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Lyonel (17)

When Ormund first started showing interest in the Targaryen princess, Lyonel was fifteen—old enough to understand political marriages, old enough to notice that his father was spending a lot of time corresponding with Dragonstone, old enough to put two and two together. And he made a very logical, very wrong assumption.

Obviously, his father was negotiating a marriage between them and Lyonel was thrilled. He'd seen the princess at court once, during a visit to King's Landing with his father. She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. He'd gone home and thought about her for weeks. So when his father started talking about alliances with Dragonstone and Targaryen brides, Lyonel's heart nearly stopped. He was going to marry her. He was going to be her husband.

Then his father announced his own betrothal to her. The whiplash was brutal. Lyonel went from imagining himself as her husband to watching her become his stepmother in the span of a single conversation. He couldn't even be angry—not outwardly. His father was the Lord of Oldtown. His father outranked him in every conceivable way. What was he supposed to do? Challenge the betrothal? Demand that the bride be given to him instead? He was fifteen, powerless, and utterly humiliated by his own naive assumptions.

When the princess arrived in Oldtown as his father's wife, Lyonel could barely look at her because every time he saw her, he remembered how stupid he'd been. How he'd actually believed a girl like that could be meant for him. How he'd practiced his wedding vows in the mirror like an idiot.

The crush didn't go away, either. That was the worst part. It just changed shape. It became something he had to hide, something shameful, something that made his stomach twist every time she smiled at him. When she touched his arm at supper and offered to teach him Valyrian, his heart raced the same way it had when he was fifteen and imagining their future together. But now there was guilt mixed in. Guilt and resentment and this terrible, tangled knot of feelings he didn't know how to untangle.

His father knows. Lyonel is certain of it. Ormund knows exactly what his son felt, maybe not the specifics, maybe not the marriage misunderstanding, but he knows there was something there. He's seen the way Lyonel looks at her. He's seen the way Lyonel's ears go red when she speaks to him.

He's trying so hard to be normal. To be a good son. To accept that she's his stepmother now and nothing else. But every time she's kind to him, every time she laughs at one of his jokes or offers to help him with his studies, the old feelings stir beneath the surface. And he has to sit there at supper, across the table from her, watching his father's hand rest possessively on her knee, and pretend he doesn't feel anything at all.

He's also uniquely positioned to notice things about their marriage that no one else sees. He's watched his father his entire life. He knows Ormund's moods, his tactics, his capacity for cruelty disguised as love. And lately, he's started noticing the way the princess flinches when Ormund's voice goes cold. The way she apologizes for things that aren't her fault. The way she looks down at her plate and stays quiet, the light dimming in her eyes.

He doesn't know what to do with this knowledge. He's seventeen. He's not a knight, not a lord, not anyone with power. His father is the most powerful man in the Reach. If Lyonel tried to intervene, tried to say something, he'd be shut down immediately—or worse, his father would find a way to punish her for it. So he stays quiet. He watches. He worries. And he carries his impossible, unrequited, deeply inappropriate feelings in silence, because there's nothing else he can do.

Martyn (15)

To Martyn, his new stepmother is simply… there. A fixture in the household. Someone who appeared one day and started sitting at the head of the table and didn't seem to know what to do with four children who weren't hers.

He's not hostile. He's just indifferent. She's his father's wife, not his mother, and he treats her with the polite distance of a boy who doesn't see why he should invest emotionally in someone who might not be around that long. (His father's temper is not lost on Martyn. He's seen servants and bannermen come and go. He half-expects the princess to be sent back to Dragonstone eventually, once his father tires of her.)

He's not particularly close to her, but he likes her. She's kind. She doesn't talk down to him. She told him once that his sketches of the Hightower were good, and he's never forgotten it.

But he's also observant in his own way. He notices things, even if he doesn't comment on them. He notices that his father is different with her—more intense, more possessive, more volatile. He notices that she's nervous at meals, that she looks to Ormund before speaking, that her hands tremble sometimes when she reaches for her wine cup. He doesn't know what to make of it. He's fifteen, and he doesn't have the framework to understand what he's witnessing. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he's filed her away as someone to be treated carefully. Not because she's dangerous, but because she's… fragile, maybe. Breakable.

