and all I loved, I loved alone

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.

Rules:

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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!)

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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!

You’re used to the northern chill, how you could see your breath with each exhale, and how frost clings to your lashes. It’s a comforting cold that is so familiar to you that the freezing cold is etched into your bones. The cold in the Stormlands is vastly different, the kind of cold that sends your marrows into a dull ache, skin tugging with every deep inhale of petrichor that always hangs in the air. And the sound, the battering thuds of rainfall upon the stones of the great keep amidst the echoing splashes from the wild waves just outside. Whereas the sounds in the north are muffled by the snow, a mere whisper around the ancient soil.

Despite the fireplace of a man sleeping beside you, homesickness rushes through you like the lightning flashing just outside the chamber walls. You could see the flash of light just beyond the rattling windows, and you grip at your lord husband beside you, completely unbothered and used to all the noise.

Your cheek presses along his bare bicep to find the reprieve you’re looking for. You could smell the ink and parchment on his relaxed palms beside your head as his ring finger twitches in his sleep. Lyonel’s expression is soft and peaceful as he lays asleep beside you, absolutely exhausted from his duties as the new lord of Storm’s End, and his duties as your husband. His dangling earring is squished in between his cheek and the goosefeather pillow, and his lips are agape as he lets out an exhale that flutters your lashes.

You’d cuddle closer but you don’t want to stir him awake. As another thunder rolls and shakes the walls, you flinch, inhaling the lavender atop his skin to calm yourself. There were storms in Winterfell, but never to this degree. To think you would be used to it but the feeling of the ache of seeking your home doesn’t give you enough reprieve to fully feel at home in your husband’s land. Even when you really want to. You’re lady Baratheon now, and you must comport yourself and feel the rain upon your skin, but alas, you wish it would be snow instead.

“You look exceptionally pretty when you’re wallowing.” Lyonel’s voice cuts through the sound of the crackling braziers and the thunder clap outside. The lightning illuminates his features, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way his lips tug into a softened smile that is reserved only for you, you’d think that you did not just stir him awake from your clinging.

“Lyonel.” You sigh his name, smiling apologetically as you instinctively pull away, and yet he pulls you back by your nape gently, before rubbing at the crease in between your brows. “Did I wake you?”

“I felt a disturbance within my lady wife that made me so upset that it woke me up from my slumber.” Pulling you impossibly closer, he brings his lips to the crown of your head for a kiss, sniffing the scent of lavender in your hair. “That and the bloody storm is trying to reclaim our keep once again. Why are you awake, hm? Thought I exhausted you.”

You let out a chuckle, a thumb rubbing along the corner of his eye to rid of the crust clinging there. “I was for a moment, but I dreamt of home again.”

“Tell me, my she wolf.” Holding you close, he wraps his arms around you whilst pressing gentle pecks along your face until he could feel your shoulders ease.

“I dreamt of the snow beneath my feet, and the sound of direwolves howling in the distance.”

“Was I there to sweeten the dream even more?”

Chortling, you kiss his jaw with a smile. “You were, and you were completely freezing.”

“Sounds about right.” You could feel his smile on your cheek.

“I also dreamt of a fawn running around in the godswood. I think it’s quite telling.” His smile grows atop your skin. “Don’t you think?”

“I may not be a maester or a practitioner of magic but I think you are right.” Leaning away to look into your eyes lovingly, Lyonel shares a gentle smile with you, no matter how tired he is. “I suddenly had a profound thought.” His palm cups your cheek lovingly, thumb running over your skin affectionately.

“Tell me.” You whisper, a leg hooking over his waist and squeezing him to his delight.

“It’s high time we come visit your home. Perhaps the cold would be better for your disposition, the maester did recommend for you to not stress yourself too much. This old keep is not helping with that.”

“This keep is my home now too.”

“I know, but…” his rough knuckles instinctively brushes along your stomach that still doesn’t show the growing life within it, too early to show the signs. “It might be better for the babe to be born where his mother feels safer. I could manage my duties there through ravens, it would not be a burden to me. And it would make me feel at ease with you feeling comfortable there.”

“I feel safe here, Lyonel. It’s just that…I miss home, that’s all.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re far too kind for your own good?” His eyes narrow teasingly, before nuzzling his beard on the crook of your neck that sends you into a giggle.

“I’m a northerner, my love,” your laughter echoes around the chamber, quieting down the loudness of the thunder outside. Your fingers are in the curls of his hair, softly tugging as he kisses every space on your neck. “the ice just hides underneath all the softened snow.”

Head pulling away, cheeks reddened with a pink hue, Lyonel Baratheon, who once unseated the grey lion within fifteen lances, looks upon you with such love that it’s enough to part the grey clouds outside to make way for sunshine. “To the North then?”

You nod without question. “To the North.”

—

It has been a full month since you both settled in the north. Lyonel is still getting used to the cold that bites at his Stormlander skin, and yet he exudes the aura of a northerner. He’s trying his best and trying to keep up with your kin, and he’s doing quite well, more than you thought he would.

And he was right, being home is helping, and the maester has said that it’s doing wonders to the growing babe in your stomach. You’re starting to show now, and your dear father has commissioned a dozen or so gowns just for the occasion, citing that when your mother was with child, she always complained that her dresses were getting smaller each day. So he had all her old gowns repaired and made to fit your growing form.

You feel utterly coddled, Lyonel barely leaves you alone, and when he does rarely go out without you, he’d be home before the sun could set. And his arms would always be ready to receive you.

It’s one of those days where he has no choice but to leave your side. Your father and brothers had asked him to go hunting with them, so with some displeasure, Lyonel left to go on a three day hunt with them. You suspect that it’s your father’s ploy to give you some time for yourself, which you are grateful for, if not for the hunt taking three whole days without your stag by your side.

By the second day, you’ve become antsy. You don’t stay too long in your chambers because the room smells like Lyonel, even the furs and pillows smell like him. You dare not get the sheets changed though when it’s the only thing keeping you sane. Instead of walking aimlessly around the keep, you go to the godswood to pray, and each day he’s gone, you stay longer and longer. Despite the biting chill that runs down your spine, you stay there, just staring up at the red leaves and watching the frost cling to it like silk.

It’s the day when he’s supposed to come home, and yet the hunting party is still nowhere to be seen. You would worry, but you know that your kin wouldn’t let anything happen to your husband lest they see the ice in your veins.

A soft bark comes from the archway, and you turn to face the source, finding the said husband cradling a rather large and fluffy puppy.

“My love.” Your expression brightens the moment you meet with Lyonel’s eyes. “You’re late.”

“My apologies, my doe.” He mirrors your smile, crossing the distance as the snow crunches underneath his boots. “It’s this little one’s fault.” Moving the cloak over the hound, the puppy sets his dark eyes on you, tail wagging as his fine white coat looks as soft as the snow falling atop your shoulders. “We met him on our way to the hunt, and he never left my side. You and him have the same type in Stormlanders I see.”

Chuckling, you pet his fur, and you now know that he is as soft as you think he was. The puppy huffs at your hand, giving it a little lick, and it seems that he’s as taken with you just like he is to your husband. “He’s beautiful, I assume you’d want to keep him?”

