss.

“That…” his jaw tightens, looking away and shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that. But you know you can’t keep sneaking back inside the office.”

“I k–know, I’m sorry.” Your tone breaks in the middle before clearing your throat. “I just didn’t know where to go. I just have to survive until the next paycheck and then maybe I can find a place that isn’t a dump. Or at this point I’m okay with it being a dump.”

Miguel blinks, thinking and takes a deep inhale. “Remember this afternoon’s meeting?”

“Yeah, about the conventions that no one wants to go to.”

“You should volunteer. It’s almost three months away from the office, and you get to stay at three, sometimes four star hotels. They have good food and sometimes you’ll be accompanied by someone here or someone from another branch. But usually it would just be you.”

Being alone in unfamiliar places sounds horrible, but that’s probably what you need, some time alone to be with your thoughts, to not sleep in your car and eat shitty food that takes off a year of your lifespan with every bite. It might not be the stability that you were looking for, but at least you don’t have to struggle every night, trying to figure out where to park your car just to sleep without getting the cops called on you. And contemplating whether if it’s worth it to buy gas or food for that day.

Miguel sees the conflict waging in your eyes. “You’ll get a weekly allowance. Plus gas and food expenses.”

Your brows knit together, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Then why doesn’t anyone want to volunteer?”

“They have people waiting for them at home.” He simply says, not to purposely jab right at your heart, but it also seemingly strikes right at him too. “It’s three months away from them, and the conventions are the most boring thing in the world. I’d rather watch paint dry.” Finishing his sandwich in one big bite, Miguel cleans up his side.

“Three months, huh?”

“Three months of listening to saggy old men ramble about electric toothbrushes and how it could eradicate dentists.” The faucet squeaks as he washes his hands.

“That’s horrendous.” You turn around in your seat to address him. “I’m in.”

“Good,” he takes a relieved breath, drying his hands on a towel. “Pack your things, it’s this Friday.”

“I’m already packed.” You give him a small smile. “Thank you, Miguel.”

“No problem. I hate it when my employees mope. It’s not good for our image.” He shrugs, giving you a rare smile. “Listen, kid.” Leaning against the counter, he tosses the towel on his shoulder, and you suddenly feel like a kid again having a strange yet important talk with your dad. “I know how hard it is to be at this age. Everything’s uncertain, everything feels like it’ll be temporary. And everyone feels like they’re leaving you for greener pastures.” That part hits right at you like an arrow to your heart.

“But,” He continues. “treading the waters alone is worse than walking through it with people you care about. So when you slip and fall into the water, and trust me, you will, they will drag you back up to the surface, and in turn you will do that for them too. Don’t tread the waters alone, kid. You’ll drown.”

“But what if,” you clear your throat of the sob threatening to spill over. “What if those people turn towards a different tide? They go upstream without me?”

“They either come back for you or you find new people to walk with.” Miguel’s lips curl into a soft smile. “There will always be people treading the same path as you, you’ll meet them, and they may come and go, but a few will always stick with you. You just have to find those people and nurture them, friendship is a two way street, kid.”

You hide the tears brimming in your eyes with a well timed wipe of your sleeve to your eyes. “Thank you, Miguel. You’re not as scary as they say you are.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” He chuckles under his breath, before tossing the towel back on the counter. “Make sure to close the lights, the night janitor hates it when they’re left open.” Turning to leave, you call his name as he pauses mid step.

“Wait, why are you here?”

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder. “My daughter’s with her mother, and I guess I wanted to get some work done in advance so next time I could be with her without worrying about work.”

You give him equal sympathy. “Humanity isn’t built for this work shit.”

Miguel manages a chuckle. “Damn right.”

You’re left all alone, Miguel’s cologne lingers in the air, a sharp burgundy, and the cold crisp air from the aircon reminds you of how lonely you are.

You stare into the darkness of the bullpen, and right across from where you sit is your cubicle situated right beside wide windows where the moon greets you.

It’s just you and the moon now, at least wherever you go, whatever you are doing, there’s always a guarantee that it’ll be there with you at the same time to stare right back at you.

You decide right there and then that you’ll live, not just surviving. Not because MJ told you to get yourself out there, but because you wanted to, you want to experience things, to see the world beyond the four concrete walls of the office, beyond MJ. Even if it means being alone.