Garmund (11)

Garmund adores her. Completely, uncomplicatedly, without reservation. He was only eight when his mother died, and his memories of her are more sensory than specific—a smell, a voice, the feeling of being held. He doesn't remember her face clearly. So when his father brought home a new wife, Garmund didn't feel the betrayal Lyonel felt. He just saw a pretty lady with silver hair who had a dragon and spoke a musical language and smiled at him with genuine warmth.

She's patient with him in a way his father isn't. Ormund loves his children, but he's not a playful man. He doesn't get down on the floor and build towers out of blocks. He doesn't tell stories or make up games. The princess does. She'll sit with Garmund for hours, helping him with his letters, listening to him chatter about his day, letting him show her every single rock and beetle and interesting leaf he's collected.

He's the one who's least aware of the darkness in the household. He just knows that when his stepmother is sad, he wants to make her feel better. He brings her flowers from the garden. He insists on sitting next to her at meals. He asked her once, very seriously, if she would like to see his favorite hiding spot in the east tower, because it's a very good hiding spot and no one knows about it except him and now her.

She almost cried. He didn't understand why.

He likes that she reads him stories sometimes, that she lets him sit beside her at meals, that she doesn't get impatient when he asks too many questions. She's the closest thing to a mother figure he's had since his own mother died, and he's latched onto her with the uncomplicated affection of a child who doesn't understand politics or power dynamics or the dark undercurrents running through his father's marriage.

He calls her "my lady" because he's been told to, but sometimes he slips and almost calls her "mother," and then he stops himself and goes red and mumbles something incoherent. She never makes him feel embarrassed about it. She just smiles and ruffles his hair and pretends she didn't notice.

Ormund tolerates this. Garmund is the youngest son, not a threat, not competition. His attachment to his stepmother is harmless, even useful—it makes her feel needed, makes her feel like part of the family, gives her another reason to stay. Ormund probably encourages it, in his subtle way. Another chain to bind her here. Another person she'd feel guilty about leaving.

Garmund has no idea about any of that. He just knows that his stepmother is kind, and pretty, and reads him bedtime stories, and makes his father smile more. He loves her in the simple, wholehearted way that eleven year olds love anyone who treats them well. And if he ever found out what was happening behind closed doors—if he ever understood how his father treated her when no one was watching—it would shatter something in him that might never heal.

Bethany (7)

Bethany was six when the princess arrived, and she doesn't remember her real mother at all. The princess is the only mother figure she's ever really known, and she's embraced her with the fierce, possessive love of a child who has decided that this person is hers.

She follows her around like a shadow. She brings her flowers from the garden, slightly wilted and clutched in a grubby fist. She climbs into her lap without asking permission. She plays with her hair and admires her dresses and asks a million questions about dragons and Dragonstone and what it's like to fly. She's too young to notice the tension at the dinner table, too young to understand why her stepmother sometimes looks sad when she thinks no one is watching. She just knows that she loves her, and that her stepmother is warm and soft and smells like jasmine, and that she wants to be just like her when she grows up.

The reader, for her part, adores Bethany. The little girl is the easiest of the children to love—she's too young for the complicated dynamics that define the others, too innocent to be a threat or a pawn. Holding Bethany in her lap, stroking her hair, answering her endless questions—it's one of the few times the reader feels like herself. Like a person instead of a possession.

Your breathing came hard and fast now, each exhale rushing past your lips in ragged gasps that mixed with the natural sounds of the forest. Your heart hammered against your ribs with such force you could feel it in your throat. Despite the burning sensation in your chest, flaring up with each intake of air, you could not stop the excitement rushing through your veins.

Each time you risked a glance behind you, your heart leapt. There he was, his tall frame weaving between the leaves and branches, never falling too far behind. And every time you caught sight of him, your excitement spiked all the more, a wild flutter erupting in your chest.

“That’s ridiculous, Dunk!” you claimed confidently, a laugh erupting from your throat. “I’m much faster than you.”