“Only if my wife says so.” Lyonel has the softened look of a man pleading his wife, all big eyes, complete with his lashes fluttering and with a pout unbefitting of a lord paramount. The drifting snowflakes upon his dark hair like dotted stars along the night sky helps his case. You would’ve said yes anyway, you can’t just say no to him whilst he’s holding the most adorable creature. “The babe will have a companion.” He adds, brows raised to help convince you even more.

“Taking care of a direwolf would be hard work, my love. But I’m sure we’ll manage.” You peck the tip of Lyonel’s cold nose, before looking at his befuddled expression. “My father didn’t tell you it’s a direwolf, didn’t he?”

“He said it was a regular hound!”

—

“Thunder, where are you?” You waddle around Winterfell, your long furry cloak draping right behind you as you search every nook and cranny of the ancient keep. “It’s supper time, my sweet!”

“You’re calling the dog for supper before your husband?” Lyonel appears from behind a stone column, hands on his hips, a brow raised and looking like a northman in the bundle of thick furs and velvet he has on. If not for the Baratheon sigil and the golden hues on his doublet, people would’ve mistaken him for a Northman. Until he speaks that is. “You’re cruel, my love. It never crossed your mind that I’d want supper too?”

You stifle a chuckle, a hand caressing your growing belly as he walks closer in his longer strides. “I just thought that you were already at the great hall.”

Humming, Lyonel’s hand rests at the small of your back, massaging the ache there. Whilst the other rubs at your belly lovingly, as if the babe inside needed comforting too. “I came here to fetch you. I would never have supper without my lady wife.”

“Is it not because you needed a shield against my gossiping aunts?” Palms atop his sturdy chest, you gently caress him there, before rising up to intertwine your fingers above his nape, all the while gazing into his eyes lovingly.

“That too.” Leaning in and nuzzling your nose, he goes in for a kiss, savouring your warmth. But before his lips could meet with yours, he feels a wet snout poke his leg, and a tug right at the hem of his trousers. Lyonel lets out a defeated sigh while you laugh, a mirthful chime that is music to his ears. “Gods, Thunder, you always appear when you are not needed.”

Thunder barks softly, big puppy dog eyes gazing up at the two of you whilst his tail wags atop the stone floor, brushing away the freshly dropped snowflakes.

“Oh, he’s always needed.” Bending down, with Lyonel’s hand still on the small of your back, you scratch under Thunder’s snout, right where he favours being petted. “Aren’t you, boy?”

Lyonel feigns a huff, but from his smile alone you could tell that he’s resisting the urge to pat the growing direwolf, who is now almost the same size as the adult hounds roaming around Winterfell.

“Oh, come here, don’t be jealous, my stag.” You coo, standing back up to scratch Lyonel right under his beard. He rolled his eyes for a second, before melting at your touch and how your nails scraped gently at his jaw. “Look at you, I could practically see you wagging your tail, my good boy.”

His half lidded eyes open immediately, as if you offended him. The corners of his lips curl into a mischievous grin, and you know that you will be late to supper even more.

“Lyonel—!”

You’re lifted up, his arm hooked underneath your legs, and the other cradling your back. Your squeal echoes around the snowcapped courtyard, and Thunder gallops around the two of you, wanting to play too.

“You call me a hound? Let me show you how a hound shows his love, hm?”

—

Lyonel cannot deny it any longer but after four months at Winterfell freezing his antlers off, he could not bear to stay any longer. It’s not as dreary when you are near and whenever the Northmen have a feast it’s a good kind of revelry, but he finds that the walls have eyes in the ancient keep. As if the ghosts of last Starks stalk the halls, haunting his every move. He can’t believe it but he wants to go back to Storm’s End with you.

When he enters the shared chambers all weary and dreadful from another awful night of nightmares, and all he wants is to hold you and have a nap with his arms around you— Lyonel did not expect to find his side of the bed occupied.

There, laying down beside you with his head upon your belly is a sleeping direwolf, his white fur making it look like there is fresh snow fallen atop of you. The dog has grown as large as a foal, with long legs and a maw that could separate a man from his arm. But beside you, Thunder looks like any hound that now prefers you over him.

“Thunder.” Sighing, Lyonel yanks his cloak off and throws it haphazardly on the foot of the bed. “Move.”

“He’s asleep.” You mumble, eyes still shut as your fingers rake through his fur. “Don't wake him.”

“Where am I supposed to sleep?” Arms gesturing around the occupied bed, Lyonel runs a hand through his curls. “He’s a direwolf, he does not belong on the bed.”

Chuckling, you already know what your husband looks like before you could open your eyes. Reaching for him, his hand immediately slides around your own. “Come, there is plenty of space for an afternoon nap.” You scooch back, making the direwolf roll over before situating himself beside you once again. Opening the covers for him, you invite your husband to your side.

There is space for Lyonel beside you, but he’ll surely fall from the bed if he so much move a limb out of place.

“My love…” He points at the measly space when Thunder has a whole Dorne sized space on the bed.

“If you can move him then you can retake your bed, but as you can see…” you pat your belly. “I could not.”

Sighing, his eyes narrow at the sleeping direwolf. Thunder cracks one eye open, as if sizing him up, teasing and testing him before going back to sleep.

“Fuck me.” Head tossed back, Lyonel admits defeat to the direwolf, slithering underneath the covers beside you with a huff.

Your arm immediately curls around his torso, and he feels his frustration ebb out of him. “See, we fit.”

Grumbling, Lyonel cuddles closer, head pressed on your temple as his arm slithers from underneath you. You expect for that to be the end of the little one sided civil war he has going on with Thunder, but instead of your husband falling asleep with you curled around him, Lyonel takes you in his arms and hauls you around and away from Thunder, pulling you atop him and then back to his other side carefully and effortlessly.

You didn’t have enough time to process what happened when he’s the one curling around you protectively this time around. “Lyonel.” Chuckling, you muffle your laughter atop your palm.

“Shh, you’ll wake him.” He says atop your skin, nuzzling your neck and holding you tenderly. “Dream of me, my love.”

Lyonel took the direwolf home to be your sworn protector when he isn’t near, and to be the babe’s guard when he is born, but for now he shall battle with Thunder for your attention. All the while avoiding the large pointy teeth he has.

He maneuvers over to you, or tries to anyway but Lyla and Jessica get to sit by your side before he could.

You couldn’t even pretend that you didn’t see him as Hobie goes to sit at the back together with the lunch club. Feeling eyes on you, you see the camera right on you as you act casually despite your fingers tapping incessantly at your thigh.

“Did you see that she’s back?” Pavitr exclaims excitedly to the lunch club. “Do you think she brought us exotic snacks?”

“She didn’t go to some far flung country, Pav.” Gayatri says, hands intertwined with his. “But she did say that she got us something. What do you think, Hobie?” Her brown eyes look at him teasingly. “I missed her, did you miss her?”

The rest of the lunch club stifle their laugh, even Miles turns his head away to have a giggle.

“She got you guys keychains and magnets, she told me.” He casually answers to annoy them, they’re not getting a reaction out of him.

You did tell him in a text when you showed off your haul of souvenirs that were haphazardly placed on top of a hotel bed. Hobie won’t tell them that he zoomed in on each one to look for his souvenir.

