WONDER

Not because he had more duties to uphold to, but simply he could not spend his time doing as he wished. He was right where he wanted to be lounging back against the piles of pillows, a hand tucked behind his head the other resting against your thigh.

You sat up straight, your hair unbound moving slightly as you tilted your head back and forth. Your hands moved widely as you made gestures to follow through with your stories of the day. Both that included you and simply ones you had heard through the line of gossip.

He did not care for gossip. He did not often indulge in it himself, but by the Gods he loved to hear the tales that came from your pretty lips. Of who was partaking in what scandalous activity and better yet your own thoughts about the situations.

This was the best part of the day without a shadow of any doubt. Where the pair of you could simply be two young adults in love, without the constant eyes on you. Where he could stare at you as long as he wished without someone else begging for his attention some important matter.

Nothing was ever more important than you, but alas as a prince and future Heir to the Throne duty always called, and must be upheld.

He had always been regarded as quiet, respectful, and watching. You were on the opposite side. You had always talked, a lot according to your family. To which they regarded as a flaw, but he disagreed.

He loved the sound of your voice. He loved listening to the workings of your mind or simple observations you had picked up on. He would never speak again if that was what it took to hear your voice forever.

You were so bright. So beautiful and filled his world with so much light it brought him peace. That despite all the chaos, all the weights on his shoulders he still had this. He stull had his small moments of solace of being your husband.

It was his favorite title. One he wore with pride and made him peacock around more than the one of prince ever had.

You were his and only his.

He watched you carefully, listening to every word you deemed him fit to be graced with and he took everything in with utmost attention. He even often tried to piece together the ending. Seeing as if he could get it right.

Sometimes he did, and that was his favorite part. Watching your face light up even more realizing how he had listened to everything you had said, and even formed his own opinions on it.

He would always store the expression of your face into a small part of his brain so he could remember just how warm he felt during that moment when things got tough. That despite the duty, despite everything he still had you, and your wonderful stories.

You stopped, and he waited for you to continue patiently, wondering if you had lost your footing or something else had came to mind. He never minded straying course form the original topic. Sometimes you ended back at it, and sometimes not.

Your eyebrows came together as your eyes scanned across his face,"Valarr?" you questioned, causing him to hum in reply automatically You looked half surprised as if you had been expecting him not to listen. You clearly did not know you held his entire attention, his devotion, his heart even. "You look bored, my love."

His mouth opened immediately in shock or perhaps sorrow that you could ever think that. He pushed himself up from his lying position, his hand moving to cradle your cheek, "You could never bore me, ābrazȳrys."

"If you are tired you can rest. I know you have had a long day."

He shock his head in denial, "No. I wish for you to continuing

"Truly?" you asked, the doubt was evident seeping through all your features and it caused his gut to churn. Oh, how could you belie there was anything he rather be doing then sitting here, listening to you.

The Prince leaned forward instead pushing his mouth to yours gently, and he could feel you melting into him. His other hand moved to the side of your neck as he held you to him. Kissing away all the doubt that there was anything more important than you.

You were everything. And he would not trade this nightly routine for anything. No crown, no duty could ever stop him from enjoying the small unguarded moments of life with you.

He only pulled away when his lungs begged for air, and he more so did it for you then himself. His forehead rested against your own as he continued to cradle you as if you were glass, "Truly. I could listen to you talk all day," he assured you.

You hummed in reply and he smiled finally pulling back. He smirked pressing a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger to seal his words once more, before settling back against the pillows.

Valarr smiled at you, "Now continue on with your story of Lady Lannister I am waging to see if I can predict the ending."

You laughed, and the sound hit him directly in his chest, a warmth spreading through him, as you continued on with your story. Your hands moving widely once more, your face lit up in the happiness that mirrored his own.

YOUR POV:

You posted it at 8:17 p.m. because if you waited until 8:18, you’d delete the whole thing.

Your thumb hovered over the button for so long that the screen dimmed once in warning.

You touched it awake.

The caption stared back at you.

Some news I’ve been holding close for a while — I’m heading back to where it all started. Full circle, and feeling very grateful.

It was simple. Professional enough. Warm enough. Normal enough that no one scrolling past would know you had rewritten it nine times and deleted the word home from every version.

Heading home. Going home. Back home.

You had stared at each version until the word stopped looking like a place and started looking like a person.

So you took it out. Full circle was safer. Full circle was clean. Full circle did not have tired eyes, a quiet apartment, and a cream-colored mug with a faded green design sitting in a cabinet that did not belong to you anymore.

You hit post.

For one second, nothing happened.

Then your phone buzzed.

Dana liked it first. Of course she did.

Your chest loosened before you could stop it, affection cutting through the dread with annoying precision. You pictured her seeing the post in the middle of whatever rare quiet moment PTMC had allowed her, smiling down at her phone, already opening the comments.

Her words appeared seconds later.

So proud of you. We’re lucky to have you back.

You stared at it until your eyes stung.

You were proud too.

That was the part that kept getting lost under everything else.

You had done it.

You had survived the internship, the hours, the supervision meetings, the crisis calls that followed you home, no matter how many grounding exercises you tried in the car. You had sat with people in rooms where the air felt too small for grief and fear and whatever came after both. You had learned when to speak, when to wait, when silence was support, and when silence was abandonment dressed up as restraint.

You had become a hospital therapist.

PTMC wanted you back. The ED wanted you back.

That should have been enough to make your hands stop shaking.

Your phone buzzed again. Robby commented next.

About time.

A laugh came out of you before you could help it.

It hurt.

You pressed your fingers to your mouth and looked around your apartment like someone might have heard. No one had. The apartment was mostly boxes now, half-filled and badly labeled, your life sorted into categories that made no emotional sense.

Kitchen. Books. Bathroom. Work stuff. Do not open unless emotionally stable.

That last one was not written on a box, but it should have been.

Another notification came through. Santos, all capital letters and too many exclamation points. Then two people from your internship cohort. Then a former supervisor. Then Dana again, responding to someone else with a string of hearts.

You watched the names appear one by one.

You did not look for his. You absolutely did not. Your thumb refreshed anyway.

Nothing. No like. No comment.

No text sliding down from the top of the screen with his name attached.

You let out a breath and hated how much it sounded like disappointment.

“That’s good,” you said to the empty apartment.

Your voice sounded strange. Too loud against the cardboard and bare walls.

You put the phone face down on the floor beside you.

Then you picked it back up.

Still nothing.

“Perfect,” you said, sharper this time. “Great. Healthy.”

You locked the phone and tossed it onto the couch, where it landed between a stack of folded sweaters and one open roll of packing tape. The tape had stuck to itself again, the clear end impossible to find, because of course it had. Packing tape was evil. It had been evil the last time, too.

You sat back on your heels.

The last time.

Your apartment seemed to shift around you.

Different city. Different walls. Different boxes.

Same sound when you dragged tape across cardboard. Same ache between your ribs when you looked at a room you had built a life inside and started dismantling it with your own hands.

You reached for the tape anyway.

The edge caught under your nail, then split badly when you pulled. You cursed under your breath, picked at it again, and tore off a jagged strip. It crinkled in your hands, loud and cheap and familiar.

For a second, you were not in your apartment anymore.

You were barefoot in your old living room, folding one of Jack’s PTMC sweatshirts badly because your hands would not stop shaking.

His hands had been in his pockets.

That was what you remembered first. Not the boxes. Not the suitcase by the door.

Not the internship packet sitting open on the counter, the offer letter creased at the corner from how many times you had read it.

His hands.

Tucked away. Controlled. Not reaching.

You had hated him for that.

You had wanted him to reach anyway.

You blinked hard, and your apartment returned. The new one. The almost-empty one. The one that had never known Jack except in the ways you carried him into it.

Your phone stayed silent on the couch.

You turned back to the open box in front of you and picked up the next book from the stack beside your knee. Its cover was bent at one corner. You had carried it with you when you left PTMC, certain you would read it in your new city, certain you would become the kind of person who finished novels in coffee shops between supervision notes and staff meetings.

You had not finished it.

You had barely started it.

When you opened it, something slipped from between the pages and landed face down on the floor.

You went still.

You knew before you picked it up.

Of course you knew.

The Polaroid was soft at the edges from being handled too many times and then hidden away, as if hiding was the same as healing. The picture was dark, a little blurry, the flash too bright against Jack’s white shirt.

His arm was hooked around your shoulders.

His mouth was pressed against your temple.

Your eyes were closed.

That was the part you hated most.

You looked peaceful. Not posed. Not careful. Not trying to survive anything.

Just held.

Jack’s hand curved around your arm like it belonged there. His face was turned toward you instead of the camera, like whoever had taken the picture had interrupted something he had been doing without thinking.

Keeping you close.

You stared at it until your throat hurt.

There it was.

Evidence.

Jack had not looked like a man who was going to let you go. He had not held you like someone practicing for absence.

You wished the picture made you softer.

It didn’t.

It made you angry.

You slid your thumb once over the white border and remembered the warmth of his arm, the weight of him beside you, the low sound he made when Robby had told the two of you to act normal for one picture.

You had laughed.

Jack had kissed the side of your head.

Someone had said something stupid. You could not remember what.

You remembered Jack’s hand. You remembered how safe you had felt.

You remembered everything.

That was the problem.

Your phone buzzed again. You looked at it too quickly.

Not Jack.

Dana.

Her name lit up your screen, and beneath it, a message.

Dana: Call me when you can. I need to scream about this.

You let the Polaroid rest in your lap and stared at the message for a long second.

Then you wiped under your eye with the heel of your hand, annoyed to find anything there.

You picked up the phone.

Dana answered on the second ring.

“I am so proud of you,” Dana said before you could even say hello.

You closed your eyes. For one second, you let that be enough.

“Thanks,” you said.

Dana made a small sound. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you asked.

Dana sighed. “Make your voice normal.”

You laughed once, but it came out tired. “I’m fine.”

Dana was quiet.

You hated that she knew better.

You looked down at the Polaroid in your lap, at Jack’s arm around you, at the version of yourself who had not known yet how badly a person could miss someone who was still alive.

“I’m excited,” you said.

“I know,” Dana said gently.

“And nervous,” you added.

She exhaled. “I know that too.”

You pressed your thumb to the edge of the photo. The question sat behind your teeth. You were not going to ask. You were not.

Dana waited.

That was the problem with friends who knew you well. They knew the shape of what you were not saying.

Finally, you exhaled. “How’s the department?”

Dana let you have it.

“Chaotic,” Dana said. “Understaffed. Weirdly sticky near triage today, and no one will admit why.”

You smiled despite yourself. “So, exactly the same.”

“Exactly the same,” Dana said.

You shifted the phone against your ear and looked around at the boxes. “How’s Robby?”

“Offended by the concept of the morning, as usual,” Dana replied.

“Good,” you said.

Dana waited again.

You closed your eyes.

You hated yourself a little before you asked. “And Jack?”

The silence was tiny.

Barely there.

You felt it anyway.

Dana’s voice softened. “He’s fine.”

Fine.

You nodded like Dana could see you. “Good.”

The word scraped on the way out.

Dana said your name.

You opened your eyes and looked down at the Polaroid again. Jack’s mouth on your temple. His arm around your shoulders. Your face soft with trust.

You turned the photo over.

“Good,” you said again, because saying anything else would have made it too obvious that fine still had the power to hurt you.