From where he sat, his back pressed firmly against the rough bark of a tree, you stood taller than him for a change. A refreshing reversal from your usual height difference. Your neck often ached from having to crane it up so much. Now he had to tilt his head back and look up at you from his seated position on the ground. As a response to your bold declaration, he simply smiled.

Internally, Duncan found your confidence amusing. The way you stood there, chin held high with such certainty. He knew the truth, of course. He could catch you in moments if he truly wanted to. His stride was nearly double yours, and years of training had honed his body into something built for power and speed.

But he would never tell you that. Not directly, anyway. Where was the fun in crushing your spirit with cold facts? Instead, he let you have your moment. The smile that played at his lips was knowing, perhaps a touch smug, but not unkind.

“I may be smaller, but that makes me quicker and more agile,” you continued. “I could definitely outrun you, if I wanted to.”

Your overconfidence and the wholehearted belief in such foolery did not anger him, nor did it wound him. Duncan was not proud. He knew he was tall and big and strong and and also fast. If he wanted to run, to really run, he could. His long, muscular legs provided a sturdy foundation for his towering frame. They had to, given the sheer size and weight they supported.

You noticed the lack of an answer and paused. “What?” His silence hid his thoughts from you, and you tilted your head. You did not wish to aggravate him, but expected some reaction, at least.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “you want to find out?”

A grin began to form on your face. “What does the winner get?”

For a moment he just stared at you, smile still playing at his lips. “Anything they want.”

“Deal.”

Now here you both were — panting and sweaty.

Dunk had given you a head’s start, even if you insisted you did not need one. Nonetheless, he had caught up quite quickly. Quicker than you would have thought.

The man’s lungs burned with each breath, but he barely noticed. His focus was set on only one thing — You. Branches whipped past his face, some caught at his tunic, others scraped against his arms, but nothing deterred him.

He caught a glimpse of your retreating form, darting between trunks and ducking under low-hanging branches with infuriating ease. You were quick, he had to give you that. Nimble in ways his body could never be. But nimble did not mean faster. Not against someone built like him.

He could see you glancing back over your shoulder, checking the distance, and he noticed your excited grin even from so far away. You liked this more than he had imagined, and he liked this more than he had imagined as well.

Chasing someone through the woods was not something he expected to find excitement in. And yet, here he was.

His heart pounded not just from exertion but from something else entirely. A thrill that made his pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with the physical exhaustion. The realization settled over him with an uncomfortable warmth that crept up his neck. He found himself enjoying this far more than he should, more than he wanted to admit even to himself. There was something about the pursuit, about watching you dart ahead just out of reach, that stirred something primal within him. A flush of embarrassment colored his thoughts as he recognized the eagerness driving his steps forward, the way his focus had narrowed entirely to you and the space between your bodies that he was determined to close.

Anything they want. The deal you two made kept replaying in his head.

A rush of newfound energy surged through you, hot and insistent, as if every nerve in your body had been set ablaze. Your muscles should have been screaming for rest, your lungs begging for a break, but instead you felt only the electric thrill of the chase coursing through your veins. Nervous giggles and breathless laughs tumbled past your lips between heavy puffs of air.

You cast another hurried glance over your shoulder — But this time, he was nowhere to be seen.

Your pace slowed as you looked around, trying to catch the brown-ish color of his clothes between the green of the trees.

Meanwhile, he has slowed down to a halt as well and hid in the shadows. He noticed that you’ve lost sight of him. It made his chest tighten with excitement, how he could watch you so secretly without you knowing.

It would be so easy now. Jumping out from the bush he was hiding behind and before you could get much far, he would get you. Would wrap his muscular arms around you, feel your hair tickle his face, feel you struggle against him with that laugh of yours but not being able to free yourself from his powerful hold. And the victory would be his.

It sent a strange thrill through his entire body, making him almost shudder.

So he did exactly that. In a moment you turned towards his direction, he moved faster than you could think. After only a few steps, he has reached you, hands flying out to grab you, to finally get you in his hold.

“Got ya’.”