“Oh, fuck off, the surprise is ruined.” Gwen sighs, shaking his head at Hobie. “She does look great though.” Tilting her head, the others join in, simultaneously tilting their heads at an angle to get a better look at you. “I bet Hobie thinks so too.” She cheekily jabs his bicep, earning an annoyed yet flustered grunt from him.

“Yeah, she’s glowing.” Miles remarks as the other three agree wholeheartedly. “Man, we should’ve volunteered instead.”

“Please, as if we could sit still during a boring ass conference about electric toothbrushes.”

Their banter falls in the back of Hobie’s mind in favour of seeing your smile and hearing your laugh. After months of missing you, wanting to see that same smile again after Peter said something stupid to you like today, Hobie was so close to volunteering to join you on the road. He almost did, but Lyla, in all her kind-heartedness hidden underneath all that perfume and faux fur lined around her stilettos, told him that it’s for the best to leave you alone. To leave you to your soul searching. Hobie didn’t understand it at first, why you would leave and prefer to be all alone for months on end going from boring conferences to another. Until he remembered the night he followed you after what happened during your birthday.

Maybe he buried that moment deep in his heart because the hurt and pain he saw on your face almost broke him. You didn’t deserve it, MJ didn’t deserve you.

MJ tried to get him into her band and join them on their record label, but despite his dreams, despite his wants, he declined. Not after what he witnessed.

He blinks and he’s standing back on the hill with your car parked haphazardly, lights opened as the night chill lingers in his bones.

The camera crew found you first, he would credit them in following you before he could but they have their cameras pointed right at you as you sit still inside the driver’s seat. As if you’re in a catatonic state, as if MJ’s betrayal took a part of your heart that makes it tick.

He exclaims your name, and he could hear the camera lenses whirr right behind him. He ignores them in favour of you, it’s a good thing that they’re not invading the already volatile tension or else he’d be shoving them on their asses, and breaking their equipment, contract be damned. Hobie doesn’t even shut off the van nor close the door when he’s urgently making his way over to you. The headlights illuminate his way to you, shadows dancing on the grassy ground.

“Love.” He makes it to your car, knocking on the window as you stare blankly at the view in front of you.

The stars are out, and the moon shines in a cloudless sky. It’s beautiful out, and the city skyline below blinks at him whilst the sounds muffle from where he stands above. It would’ve been a romantic spot, and it might’ve been a prime make out point for teenagers but he doesn’t feel the love tonight when tears are still streaming down your frozen expression.

Instead of banging at the windows, he stays right there, leaning on the door, all the while keeping an eye on you. He doesn’t speak when he knows that no words could ever make you feel better.

You just lost your best friend, and unfortunately, he knows the feeling.

The lock clicks, and the squeak of the windows has him moving away from the door.

You meet with his eyes, a calming brown, a familiar sight, one that you needed most. You open your mouth to speak, to say anything, but no words come out.

So he speaks for you. “Can I sit with you?” He asks, soft, gentle and understanding.

You nod, and it’s enough for him to move. He goes around the hood of the car and opens the door.

Hobie sits in silence, your car smells like lemon, freshly cleaned, and the bobblehead of a cat on the dashboard bobs up and down in greeting. The car feels like you, warm, comforting, just like the crocheted blanket draped on the backseat, and the easel and paint brush keychain dangling right on the rearview mirror. Just like everything in your life, you carved a place of yourself in it the moment you finally could. The moment you finally feel at ease and just breathe.

The barbed wire bracelet hangs loose around your wrist, the metal catching the moonlight as it dangles aimlessly. You feel like the bracelet, just dangling there, holding on by your teeth.

Hobie thinks that he should've given you a better present for your birthday, something sweeter, something more meaningful, not a five year old bracelet he bought on a whim at a flea market. What MJ did to you was awful, he feels awful, today was supposed to be your day, something to smile and reminisce about in the future. Not like this, ending up in the middle of nowhere with your heart broken into pieces with someone who has no right words to say to you.

It feels easy to sink into the plush of the seat, and Hobie thinks that it should be easy for you to relax in your own space, but instead he sees your shoulders taut, and knuckles shaking around the steering wheel as if you don’t belong here, as if you’re about to be yanked by the collar and tossed right outside and kicked down the hill for intruding.

You were happy, and you were finally coming out of your shell, only for that shell to be bashed and broken down into pieces with a hammer. You can never go back.

The whirr of the engine sings as it hums, and what seemed to be for hours, he stayed there with you in silence.

The cameras keeps a long distance away from the two of you, capturing the scene from behind as they could see the two silhouettes through the glass. Then, your hands leave the steering wheel, and the crew captures the moment you lay your head against his shoulder. No words exchanged, just a simple comforting gesture that means the world to you, that he gladly lets you have.

It’s been like that ever since your birthday, just a quiet yet gentle reassurance that he’s there for you, whether you’re willing to talk it out or just to be in someone’s presence. He’s there, a nod at you in the hallways as you pass by, hands grazing along the other, or a smile tossed at you from across the bullpen. And you’d give him that tight lipped smile that tugs at the corner of your lips, the one that you regret giving him when he deserves more than a half-hearted smile, when you want to smile at him fully like before.

Sometimes he lets you know that he’s there with you through food, making sure that you’ve at least eaten something for that day. Hobie meal preps for two, and has to wake up an hour earlier than usual, but that’s alright for him, you’d usually eat it, sometimes you won’t, either way, it’s all worth it just to see your shoulders relax and your fists unfurl the moment you take the first bite or just to see that someone still remembers you.

He would offer words, but when he was in your shoes all those years ago, all he wanted was for someone to understand, to just be there and not talk about the pain of being left by someone you once loved. So he stayed, lingered and kept an eye on you at the office, until the day you didn’t come to work, only to find out through Miguel that you volunteered to leave for months.

He was actually happy for you, glad that you have taken the reins and pulled yourself up from the hole of your grief to get out of it. Even if that means he would miss you dearly. He can always text and call you anyway.

And he did a few times, more than a few times. You’d always reply though, despite the time difference. You’d always go out of your way to respond to him, whether it’s just a picture of his lunch, a silly picture of the lunch club during band practice, or a random cat he saw on the street, you’d always reply. And in turn, you send him pictures of your dinner, the boring conferences with a little snooze emoji added in, or where you are occasionally. A hotel you’re currently staying at, a restaurant you’re in, or even a gas station where you have a stop over to grab some snacks for the road, whatever it is, Hobie is there to keep track of you, like a wordless agreement that you two have. Someone has to know your location, and you trust Hobie enough to let him know where you are. Sometimes it’s blatant, where you would actually ping your location and send it to him, that’s when he would always check his phone every two minutes to check on you, and only after you message him that you’re at the airport or that you’re finally in your car, that’s when he lets out a sigh of relief.

The band and the lunch club thinks he has become a lovelorn loser pining for you across the ocean, while the documentary crew thinks he’s irritated like he has a wooden splinter up his ass. He’s both, but he’ll never say it out loud, or to anyone for that matter.

Jared pans the camera to Hobie’s resting bitch face and he flinches when Hobie flicks his eyes at him, flipping him the bird that he has to edit out and take another overtime just to do so.