—

“Why are you telling me this?” Jared’s voice wobbles, caught in his throat after he heard your story.

Shrugging, you take a deep breath. “I’d rather you hear it from me than the cameras you guys installed everywhere.” Leaning away from the car, you cross your arms over your chest. “Besides, it’s bound to get out now that I’m back.”

“Are you still…?”

“Yeah.” You grimace, half embarrassed, the other half afraid to admit your own failings. “Maybe you can recommend a place?”

Jared’s face turns red behind the camera and you wonder why. “I kind of live with four roommates.”

“That sounds like hell, I’m sorry.” Wincing, you clasp his shoulder. “I should get back to it.” You gather your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you ready yourself for the day ahead. It’s been months since you’ve been back, months since you last saw any of them, months since you last saw Hobie.

“G–good luck.” Jared stays rooted in place, filming your retreating back. Then he sees the producer from high above the windows, catching the sight of her flashlight that she turns on and off repeatedly. She has an intense look on her face as he zooms in right on her. He realizes his job is to follow you. “Shit, fuck!”

—

“Hey, Warren.” You greet the security guard, and he grunts in reply, giving you a small wave while his attention is on the small TV screen in front of him that is currently playing a football game. “What a game last night, huh?”

He perks up, expression brightening. “Hell yeah it was! You caught it?”

You scoff a laugh. “Duh!”

“Go Arsenal!” He hollers, fists pumping up as you step into the elevator.

Truth be told, you only saw it because it was playing on the pub TV screen where you were having your dinner. The bartender’s number sits heavy in your pocket, he was cute, talkative, and he was nice. You’d call him if your situation is better, or if your relationship with Harry wasn’t so complicated.

Harry would message you at least once a day, sometimes it’s a picture of his lunch, but usually it’s a selfie of him while on the way to work or at the gym. It’s sort of comforting to know that he still cares after everything that happened and that you upped and left without a notice, with just an off handed announcement from Miguel to the whole team while you were already at the airport.

You’d reply to him occasionally when your days are less busy, a simple ‘how’s it going over there?’ or a snapshot of where you are. No matter how simple your reply was he would always reply enthusiastically, a ‘that looks great!’ at your lunch, or a ‘having fun?’ complete with a heart emoji at the end. The message that always halts you in your tracks is the nightly ones, where he’s sweeter, more tender. A ‘missing you,’ or a ‘thinking of you right now.’ You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t make your heart skip a beat, especially the ones where he attached a picture of himself in bed, torso bare, eyes sparkling in front of the camera.

Your feelings for him are complicated, you like Harry enough, but there is one person who always appears in your thoughts right after talking to him, a reminder that he’s not Hobie. That he’ll never be Hobie. That you just don’t feel the same connection with Harry unlike with Hobie. With the latter it’s easier, you feel like yourself around him.

With Harry, it’s different, you’re more restrained, like if you said the wrong thing he won’t like you anymore. You don’t know what it is but Harry feels so out of reach for you, like he’s living in a skyscraper and you’re just a passing pedestrian in his life.

You promised yourself and to Harry that you’ll take it slow, and you have, the most you’ve done with him is a peck to the cheek and hold his hand whenever you’d walk with him. Minus the kiss at the concert, that still sends shivers down your spine, and a horrible ache in your stomach that reminds you of your day at the hospital. He’s your friend, that’s it mostly, but you know that he wants to be more than that, and a part of you wants it too. But of course, it’s not that simple when you’re still longing for someone you can’t have.

When Harry feels out of your reach, Hobie feels like someone you can never have. Someone who deserves better than you could ever offer, someone who is as cool as him, as nonchalant as him, as sweet and caring as him. Someone who has their life in order.

You feel as though he won’t be happy with you, that he’d feel like there is something missing when he’s with you. And you can’t bear the thought of holding him back from his real happiness because of you. He deserves someone more like him, someone more like MJ.

It hurts to know that love has an expiration date, that they would leave you some day. Maybe they’ll love you now, but what if in a few years, maybe in a few months, they won’t feel the same way? That they’d discard, and you’d be all alone again.

All that lovesick thoughts were hidden in the back of your mind throughout your trip, now that you’re back, it’s out in full force. At least when you were away it took a back seat. This is why you’re dreading coming back here, now you have to face all the things and people you left.