A squeal of surprise left your throat which quickly turned into laughing, heart jumping behind your ribs. You thrashed and kicked and flailed, but his grasp would not budge. He was stronger than you, one could see that by only looking at him, but feeling it was entirely different. It made your stomach flutter, how the muscles in his arms bulged with strain, how he panted in your ear, how his smell surrounded you. It awakened something in you. So, instead of surrendering, you kept struggling against him, his hard chest pressing against your back.

“Your kicking won’t do you nothin’—”

But you proved him wrong — kind of. Your kicking made him stumble and before either of you could do any more than blink, you both fell to the floor with a thud. Now both your giggles filled the air around you.

You had landed on your hands and knees and he turned you around so quickly, your back hit the mossy ground.

He turned you so fast you could only blink, your shoulder blades met the moss and before you could even suck in a full breath he was there, above you.

Duncan caught himself on his hands, palms planted on either side of your head. His body pressed close enough that you felt the heat of him through cloth, the solid weight of his chest rising and falling against you as he tried to steady his breathing. Your lungs worked just as hard in your chest, and his breath met yours in short, warm bursts that mixed with yours. His eyes held yours, wide and bright and a little startled, and something in his expression focused — The grin from the chase faded into a quiet seriousness.

His gaze flicked to your mouth and back to your eyes, like he was catching himself. At this, a smile spread across your face.

“I wanted you to do this,” you confessed. “Do you think I truly believe that I can run faster than you?”

A blush spread over his cheeks, and the redness was certainly not from the running. “Don’t know.”

A giggle passed your lips at his naivety. The sincerity of his words mirrored in his clear blue eyes, as it always did.

“So,” you murmured, staring into his eyes. “You’ve got one wish, Dunk. What’s it gonna be?”

He stilled, a muscle in his jaw ticking. He realized, he had already decided on his wish before they had started their little race. And even before that. He’d known it for some time now, always too shy to tell you, but with the sudden proximity and the heat rising in his chest, he finally mustered up the courage to say—

“I want you.”

The world seemed to still, noises faiding away as you lay there in the dirt with Duncan on top of you, staring into each other’s eyes like fools. You had noticed his eyes had gotten more intense, somehow. Dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. An intensity that made your breath catch and your hips squirm beneath the press of his massive body, tingling with excitement. Now that he had named what he wanted, you realized what it was: Lust. Want. Desire.

And you wanted it, too.

His chest rose and fell hard, fast and you could feel the heat rolling off him. Finding his jaw with the palm of your hand, you pulled him down to your face. And when your lips finally met, it was beyond anything you had ever felt. It was hot and messy, spit mixing with spit as your lips met again and again, over and over. There was a desperate, unapologetic need in you two that transcended into the kiss.

Involuntarily, your hips bucked upwards, squirming against him harder and with more force than before. It made your private parts clench around nothing, and though he seemed quite innocent, he knew exactly what he did to you. He wasn’t that stupid.

Duncan had held himself back for so long that it felt like relief, now that he could finally touch and kiss you. His hands didn’t stay on your sides. They slid over your stomach and up to your breasts, where he grasped one into his huge palm and squeezed, before finding your nipple through the fabric of your dress. A moan escaped you, needy and soft, muffled by his mouth on yours.

If he hadn’t been rock-hard before, he definitely was now. His dick strained painfully tight against his breeches, your hips only increasing the sensation as your groins rubbed together with frantic desperation, the motion becoming gradually messier as need swallowed you both.

“Need you,” you panted between kisses, “inside me.”

His heart as well as his breath stuttered, but your wish was his command. Still, he wanted to take his time. Wanted to explore you, to find out what made you gasp and twitch and moan.

He lifted himself off you, hands hiking up your dress hastily and as quickly as he managed. He exposed your ankles, then your legs, and then your pussy which was still shielded by your underclothes. When Duncan saw the wet patch darkening the fabric, his breath caught and his pupils seemed to widen. Or perhaps you have imagined it.

“So pretty,” he murmured, a groan catching in his throat at the mere sight of your arousal seeping through your underwear.