“Holy shit, Hobie.” Gwen snatches his wrist, fingers digging in that has him waking up from his thoughts of you. “Is that—?”

Leather heels clack from outside as he sees a glimpse of shiny raven hair from the conference room windows. The door opens, and Miguel pauses from his speech about workplace safety.

The man sighs tiredly. “You’re late.”

All eyes are on the newcomer as Hobie and the lunch club’s eyes widen in shock. “What the actual fuck.” They simultaneously say to the delight of the producer.

“Yuri?” You’re the first person to acknowledge her by name. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here now.” She shrugs casually, and the lunch club breaks from their shock to laugh loudly that it makes the boom mics peak. “Oh, hey, you guys are here too.”

“What?” Hobie blinks and rubs his eyes, when he opens them she’s still there standing in her three piece suit and pencil skirt. “You can’t work ‘ere!”

“Why not?”

You look over your shoulder over to them to stifle a laugh, only to realize that it’s the first time you’ve seen him fully. Hobie’s gaze turns to you, and he immediately softens. Giving him a small wave, Lyla interrupts.

“Yeah, why not?” She stands up, giving her chair to Yuri, making a show of it as she raises a brow at Hobie. “I hired her as our social media manager.”

Miles scrunches his face. “We’re an electric toothbrush company.”

“We’re not getting any collabs with that mindset, Mr. Morales.” Yuri says teasingly to irk him. “So this is where you go off to, Hobie, I thought you worked at the diner.”

“That was nearly a decade ago, Yuri.” There’s a blooming headache in between his brows.

She simply rolls her eyes, turning to face you as she sits down. “Oh, hey gorgeous, I didn’t know all the pretty ones get to sit up front.” Winking at Lyla, then over to Jess, she sets her manicured nails onto the first row.

“Hi, I’m Peter—”

“No, thank you, Paul.” Yuri waves him away casually. “So, don’t let me keep you, boss man.”

Miguel looks like he’s about to burst a vein, he’s definitely going to have a stern talking to Lyla about her bias on hiring new people.

“Welcome, Miss Yuri Watanabe.” He greets monotonously to scattered applause. “As I was saying, we will have a union meeting about what happened in shipping…”

—

The day went on as usual despite the little surprise at the start. Turns out Yuri was a great addition to the team, she had great suggestions that would help increase sales. Plus she’s getting along well with everyone, especially Lyla. The downside is that she might call for some people to help in making those said internet content. You’ll probably be hiding from her just like everyone else after hearing that.

You’ve seen everyone, greeted and chatted with pretty much every single co-worker, and have given them the small souvenir you stocked for them. Lyla gets a pretty pink scarf that was fully weaved, Miguel gets a novelty mug of mount Rushmore, while Jessica gets a pair of baby booties that have palm trees from your trip to LA. The lunch club gets their keychains and magnets that have their names on it from all the places you stopped, each looking gaudy as the next. And Harry gets the classic souvenir t-shirt that he may or may not wear. Even Peter and Jared get something, but one person hasn’t received theirs, and coincidentally, he’s the only person whom you haven’t spoken to yet since you got here.

It was a busy day for you, and you didn’t have enough time to speak to Hobie, even at lunch when you had to skip it in favour of catching up to some work. Miguel noticed and handed you some vending machine biscuits to stave off the hunger, which you appreciate, but now you’re starving.

You stayed back fifteen minutes after you’re supposed to clock out purposefully. Harry has kissed your cheek goodbye with a promise to catch up next time, and the lunch club has invited you over for a movie night with the band on the weekend.

Whilst you hear the fading giggles of Lyla and Yuri from the closing elevators, you grab your bag quickly and take the present in your hand with one mission in mind— get to the mailroom.

To your surprise, you find the room already empty. You’re sure that he hasn’t left yet when your eyes were glued to the elevators. You’re about to pull out your phone to call him, but you hear rustling from behind his desk.

The place was a convoluted mess, it probably only makes sense to him and Gwen. It’s filled with piles of boxes, manila envelopes, and tons of files haphazardly placed in the corner. The shredder is filled to the brim and probably breathing its last life. There is one thing that caught your eye though, in a sea of boxes and blanched papers, is an orchid. It’s purple and pretty, a sight to behold in the mess.

“You like Terrence?” Hobie pokes his head from under the desk, hair sticking out from all angles, and a few pieces of shredded paper clings to him.

You almost shriek, staggering back as your back hits the wall. “Fucking hell, Hobie!”

Hobie has the audacity to laugh. “Shit, sorry, love.” Standing up, dusting himself, he tilts his head teasingly at you. “You got somethin’ for me to send out?” He gestures for the box in your hands.

“Yeah, wait, no, actually this is for you.” You close the distance, offering the present to him bashfully. “Consider this mail delivered.”

His eyes shine under the humming fluorescent lights as he takes the box gingerly in his hand. He weighs it in his hold, chuckling under his breath, and instead of opening it, he turns to gaze at you with the same smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” You utter with the same warmth.

He still doesn’t open it, and you’re now bouncing on the heels of your feet.

“You look happy.”

Chortling, your head tilts down to hide your bashful smile and your heated cheeks. “Yeah, fresh air and two hours of screentime a day will do that to you.”

“Nah, you did this yourself. I’m happy that you’re happy.” His thumb scratches at the box nervously. “‘m…” he takes a deep breath, and your sweetened familiar perfume wafts in his nose that immediately eases the tension in his shoulders. “It’s good to see you back, really, ‘m happy you’re back.”

Your eyes flick towards him, still smiling. “I heard that you were irritated the whole time I was gone.”

He groans, head tilting back as he runs a hand on his expression. “Damnit, Jared.”

Giggling, you close the distance again, a hand gingerly brushing along the petals of the orchid. “Why terrence?”

“Gwen named him, I don’t know why she picked that though.”

“What would you have chosen instead?”

“Leopold.”

You let out a laugh that has him smiling even more. “Yeah, as if that’s any better.”

“It’s a mighty name for an orchid, love.” Hobie finally opens the present when he notices your eyes kept flicking over to it and then back to him with unbridled anticipation.

A domed glass greets him, and as he gently takes it out of the box, he sees the Colorado mountains inside the snowglobe, perfectly still as snow drifts inside. It’s not some cheap novelty globe, it’s well made, wood and glass with a metal band around it. His thumb feels an engraving up front, and he turns it to read the words, ‘wish you were here, Hobie!’ engraved right on the metal. His heart almost stopped, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“They almost misspelled it as ‘Hobby,’ I made them redo it. I was very brave about it actually.” Biting the inside of your cheek, you look at him with trembling anticipation. “I know it’s gaudy and probably not to your taste but it reminded me of you. I just thought, ‘wow, Hobie would love to see the mountains.’ And a snowglobe of it is the closest thing I could get you, a picture just doesn’t do it justice.”

“Lovie.” Stepping over boxes and around the table, he comes closer to you, eyes gazing into your own tenderly, russet swimming with something you’re not yet privy to. “It’s beautiful, I love it.” Your name almost slips off his tongue in place of ‘it’.

Your shoulders physically relax as you let out a sigh of relief. “That’s great, maybe you could find a place for it in your houseboat.”