You’ve changed, grown, and experienced things, you’ve met people too, but this place brings you back to that girl who couldn’t even look directly at the cameras. Maybe this time it’ll be different, you won’t shy away this time, that you’ll be better, maybe even someone who would be worthy of being loved back. A love that will stick, a love that will linger and stay with you forever.

Either way, all of that will have to take a step back in favour of you finding your own apartment, lest you have to sleep in your car in a dark parking lot again. You can face all that drama right after.

“Hold up!” Jared runs after you, and you casually hold the doors open for him with your foot. He huffs, thanking you with a bashful smile. “Thanks, nice one.”

“No problem.” You smile back, wondering how things were back here while you were gone. “So Jared,” the man immediately points the camera right at you, cheeks flushed, hiding it behind the lens. “What happened here while I was gone?”

“Nothing much.”

“Really? All those months? Nothing?”

“Well,” he sucks in his teeth. “there was a fire.” The camera captures your shocked expression perfectly. “Everyone’s fine, don’t worry. But Peter almost got fired.”

“What?” You blink.

The scene flashbacks to two months ago.

“Fucking move!” Lyla has her porcelain cats in her arms, pushing and shouldering everyone out of the way through the chaos like a quarterback on a mission.

Smoke billows out of the breakroom, and the cameras flick back and forth from person to person frantically whilst dodging them. One person shatters a window using his chair, while another quickly gets carried away from the said opened window when in a split second he could’ve realized that he’s on the tenth floor too late. Then the camera moves again, and a handful of people are trying to exit out of the air vents as their crawling could be heard rattling up there.

“We’re gonna die!” Pavitr screams in Gayatri’s arms as she hauls him away in a fireman’s carry hold.

“I’ve got you, babe!”

“Whose fucking fajita was in the microwave?!” Jessica grabs the fire extinguisher, heels clacking as she heads face first into the fiery fray.

“Jessica, no!” Miguel follows a second later with two mugs filled with water. “You can’t inhale smoke!”

“What the fuck is happening?!” Harry shrieks, pressing the elevator doors open button like a mad man. “My dad won’t be happy about this!”

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” Hobie walks in frame with another fire extinguisher in hand. “Go and fucking help, you wanker!”

“You can’t use the elevators during a fire, dumbass.” Gwen says casually, unbothered by the chaos. A half second later, she’s dragged away by Miles down the steps.

“Let me save you, Gwen! Just this once let me save you!”

“It’s a microwave fire, Miles, not a damn monster attack!”

The camera then pans downward, right under a table where Peter is crouched down, holding his ears as he mumbles under his breath.

“Not my fault, not my fault.” His lips wobble, eyes stinging with tears as the lenses hone in on his face.

“Peter B. Parker!” Jessica’s furious scream almost breaks the mics. The camera moves over to her as she holds onto a burnt tinfoil with his name written on it in big bold letters.

“Well, shit.” You stifle a laugh after seeing the chaotic footage from Jared’s phone. “Wait, why do you have that video saved?”

“I got promoted after the rabbit incident. Now I’m also an editor.” Jared answers with pride.

“Congrats— wait, the what now?” The Elevators chime open, and you’re greeted by a familiar face.

“Welcome back, kid.” Miguel smiles genuinely that it even has Jared taken aback, zooming in the camera right on his rare happy expression.

“I’d say that it’s good to be back but…” chuckling, you open your arms for a hug after stepping out of the elevators. “Not really.”

To the camera man’s surprise, Miguel hugs you back, even patting your back.

Jared feels like he was transported to an alternative dimension where you’re best friends with your boss. He mutters a shocked curse under his breath that not even the mic could capture.

“Yeah, well, it’s good to have you back.” He pulls away, and the befuddled Jared steps back until he hits the wall, still gawking at the scene of you smiling at the usual stern boss. “How was the trip back? And did you manage to use Gabriella’s sweater she sent for you?”

“It was okay, it was a bit bumpy but I’m alive so good. And I sent Gabri a picture of me wearing it in Colorado actually.”

“She didn’t tell me that.” His brows scrunches as he leads you further into the office and to the familiar bullpen.