His eyes stayed glued to your still clothed lady parts, as his hand moved towards them. You noticed him hovering, hesitating, and when he shot you a questioning look, you nodded hurriedly. You needed him to touch you, to finally claim what you wanted him to have for too long now.

He drove one finger over the cloth between your thighs, the dampness clinging to his thumb. Slow touches, as if he wished to learn you. Your breath caught, grasping at his forearms for something steady. He watched you in awe and seemingly wasn’t able to decide if he wanted to watch your face or further down below, like he couldn’t decide what was sweeter, as his eyes kept flickering between one and the other.

When his fingers found the hem of your underclothes and pulled them off you, the open air hit the heated skin immediately. At the sight of wetness coating your lips, another groan rumbled in his throat. Your thighs tightened on instinct and you felt your stomach flutter with excitement.

Duncan didn’t tease much longer; As he drove two of his fingers through the slick folds, your lewd sound filled both of your ears. And when he finally touched your most sensitive part, your back arched off the mossy ground and your eyes rolled back into the back of your head. An electric warmth spread through your entire abdomen, tensing your abs and clenching around nothing, as the intense pleasure rippled through you like a wave. A wave you never wanted to end.

“Gods, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice a little slurred. Or perhaps your hearing had been weakened by the overwhelming sensation. Whatever it was, the sound of his voice made you clench your slick hole even harder, longing the anticipated feeling of finally being filled. By his fingers or his dick you didn’t care, just something.

“More,” you whispered, and he listened.

With haste, he stood on his knees between your spread legs and in one swift movement, his pants pooled around his thighs.

Oh.

Your elbows, on which you had propped yourself up almost buckled beneath you and you couldn’t suppress a wide-eyed stare nor your open mouth. It was big. Massive, one could say. Veins ran along the sides, hair dusted his base and the tip was pink and already leaking.

Fuck me, you thought. Literally.

You knew you were staring like a fool, but who cared? Definitely not you. The anticipation grew stronger and hotter while you ogled the thickness between his muscular thighs, already imagining what it would feel like inside you, how far it would reach into your stomach.

You split your legs impossibly wide, so wide that it ached, to make room for his hips. You couldn’t care less, though. You just needed him so badly you almost moaned from impatience alone. Both of his hands wrapped around your thighs and pulled you towards himself with one powerful tug. The hair on his legs tickled the underside of yours, and his dick was now hovering directly above your heat. A drop of his arousal dripped onto your lower stomach, making your abdomen clench once more.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmured, your eyes meeting. You only nodded frantically.

Writhing before him, you braced yourself. If it would fit, was a question you couldn’t answer as of yet. You wished to so badly. You needed it to fit, to reach places no one ever has before and to fill you up to the brim.

Then, one hand left your hip and he took his shaft, lining himself up. As soon as the tip pressed against your entrance, you gasped and twitched backwards instinctively. Well, attempted to, because he didn’t let you. Strong hands held you still and forced your walls to welcome the head of his cock.

Finally.

A sound of relief and pleasure ripped from both your throats almost simultaneously. But Duncan didn’t stop there — As if he couldn’t stop himself, he pushed his length inside you, inch by inch, until it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You felt him in your stomach sooner than you liked, stretching your tight walls and forcing them to accomodate to his girth. It created a stinging sensation, making your jaw fall open, but with no sound following. It was too much.

“Dunk!” you gasped, overwhelmed by the intrusion. Too fast and too thick. Your hand shot out and weakly pressed against his abdomen in an attempt to signal him to slow down.

“I’m sorry, ‘m sorry,” he panted and closed his eyes for a few moments. He wasn’t doing any better than you — Pleasure took him completely, your heat gripping him so hard he couldn’t think properly anymore. His mind was filled with your face, your scent, your feel.

Your hand on his thigh was quickly ignored, and after moments that stretched entirely too long for both of you, his legs pushed against yours.

“Fuck!” he cursed, and if you weren’t so overwhelmed by the sensation of him pulsating inside you, hearing him swear would have surprised you.