“Speakin’ of,” he rolls the snowglobe in his hands, feeling the coldness of the glass. “D’you want to pick the spot for it? I’ll make us dinner, nothin’ fancy, jus’ some leftovers I have.”

Past you would’ve said no, but this version of you, who is just finding out how to truly live? What’s stopping you?

“As long as you let me buy the drinks.”

“Deal.”

—

Hobie admires the snowglobe on his desk, tucked in between his soldering machine and a wrench, a prettier sight amidst metal and unfinished projects.

He catches a giddy smile on his face from the reflection on a sheet of metal, and instead of fixing his face and flattening the smile, he grins even more. You thought of him when you saw those beautiful mountains, enough that when you saw the snowglobe at a gift shop it reminded you of him. It makes his heart lurch in his chest, to be seen as something as beautiful as those mountains felt more than familial, more than friendship, he could only hope at least.

A warm feeling underneath his ribcage calls your name, and he doesn’t muffle it.

The microwave beeps, and he wakes up from his lovestruck thoughts to grab the two bowls of leftover pesto that has angel hair pasta instead of the usual when angel hair was the only thing left in his cupboard.

Placing each one on a wooden tray that Ned left behind, he also grabs two mismatched glasses on his way out.

When he steps out of the houseboat, the cold seeping into his jeans and the cloudless sky spanning across the bay, he doesn’t see you in the same place where he left you on the patio chair.

“Love?” You might’ve fallen overboard, or hell, left without a word.

“Over here!” Your voice echoes amidst the rushing sound of water below. He follows the source, head looking up to see you sitting on his roof.

The way the moon lines up with the back of your head is heavenly, silver painting your smile, and the stars flickering right around you is a sight to behold that it takes his breath away.

“How’d you get up there?” His chuckles echo, bouncing off the waters as he gazes up at you with reverence.

“I used the chair,” you say it like it’s the most obvious thing. “The roof is stable right?”

“I hope so. Don’t want you fallin’ through it.”

“Insurance will cover idiocracy, I’m sure.” Shrugging with a laugh, you reach out to the tray. “Come up here, the view is amazing.”

He can’t resist your invitation. So he gives you the tray with some maneuvering, glasses and utensils clanking against the other as you place it on your lap.

“Right, move over, itsy bitsy spider.” Hands gripping the edge of the roof, he makes it look effortless to climb up with one pull up. His shirt rides up, stomach peeking in between the hem and the waistband of his jeans. In truth he could already feel his shoulders and lower back ache from the exercise. Groaning, he positions himself beside you, finding that the plastic bags from the shop are placed right behind you. He dusts his hands, and chuckles to himself, feeling your gaze on him. “Fuckin’ hell, love, you got me climbin’ my own roof for some slurpees and hotdogs.”

“And here I thought you climbed up here for the view.”

He considers you as the view, the best kind, probably a favorite of his. “That too.”

“So,” you reach for the slurpees, one raspberry and one electric blue that will surely taste nothing like blueberry as you pour it into each glass. “What’s been happening with you while I was gone?”

‘Wait for you to come back.’ Is what he wanted to say, but he bites his lip, teeth caught in the piercing as he unweaves it as nonchalantly as he could without you noticing. “Jus’ the usual, work, band, cook, band again.”

“That’s good. Keeping yourself occupied.” You mutter, looking at each drink in hand, trying to choose. Red or blue?

“I’ve got an idea.” Hobie takes both drinks, dumps half of the red into the plastic cup where it came from, and does the same with the blue. He then mixes both in the glass, making purple. He does the same to the other, making two new drinks. “There, save you some time.”

Your laughter brings out the moonlight even more as the light catches in your eyes. “Brilliant. This will surely not give us diabetes.” His fingers brushes along your own as he hands you your share. He’s cold, as cold as the drink in your grasp, and you want nothing more but to warm his hands with your own.

“As if these hotdogs won’t give us food poisonin’.” Despite his words, he takes a generous bite of the gas station hotdog that he lathered in ketchup and mustard.

“I’m immune to food poison at this point.” You grab a napkin and gesture to the stubble on his chin. “Sorry, you got a little…” he wipes but doesn’t get the blob of ketchup. Shaking your head with a grin, you move. “Can I?”

Hobie nods, then freezes in place whilst you wipe his chin gently. His eyes watch as you concentrate on the stain, the tip of your tongue poking out from between your lips and eyes narrowed like it’s the bane of your existence. “Got it all?”

“Yep,” your soft expression returns once you do. “Got it.”

The interaction didn’t feel awkward nor forced, it felt natural to the both of you, as if no time apart has passed.

“So, why the orchid?” You ask after a bite of your pasta that warms your insides.

“A client left it for Miguel.” Hobie pauses eating to watch the reaction on your blissful face when you take the first bite of his cooking. “But he said he didn’t want to take care of it, so Gwen and I have been takin’ care of it. It’s the office mascot now.”

“Can’t believe you had me replaced for a flower. A Terrence too.” You test the name on your tongue, garnering a chortle from Hobie. “The name is still weird, but sort of makes sense in a way.”

“You and a flower, there's barely any difference, both lovely.” He declares wholeheartedly.

“You’re a cheeseball, Hobie Brown.” Shaking your head with a smile, you feel your cheeks warm up despite the cold.

“You love it.” Nudging your arm, he watches the smile appear on your face. Lyla was right, the time apart made you feel better. “Any stories to tell me from your trips or am I not worthy to hear ‘em?”

“When were you not worthy?” You nudge him back, meeting with eyes, catching his gaze on your own that takes your breath away. The breeze flutters your lashes, and you get wind of his cologne, the same one you smelled on a random sunny day in California, one that you speed walked to follow, thinking that Hobie was there, only to see a stranger at the end.

Clearing your throat, you face your meal, stabbing your fork into the pasta before deciding to take a sip at the sickeningly sweet drink that lines your mouth. “Anyway, it was okay, the hotels I’ve been to were nice. And…” your tone fades as your thumb wipes away the condensation on the glass. “It was a good distraction.”

“Yeah,” Hobie swipes his tongue over his lips, elbow atop his knee as he looks into the water. “It probably wasn’t easy for you, being alone after what happened.”

“It’s weird though,” you shake your head, ducking down to meet with eyes as he returns your gaze. “I didn’t feel as lonely as I thought I would be. Being alone wasn’t so…lonely. I had you, you were one message or call away, and so were everyone else. And I haven’t felt like myself in a long time. I think the time I spent with myself helped me find— I don’t know how to put this, myself again. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, it does.” Hobie’s russet eyes shine underneath the silver moonlight. Catching sight of the barbed wire bracelet he has gifted you that is still clasped around your wrist securely. You kept it. His heart swells.

“It was good and all, but I don't think I would've survived another month like that.”

“‘No man is an island,’ they said.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a story actually,” sitting up, you lay the tray behind you as you hold onto your slushie. “I signed up for a guided tour of New Orleans while I was there, y’know the touristy ones that shows you all the spooky places.” Hobie nods, listening along as he angles his body towards you unconsciously. “And I befriended this nice sweet old lady named Janet, and we chatted the whole way, turns out she’s been going to the same tour for a decade or so because her husband used to be a tour guide. I think she knew more than our tour guide.”