You wince, looking apologetic and ignoring the rest of the camera crew crowding around the two of you. You’ve been to Las Vegas during peak season, this is nothing to you. “I see that she’s still mad at you for missing her soccer game, huh?”

Miguel kneads the space between his brows. “I have no idea how to make it up to her.”

“We’ll figure something out, don’t worry, big man.” You fist bump his bicep, and Jared truly feels like he’s dreaming.

A happy shriek echoes out, then a stack of heavy papers falls with a thud. “You’re back!” Lyla skips over to you, brimming with happiness as she pushes away the crew to hug you. “My favorite is back!”

“Oh, hi, Lyla, missed you too.” You embrace her back, patting her back. “How’s Hannah?”

She leans away, rolling her eyes. “Hannah’s out, babes, she was too clingy for my taste.”

The producer shares the same shocked look as the rest of the crew.

Lyla groans, annoyed by their presence alone. “Please, you can’t film everything.”

The scene cuts to a few weeks ago, where Lyla is talking on the phone all hush in the stairwell.

The boom mics capture your name from her painted lips. “I’m telling you, she’s the one, I’m already picking out the ring—” Lyla notices the eyes, or cameras for that matter right on her as she groans. “Hold on, there are vultures around.” Her heels clack as she descends the stairs.

Then the footage turns to Miguel chuckling at something on his phone, clearly talking to someone. His brows suddenly furrow, and he turns his narrowed eyes right at the camera, clicking a button on the remote as the blinds close on them.

Another scene pops up, and with the whole lunch club minus Hobie, at the breakroom, laughing at their phones.

“Oh, she’s actually insane.” Gayatri says affectionately.

“Is that even legal?” Pav leans closer to his screen.

“Who cares?” Miles and Gwen answer at the same time, before sharing a tender look.

Even from miles away, for some reason, you were less alone than you were with MJ.

Jared hones in on your face. “I talked to them while I was away.” Shrugging, you continue into the office with the others in tow.

“Not because she wanted to.” Lyla adds, and you shake your head at her with a smile. “To think she wanted to be a lone wolf. You are not an alpha, girl, more like an omega.”

“What the fuck, Lyla?” Gwen’s smile falters after she corners you with her arms stretched out.

“What?” The head of the HR department just shrugs.

“Don’t mind her, she’s just excited that I’m back.” Beaming, you hug the blonde. “How are you, Gwen?”

“Good, really good.” She sends you a sneaky wink.

“That’s great.” You wink back, smiling knowingly.

The producer is clearly irked by all the information she’s missing.

“Princess!” Harry grins from ear to ear, arms wide, ready to receive you.

“Hi, Harry.” He embraces you before you could open your arms to him. “Oh!”

“Sorry, hi, you look good.” Putting you down, his hands linger right around your wrists, fingers grazing the barbed wire bracelet, as the cameras, and Lyla zeroes in on the contact. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, and you look good too. Did you do something to your hair?”

“Yeah,” he touches the ends of his hair bashfully. “It’s lighter, not really blonde but I wanted a different look.”

The scene cuts to Lyla on the confession chair. “Different look my ass, it’s a shade lighter, my cat’s hair is lighter than that.”

It goes back to Harry holding you. “You like?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yeah, it–it looks good, makes you look younger.”

“Thanks.”

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Peter grins, but when he sees Miguel right behind you, scowling right at him, he does a one eighty. “Good to see you again!” He shuffles to his chair with a nervous laugh.

“He’s on probation.” Miguel simply answers the question lingering in your mind. “You have your report? Show me before the rest gets here.” He ushers you away from the crew and everyone else as you happily nod.

“Don’t hog her all to yourself, Miguel!” Lyla exclaims.

“Excuse me.” Once the doors shut and the cameras are outside his office, you deflate right on the chair in front of his table. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Miguel shuts the blinds to the crew’s dismay. “You can rest here for a bit until you have to clock in, want a coffee?”

“Please.”

“Got it.” Before he could leave, you call back to him. “Hm?”

“What report? You didn’t say anything about making a report.” Your expression spells panic.

Chuckling, Miguel shakes his head. “It was an excuse to get you out of there.”

A grin spreads on your face. “Don’t tell Lyla but you’re my favorite.”

Miguel leaves his office with a smile on his face.

If only the blinds were open then you would’ve seen Hobie stand by the mailroom as he gazes right at where you are with a softened smile on his face.