On the other end of the line, Dana did not push.

You loved her for that.

You hated her a little for knowing not to.

Your phone stayed pressed to your ear. The boxes waited. The tape stuck to itself on the couch. Jack’s sweatshirt sat folded at the bottom of a half-packed bin, the one you had told yourself you forgot you still had. You had not posted for him. You had not packed for him.

You were not going back for him.

You told yourself all of that while the Polaroid sat facedown in your lap like a lie you had never learned how to throw away.

After Dana hung up, you sat on the floor for a while with the phone in one hand and the Polaroid facedown in your lap.

The apartment stayed quiet around you.

Not peaceful.

Just quiet.

There was a difference.

You had learned that one the hard way.

Outside your window, traffic moved through the city you had almost learned how to belong to. Headlights passed over the ceiling in brief, pale lines. Somewhere above you, a neighbor dropped something heavy enough to make the floor creak. Your phone buzzed twice more with comments and messages you did not open.

You should have kept packing.

You had a moving truck scheduled. A lease ending. A start date. A job title. A life waiting for you in the place you had once left with your whole chest caved in.

You had practical things to do.

That had always been the problem.

Practical things were easier than the rest of it.

You picked the Polaroid up again, even though you knew better.

Jack’s arm around your shoulders. His mouth near your temple. Your eyes closed.

You did not remember closing them for the picture. That bothered you for reasons you did not want to name. You must have felt safe enough not to look. Safe enough not to check the camera. Safe enough not to worry about how you looked, or who was watching, or what came next.

Jack had been right there.

Holding you like it was nothing.

Holding you like it was everything.

You turned the photo over before you could stare too long, then slid it carefully back between the pages of the book.

Not because you wanted to keep it safe.

Because you wanted it gone.

There was a difference there too.

You reached for the nearest box and pulled it closer. Books first. Then the stack of sweaters folded beside you. Then the bin you had been avoiding since you dragged it out of the closet that afternoon.

Winter clothes.

That was what the tape on the side said. It was not a lie. Not technically.

You lifted the lid.

The first thing on top was Jack’s sweatshirt.

Of course it was.

Dark PTMC lettering across the front. Soft at the cuffs. Too big in the shoulders. Washed so many times that the fabric had gone thin in places, worn down by your hands, his laundry, your old couch, his bed, late nights, early mornings, hospital coffee, and every ordinary thing you had once mistaken for permanence.

You stared at it.

Then you laughed once under your breath, because apparently you had a flair for self-harm as long as it came folded in cotton.

“Great,” you said to no one. “Very normal.”

You picked it up carefully.

It did not smell like him anymore.

That should have made it easier.

It didn’t.

You pressed your thumb into the cuff and remembered the last time you had worn it. Your old apartment. Boxes everywhere. Tape on the coffee table.

The internship packet open on the counter, the offer letter creased from the number of times you had unfolded it just to prove it was real.

You had already accepted.

That mattered.

You had accepted because you wanted it. Because you had earned it. Because the supervisor who called you had said they were excited to have you, and you had cried in your car for ten minutes afterward before calling Dana, then your family, then Jack.

You had never wanted anyone to talk you out of going.

You had wanted Jack to want to.

That was the part you had never figured out how to say without feeling selfish.

In the memory, the sweatshirt hung around your body like proof that you belonged somewhere you were about to leave.

Jack stood in your living room with his hands in his pockets.

You hated his hands in his pockets. You hated how calm he looked. You hated that he only looked calm because you knew him well enough to see the tension in his jaw, the careful line of his shoulders, the way he kept looking at the boxes and then back at you like he was trying to memorize a disaster without getting in its way.

You folded a sweatshirt badly. One of yours. Soft gray. Completely impossible to fold correctly because your hands would not stop shaking.

You unfolded it.

Folded it again.

Worse somehow.

Jack watched you do it wrong twice.

Finally, Jack said, “You’re ready for this.”

You stopped.

Not completely. Not dramatically. Your hands just paused for half a second on the fabric.

You looked down at the sweatshirt, at the uneven sleeves, at your own fingers pressing too hard into the cotton.

“Yeah,” you said.

Jack’s voice softened. “You are.”

You closed your eyes for one second.

That was the thing.

He was answering the question you were not asking.

You knew you were ready for the internship. You knew you were ready for the work, the hours, the cases, the hard days, the learning curve. You knew you were scared, but ready.

You did not know if he was ready to miss you.

You did not know if he wanted to.

You looked up at him.

“I know I’m ready for the internship, Jack,” you said.

There.

There it was.

The door.

Not wide open. Not easy.

But open.

Jack went quiet.

You watched him understand enough to hurt you and not enough to stop. He stepped closer. His hand found your wrist, thumb brushing once over the inside of it, so gentle you almost hated him for that too.

“I’m proud of you,” Jack said.

Your face did something.

You felt it happen and hated that he probably saw.

Proud.

He was proud of you. Of course he was. Jack had always believed you could do this. He believed in your competence so steadily that sometimes you borrowed the belief from him when yours ran out. He had sat across from you while you studied and listened to you talk through case conceptualizations, even when he was exhausted. He had made food when you forgot. He had read over a paragraph once, then admitted he had no idea what your professor wanted, but was confident you were smarter than the assignment.

His pride should have felt like love.

It did feel like love.

That was why it hurt.

Because it was not the only thing you needed. You needed him to say he was going to miss you. You needed him to say the apartment would feel wrong without you in it. You needed him to say that long distance sounded miserable, and he wanted to try anyway. You needed him to say anything that made leaving feel like something happening to both of you, not something he was gracefully allowing you to do.

Instead, he was proud.

You had looked down at his hand on your wrist and tried not to cry.

“Thank you,” you said.

The words had tasted terrible.

Jack’s thumb moved once more against your skin.

You wondered if he knew. You wondered if he could feel you pulling back from him in real time.

The rest of the night had moved around the wound like if neither of you touched it, maybe it would not bleed.

Jack carried a box down to your car.

You pretended not to watch his shoulders as he lifted it.

You found a missing charger under the couch.

Jack found your water bottle in the cabinet.

You made a joke about the ugly lamp being structurally loyal.

Jack said, “That lamp is a crime.”

You said, “That lamp has seen things.”

Jack said, “So have I. I don’t ask to stand in your living room forever.”

You laughed.

It came out almost normal.

That almost made it worse.

Then there was nothing left to do. No more boxes to carry. No more drawers to check. No more tiny practical tasks to save either of you from the fact that he was standing in your doorway and you were holding his key.

It had been warm from your palm.

You remembered that too.

Stupid, ordinary detail.

The key had been warm because you had been gripping it too tightly for too long.

“I should give this back,” you said.

Jack looked at the key. Then he looked at you.

“You don’t have to,” Jack said.

Your heart did something embarrassing.

It lifted.

Just a little.

Just enough.

“Don’t I?” you asked.

You hated how small your voice sounded.

Jack shook his head once, but he did not say no.

Not really.

He did not say, Keep it.

He did not say, It’s still yours.

He did not say, You’re still mine.

He did not even say your name.

He held out his hand.

That was what you remembered. Not the exact shape of the hallway light. Not the television playing through someone else’s wall. Not the smell of cardboard and rain and the lemon cleaner you had used on the counter that morning.

His hand.

Open.

Waiting.

You put the key in his palm. You felt his fingers close around it. Something in you went very quiet.

“Okay,” you said.

Jack’s voice was low. “Okay.”

You looked past him into the hallway because looking at him hurt too much.

“Drive safe,” you said.

It was an insane thing to say. It was nothing. It was all you could manage.

Jack stepped closer.

You inhaled before you could stop yourself.

Your hand went to his shirt as if your body were still hopeful, even though the rest of you had started to understand. Your fingers curled into the fabric, holding on to him in the way you had been trying not to all night.

Then he kissed you.

And God, that was the worst part.

Because he loved you.

You felt it.

You felt it in the way his hand came up to your jaw, in the way his mouth met yours, in the way he said your name against your lips like something had finally slipped past whatever wall he had built inside himself.

He loved you.

He wanted you.

He was hurting.

You knew all of that.

You knew it so clearly that for one second, you almost forgave the rest.

Your other hand pressed against his chest. His heart beat under your palm, fast enough to make you ache. You waited for him to ruin the goodbye. You waited for him to pull back and say he was sorry, that he was trying to be good and he could not do it anymore, that he wanted you to keep the key, that he wanted the hard thing, that he wanted you.

He did not.

He kept the kiss careful.

Gentle.

Like careful was kind.

Like gentle did not still break things.

When you pulled back, his eyes were on your mouth.

“I should go,” Jack said.

You swallowed around the awful pressure in your throat.

“Yeah,” you said. “You should.”

He waited.

You waited.

Nothing happened.

Jack stepped back.

Your hand fell from his shirt.

That was the last time he touched you.

Not the breakup.

Not officially.

Not yet.

But it was the last time his hand held your jaw. The last time his mouth touched yours. The last time you were close enough to feel the moment he chose not to ask.

You had thought there would be other kisses too.

Airport kisses. Weekend kisses. Rushed, exhausted, desperate kisses after making distance work through sheer stubbornness and bad sleep.

You had thought that kiss was the beginning of the hard part.

You had not known it was a record of the end.

The sweatshirt sat heavy in your hands in your new apartment.

You folded it once. Badly.

Then you unfolded it.

For one second, you almost laughed.

For one second, you almost cried.

Instead, you put it back in the bin. You placed it carefully on top, where you would have to decide again later.

That was the most honest thing you could do.

Your phone buzzed on the couch. You looked at it.

Still not Jack.

You hated yourself for checking.

Then you reached for the packing tape and kept going.

The sound of it splitting off the roll was too loud in the quiet apartment.

Sharp. Familiar. Mean in the way ordinary things could be mean when they knew too much.

You dragged the strip across the top of the box and pressed it down with the heel of your hand. The cardboard bowed slightly beneath the pressure. You smoothed the tape once, twice, harder than you needed to, until the edge stuck flat and there was nothing left to fix.

There had been a time when packing had felt temporary.

That was the stupidest part.

The first time, when you left PTMC for your internship, everyone acted like your departure had a return date because, technically, it did. Your lease ended. Your internship had a timeline. Your supervisor had told you what your hours would look like, what your caseload might include, how often you would meet for supervision, how much of yourself the work would ask for before you learned how to stop offering it everything.

You had known how long you would be gone.

You had not known what distance could do to a person’s voice.

You had not known what it could do to love when both people were trying so hard to be good that neither of them admitted they were bleeding.

You pulled another strip of tape from the roll.

The sound took you back so fast you almost dropped it.

The airport.

The first leaving.

You had been standing near your gate with your backpack hooked over one shoulder, one hand wrapped around an overpriced coffee you had no intention of finishing. The terminal had been too bright and too loud, full of people going places with less grief in their carry-ons.

He had called after you were already through security, too late to change the choice either of you had pretended was practical.

Your phone had buzzed in your hand.

Jack.

For one awful, immediate second, your throat had closed.

Then you had answered.

“Hey,” you said, turning toward the windows.

Jack’s voice came through low and rough, threaded with road noise. “Hey, baby.”

Your eyes burned instantly. You blinked hard and watched a plane move slowly beneath the gray morning sky.

“Are you driving?” you asked.

Jack answered, “Hands-free.”

You could hear the faint click of his turn signal in the background.