A guttural groan left his lips and your stomach tightened at the sound. His entire length had been shoved inside you, filling you up until it seemed there was no room left to breathe right. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, while your back arched off the ground. Despite the feeling of your pussy being on fire, you simply couldn’t get enough. Your body chased the touch of his naturally, like it knew better what you needed than your mind did.

In your haze you haven’t exactly noticed that he had stilled inside you, but your body did. The stinging pain slowly subsided as it mixed with bliss, turning into a dizzying excitement. Your muscles that squeezed his length relaxed slightly, just enough to make you take a deep breath.

Dunk noticed you getting used to the feeling, the fullness of it, and slowly drew himself back until the only thing remaining inside you was his tip—

—Only to slide his entire length into you one moment later. Every damn inch.

“Ah—” you gasped, but no other words were able to come out. Tears stung in your eyes, the stretch still overwhelming the tight rim of your hole.

His palm found the side of your heated face, cheeks warmed by the heat, and slowly but surely he found a rhythm. Slow and deep, he thrusted into you, every thrust reaching so deep inside you that the air from your lungs got knocked out. Quickly, the sensation transitioned, mixing with pleasure, until every thrust elicited only a warm, fuzzy feeling in your entire abdomen. The feeling muddled your thoughts, overwhelmed all your sense, until everything in your mind was only him. His huge frame above yours and his dick inside your heat.

“You okay?” he panted, and you could only nod frantically. More than okay.

“Faster.”

He did as you said, and it was like the last thread of restraint inside him snapped. Duncan’s hips surged forward, faster now, the pace turning from measured to hungry. Each thrust landed deeper, heavier, driving the breath from your lungs in sharp, helpless sounds that dissolved into moans you couldn’t swallow back. The wet, obscene rhythm of him filling you echoed between the trees, the slap of skin against skin mixing with your shaky gasps.

Your legs trembled around his waist, trying to hold him exactly where you wanted him. Every time he pulled back you felt the sudden, aching emptiness and every time he drove back in, you broke all over again, your body clenching greedily around him as if it could drag him even deeper. The stretch that had stung before turned into a bright, dizzying pleasure that made your back arch off the ground.

“Duncan—” your voice cracked, breathless and needy, your hands scratching at his shoulders. He answered with a ragged groan, forehead dropping near yours, while he kept moving relentlessly. The muscles in his abdomen tightened with each snap of his hips, and you could feel him starting to lose control. The way his thrusts grew less careful, more desperate, like he couldn’t bear even a second without you wrapped around him.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, yes, yes—”

His pace stuttered for half a heartbeat, as if the sound of your voice hit him somewhere primal, and then he pushed harder, faster, grinding so deep it made your whole body jolt. Pleasure gathered low in your belly, thick and intense, coiling tighter with every thrust until you were shaking beneath him, mouth open on a silent cry, completely undone by the way he was fucking into you.

His abdomen brushed over your most sensitive spot repeatedly every time he thrust into you, creating a intoxicating friction between your thighs. The pressure inside your stomach built and built, making you tighten your stomach. You felt the warmth spreading through your body, mind concentrating on one thing only.

So close…

“I can’t—” Duncan grunted in your ear. “Can’t hold it much longer.”

You moaned. The strain in his voice made you feel a pulse on your privates and squeeze around him even harder.

You were close, so close the world around you seemed to blur. Your breath came in broken little rushes, each one thinner than the last, and your body tightened with that exciting, inevitable tension. Duncan felt it. Something in his focus sharpened, his grip turning possessive, his pace faltering for a heartbeat as if he was trying to hold himself together.

And then the feeling released, burst open in waves beneath your skin.

Pleasure rolled through you all at once, fierce and blinding, stealing your voice and leaving you trembling beneath him. Your body clenched hard, helplessly, as the sensation tore through you, each one stronger than the last, until you were arching, fingers digging into him for something to hold onto. Your whole body shuddered with it.

And as soon as he sensed your release, he followed with a groan and forcefully shoved himself inside you one last time. His body went rigid for a heartbeat, tense with all of his desires which he had to bottle up for so long — until now. You felt his hot fluid spurt out of him and fill you up. You clenched around his length one more time, trying to milk every last drop. Another animalistic grunt ripped from his throat.