You chuckle, eyes glossing over as you continue. “Well, anyway, I went to the bathroom and when I came back out, the bus was gone. So I was like, ‘not again.’” Tone catching at the end, his hand instinctively reaches out to you, before his own trepidation stops him. “I didn’t know anyone, didn’t know where I was and my battery was dead. I sat there on the curb, wondering what to do, then five minutes later, the bus came back around again with a screaming Janet. She noticed I was gone, and she came back for me when she has only known me for an hour. An hour,” your cadence pitches higher, anger this time rather than sadness. “when I’ve known MJ for more than a decade.”

“Love…” Hobie calls your name softly as your head falls into your hands, fists rubbing in your eyes. Your body shakes, and he holds you, his own reluctance makes him pause but he does it anyway, and lets you cry, keeps the trembling to a minimum, absorbing it into himself.

“I–I think I’ve always been alone,” your words are muffled by your hands. “I just didn’t notice it whenever she was with me.” Lifting your head, you rest your cheek atop his waiting shoulder, and he lets you, he cradles you beside him on the creaky roof of his houseboat. “I don’t think she saw me like how I saw her. I love her, I really do, but she wouldn’t have noticed that I was left by the bus. But Janet did, you did, you always did. Hobie, I don’t want to be left by the bus anymore.”

A beat passes, and his palm gently brushes along the length of your arm, gently, softly, like a rock skipping on water.

“When I was a kid,” Hobie takes a deep breath, blinking away the blurriness in his eyes as he lays his chin on the crown of your head. “I got left by the bus too durin’ a trip, and Ned noticed that I was gone jus’ like your old lady did.” You let out a wet chuckle. “How ‘bout we both make sure that we don’t get left by the bus, hm? We’ll be each other’s…what do you call ‘em ‘ere?”

“Buddy, a buddy.”

“Yeah, that, a buddy, we’ll be each other’s buddy. Keepin’ an eye on each other, hm?”

“That sounds nice.” The breath you let out feels like the weight on your shoulders were finally lifted off of you. He feels nice under your cheek, warm, steady, whilst you feel his breath fan the top of your head, a familiar presence that you have been longing for. “I’d like that.”

“Me too, love.” Craning his neck down, he ducks to look at you.

The slow smile appearing on your face reassures him that you’ll be alright. “You know what the trip made me realize?” He hums. “It made me realize that I shouldn’t let everything pass by me, like I’m a bystander in my own life. That I should go and— and live. The world is fucking huge, Hobie, and I was missing it.”

“Then go and see it, lovie.” He holds your chin in between his thumb and index, grinning lovingly at you, a grin that you could feel in your chest.

You chortle, cheeks warm, heart feeling light. “I will, maybe once I’m financially stable, and when I find an apartment.”

Hobie’s brows furrow in worry. “You have no place to stay? Love,” he’s leaning away, holding you by your shoulders. “Since when?” He fears the worst.

Your jaw clenches, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “...Since my birthday.”

“Shit, love…” His face contorts into deep concern, not chastising or judging you, just incredibly worried. “So there wasn’t an aunt?”

“I know. And no, there isn’t.” You mumble apologetically. “I’ve been working on it and I haven’t found a good place where the locks actually work and where the place doesn’t smell like black mold.”

“Love.”

“I know, I’m…picky.”

“No, I— I’ve got a free room.” Scratching the back of his flaming neck, he feels utterly ridiculous for even saying that. Great, he just made things complicated and awkward between the two of you.

“Hobie, I can’t— that’s, that’s too much of an ask.”

“Funny when ‘m the one who feels like ‘m askin’ for too much from you. You’re in a vulnerable state and I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable—”

“You’re not!” You touch his cheek, and he immediately clamps up. “I mean, I know what you’re saying, and you’re not taking advantage of me, it’s probably me taking advantage of your kindness.”

“You’re not.” He’s trying incredibly hard not to fumble his words. “I was the one who asked, love.”

“Can we start again?” You wince, fists curling in front of your face to hide your gritted expression that he’s endeared at.

“D’you want to be my roommate?” He starts again, more steady, more sure this time around.

“Only until I find my own place,” a hand patting his bicep, you smile lopsidedly. “and I will pay you, no buts, no saying no to my payment.”

“Lovie, d’you want to come live with me until you find your own place, and with reasonable rent?” Hobie restructures his words with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Yes.”

Raising his cup, he clinks it with you, the slushie melting, the night growing colder. “Welcome home, then.”

Grinning giddily, you can’t help it when your legs kick about as it dangles from the roof. “To being roommates.” The two of you take a drink together, letting the same teeth rotting sweetness coat your tongue. “I’ve got more interesting stories actually. Less sad this time.”

“You can tell me more about it, roommate.”

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.

“You are a fool.” He reads, tone lowered, thumb kneading at the pudge of Juniper's leg as he takes a quick peek at her. “Why aren't you asleep? Your mother told me that you always fall asleep whenever she reads to you.” Juniper just flashes him her batting lashes, eyes sleep heavy as she sucks her thumb. Sighing, Lyonel chuckles, pecking the top of her head, curls tickling his nose. “You are as stubborn as your mother.” The second he finishes his sentence, his eyes flick over to you at the doorway. “I'm afraid we've got a spy in our midst, flower. What do we do with spies?” Juniper makes a sound from the back of her throat, a half giggle, half babble in reply. “Yes, we show them Stormlander hospitality.” He kisses her curls once again before craning his head to face you with that mischievous smirk on his lips that never fails to make your stomach tumble. “Halt, who goes there?” He jests, and you chortle, crossing the distance over to your family. “Just the Lady Baratheon, my lord Lyonel.” Smiling, you cup his cheek lovingly, watching as he immediately rests against you with a soft look whilst gazing at you with reverence.

Hobie has been preparing for this day. He has read so many books about it that he has filled his library card to the brim whenever he finishes one. But nothing compares to actually practicing it, he made sure to attend a free class at his community college that they offer every weekend. He’s almost always late to those lessons because of his spider duties, but just like his dates with you, he never missed a single day. 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.

“I can't bear it, it's like this place messes you up. I can feel it wiggling inside my head, Kyle.” Sweat trickles off his fearful face, fingers bent at an odd angle as he gestures at his missing eye. “It's in here, I can just feel it.” “It's just the pain talking, there's nothing inside. I checked, remember?” He tries to reassure, but the man just keeps mumbling, tossing and turning on his makeshift cot. “You'll be alright.” Gaz turns to Price as he tries to spear a fish in the water. He meets with his equally tired eyes, his skin red and taunts at the corners. He knows that he hasn't caught a single fish since morning. He goes to sleep hungry again.

“Do you think they'll sing songs about us one day?” You wonder out loud, you do that a lot, think loudly, letting him know what is plaguing your thoughts at the moment. He finds it incredibly endearing. “Well,” groaning, Peter cracks an eye open and turns to face your stomach, inhaling your honeyed scent that never fails to send him into a tizzy. “What was I saying?” His hand runs along the length of your side, knuckles brushing along the silk of your gown. Chuckling, your laughter sounds like chiming bells as you beam down upon him. Your wings flutter behind you happily, a movement he's so used to whenever he makes you laugh. “I was asking if there will be songs sung about our love once we're wed.” “There are already songs about us and we're not yet married.” His nose nudges your soft stomach, nudging just along your belly button. “I'm sure there will be.”