You smiled even though your chest hurt. “Good. I was about to give you a lecture.”

Jack said, “I know. I called prepared.”

You laughed once.

It came out small.

Jack was quiet for half a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed.

“I wish you would’ve let me take you to the airport,” Jack said.

Your chest tightened.

“You couldn’t miss work,” you said.

Jack said, “I could’ve figured it out.”

You looked at the gate agent shuffling papers behind the desk.

“You had patients,” you said.

Jack’s voice went dry. “I always have patients.”

“Exactly,” you said, trying to make your voice lighter than it felt. “And I had a ride.”

Jack made a quiet sound.

Not agreement. Not argument.

Something worse.

“You had an Uber,” Jack said.

You glanced toward the gate, where a little kid was spinning in slow circles with a stuffed dinosaur tucked under one arm.

“It was a very emotionally supportive Uber,” you said.

Jack did not laugh.

That made your smile fade.

“Jack,” you said softly.

“I know,” Jack said.

But he didn’t.

Not really.

Neither of you did.

You thought he was upset because he had wanted to help. Because he was tired and protective and hated the idea of you managing bags and airports and goodbye alone.

He thought you were being practical. Responsible. Careful with his schedule. Careful with his work.

Neither of you understood that this was where it started.

This tiny, reasonable wound.

Him wishing he had taken you.

You insisting he could not miss work.

Both of you mistaking love for not becoming a problem.

“I miss you already,” Jack said.

Your face crumpled before you could stop it. You pressed your knuckles to your mouth and looked out at the runway, blinking hard like that would make any difference.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“I know,” Jack said softly.

You could picture him too clearly. One hand on the wheel. Scrubs under his jacket because he was going straight to the hospital. His jaw tight. His eyes on the road because looking anywhere else would cost him too much.

“I love you,” Jack said.

The words moved through you so cleanly that for one second, leaving felt survivable.

“I love you too,” you said.

His breath shifted through the speaker.

Around you, someone laughed too loudly. A suitcase wheel rattled over the tile. The gate agent picked up the phone at the desk and started speaking into the intercom.

Jack said your name.

You closed your eyes.

“Call me when you land,” Jack said. “And when you get to the apartment.”

“I will,” you said.

Jack added, “And when you’re settled.”

You laughed softly, wiping under your eye. “That’s a lot of calls.”

“I’m a demanding man,” Jack said.

“You’re a nightmare,” you said.

His voice warmed. “Yeah. But you love me.”

You looked down at the boarding pass in your hand.

“Yeah,” you said, quieter. “I do.”

The silence after that was not empty.

It was full of everything neither of you knew how to say yet.

Jack cleared his throat. “You’re going to be okay.”

You swallowed.

There it was again.

His steady belief in you.

The thing you loved.

The thing that would hurt later.

“I know,” you said.

Jack’s voice softened. “But call me anyway.”

You nodded like he could see you.

“I will,” you said.

The gate agent announced boarding for your group. Your hand tightened around the phone.

Jack heard it somehow.

“That you?” Jack asked.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

Another pause stretched between you.

Then Jack said, “Go be brilliant.”

Your eyes closed.

“Don’t make me cry in public, Abbot,” you said.

“I’m not making you do anything,” Jack said. “You’re choosing to be dramatic.”

You laughed through the tears then, because of course he could still do that. Of course he could still find the exact pressure point between heartbreak and humor and press gently enough to make you breathe.

“I have to go,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said.

You waited.

He waited.

Neither of you ended the call.

Finally, Jack said, “I love you.”

You held the phone tighter.

“I love you too,” you said.

Then you hung up before boarding the plane that would take you away from him.

For a while, the two of you tried.

That was the part people always skipped over when they asked what happened. They liked the clean version. You left for an internship. He stayed. It ended.

Simple.

It had not been simple.

For a while, the two of you tried, with a kind of stubbornness that looked romantic from afar and brutal up close. You called after shifts, your face still creased from the pillow because Jack was getting home as you were waking up. He texted you pictures of your mug in his cabinet like proof that you still existed in his kitchen. You sent him photos of terrible vending machine dinners and dared him to judge you from three hundred miles away.

Jack always judged you.

Jack judged you, then ordered soup to your apartment because, apparently, distance did not make him any less irritating.

You loved him for that.

You loved him so much that the distance made you mean sometimes.

Not mean out loud.

Not at first.

Just sharp around the edges. Too quiet when he had to cancel a call because the ED went sideways. Too bright when you said it was fine. Too quick to say you understood, because you did understand, and understanding did not make the empty side of your bed feel less empty.

The time difference was only an hour, but some nights it felt like another country.

Some mornings, Jack would call you after a shift, voice wrecked with exhaustion, and you would sit on your bedroom floor with your laptop still open beside you, listening to him breathe through a silence neither of you knew how to fill.

Some nights, you would tell him about a case, and he would go quiet in that careful Jack way, giving you room, letting you choose how much to say.

Before, that silence had felt like safety.

From far away, it started to feel like absence.

You hated yourself for that.

You hated him a little too.

Then, six weeks after you left, you found the flight.

It was stupidly cheap. One of those impossible fares that felt like the universe had briefly taken pity on you. You were sitting on your bed in leggings and one of Jack’s old PTMC sweatshirts, surrounded by journal articles and supervision notes you had pretended you were going to finish before midnight.

You had not been looking for flights.

That was what you told yourself.

You had been checking something else. Weather, maybe. Your email. The price of laundry detergent. Anything but flights home.

Then there it was.

Friday night to Sunday evening.

Cheap enough that you could justify it if you were reckless. Early enough that you could go straight from your last meeting to the airport. Late enough coming back that you could have almost two full days.

Two days.

Forty-three hours, if the flight landed on time.

Forty-three hours in Jack’s apartment, Jack’s hands and Jack’s tired mouth on yours in the kitchen before either of you made it to the bedroom.

Forty-three hours of your mug back in your hand.

Forty-three hours of not having to miss him through a screen.

Forty-three hours where call me when you land could become I’m outside.

Your heart was beating too hard when you called him.

FaceTime rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then Jack appeared on the screen, half-lit by the lamp beside his bed, his hair flattened on one side and his eyes heavy with the kind of exhaustion that made guilt flare in your chest before you had even said hello.

“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice low and rough.

You almost cried at the sound of it.

“Hey,” you said.

Jack shifted against the pillows, frowning slightly as he looked at you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly.

Jack’s brow lifted. “Try again.”

You laughed, but it broke in the middle. “I found a flight.”

He did not answer right away.

You sat up straighter, already smiling, already reaching for your laptop like you could show him through the phone.

“It’s for next weekend,” you said. “Friday to Sunday. It’s actually cheap, which feels suspicious, but I checked the airline three times.”

Jack blinked, more awake now. “Next weekend?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I know it’s short, but I could make it work. I’d have to leave right after supervision on Friday, and I’d probably be disgusting by the time I landed, but—”

“Baby,” Jack said gently.

You stopped.

That was the problem.

He said it gently.

Your hand went still on the trackpad.

Jack’s voice softened even more. “You don’t have to do that.”

Something inside you went very quiet.

You looked at the flight on your screen. The little numbers. The arrival time. The return. The impossible, stupid hope you had built in the last four minutes.

“What?” you asked.

Jack sighed.

Not annoyed.

Not angry.

Just tired.

That somehow made it worse.

“You’re exhausted,” Jack said.

You stared at the screen.

Jack continued, “You’ve been running on fumes for weeks.”

“I know,” you said.

“And flying in for barely two days just to turn around and go back sounds like a lot,” Jack said.

You blinked once.

Then again.

The flight details blurred slightly.

Jack kept going, careful and kind and completely unaware that every word had started landing wrong.

“I want to see you,” Jack said. “You know that. But you don’t need to run yourself into the ground for me.”

For me.

You heard because of me.

You heard don’t make this harder.

You heard don’t come.

You pulled your hand away from the laptop.

“Oh,” you said.

Jack went quiet.

You hated that he heard it. You hated him for hearing it and not understanding it fast enough.

Jack said your name.

You smiled, because your body had no idea what else to do with pain when no one was there to witness it. “No, yeah. You’re right.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want you here,” Jack said.

Your eyes burned immediately.

That was worse.

That was so much worse.

Because he had heard enough to defend himself, but not enough to take it back.

“I know,” you said.

Jack’s voice changed. “Do you?”

You looked at the sweatshirt sleeves covering your hands.

His sweatshirt.

His hospital.

His city.

His apartment.

His careful, gentle, reasonable love that never seemed to reach for you when reaching might have cost him something.

“Of course I do,” you said.

Jack was silent.

So were you.

The laptop screen dimmed in front of you.

You touched the trackpad to wake it up, and the flight appeared again.

Still there.

Still possible.

Jack said, “I just don’t want you doing this because you feel like you have to.”

You laughed once.

It was a terrible sound.

“Why would I feel like I have to?” you asked.

Jack did not answer quickly enough.

There it was.

Another tiny silence.

Another place where he should have been braver.

Jack said, “That’s not what I meant.”

You closed the laptop.

The room went darker without it.

“Yeah,” you said. “I know.”

Jack breathed your name again, softer this time, and you almost hated him for how it still made you want to cry.

You wanted him to say, “Come home.”

You wanted him to say, “I know you’re tired, but I miss you so much I don’t know what to do with myself.”

You wanted him to say, “Buy the ticket. I’ll pick you up. I’ll take care of everything else.”

You wanted him to want you selfishly enough that you did not have to feel pathetic for wanting the same thing.

Instead, Jack said, “We’ll find another weekend.”

Another weekend.

Clean. Practical. Sensible.

A tiny postponement that felt, somehow, like an ending.

You nodded. “Sure.”

Jack’s face tightened. “Baby.”

You looked away from the screen. “I have to finish some notes.”

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

Jack let you have it anyway.

That was the thing about Jack.

He always let you have the exit.

He was good at that.

Too good.

“Okay,” Jack said quietly.

You waited.

You did not know for what. A protest, maybe. A correction. A sudden break in his restraint.

Anything.

Nothing came.

Your fingers curled into the hem of his sweatshirt.

“Goodnight, Jack,” you said.

His breath moved once through the speaker.

“Goodnight, baby,” Jack said.

You ended the call before he could hear you cry.

After that, something shifted.

Not all at once.

That would have been merciful.

It happened in pieces so small you could pretend not to notice them until they became the whole shape of your life.

You stopped sending him pictures of your dinner.

He stopped texting before his shifts because he knew you were in supervision.

You stopped asking when he was off next because the answer always sounded like something neither of you could use.

He stopped saying he wished you were there because you had started hearing it as apology instead of want.

The calls got shorter.

Then quieter.

Then careful.

Careful was the thing that killed you.

Careful had put his hands in his pockets while you packed. Careful had kissed you in the doorway and let you call it goodbye. Careful had told you that you did not have to fly home when all you wanted was for him to say he needed you there.

Careful was not cruel.

That was why neither of you knew what to do with the wound.

Three weeks after the flight you did not book, you called him after a day so long you had stopped feeling your own body as something separate from exhaustion.

Jack answered on FaceTime from his apartment.

The lamp was on behind him. His hair was damp from a shower. He wore an old dark T-shirt, soft at the collar, and he looked so much like home that you almost hung up before either of you could speak.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You looked at him through the screen and felt something in you give way.