It left him breathing heavily and blushing, and he held himself up with his last stength to not crush you beneath him. Even though, you both had released your pleasure, he stayed inside you and relished in the closeness you shared. He buried his face against your neck, holding you, and the sound he made was half relief, half surrender. For a moment there was nothing but the forest and the two of you, tangled together and heavily breathing, hearts hammering in the same frantic rhythm.

You turned your neck towards his face after a few heartbeats, looking at his red face from out the corner of your eye. “We should race more often.”

“i missed you," you say drunkenly as you lightly close your eyes.

he doesn't answer straight away. he takes your hand from his jaw and turns it over slowly, and presses his lips to your palm, holding them there for just a moment longer than necessary.

then he lowers your hand and rests it on your thigh, his fingers loose over yours.

“it's only been a couple of hours, love."

“i know."

“i missed you too." he shifts into gear, eyes moving to the road. “let's get you to bed."

you sigh and let your head tip back against the seat. you glance at your boyfriend again for just a second before turning to the window and looking up at the nighttime sky.

“thank you for coming to get me."

“always." he doesn't look away from the road. “how was your night?"

you let out another sigh. “it was fine. kiera’s a bitch though,” you say bluntly.

paul laughs out loud. “baby, you can’t say that about your best friend”

“i can, actually. it's one of the perks." you pick at a loose thread on your dress. “and it's accurate. there's no other word for someone who leaves their best friend with a group of people she barely knows to go off with some guy." you pause. “who was ugly, by the way. genuinely."

he's still smiling when he glances over at you, but the smile settles into something quieter when he sees your face. you're still turned toward the window. to anyone else you'd just look a bit pissed off. but paul can tell.

“i’m sorry she left you on your own," he says, carefully. “you must've felt pretty lonely."

you shrug.

the lights ahead shift to red and he slows to a stop, using the moment to look at you properly. the glitter on your eyelids, the eyeliner faintly smudged at the outer corners, the lipstick worn down to a ghost of itself. he thinks you look beautiful. so beautiful that it actually makes him ache a little.

“you okay?" he says, very softly.

“yeah. honestly it’s not a big deal, we can talk about it later.”

he holds the look for a moment longer, even though you're not meeting it. then the light goes green, and he faces the road again, and he reaches over and finds your hand.

you don't speak for the rest of the drive. it’s only fifteen minutes, and it’s a comfortable silence.

the moment you're through the front door of your flat you're making a beeline for the bathroom with as much urgency as your aching feet and the general state of you will allow. which is not, objectively, very fast. you've needed the toilet for the better part of an hour and have been quietly suffering through it.

behind you, you can hear paul settling the flat for the night. the deadbolt sliding home. the soft clink of your keys on the hook. the hanging of his coat, then yours, which you'd left in a rush on the floor. the kitchen and living room lights off.

then, after a moment, footsteps.

the bathroom door, which you'd left ajar without thinking, opens a few inches, and he leans against the frame with a smile on his face.

you roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile and blushing of your cheeks that follow. “what? i’m on the toilet."

“i know. i just thought you might need a hand getting ready for bed."

“i am ready for bed."

“you're going to wake up tomorrow and be furious with me."

“i won't."

“you'll have mascara on the pillow and you'll be wearing that dress and you'll look at me like it's my fault."

you stare at him. he stares back. the flat is very quiet.

you sigh through your nose, stand up and flush the toilet. “fine," you say. “if I have to."

you're smiling though. you can't help it. and honestly, if you were being truthful with yourself, you want nothing more than to sit on the cold bathroom counter while your boyfriend takes your makeup off and talks quietly and kisses your face between swipes of a cotton pad. to be looked after.

paul would be lying too if he said he didn’t enjoy taking care of you like that.

“right." he pushes off the doorframe. “wash your hands, then up on the counter. i’ll get your pyjamas."

you do exactly that, hopping up onto the counter with considerably less grace than intended. by the time you've settled, paul is already back, pyjamas tucked under his arm. he hands them over, then reaches past you to open the cupboard above the mirror.