“Is it lunch yet?” Miles groans, patting his stomach. “Not yet, Hobie said it's his treat.” You answer, still looking over the water and around the beach for the familiar face. “It better not be shawarma again. I'm getting sick of it.” Pav sits up, forgetting the sculpture over him as it crumbles to the pair’s dismay. “Pav, c’mon!” “We were almost done, man!” “Sorry…” he winces, giving them an apologetic look as the cameras film their interaction. From all the shenanigans they have filmed, today is probably considered boring for them when they have filmed possessions, vampire councils and garlic loving goblins. Your chest itches again, it's been itching ever since what happened to you at Gayatri's house. It was weird, the whole possession thing. You still couldn't make out what really happened when you can't ask the crew for the footage when they were left locked outside. They could only get glimpses of the haunting through the windows, even then it was shaky and grainy at best.

“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’re used to the northern chill, how you could see your breath with each exhale, and how frost clings to your lashes. It’s a comforting cold that is so familiar to you that the freezing cold is etched into your bones. The cold in the Stormlands is vastly different, the kind of cold that sends your marrows into a dull ache, skin tugging with every deep inhale of petrichor that always hangs in the air. And the sound, the battering thuds of rainfall upon the stones of the great keep amidst the echoing splashes from the wild waves just outside. Whereas the sounds in the north are muffled by the snow, a mere whisper around the ancient soil.

Despite the fireplace of a man sleeping beside you, homesickness rushes through you like the lightning flashing just outside the chamber walls. You could see the flash of light just beyond the rattling windows, and you grip at your lord husband beside you, completely unbothered and used to all the noise.

Your cheek presses along his bare bicep to find the reprieve you’re looking for. You could smell the ink and parchment on his relaxed palms beside your head as his ring finger twitches in his sleep. Lyonel’s expression is soft and peaceful as he lays asleep beside you, absolutely exhausted from his duties as the new lord of Storm’s End, and his duties as your husband. His dangling earring is squished in between his cheek and the goosefeather pillow, and his lips are agape as he lets out an exhale that flutters your lashes.

You’d cuddle closer but you don’t want to stir him awake. As another thunder rolls and shakes the walls, you flinch, inhaling the lavender atop his skin to calm yourself. There were storms in Winterfell, but never to this degree. To think you would be used to it but the feeling of the ache of seeking your home doesn’t give you enough reprieve to fully feel at home in your husband’s land. Even when you really want to. You’re lady Baratheon now, and you must comport yourself and feel the rain upon your skin, but alas, you wish it would be snow instead.

“You look exceptionally pretty when you’re wallowing.” Lyonel’s voice cuts through the sound of the crackling braziers and the thunder clap outside. The lightning illuminates his features, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way his lips tug into a softened smile that is reserved only for you, you’d think that you did not just stir him awake from your clinging.

“Lyonel.” You sigh his name, smiling apologetically as you instinctively pull away, and yet he pulls you back by your nape gently, before rubbing at the crease in between your brows. “Did I wake you?”

“I felt a disturbance within my lady wife that made me so upset that it woke me up from my slumber.” Pulling you impossibly closer, he brings his lips to the crown of your head for a kiss, sniffing the scent of lavender in your hair. “That and the bloody storm is trying to reclaim our keep once again. Why are you awake, hm? Thought I exhausted you.”

You let out a chuckle, a thumb rubbing along the corner of his eye to rid of the crust clinging there. “I was for a moment, but I dreamt of home again.”

“Tell me, my she wolf.” Holding you close, he wraps his arms around you whilst pressing gentle pecks along your face until he could feel your shoulders ease.

“I dreamt of the snow beneath my feet, and the sound of direwolves howling in the distance.”

“Was I there to sweeten the dream even more?”

Chortling, you kiss his jaw with a smile. “You were, and you were completely freezing.”

“Sounds about right.” You could feel his smile on your cheek.

“I also dreamt of a fawn running around in the godswood. I think it’s quite telling.” His smile grows atop your skin. “Don’t you think?”

“I may not be a maester or a practitioner of magic but I think you are right.” Leaning away to look into your eyes lovingly, Lyonel shares a gentle smile with you, no matter how tired he is. “I suddenly had a profound thought.” His palm cups your cheek lovingly, thumb running over your skin affectionately.

“Tell me.” You whisper, a leg hooking over his waist and squeezing him to his delight.

“It’s high time we come visit your home. Perhaps the cold would be better for your disposition, the maester did recommend for you to not stress yourself too much. This old keep is not helping with that.”

“This keep is my home now too.”

“I know, but…” his rough knuckles instinctively brushes along your stomach that still doesn’t show the growing life within it, too early to show the signs. “It might be better for the babe to be born where his mother feels safer. I could manage my duties there through ravens, it would not be a burden to me. And it would make me feel at ease with you feeling comfortable there.”

“I feel safe here, Lyonel. It’s just that…I miss home, that’s all.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re far too kind for your own good?” His eyes narrow teasingly, before nuzzling his beard on the crook of your neck that sends you into a giggle.

“I’m a northerner, my love,” your laughter echoes around the chamber, quieting down the loudness of the thunder outside. Your fingers are in the curls of his hair, softly tugging as he kisses every space on your neck. “the ice just hides underneath all the softened snow.”

Head pulling away, cheeks reddened with a pink hue, Lyonel Baratheon, who once unseated the grey lion within fifteen lances, looks upon you with such love that it’s enough to part the grey clouds outside to make way for sunshine. “To the North then?”

You nod without question. “To the North.”

—

It has been a full month since you both settled in the north. Lyonel is still getting used to the cold that bites at his Stormlander skin, and yet he exudes the aura of a northerner. He’s trying his best and trying to keep up with your kin, and he’s doing quite well, more than you thought he would.

And he was right, being home is helping, and the maester has said that it’s doing wonders to the growing babe in your stomach. You’re starting to show now, and your dear father has commissioned a dozen or so gowns just for the occasion, citing that when your mother was with child, she always complained that her dresses were getting smaller each day. So he had all her old gowns repaired and made to fit your growing form.

You feel utterly coddled, Lyonel barely leaves you alone, and when he does rarely go out without you, he’d be home before the sun could set. And his arms would always be ready to receive you.

It’s one of those days where he has no choice but to leave your side. Your father and brothers had asked him to go hunting with them, so with some displeasure, Lyonel left to go on a three day hunt with them. You suspect that it’s your father’s ploy to give you some time for yourself, which you are grateful for, if not for the hunt taking three whole days without your stag by your side.

By the second day, you’ve become antsy. You don’t stay too long in your chambers because the room smells like Lyonel, even the furs and pillows smell like him. You dare not get the sheets changed though when it’s the only thing keeping you sane. Instead of walking aimlessly around the keep, you go to the godswood to pray, and each day he’s gone, you stay longer and longer. Despite the biting chill that runs down your spine, you stay there, just staring up at the red leaves and watching the frost cling to it like silk.