“Hey,” you said.

Jack studied your face. “What happened?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

Jack frowned. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

You wanted to be comforted by the fact that he still knew you.

Instead, it hurt.

You looked down at your own small reflection in the corner of the screen. Tired. Eyes too dim. Mouth pressed into a line because if you let it tremble, you would have to admit what you had called to do.

“I think we need to talk,” you said.

Jack went still.

You watched him hear it.

The sentence everyone knew.

The sentence no one survived unbruised.

His voice lowered. “Okay.”

You hated how calm he sounded. You hated that he was probably not calm at all.

“I don’t think we can keep doing this,” you said.

Jack stared at you.

The words sat there between you, horrific and impossible through the speaker.

His eyes moved over your face as if he were looking for the place where he could still stop it.

“Baby,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes.

The endearment hurt more than your name would have.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

Jack’s mouth closed.

You opened your eyes again. “Please don’t call me that right now.”

He looked like you had put a hand to his chest and pushed.

You hated yourself for it.

You hated him for making you feel like the cruel one.

Jack leaned closer to the phone, his screen shifting as he moved. “Tell me what happened.”

You stared at him.

“What happened?” you repeated.

Jack’s face tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” you said, and your voice broke on the second word. “I know what you mean, Jack. I always know what you mean. That’s the problem.”

He went very still.

You wiped under one eye quickly, angry at yourself for crying before you had gotten through the worst of it.

“I spend so much time knowing what you mean,” you said. “I know you were trying to be supportive when I left. I know you were trying not to make me feel guilty. I know you were trying to take care of me when you told me I didn’t have to fly home.”

Jack’s eyes flashed with pain.

You kept going because if you stopped, you would lose your nerve.

“I know you don’t mean to make me feel unwanted,” you said. “But you do.”

Jack inhaled sharply.

The sound cracked through your phone speaker.

He said your name, rougher this time.

You shook your head.

Something drained out of his face in the dim apartment light.

You pressed your fingers to your mouth for a second. Your hands were shaking. You lowered them before he could see.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said. “I can’t keep missing you and defending you to myself at the same time.”

Jack’s voice was low. “I want you.”

You almost folded.

Right there.

Two seconds.

Three words.

It was pathetic how badly you still wanted to believe them.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. His tired eyes. His unshaven jaw. The apartment behind him that still looked like somewhere you belonged.

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one who ever reaches?” you asked.

Jack flinched.

You wished he had argued faster.

You wished he had gotten angry. You wished he had snapped and given you something solid to push against.

Instead, he looked devastated.

“I thought I was giving you space,” Jack said.

You nodded once, and a tear slipped down before you could stop it. “I know.”

Jack’s voice dropped. “I thought you needed me not to make this harder.”

You laughed then.

It came out small and broken and so tired you barely recognized it.

“Jack,” you said. “It was already hard.”

His eyes closed for half a second.

You watched the sentence land. You watched him understand it too late.

When he opened his eyes again, the carefulness was gone.

Not all of it. Jack would always have some restraint built into the bones of him. But enough of it slipped that you could see the panic underneath.

“I can come there,” Jack said.

You blinked.

Jack sat up straighter, like movement could undo the last five minutes. “I’ll come there. I’ll figure it out.”

“Jack,” you said.

He shook his head. “No. No, baby, just—”

You flinched at the name, and he stopped for half a second, pain flashing across his face.

Then he kept going anyway, softer and more desperate.

“Please,” Jack said. “We can fix this.”

Your face crumpled.

That was the worst part.

That he was saying it now.

That there was still enough love in him to offer, and still enough hurt in you for the offer to feel like proof of everything you had been asking for too quietly.

Jack dragged a hand over his jaw. “Don’t do this over FaceTime.”

Your breath caught.

“Please,” Jack said, and the word sounded like it cost him something. “Let’s just talk about it. I can come there, or you can come here, or we can pick a weekend and actually figure it out. But don’t—”

His voice broke.

Barely.

Enough.

Jack swallowed hard. “Don’t end this on a fucking screen.”

You pressed your hand over your mouth.

Jack leaned closer to the phone, his eyes locked on yours like he could keep you there by refusing to look away.

“I love you,” Jack said. “I love you. I should have said it better. I should have said a lot of things better, but I love you.”

The words landed exactly where you had needed them weeks ago.

Months ago.

In your apartment doorway, when the key was still warm in your hand.

At the airport, when distance still felt survivable.

On the phone, when you found the cheap flight and waited for him to say, “Come home.”

Now, they hit the bruised place and made it worse.

You shook your head, crying harder. “Jack.”

“We can fix it,” Jack said again, rougher. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

You looked at him through the screen.

The man you loved was sitting in his dim apartment, his whole face open in a way you had once wanted so badly that seeing it now felt cruel.

“I never needed you to ask me to give it up,” you said.

Jack went still.

You wiped your face with the heel of your hand, but the tears kept coming anyway.

“I need you to understand that,” you said. “I never wanted you to tell me not to go. I never wanted you to make me smaller or make me choose between you and my career.”

Jack’s face tightened.

“I know,” Jack said softly.

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I don’t think you do.”

His mouth closed.

You looked at him through the screen, at the tired eyes and clenched jaw and the apartment behind him that still looked more like home than anywhere you had ever lived without him.

“I needed you to need me back,” you said.

Jack’s expression cracked.

There it was.

The thing you had never known how to say without feeling pathetic. Without feeling selfish. Without sounding like you wanted him to punish you for growing.

Your voice broke anyway.

“I needed to know that I wasn’t the only one lying awake missing this,” you said. “I needed to know that you wanted me there even when it was inconvenient. Even when it was hard. Even when the timing was awful, and the flights were expensive, and our schedules were a fucking nightmare.”

Jack lowered his gaze.

You kept going because the words were out now, and there was no putting them back where they had lived for months.

“I needed you to say it mattered to you that I wasn’t there,” you whispered. “Not because you didn’t want me to succeed. Not because you wanted me to come home and give up. Because you loved me enough to admit that letting me go hurt you.”

Jack looked back at you then.

His eyes were wet.

“I thought that would make me the problem,” Jack said.

Your breath caught.

He swallowed hard, and for once, he did not look away from what he was saying.

“I thought if I told you how badly I wanted you back, I’d become another thing you had to carry,” Jack said. “Another reason to feel guilty. Another person asking something from you when you were already exhausted.”

You stared at him.

Jack’s voice roughened.

“I wasn’t trying not to need you,” Jack said. “I was trying not to use that need against you.”

The words hit you so hard you almost folded around them.

Because there it was.

His wound.

His love.

His ruinous, careful, stupid restraint.

And it still did not fix what it had broken.

You nodded slowly, tears slipping down your face.

“I know that now,” you said. “But I didn’t feel loved by it, Jack.”

He flinched.

You hated that part most of all.

“I felt alone,” you said.

Jack’s face changed like the words had gone straight through him.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then Jack whispered your name.

You shook your head.

“I love you so much,” you said.

Jack went still.

Hope crossed his face before he could stop it.

You hated yourself for what came next.

“I love you so much,” you said again, because he deserved to hear it twice. “But it’s too hard, Jack.”

His expression tightened.

You wiped under your eyes with shaking fingers. “It’s too painful.”

Jack shook his head once. “We can—”

“For both of us,” you said.

Jack stopped.

The words landed.

You watched them hit him. Watched him understand that you were not saying he did not love you. You were saying love had started to hurt in places it was supposed to hold.

He swallowed hard.

His voice came out barely above a whisper. “Is that really what you want?”

No.

The answer rose in you immediately.

No.

No, of course not.

You wanted him. You wanted his hands and his apartment and your ugly mug in his cabinet. You wanted the couch and the stove light and the hook by the door. You wanted FaceTime calls that did not feel like waiting rooms. You wanted cheap flights and airport kisses and him saying come home before you had to ask.

You wanted him to need you back before needing became something you were ashamed of.

But want had not saved you.

Want had kept you there too long.

So you gave him the only answer you could survive.

“It’s what I have to do,” you said.

Jack’s face went blank with pain.

You reached for the end button, then stopped.

For one last second, neither of you moved.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

Jack said your name.

You looked at him.

His face was wrecked in the dim light of his apartment. Tired eyes. Tight jaw. One hand braced near his mouth, as if he were physically holding himself back from saying too much and not enough at the same time.

You wanted to crawl through the phone.

You wanted to go home.

You wanted him to have made home sound like something he still needed before you had to teach yourself not to.

Your voice came out small.

“Goodbye, Jack,” you said.

He flinched.

Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would have noticed.

But you saw it.

You knew every careful inch of him.

Jack’s mouth parted.

For half a second, you thought he might say goodbye too.

You almost needed him to.

Instead, his voice broke around the edges.

“I love you,” Jack said.

Your face crumpled.

The words hit the room too late and, somehow, still right on time. They filled every space between you that a flight could not cross, every silence he had mistaken for kindness, every careful goodbye he had called love because he had been too afraid to make himself a reason for you to stay.

You nodded once, tears slipping silently down your face.

“I know,” you whispered.

Then you ended the call.

Your apartment snapped back around you.

Boxes.

Tape.

Half-folded sweaters.

The phone on the couch, silent again.

You stared at the sealed box in front of you and pressed both palms flat against the cardboard, like you could keep the past inside it if you held hard enough.

It did not work.

It never had.

Your phone buzzed again.

You looked before you could stop yourself.

Not Jack.

Of course it was not Jack.

There were rules now.

There had been rules for eleven months. No late-night calls. No almost texts. No checking whether his number still sat at the top of your messages because of how many times you opened the thread and typed something you never sent.

No asking Dana too much.

No saying his name unless someone else said it first.

No pretending you were going back for anything other than the job.

You picked up the packing tape with shaking hands.

The edge had stuck to itself again.

You laughed once under your breath.

It sounded awful.

“Perfect,” you said to the empty apartment.

Then you dug your nail under the edge and tried again.

The tape tore wrong.

Of course it did.

A thin strip peeled away from the rest and clung stubbornly to your fingertip, useless and impossible to smooth back into shape. You stared at it longer than any sane person should have stared at tape.

Then you laughed again.

This time, it broke halfway through.

You pressed the heel of your hand hard against your sternum, like pressure could help. Like you could hold yourself together by force. Like your body had not been keeping a record of every careful goodbye, every almost, every moment where love had been present and still somehow not enough.

The airport call.

His voice through the speaker.

I miss you already.

The cheap flight glowing on your laptop screen.

You don’t have to do that.

His face on FaceTime.

Don’t end this on a fucking screen.

Your own voice, small and wrecked.

Goodbye, Jack.

His answer, too late and too true.

I love you.

You remembered all of it.

Not cleanly. Not kindly. Not in a way that made sense of anything.

You remembered it in fragments. The sound of his turn signal through the phone. The dim light in his apartment. The warm shape of his sweatshirt around your body. The ugly mug in his cabinet. The key in his palm. The silence after every sentence where one of you should have been braver.

You remembered every place he had loved you.

You remembered every place it had hurt.

You remembered it all too well.

And maybe that was the cruelest part.

Not that it was over.

You knew it was over.

You had known for eleven months. You had known it in the silence after the FaceTime call, in the empty space where his name stopped lighting up your phone, in the careful way Dana spoke around him, in every night you almost texted him and didn’t.

You knew the thing between you had been gone for a long time.