“which one, the oil one?"

“yeah, oil first. then the regular one after."

he grabs both without further comment and sets them on the counter beside you. he pumps the oil cleanser into his palm, rubs his hands together once, then places them on your face.

he's rougher than you'd like. probably muscle memory from how he scrubs his own face in the shower. 

“ow-“ you say, much louder than necessary.

“sorry," he's absolutely holding in a laugh. “sorry."

his hands slow down. he starts again, gentler this time. working in small circles at your temples, across your cheekbones, careful around your eyes. you let your eyes close. the bathroom is warm and paul’s so close to you, you can smell his cologne and the must he’s worked up over the day. 

you hear and feel a buzz, which you quickly realise is your phone. you're surprised you still have your phone, let alone that it made it home with you. you become slightly more alert, but it’s not enough to make you open your eyes.

“who's that,” you say sleepily.

paul rinses his hands, wrings out a damp cloth, and glances at the screen. he sees a new crack running across the corner. it’s small, but noticeable (alas, not to your drunk self. he says nothing and reminds himself to mention it tomorrow).

kiera - the notification reads, bright against the dark screen.

heyy sorry i lost you tonight are you home safe? had the best night xx

“who is it?" you say again.

“kiera." he starts wiping the cleanser from your face in slow strokes. “asking if you got home safe."

you let out a small hum.

he looks at you for a moment. then reaches for the second cleanser.

“she does this a lot, doesn't she."

one eye opens. “don't."

“hey - eyes closed. and i’m not doing anything."

you comply.

“yeah," you say eventually. “she does."

he doesn't push it. he finishes in silence, and when he's done he tilts your chin up with two fingers so you can look at him, which you do once your eyes are open.

”there you are," he says.

you smile without meaning to.

he doesn't move his hand. “you okay?"

you're tired, and his hand is warm, and all you want is to be horizontal with his arms around you. deflecting would be easier. quicker. “it's not a big deal," you say.

“in the grand scheme of things, maybe not." his thumb moves slightly against your jaw. “but you're upset. so it's a big deal to you."

the bathroom is very quiet.

“since i moved in with you," you start, then stop. “it's like she’s - i don't know. avoiding me. i know I'm further away now, i know that's part of it. but it was never like this before." you pause. “and even tonight, when we were actually together, it felt like she couldn't wait to not be."

you glance up at him to check you haven't lost him somewhere in all of this. you haven't. his eyes, as tired as yours, are steady on your face. listening in the way he always does.

“and I keep thinking I must've done something,” you say. “said something. i don't know."

“you haven't."

“you don't know that."

“maybe not.” he says. “but you need to talk to her, love. properly."

you look at your phone on the counter. the screen has gone dark.

“not tonight," paul says.

“no," you agree. “not tonight."

you sigh, feeling some relief.

“my feet hurt,” you say trying to lighten the mood, but you mean it too.

paul smiles. “they’ll hurt less when you're lying down.”

“give me a hug first,” you say with a pout.

he pulls you in without a word. it’s an all-consuming type of hug. your face finds the curve of his neck and you stay there, breathing in his warmth and familiarity. 

you pull back just enough to bring your face level with his.

“kiss too, please."

he kisses you softly. your hands travel slowly across his chest and find their way around his neck. his arms stay around your waist.

you pull away gradually. hesitantly.

“thanks," you say, still close. “i love you."

“i love you too." a breath, then, barely above a whisper: “you should probably brush your teeth before coming to bed, by the way."

you give him a look. he smiles. you playfully push him away, using this to push yourself off the bathroom counter, and watch him leave, laughing quietly, towards the bedroom.

you stand there for a second in the sudden quiet of him being gone, smiling at nothing in particular.

you change into your pyjamas. then you reach for your toothbrush.

by the time you pad through to the bedroom he's already on his side, lamp still on, hoodie off, book open. (paul hates reading when he's tired. you both know he's just waiting up for you.)