Jared turns the camera to the presence, but he only manages to see a glimpse of the punk’s dress shirt before he disappears behind the door.

He’s taking it seriously, he fancies you that much, and would even think that his feelings for you are beyond just liking you. Maybe that’s why after dating for half a year, he’s finally confident enough to converse with you in sign language. It’s a feat in itself when he juggles his vigilante life with his personal one. For that, he gives himself a pat on his back, learning it made him feel closer to you than ever.

Maybe that’s why he’s having dinner with you at a fancier place than usual, a candlelight dinner with food he can’t pronounce on the menu. You like diners, greasy food and sharing a milkshake with him like always, but for tonight, just for the occasion, he wants to impress you and show you how much you really mean to him.

His nerves light his insides like a concert stage, spotlights flickering in and out that weave through his trembling fingers. Stomach doing somersaults more than an Olympic gymnast. But he won’t let that get in the way even when you’re holding onto his arm shyly yet sweetly atop the table.

“What’ll it be?” The monotone voice of the waiter eases Hobie’s nerves a tad bit.

Now, usually you read lips to understand, but Hobie, sweet loving Hobie, has made it his mission to talk and understand you better through sign language. So with bated breath and trembling fingers, he asks you the same question as the waiter in sign language.

A slow grin spreads across your face, eyes going blurry as you sign a, “since when do you know sign language?” Your hands shake as well, not from nerves but from sheer happiness, happy that someone learned a new language just for you. You were already falling hard for him, but now you’ve completely and utterly fallen for Hobie.

“I finished the course just last week.” He signs back a bit wobbly, a smile mirroring your own as the candlelight flickers on your glad face. “Am I doing okay?”

“Better than okay.” You answer, and you let out a soft chuckle, tears prickling your eyes as you reach for his hand on the table, squeezing him gently. Which he intertwines his fingers around your own fully, a thumb brushing along your skin.

Hobie clears his throat, giddy from your touch and the sheer happiness that he could feel from your loving hold. “I’ll have the lasagna and garlic bread. What about you, lovie?” He signs the question at the same time, hand leaving your own only for a brief moment as he watches you answer, translating it for the waiter. “She’ll have the pesto and cheesy garlic bread, and uh…” his eyes narrow at your moving hands. “Orange juice?”

Stifling a giggle, you sign it again, a bit slower this time. Teaching, not in a condescending way of correcting him, but kinder, gentler, as his eyes shine after he understands.

“Just water and some chocolate cake after,” he doesn’t know it was possible but his grin stretches wider. “To celebrate.” He translates, and he’s back to squeezing and intertwining your hands together atop the table.

“Got it,” somehow, the interaction made the weary waiter smile softly. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Once he walks away, Hobie pulls your hand gently and pecks every bump on your knuckles lovingly.

“Cake, huh?” He says with his hands, refusing to let you go despite his words coming out a bit messy while holding your hand. You don’t mind it though, and you can still understand him perfectly, holding him is a big plus too.

“Is that okay?” You ask, brows furrowed as you squeeze his hand.

“Of course, anythin’ for you.” He answers wholeheartedly, terribly endeared by your gentleness. He definitely more than fancies you.

Hobie would lean over the table to peck the space between your brows if not for— fuck it. He does what he wants and leans over the table, utensils clattering and his knee hitting the table, but you both don’t mind it at all as you laugh and he smiles.

You must’ve read it wrong, but instead of tilting your head so he could kiss your forehead, you lean closer, a breath away from his lips as you meet him for a kiss.

Hobie’s taken aback, but he shrugs, instead of pulling back. He lets the moment continue as he kisses you underneath the candle lights and ignores the wandering stares from the other customers. His hand cups your cheek, and he could feel your smile amidst the kiss.

When he leans away, seeing your bashful look and the way your lashes flutter against the apple of your cheeks, he can’t help but sign the first three words that he learned and the first words that come to mind whenever he thinks of you.

“I love you.” Hobie signs, gazing deep into your eyes with so much love that you could feel it in your very bones.

“I love you too,” you sign back with the same fondness, moving to peck him once more.

He doesn’t need to ask you to sign it again to him when the meaning is perfectly clear to Hobie. And for that, he kisses you over the table once again.