The easy part.

The magic.

The version of love where his voice through a speaker could make leaving feel survivable, where his sweatshirt around your shoulders felt like proof that distance was only distance, where your mug in his cabinet meant home was waiting for you somewhere.

That part was not here anymore.

Maybe it never would be again.

You could admit that now.

You could pack the boxes. Sign the forms. Start the job. Walk back into PTMC with your badge clipped to your shirt and your chin up like returning did not feel like reopening a door with your bare hands.

You could be okay.

You had gotten very good at okay.

But fine was different.

Fine was clean. Fine was settled. Fine did not sit on the floor of a half-packed apartment with shaking hands and a torn strip of tape stuck to one finger, remembering the exact sound of a man’s voice when he said he loved you too late.

You were not fine.

Not at all.

Your phone buzzed again.

This time, you did not look.

You pressed the torn strip of tape across the box anyway, crooked and wrinkled and holding by sheer stubbornness.

It looked terrible.

You left it.

There was no clean way to seal some things.

There was only pressure. Both hands flat. Breath held. The quiet hope that if you kept pressing long enough, the edges might stay down.

For tonight, it would have to be enough.

For tonight, so would you.

The suspicion started at the Olympics, Luke wasn’t sure if it was you tucked into the corner of a dark booth at the restaurant due to the dim candle light.

But once he saw you a few other girls that had been seated with who he thought was you walking past he couldn’t help but call out to see if it was you.

“Y/n?” His voice was soft but loud enough to catch your attention.

You turned from your conversation with a few of the other team Canada wags at the sound, sitting at a small round table was Luke, Jim, and the boys agent Pat.

“Luke! Hey.” You smiled politely, just because you and Quinn had ended on a bad foot didn’t mean you couldn’t be kind to his family. You’d known them just as long as him.

The defenseman stood to give you a gentle side hug, Jim doing the same.

“What are you doing in Milan?” Jim questioned, it was genuine yes you’d grown up around hockey, your dad and brother both playing professionally hockey, your dad becoming an award winning coach after retirement as to where your brother still played.

Pat gave you a curt nod indulging in his glass of wine to escape would could have been an awkward interaction as the other two people at his table didn’t know what the two of you knew.

“Just here for some good hockey and sports” You smiled lying straight through your teeth but they didn’t need to know.

And right as Luke went to throw out another question your phone rang, Sid’s name flashing across the screen.

“So sorry guys but I have to take this, it was lovely seeing you! Tell Ellen I say hello.”

And with that you were gone into the busy streets of Milan, phone tucked to your ear answering Sid’s call.

The guys were quick to resume their conversation but Luke thought about who he saw you with and why’d you be in Milan just for hockey?

Later in the evening after returning to his hotel room he decided to scroll on instagram and coincidentally saw you tagged in Lauren McDavids instagram story with the caption.

“Team Canada’s better half’s night out🇨🇦”

“Hmm” he hummed out loud.

“What?” Jack questioned from the other side of the room where he and Quinn rested on a sofa.

“Nothing, just..Y/n was tagged in a Team Canada wags story.” He shrugged.

Quinn and Jack shared a look

“my ex Y/n?” Quinn raised a brow in question.

“Yeah” Luke confirmed turning the phone towards them.

Both men moved closer taking the phone from Luke’s hand to examine the photo and low and behold there you were tucked between Caitlyn Suzuki and Lauren McDavid, a wide smile pulling at your cheeks.

Quinn had to admit you looked good, really good actually. Your hair looked longer then it was when he ended things with you, the soft light of the restaurant caught the natural glow of your skin, it didn’t seem like you had a single worry in the world.

“Who’s she with?” Jack asked.

“Don’t know, we ran into her at dinner but she was with some of the girls from that photo.” His younger brother shrugged cluelessly.

“Okay well half their guys are married I think minus a few so it shouldn’t be hard to find out.” Quinn pushed the phone back to Luke.

“Why do you care?” Jack raised a brow.

That earned a scoff from Quinn, “I don’t it’s just weird that she’s with another hockey player already.”

It was time for Luke and Jack to share a look, both of them knowing as much as Quinn tried to lie and act as if he was over you, he wasn’t.

-

You’d been on Quinn’s mind a lot since the Olympics, even after winning gold he couldn’t help but think who’s hotel room you were laying in comforting them after the loss.

He shouldn’t care but he did, maybe it was guilt because of how he treated you towards the end, or was he jealous that you were happy and thriving and he had a new groupie in his bed every weekend?

Your instagram had turned private and you only followed Luke who was refusing to creep on your page for him.

But on a rare off night leading up to the playoffs he scrolled helplessly throughout social media, clicking through models and friends stories seeing if anything or anyone caught his eye.

He was going so fast he almost missed it but he’d never forget that smile.

Tapping the screen he moved back to the previous story. Your brother posted a picture of you two at a Pittsburgh penguins game.

Quinn knew you were moving to Pennsylvania for work, it was part of the argument that inevitably lead to your breakup but he was never sure where you were going.

He smiled at the fact your brother got to see you thanks to his team being in town, they were still good friends and he knew how much he loved to see you whenever he could.

He was staring a little to long at the photo but right as he was about to force himself to keeping tapping through stories, something in the corner of your jacket caught his eye.

He zoomed in to make sure he wasn’t crazy, the jacket was simple, a black leather jacket, tapered just right to fit you perfectly, a small Pens logo on the front, and on the sleeve sat a small number.

Quinn swore it was an 87, he was almost positive but the quality was just slightly too blurry to tell.

So he sent it to his brothers for a second opinion.

Quinn

*sent attachment

Am I crazy or is that an 87 on her sleeve???

Jack

I mean sorta? Idk bro it’s hard to tell

Jack

Why do you care anyways?

Luke

😐

Luke

You’re the one who ended things remember?

Jack

Yeah and I really don’t think she’s with Sid, isn’t he like 40?

Quinn

Yeah u guys are right I need to let it go

His brothers were right, he was going crazy would you really be dating Sidney Crosby? He was twelve years older than you.

You could’ve been dating anyone on the team Canada roster, you lived in Pittsburgh it’s just a mix up but maybe a text to your brother wouldn’t hurt.

-

Little did Quinn or his brothers know you were sitting in the passenger side of Sidney Crosby’s blacked out Range Rover, boots on the floor, feet tucked under you, Sid’s large hand holding yours tight in his.

“You played really good.” You hummed softly as he pulled to a stop light.

“We lost.” He laughed throwing you an amused smirk.

“Yeah but still two goals and an assist is really good.” You kissed his hand.

He gave you a warm look, his eyes softening at the sight of your tinted cheeks, hair a little messy from the wind outside.

“Thank you.” He smiled softly.

“Of course..always gotta hype up my old man.” You smirked.

Sidney let a laugh slip, a genuine chuckle coming deep from within his chest, his teeth showing as he smiled.

“That how we’re doing this?” He raised a brow as he pressed the gas, only a few more streets from his driveway.

You smirked back giving him a playful shrug turning to look out the window watching as the houses blurred, Sidney now going slightly over the speed limit.

He nodded besides you a soft ‘Alright’ falling from his lips, a smirk tugging on the ends.

He loved when you two bantered like this it didn’t hurt his feelings when you called him an old man, especially when you called him your old man.

He was brought out of his thoughts by your phone ringing from where it sat in the cup holder, your brothers name flashing across the screen.

“Hey, everything okay?” You asked as you answered.

“Guess who just texted me asking if you were single?” Your brother laughed from the other side.

“Um who?”

“Quinn”

You swore your eyes popped out of your head for a second, Quinn was asking if you were single? After ripping out your heart and stomping on it a year ago.

“Quinn? Did he say why he wanted to know.” You questioned.

Sidney shot you a worried glance at the tone of your voice.

Your brother said no, just that Luke saw you with the Canada Wags at the Olympics and was curious.

You knew it was a lie, Luke was polite but he was blunt and if he wanted to know he would’ve just shot you a text or asked you then and there.

Plus Luke followed you on Instagram and while you didn’t post Sidney you still posted enough for people to see you were in some sort of a relationship.

“Yeah well that’s bullshit and he can mind his business.” You scoffed.

Your brother agreed telling you a little bit more about their conversation before bidding his goodbye and I love yous.

“What’s up?” Sid asked as he pulled into the driveway.

“My ex wants to know if I’m single? Texted my brother to ask.”

Sidney scoffed at that, the little prick wanted to know if you were single now? A year after he told you that your dreams were stupid, that he could find someone better, someone who wouldn’t consider a job in a different country.

“Well he’ll see for himself in a few weeks when we go to Michigan.” He smirked thinking of the upcoming lake house trips

-

It was a Friday afternoon, the Hughes boys were in their driveway loading up Jacks jeep before they headed off to the rink.

Luke was laughing about something Quinn said, Jack tripping over a fallen stick causing the giggles to get worse.

Luke was standing back to full height when he was a black Ranger rover turn on the street, it wasn’t a car he recognized or had ever seen go to one of the four houses on the street.

“Who’s that?” He pointed to the car.

“Hmm, don’t know. Sick car though.” Jack shrugged.

However their questions were quickly answered as the car turned into your driveway, the three boys shared a glance moving around the trunk to get a better view of who stepped out.

They watched as you bounced out the front door, a bright smile on your face, body vibrating with excitement as you moved off the porch and into the driveway.

They hadn’t seen you much in the first weeks of summer, your brother mentioned something about Canada and a lake house, he never mentioned who you were with only said it was a friend.

But as Quinn watched the car door open he swore time was moving in slow motion, there was a pit in his stomach as he noticed it was obviously the foot of a man and who was that man exactly?

Sidney fucking Crosby.

Luke’s stick fell from his hand

Jack was sure his jaw was on the ground

And Quinn was ready to pass out especially as he watched you throw your arms around the captains shoulders. Sidney wasn’t shy when he pulled you against him by your hips. He’d never seen Sidney so open and carefree like that or smile smile like that before, not even when we won the fucking cup.

It was gentle and soft, his eyes were full of nothing but admiration and love for the woman in front of him.

They watched as you stood on your tippy toes and pushed your mount against the older man’s, Sidney brought a hand up to cradle the side of your face as he kissed back with the same amount of force.

On the other side of the car you were smiling into Sid’s mouth happy to finally be back in his arms after a few weeks apart.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” You hummed when you two finally pulled away.

“Me too, missed you.” He smiled kissing the top of your head one more time before he finally stepped back to retrieve his bags from the trunk.

“Those the Hughes boys next door?” He laughed nudging his head in the direction of the three stunned hockey players.

“Yeah” you confirmed peaking over his shoulder you saw Luke and Jack laughing as Quinn looked like someone had just ran his puppy over.

Obviously you knew there would be shock but you could care less about what anyone had to say especially not your ex boyfriend.

He nodded pursing his lips as he grabbed his suitcase and duffel bag pushing the button to close the trunk you two rounded the car.

And right as you passed the hood of the car he raised a hand his silver Rolex twinkling in the sun as he waved his hand towards the three brothers.

“Hey boys.” A shit eating grin covering the man’s face as he said it, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Quinn watched as the two of you entered the house Sidney’s hand low on your waist as you went in before him.

“What the fuck” Quinn breathed his brows raised as he turned to his brothers.

“Well..guess you actually were onto something” Luke scratched the side of his head huffing out a laugh of disbelief.