It’s the day when he’s supposed to come home, and yet the hunting party is still nowhere to be seen. You would worry, but you know that your kin wouldn’t let anything happen to your husband lest they see the ice in your veins.

A soft bark comes from the archway, and you turn to face the source, finding the said husband cradling a rather large and fluffy puppy.

“My love.” Your expression brightens the moment you meet with Lyonel’s eyes. “You’re late.”

“My apologies, my doe.” He mirrors your smile, crossing the distance as the snow crunches underneath his boots. “It’s this little one’s fault.” Moving the cloak over the hound, the puppy sets his dark eyes on you, tail wagging as his fine white coat looks as soft as the snow falling atop your shoulders. “We met him on our way to the hunt, and he never left my side. You and him have the same type in Stormlanders I see.”

Chuckling, you pet his fur, and you now know that he is as soft as you think he was. The puppy huffs at your hand, giving it a little lick, and it seems that he’s as taken with you just like he is to your husband. “He’s beautiful, I assume you’d want to keep him?”

“Only if my wife says so.” Lyonel has the softened look of a man pleading his wife, all big eyes, complete with his lashes fluttering and with a pout unbefitting of a lord paramount. The drifting snowflakes upon his dark hair like dotted stars along the night sky helps his case. You would’ve said yes anyway, you can’t just say no to him whilst he’s holding the most adorable creature. “The babe will have a companion.” He adds, brows raised to help convince you even more.

“Taking care of a direwolf would be hard work, my love. But I’m sure we’ll manage.” You peck the tip of Lyonel’s cold nose, before looking at his befuddled expression. “My father didn’t tell you it’s a direwolf, didn’t he?”

“He said it was a regular hound!”

—

“Thunder, where are you?” You waddle around Winterfell, your long furry cloak draping right behind you as you search every nook and cranny of the ancient keep. “It’s supper time, my sweet!”

“You’re calling the dog for supper before your husband?” Lyonel appears from behind a stone column, hands on his hips, a brow raised and looking like a northman in the bundle of thick furs and velvet he has on. If not for the Baratheon sigil and the golden hues on his doublet, people would’ve mistaken him for a Northman. Until he speaks that is. “You’re cruel, my love. It never crossed your mind that I’d want supper too?”

You stifle a chuckle, a hand caressing your growing belly as he walks closer in his longer strides. “I just thought that you were already at the great hall.”

Humming, Lyonel’s hand rests at the small of your back, massaging the ache there. Whilst the other rubs at your belly lovingly, as if the babe inside needed comforting too. “I came here to fetch you. I would never have supper without my lady wife.”

“Is it not because you needed a shield against my gossiping aunts?” Palms atop his sturdy chest, you gently caress him there, before rising up to intertwine your fingers above his nape, all the while gazing into his eyes lovingly.

“That too.” Leaning in and nuzzling your nose, he goes in for a kiss, savouring your warmth. But before his lips could meet with yours, he feels a wet snout poke his leg, and a tug right at the hem of his trousers. Lyonel lets out a defeated sigh while you laugh, a mirthful chime that is music to his ears. “Gods, Thunder, you always appear when you are not needed.”

Thunder barks softly, big puppy dog eyes gazing up at the two of you whilst his tail wags atop the stone floor, brushing away the freshly dropped snowflakes.

“Oh, he’s always needed.” Bending down, with Lyonel’s hand still on the small of your back, you scratch under Thunder’s snout, right where he favours being petted. “Aren’t you, boy?”

Lyonel feigns a huff, but from his smile alone you could tell that he’s resisting the urge to pat the growing direwolf, who is now almost the same size as the adult hounds roaming around Winterfell.

“Oh, come here, don’t be jealous, my stag.” You coo, standing back up to scratch Lyonel right under his beard. He rolled his eyes for a second, before melting at your touch and how your nails scraped gently at his jaw. “Look at you, I could practically see you wagging your tail, my good boy.”

His half lidded eyes open immediately, as if you offended him. The corners of his lips curl into a mischievous grin, and you know that you will be late to supper even more.

“Lyonel—!”

You’re lifted up, his arm hooked underneath your legs, and the other cradling your back. Your squeal echoes around the snowcapped courtyard, and Thunder gallops around the two of you, wanting to play too.

“You call me a hound? Let me show you how a hound shows his love, hm?”

—

Lyonel cannot deny it any longer but after four months at Winterfell freezing his antlers off, he could not bear to stay any longer. It’s not as dreary when you are near and whenever the Northmen have a feast it’s a good kind of revelry, but he finds that the walls have eyes in the ancient keep. As if the ghosts of last Starks stalk the halls, haunting his every move. He can’t believe it but he wants to go back to Storm’s End with you.

When he enters the shared chambers all weary and dreadful from another awful night of nightmares, and all he wants is to hold you and have a nap with his arms around you— Lyonel did not expect to find his side of the bed occupied.

There, laying down beside you with his head upon your belly is a sleeping direwolf, his white fur making it look like there is fresh snow fallen atop of you. The dog has grown as large as a foal, with long legs and a maw that could separate a man from his arm. But beside you, Thunder looks like any hound that now prefers you over him.

“Thunder.” Sighing, Lyonel yanks his cloak off and throws it haphazardly on the foot of the bed. “Move.”

“He’s asleep.” You mumble, eyes still shut as your fingers rake through his fur. “Don't wake him.”

“Where am I supposed to sleep?” Arms gesturing around the occupied bed, Lyonel runs a hand through his curls. “He’s a direwolf, he does not belong on the bed.”

Chuckling, you already know what your husband looks like before you could open your eyes. Reaching for him, his hand immediately slides around your own. “Come, there is plenty of space for an afternoon nap.” You scooch back, making the direwolf roll over before situating himself beside you once again. Opening the covers for him, you invite your husband to your side.

There is space for Lyonel beside you, but he’ll surely fall from the bed if he so much move a limb out of place.

“My love…” He points at the measly space when Thunder has a whole Dorne sized space on the bed.

“If you can move him then you can retake your bed, but as you can see…” you pat your belly. “I could not.”

Sighing, his eyes narrow at the sleeping direwolf. Thunder cracks one eye open, as if sizing him up, teasing and testing him before going back to sleep.

“Fuck me.” Head tossed back, Lyonel admits defeat to the direwolf, slithering underneath the covers beside you with a huff.

Your arm immediately curls around his torso, and he feels his frustration ebb out of him. “See, we fit.”

Grumbling, Lyonel cuddles closer, head pressed on your temple as his arm slithers from underneath you. You expect for that to be the end of the little one sided civil war he has going on with Thunder, but instead of your husband falling asleep with you curled around him, Lyonel takes you in his arms and hauls you around and away from Thunder, pulling you atop him and then back to his other side carefully and effortlessly.

You didn’t have enough time to process what happened when he’s the one curling around you protectively this time around. “Lyonel.” Chuckling, you muffle your laughter atop your palm.

“Shh, you’ll wake him.” He says atop your skin, nuzzling your neck and holding you tenderly. “Dream of me, my love.”

Lyonel took the direwolf home to be your sworn protector when he isn’t near, and to be the babe’s guard when he is born, but for now he shall battle with Thunder for your attention. All the while avoiding the large pointy teeth he has.