Quinn truly could not believe what had just happened, he thought he was reaching with his connections and theories. He never expected you to actually be dating one of the greatest players to ever grace the sport, someone you watched him fanboy over, a player and guy he looked up to his entire career.

Thee one question he had was how the fuck did this even happen?

-

It was last off season during a random NHL gala that Sidney’s approached you, he’d seen you at these with your dad and brother once or twice. But the past few gala’s Sidney always saw you attached to the arm of Quinn Hughes.

Maybe it was none of his business on why you two were on opposite sides of the room or why your dress didn’t match his suit but he couldn’t help himself.

“What’s got you so glum?” He started softly as he approached you at the bar a glass of expensive scotch in his hand while your nursed a glass of champagne.

your bright eyes met his and Sidney would admit anytime he’s seen you at these in the past few years you’ve looked breath taking but tonight was different. Your hair was a little looser, makeup a little more bold, smile a bit more free, dress tighter then he’d ever noticed before, and your lips were painted the most delicious shade of red he’d ever seen.

But even with that you looked like you’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

“ Dad dragged me this year since my mom didn’t want to go, you know he can never turn down the invite so here i am” you smiled politely.

Sid nodded in understanding these weren’t his favorite but he was always respectful enough to attend.

“No Hughes this year? Excuse me if I’m over stepping but usually you two come to this together right?” Sidney raised a brow in question.

He watched as you sucked in a rough breath nodding at his words, “Yeah but we uh, we broke up in February I moved to Pennsylvania for work, he’s in Vancouver so it just wouldn’t work.”

Sidney could tell that was only part of the reason you looked like you had a lot more to say a lot more hurt in your chest but he wasn’t one to pry, so he changed the topic.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope Pennsylvania is treating you well though?.”

You perked up at the question it was a transition that was becoming amazing for you, “yeah! Pittsburgh has been cool. The city is so beautiful and don’t get me started on the food I think I’ve had enough pierogis to fill me for a lifetime.”

He raised a brow at the mention of Pittsburgh, “oh no way, I didn’t know you were in Pittsburgh.”

“Yeah my job opened a new location there and I’m running the department there now.” You explained.

You two spent the next three hours at the bar talking to each other, yes technically you’d known him for a long time but you never really knew him.

For a long time he was just someone your dad always spoke highly of, always told you that was the best player he’s ever coached, your brother always said he had a love hate relationship with Sidney because he was amazing to watch but annoying to play against.

And Quinn loved Sidney he always said it was cool your dad coached him, always told you how much he looked up to him, wanted to be as iconic of a player as Sid was.

But standing here talking to him it didn’t feel like he was one of the best players in the league, a destined hall of fame player, captain, and Stanley cup champion.

He was just Sidney, a guy you learned had a laugh that made your stomach do butterflies, someone who liked his coffee black, had a love for bird watching, fed squirrels in his off time, and had a whole family of deer that ate from his hand in his back yard.

A few weeks later when he returned to Pittsburgh for pre season training he called you, no not a text because that wasn’t how a man asked a woman out for dinner in his opinion.

And that following Thursday night you two sat in a private booth in his favorite Italian spot in the heart of Pittsburgh talking over a delicious bottle of wine and even better food.

The age gap didn’t even occur to you guys at first even as you guys began to date until his agent Pat brought it up.

But neither of you cared not when you were both happy, Sidney already had a private life and you weren’t big on social media. You’d gone private years ago only going public for a bit after your split from Quinn.

You hadn’t felt so open and carefree in years, Sid didn’t judge you when you and your girls went out for drinks and you had a little to much to drink. He’d be there in that blacked Ranger Rover, Pjs on waiting for you outside the bar or club.

Quinn on the other hand would’ve complained, told you that you needed to watch your alcohol intake a little more, not be so careless, he had hockey he needed to worry about he couldn’t just wake up to come get you when you got drunk.

Sidney didn’t complain that your drinks were too sweet or to cold, while they weren’t always his taste you loved them and that’s all that mattered to him.

Quinn would tell you they were gross, that it was pure sugar, tell you to try a less sweet version, less ice because it ruined the drink.

But Quinn wasn’t always like that and that’s what hurt the most. For a long time you thought he was the person you’d be with forever, the person you’d start a family with, build a house with, dance around a kitchen barefoot with grandchildren running around you.

The change started after the Canucks started trading their key players, people that Quinn counted on. You blamed it on the stress, the team was tanking it everyone knew it.

But no matter how much you tried to be there for him Quinn found a reason to push you away, “you don’t get it” was a phrase he said often, fights became constant, and it felt like no matter what you did you were wrong.

then came your job offer.

And that’s when it all crumbled.

-

It was an early morning when you got the call from your boss, Quinn was away at an early practice.

They told you the details, they’d be opening a new office in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania and they wanted you to run it. The pay raise was significant and you’d have full control over the staffing decisions, how things ran, details and designs within the office.

They also told you it was hybrid so you’d only be needed in Pittsburgh maybe once or twice a month for a mandatory meeting once it all got started and the rest of the time you could still work from home in Vancouver if you wanted.

You told them you had to think about it, Talk to Quinn, your parents, get some other opinions on it.

Everyone was stoked for you, besides Quinn.

He came home from practice upset, he showered right away before plopping himself on the couch and watching tapes.

You swore he rolled his eyes when you asked to talk to him about the Job offer.

He snapped when you told him it was in Pennsylvania, not letting you get a word out he spat nasty things, told you that was stupid, why couldn’t you just stay in Vancouver?

Your final straw was when he simply said, “Go if you want, if it’s that important but we’re done if you choose that job. I’ll find someone else who truly supports me and wants to be by my side.”

He acted as if the past five years meant nothing to him, all the late nights up worrying about the draft, the way you held him the night before his debut, or how you stayed up all night playing with his hair after he’d gotten knocked out of the playoffs for the first time.

What about all the times you prepped his meals week after week, woken up at insane hours to pick him up from the airport, or how you’d drop anything to go to a game because he’d asked you too.

You’d put up with a lot especially in the final months of your relationship and truthfully Quinn made your decision for you then and there.

The job it was and within the next couple of weeks you were completely moved out of what was once your shared apartment and moving back to the states.

The weeks after you left were quiet for Quinn, the apartment was cold and dull, pictures of you two still sat around because he couldn’t bring himself to take them down.

He tried reaching out a few times but you politely asked him to stop, sent him your half of rent for that month and told him you’d like to cut contact all together and maybe in a few years you guys could go back to being the friends you were before you dated.

He knew you two would never be able to be like that again and it hurt but it was his fault. You tried so hard to help and be there and he just wouldn’t let you.

He did fill your spot in bed with a bunch of random fake blondes, they weren’t anything important to him or serious, just people to fill the void of you.

His mother was the one who smacked him out of his shitty haze, and that was literally. He’d been playing like shit, maybe it was the lack of sleep, the fact he wasn’t disciplining himself like he usually did during the season.

After a long talk with his mom and dad he realized he needed out of Vancouver and that’s when he put in his trade request.

Minnesota had treated him well so far, the team was amazing, the fans even better, he was settling in nice and he finally felt like he was getting over you until the god damn Olympics and his younger brother showing him a photo if you for the first times in months.

-

Sidney was enjoy his time in Michigan with you, he loved seeing where you grew up, going to your favorite restaurants, sunsets on the lake you grew up spending your days in until your parents had to force you out of.

But he did notice the constant eyes on the two of you anytime you guys left the house and your ex was outside.

He didn’t mind Luke and Jack so much, Luke was actually pretty funny and a nice kid. You guys had ran into him grocery shopping a few days back and he ended up walking the entire store with the two of you.

Tonight was his final straw, he’d taken you out to a nice dinner, you worse his favorite dress, the necklace he got you with a tiny 87 pendant to match his own, his initials carved in the back of yours.

Your hair was done is pretty waves, your skin glowing and sun-kissed, his favorite lipstick on your lips, ironically the one you wore the night he knew he would never get you out of his head.

Things got heated at dinner, your hand slipping higher than it should have in public, there was a nice spicy makeout in the parking lot before you two got yourselves together and on the road.

He was ready to take you inside and do things he’d never admit out loud, he was sure he looked like a fool with lipstick all over his face and neck but he could give two shits the only think he had on his mind was getting your dress on the floor and making you cry tears of pleasure.

However his mood was quickly dampened by the sight of Quinn Hughes sitting on the front porch of the house.

You both had a questioning look on your faces as Sidney pulled into the driveway both of you stepping out together.

Quinn looked up once the car doors shut, he watched as you and Sidney approached, your heels in Sidney’s hand, hair a mess and lipstick all over the two of you.

“Is everything okay? Did someone get hurt or something? Why are you sitting on my porch at 9pm?” You questioned arms crossing across your chest.

Quinn stood now wiping his sweaty hands on his shorts, he’d had a little to much to drink and came over to beg for you back when he remembered you were in a relationship and had a break down in non other than Trevor Zegras’s arms before downing a few more beers.

“I just..I don’t know okay. You left and I haven’t been fine since and then I tried starting fresh in Minnesota and then here comes Luke. “Oh y/n is a Canada wag now” and showing me a picture of you and suddenly everything I ever felt for you came rushing back and then I see you with Sidney Crosby and my heart hurts but I don’t even des-.”

“Quinn stop rambling.” You cut him off.

It was clear to you that he wasn’t in his right mind and you could smell the beer from where you stood.

“Why don’t you go sober up kid, maybe tomorrow morning is a better time to talk.” Sidney stepped in, his voice gentle but stern in a way he’d correct one of his rookies.

“Oh okay, yeah right maybe..” Quinn nodded and when he went to move he stumbled almost falling off the three small steps.

Both of you sprung forward to catch him, a sigh of annoyance escaping a typically very cool, calm, and collected Sidney.

“I’m gonna walk him over he can hardly stand.” You huffed to your boyfriend.

“I’ll come.” There was no room for argument in his tone as he set your heels down and helped you by grabbing Quinn’s other side.

And Just Sidney’s luck it was one of his players who opened the door.

“Pizza tim-Cap? What..what the hell is going on.?” Rutger Mcgroarty sputtered looking back and forth between his captain, a very drunk Quinn, and you who he recognized from the team family events.

“Fuck me, Rut can you get Jack or Luke or some adult that’s somewhat sober.” Sidney sighed.

“Yes sir, be right back.” He nodded quick scurrying down the hallway only to return with Luke and Jack thirty seconds later.

“Oh shit.” Jack cursed at the sight in front of him.

“Please take your idiot brother and tell him I will be here at 10am sharp to talk and he better be up and ready.” You explained with eyes that could kill.

“Yup got you.” Jack nodded pulling his brother into the house and helping him towards his room.

“Sorry guys he must’ve slipped out, i thought we got him in bed.” Luke grimaced.

“No problem moose, just keep an eye on him and have him up by ten. We’re gonna have a nice talk in the morning.”

Luke nodded and bid the two of you a goodnight and shutting the heavy wooden door.

“Well there went the sexy mood.” You groaned as you made it into your house.

Sidney tsked from behind you his large hands eloping your waist, “fortunately my lovey dovey lust has turned to frustration but I’m still turned on so your call.”

You leaned back into his chest, “yeah?” You smirked looking up at him.

“Oh yeah.” And with that his lips were dominating yours his large hand holding your jaw in place as he pushed his hot tongue into your mouth causing a soft moan to slip free.

“Take me to bed Sidney, right now.” You whined pulling back for a split second.

He didn’t need to be told twice before you were in his arms and he was making his way upstairs.

Quinn might have dampened the mood slightly but Sidney promised you in the quiet of that restaurant that he would take you home and fuck you until you cried and that’s what he was going to do, because he didn’t break promises.

-

The next morning you were sitting at the kitchen table of the Hughes lake house, everyone was gone besides the three brothers but currently the only one at the table with you was Quinn.

You both had glasses of coffee that you had so kindly prepared because you were damned if he wasn’t going to be present for this conversation.

“I’m gonna talk and you’re gonna let me, when I’m done you can have your turn. Got it?” You raised a brow.

Quinn nodded in understanding his eyes everywhere but yours this strangely felt like when you guys broke up just a lot less hostile and toxic.

“What you did last night was wrong and unacceptable Quinn. You were someone I loved so deeply at a point in time you were my everything. I had our entire future planned, wedding, kids, a house, I wanted it all. But that was then and this is now, that day you told me my dreams were stupid and I could be replaced destroyed me. Yes I admit we had been going down hill for months but that wasn’t only my fault. You pushed and pushed me away until I couldn’t take it anymore. I loved you but it wasn’t meant to be. I was going to stay in Vancouver Quinn, it was Hybrid job I could’ve done it from anywhere as long as I visited the office in Pittsburgh once a month I wanted to make it work.” You spoke voice shakier than you would have liked but this was a conversation you two never had that was very much needed.

Quinn’s eyes snapped to yours at the mention of a hybrid position, you were going to stay?

“But with that said, I’m glad I didn’t. I’m sorry if that hurts but you hurt me Quinn. And showing up at my door saying you miss me and still have feelings isn’t fair to me or Sidney. I moved on and it wasn’t easy, still isn’t. I notice I do things all the time in my relationship that I did in ours that aren’t normal. But I’m trying and I’m healing and I wish that for you too, you were my best friend before my partner and i want you to find the happiness I gave you at one point with someone else.” Your voice was gentle as you reached a hand to rest on his.

It wasn’t intimate in any way more in a comforting manner as you watched his eyes get teary.

He cleared his throat before he spoke up.

“What I did last night was wrong and embarrassing and I am so, so, fucking sorry that I did that. You’re right it wasn’t fair to you guys or your relationship. I guess I had myself believing I was over you until Luke showed me that picture. I think in a way I was jealous? Or resentful at first? I don’t know.” He groaned rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

“You looked so good and happy like you had no worries in the world and I guess that made me feel jealous and guilty all at once. I was so awful to you in that last half of our relationship and it was so wrong of me because all you tried to do was help. But I am glad you’re happy and thriving because you deserve it, you really do and I’m glad Sidney is able to give you that.” He smiled but it didn’t quite meet his eyes, you could see the sadness that lined it.

“He does make me really happy but I’m serious when I say you deserve that too Quinn. Like you said Minnesota is new, it’s fresh, maybe you can meet a nice girl and find someone that gives you what Sidney gives me.” You smiled.

“Hell maybe she’ll be 12 years older than you too.” You threw out a soft joke trying to help ease the emotions in the room.

And it worked because he did crack a small laugh at that shrugging his shoulders mumbling a soft maybe.

“Thank you for this, I didn’t deserve a single second of your time but I’m grateful for it.” He thanked you and you could tell it was genuine and sincere.

“Of course, as much as I didn’t want to at first I do think it was a conversation we needed.” You smiled at him.

You guys finished your coffee and Quinn Walked you to the front door but not without Luke and Jack giving you warm hugs first.

But right before you could bid your goodbyes Luke asked a question.

“Hey can I ask why the older guy? Is it like the grayer the better or something?”

His brothers shook their heads at the question but you just laughed.

“Something like that.” You smirked before waving bye and stepping out the door.

Sidney was waiting on the porch swing for you patting his lap as you came close.

“How’d it go?”

“Good, I think it was good for both of us in our own ways.” You smiled fondly.

“Good baby, I’m glad it went well.” He smiled kissing your head.

You relaxed against him, you did hope Quinn found someone to make him happy but that person was no longer you.

You weren’t one for Saturday night live and gold medal controversies, you were happy with your graying old man and your content private life.

Plus you’d always been more of a silver girl anyways, and Luke Hughes was right.

The grayer the better.

-

Dennis who had been sweet, kind, and who had truly listened. 

“Well, I’m just trying to make a nice display for these. Lately they’ve been really popular with a few recent wedding orders, and for parties,” you explained. 

He nods, listening to your explanation. Watching as you adjust them in the window display. 

“I didn’t realise people used them as decoration,” he added whilst you hum in acknowledgement, before he continued, “They sort of make me think of home.”

“Oh, and where’s that?” you asked, glancing over at him, “Do you mind grabbing the cotton from the bench for me?”

“Sure,” He nods, walking back over to the desk, while he answers, “I grew up in Nebraska, a small town, Broken Bow–”

“Can’t say, I’ve heard of it,” you called out whilst leaning over to rearrange and move some things. 

“I’m not surprised. It’s pretty much in the middle of nowhere. But it was home. Farmers country, the cotton makes me think of back then. Not that we grew cotton but seeing it in this natural state. Makes me think of the simplicity of home, and the beauty that came with it,” he rambled on before stopping by you to hand over the cotton branches. 

You nod, smiling as you listen to Dennis before adding, “I get what you mean, roses and lilies are beautiful but there’s something about cotton blooms and wildflowers that I’ve always loved, because of its simplicity”

You break off one small twig with a cotton bloom, holding it in your hand as you admire it, “While it’s not technically a flower, it’s believed that they represent good fortune, about giving and taking–cherishment. I think whether people know this or not, it might be why they gravitate towards it for weddings,” you smile softly, before handing the small little bloom to Dennis. 

“Woah,” he murmurs out, taking in your words. 

You laugh softly, taking the time to let your eyes linger on him, “I promise not all flowers symbolise hatred”

“No, it’s just that–It’s really amazing how you know all of this,” he compliments sincerely. 

Whilst heat rises up your neck, bashful from his sweetness, “Says you–I can’t imagine the amount of things you need to know as a doctor–now that, is really impressive” 

A warmth blooms in his chest. Flooded by nerves once more. “Thanks,” he scratches the back of his head. 

And then in the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of Oli, whilst he frantically waves at you, just out of sight from Dennis’ purview. 

“Uhh–,” you step down from the window, brows furrowing in question, holding up a hand, “Oli seems to need my help with an order or something–I’ll be right back.” 

He blinks a little questioningly, glancing behind him only to see Oli avert his gaze, a poker face morphed upon his features. 

“Sure, I’ll just be here,” Dennis nods, watching as you hesitate for a moment, before ducking into the back following Oli. 

"So,” Oli leaned back against the bench, rows of flowers waiting to be placed in the store filled the storage space, alongside spare sheets of wrapping paper and new rolls of ribbon. 

There was a glint in his eyes, a knowing look. 

You looked over, "So?"

"He’s adorable,” he commented with a raise of his brow, observing you and your reaction. 

You laughed quietly, tilting your head whilst looking at him, with a small shake of your head, “He is sweet–Is this really why you called me back here?"

Noticing you becoming antsy. 

Oli cut to the chase, "He’s trying to ask you out."

"What?" Your eyes widen, stumped from his words, if Oli had simply slapped you it would’ve had the same effect. 

Shocked. 

Mind racing with questions. 

"I've seen enough awkward men in this shop to know the signs,” Oli said with just a hint of smugness. His lip quirking up at the corner. 

You denied, "He was not."

"He absolutely was,” 

You looked back towards the door, where just behind it Dennis stood…waiting for you…

Dennis who you had only met last night. 

Dennis, who Cassie had talked about to you, saying how nice he was…how friendly he was…

Dennis who had come in today…for what reason you still didn’t know…

You settle beside Oli, leaning against the bench. 

Simply staring at the door.

Wondering what you should do…

"...You think?" You question once more. Still stuck in a cycle of disbelief. 

"I'd bet my next pay cheque,” He grinned, before adding, “Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re hoping for the same thing, otherwise why else would you shove me in the back while he was here?”

…You’re silent for a moment, mind racing with endless possibilities. 

The what ifs of it all. 

Stuck in this limbo of the unknown…

“What should I do?” your words are quiet, nervous, unsure. 

Oli turns to you, grasping you by the shoulders, looking you in the eyes, “You are going to go back out there and talk to the cute doctor guy in our store who came to see you–and you are going to make sure you get his number, and if he leaves without the promise of date with you–then, well I’ll–” he thinks for a moment, trying to come up with the perfect threat. . 

“I’ll take my holiday leave right now for the next few weeks and you’ll be left without your favourite staff member to boss around”

“You wouldn’t,” you retorted. 

“Oh, try me,” he remarked, “And I know how many wedding orders we have coming up”

“...You really think he was trying to ask me out?” you question, eyes searching for some clarity. 

Oli sighs, with a pat on your shoulder, “Hun, I know so,” he pushes you back towards the door, “Now we’ve kept the boy waiting, so go back out there and get a date–He’ll be lucky to have you”

“Thanks Oli,” you said softly. 

“Anytime,” he nods. 

You take a deep breath in, hoping for a little courage, before you step back out. 

Eyes landing on Dennis who was admiring a ready made bouquet, vibrant in colour and taking in the beautifully delicate scent. 

His eyes flicker up when you reenter. 

And whether it was your mind playing tricks on you or not…

It felt as though they sparkled once they met yours. 

Smiling softly, a little nervously, you walk towards him. 

His hands twist and fidget for a moment, before he tucks them into his pockets. A sheepish look crosses his features. 

Once stopped beside him, you lean in slightly. Just entering his space just a little…Just a bit more than what could be considered simply friendly…

Just trying to get a grasp on whether Oli’s hypothesis was true or not. 

“This one’s one of my favourites. I love the fullness of the hydrangeas, how it balances the delicateness of the creamy little delphiniums, alongside the blush pink peonies, and the little tulips simply peaking through helps complete it–don’t you think?” You ramble on, trying to fill in the quiet air…

“They’re beautiful,” with your attention planted firmly upon the delicate flowers, you hadn’t noticed how Dennis’ gaze settled on you…the flowers were beautiful, that was true. 

But truly…

Dennis was talking about you…

How your beauty simply amplified whilst you talked about what you loved most. The passion seeping through seemed to make you sparkle. 

Radiant. 

Glowing. 

“Do you know what they all symbolise?” he asked, honestly he simply wanted to hear the passion in your voice.  

“Well this one’s perfect for young love, or anniversaries, or simply wishing someone well, because the peonies represent good luck, romance, while the little tulips add a sense of warmth, as they represent affection and care,” you smile softly, pointing out the flowers. 

“And the hydrangeas?” 

“New beginnings and joy, they’re some of my favorites. The white delphiniums hold a similar meaning,” you explain. Lifting your eyes to meet his, a little startled by how close he was. 

Both stunned to simply gaze at the other. 

Eyes softening. 

He sucks in a deep breath, quiet, trying to steady his thoughts, trying to find some coherent way to ask–

“Would you go out with me?” You asked, the words falling from your lips before you could stop them. 

Eyes widening in shock at your own boldness.

At your own confidence. 

It felt like your heart stopped. 

Fucking hell–stupid Oli for getting your hopes up–for making you think this was something more than it was–for thinking you had a chance–for thinking–

Dennis’ eyes blink in surprise. 

He had to stop himself from clearing his ears, worried he heard you wrong. 

“Like a date?” He questioned.

You nod, biting your lip, “Yeah–like a date…Only if that’s ok–”

“I’d love to,” he cut you off. His smile widens, beaming across his face, before he lets out a soft laugh, “Would you believe that’s why I came today”

Your eyes crinkle at the corner, your smile stretches across your face. 

Dennis swore you were simply gorgeous in this moment. 

While the sun filtered into the room, filling the space with warmth, with comfort. The vibrant blooms all around you. 

It was definitely a sight to see. 

“I was going to ask why you had come by, clearly it wasn’t for the flowers,” you joked lightly. 

And then Dennis’ panic sets back in once more, brows furrowing worry seeping in, scratching the back of his head, “I can’t take you anywhere fancy–even though you deserve to go some place special”

You grasp his hand softly, with a small shake of your head, “I don’t need anywhere special–I just want to get to know you, besides, we’ll go halves,” you offer. 

He nods, your words easing his worry, “Then can I pick you up tonight?” 

“Sounds perfect, I close up at 6,” you answer, before reaching for your phone, handing it over to him. “Might be useful if I had your number”

He takes it gently, nodding, “Yeah, definitely.” 

Dennis simply couldn’t believe it. 

He had a date. 

With you…

Now he just had to make sure he didn’t screw this up…

…

And despite Dennis’ nervousness. 

An accidentally spilled drink. 

And him tripping over his own feet. 

Your first date together went well. So well in fact, that it had led to a few more dates. 

And a few more after that. 

Until you were steadily dating. 

If one were to put labels on it, you were his girlfriend, and Dennis was your boyfriend–and thought that never failed to make him smile. 

Learning more and more about each other. 

About each other’s dreams and aspirations. 

About your pasts and upbringing. 

About your likes and dislikes. 

Picking up on the little habits that each other had. 

How Dennis tended to scratch the back of his neck when he was nervous and bashful. 

The way his face would form into one of a dopey smile whenever he got lost in admiration of you. 

How his brows would furrow, fingers tapping lightly when in thought its rhythmic mimicking that of whatever song had gotten stuck in his mind. In the midst of studying or simply reading over a menu. 

The funny little faces he'd pull without even realising it, making you laugh gently.

And Dennis noticed how after a day's work. 

You’d always manage to have threaded stray flowers or pens in your hair. Simply tucked in without thought. 

He noticed how whenever you had chocolate you simply always had to have water straight afterwards. 

He picked up on your little vocal stims, even with a simple phrase or a single word you’d begin to lowly sing whatever song had popped up into your mind. 

Eventually when he had gone to your apartment, he had noticed that in between most of your books lay pressed flowers, stacks upon stacks. How your home was filled with random little nicknacks, all of which painted a picture of who you are. 

He had steadily begun to fall in love with you. 

And one day, when he had brought you to Amy’s farm. A place you had visited many times before with him. 

A place that brought you both comfort. 

Giving you an insight into the kind person that Dennis was. He had been so excited to bring you here the first time, heavily reassuring you that Amy was simply a friend. 

And when you had arrived, she had pulled you into her arms, into a tight hug, smiling brightly. Sending Dennis a knowing grin, “So this is why you’ve been so happy lately” 

She had quickly wormed her way into your heart, both of you finding new ways to tease and joke around Dennis. 

You’d spend many hours there whenever you could, helping Amy with little Theo, often letting your gaze linger upon Dennis–while he worked around the farm…

Admiring the way his muscles seemed to flex and glow beneath the sunlight. 

It was safe to say you enjoyed those days. 

And today, you had dragged Dennis to the farm. 

Not to work on it, or do chores. 

But instead to go on a date with you. 

Dragging him through the fields, and the woodland on the property, your hand intertwined with his, a basket in your other arm, already bursting with wildflowers you had plucked along your walk. 

Before setting down in a peaceful clearing. You work through the flowers, before starting to weave a little flower crown, Dennis sits opposite you, his own set of flowers in hand as he tries to learn from you. 

Spending time with you was his favourite pastime. 

Something he always looked forward to.  

He sighs, finding his fingers entangled, unable to properly weave his flowers. 

You lift your eyes, letting out a soft laugh at the sight. His lips pulled taut in slight annoyance. 

“You can stitch up a patient, but you can’t manage to make a flower crown,” you note the irony. 

“It’s a lot harder than it looks,” he complains lightly. 

You scooch over to his side, resting your head on his shoulder, your hands settling over his, helping guide them, slowly making the beginnings of a flower crown, “There–see it’s not so hard,” you smile gently. 

Dennis tilts his head down to look upon you, a warmth blooming in his chest, a feeling of home settling inside him. 

A feeling he had grown to crave. 

Whenever he was with you, he felt at peace. 

He felt sure of himself. 

“I love you” 

Those three little words, so small, and yet so profound. Filled with deep sincerity, uttered with such certainty. 

He gazes lovingly down at you. 

Your eyes lift to meet his. 

Breath caught in your throat, shaken by the absolute devotion swirling around in his eyes. 

The clarity of it all coming to the forefront of your mind. 

Your lips curl up into a sweet smile, leaning up swiftly, letting your lips meet his, soft and gentle. His hand reaches up to cradle your face, the gentle swipe of his thumb against your cheek. 

Holding you with such tenderness. 

Parting ever so slightly, noses just brushing each other, you murmur gently, “I love you,” filled with just as much devotion. 

The smile that spreads across his face shines as brightly as the sun above. 

Beaming proudly. 

Sweetly. 

As though it was the greatest gift he had received. 

You could stay forever in this moment. Simply in each other's embrace, tucked amongst where all the wildflowers grow.

A simply beauty.

And yet.

The perfect place to profess your love for the first time.

Your relationship had blossomed, so beautifully. As beautifully as the flowers in your store, as radiant as sunflowers, as sweet as honeysuckle. 

As gentle as the cotton blooms you had been arranging when this had all begun. 

It felt as though this were a love so everlasting. 

A love like the evergreen trees that surrounded you both. 

Always in season.  

…

But all seasons change. 

Even evergreen trees shift ever so slightly with the passing seasons. 

And while you had been living out these sweet developments and changes within your relationship. 

Most of those around you both had been none the wiser to the relationship you had cultivated together.

Oli always had a cheeky grin, always seeming to know whenever you had spent time with Dennis. Sending you little teasing looks whenever he knew you were texting Dennis. 

But to everyone else, it was a secret. 

It may not have been planned to be a secret. But overtime, it was simply something neither of you thought to bring up. 

Being swamped by flower orders and busy running your business, and inundated by patients of all sorts in the ER, certainly made it difficult to find time to chat with coworkers. 

You had been in the midst of working upon some floral arrangements for a birthday order, when Cassie had come into your store. 

In her hand she held steaming cups of coffee, one for her and one for you. 

She leaned against the bench with a gentle smile, “I thought I’d stop by to say hi,” placing the coffee cup on the bench, “And to keep you caffeinated with something other than instant coffee”

You snort, taking the cup gratefully, “I’ll have you know I just got an espresso machine for the store…I just need to figure out how to use it”

Cassie laughs at your words. 

“Busy day?” 

“Surprisingly yes, I don’t know what it is today, but it seems like every guy in town has to apologise for something,” you joked, before going on to ramble about a particular customer who had very very specific demands. And guilt practically drenching him entirely. 

While listening to your story, Cassie can’t help but notice your sweater. 

A sweater she’s sworn to have seen Whitaker wear…and while it might’ve been a coincidence. 

It’s hard to deny the fact that there’s an eerily matching tear in the fabric…

And then Cassie is reminded of how your demeanor had shifted ever so slightly as of late. 

How you no longer rambled on in a lovelorn manner…

Instead. 

You seemed to have been glowing lately…

Perhaps even a little. 

In love.

Cassie’s eyes widen just a fraction, a small smile spreading across her lips. Nodding along to your story. 

Come to think of it, even Whitaker had been acting differently as of late. The way he’d smile fondly at his phone in the few moments he could afford a brief respite. 

While she wouldn’t pry. 

Cassie had a feeling that you and Dennis might be a little something more than friends. 

She knew you two would get along..

And while Cassie had caught onto this juicy bit of news. 

Dennis’ coworker, roommate, friend, had been completely oblivious to this fact. 

Sure she had noticed him spending more time out of the apartment–but she just thought he was spending it at Amy’s farm. Or at the very least thought he was giving her a bit of privacy. 

And sure she had noticed how he seemed to have less and less clothes around the apartment–but she just thought he had done a deep clean out. 

And sure he had been a bit happier–but she truly didn’t think too much of it. 

Trinity had been completely in the dark about his blossoming relationship…Until in the midst of a shift. 

He had scratched the back of his neck, eyes flickering around the room, nervously sanitising his hands. 

Maybe if he did this in a public setting it would go down a bit smoother…was his justification…or at the very least if it turned bad, he was already in the ER…

“So…” He asked awkwardly, “How’s the shift been?” 

She arched a brow, glancing up at him. Both separated by the bench between them, standing at the hub. 

“Spit it out Huckleberry,” she said, looking back down at her notes. 

“I’m not sure how to say this, but–” he sucks in a deep breath, before blurting out, “IthinkImightbemovingoutsoon–well,actuallyIdon’tthinkI’mmovingout–I’mactuallyplanningonmovingoutand–”

“What the fuck?” she asks, eyes darting up to look at him. 

“I’m probably going to be moving out soon…”

“To where exactly?” Santos questioned, brows furrowing, a sharp look directed his way. 

His hands twist and fold together, fidgeting slightly, “Uhh–I’m moving in with my girlfriend”

She almost chokes from his words. She clutches onto Javadi as she passes by, shaking her, pulling her attention towards Dennis, “Listen to this, Huckleberry has a girlfriend”

“Uhh–”

“Why didn’t you mention this?” Javadi asks curiously. Stumped by the newfound information. 

Santos blinks still in shock, “Wait–No. No. You would’ve told me. Wouldn’t you–please tell me you were going to tell me,” she asks. 

And the words get stuck in Dennis’ throat, unable to speak. Feeling all coherent thoughts leave him beneath Santos’ sharpened gaze. 

“Damn you Fuckleberry! I can’t believe this. Can’t believe you tried to pull the wool over my eyes,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t know how they do things in Broken Bow, but here you don’t just spring your roommate with moving out and saying ‘oh uh I actually have a secret girlfriend’–”

He bites his lip, sheepishly interjecting, “I thought you knew” 

“Well I didn’t!” She exclaimed. 

Javadi does her very best to stifle the laugh threatening to escape her whilst she watches this unfold. 

Dana leans in, with a raised brow, “What’s going on?” her gaze flits between a fuming Santos and shrinking Dennis. 

Everyone’s eyes flickering over to watch the scene unfold. Their curiosity getting the better of them.

Santos huffs, “What’s going on is that Fuckleberry over here has been keeping secrets–”

“–If it helps, you’ve met her,” Dennis adds, offering a small smile. 

Santos’ eyes widen, blinking in shock before a look of realisation dons across her features. Her eyes flicker over to share a look with Javadi, before snapping her head back towards Dennis. 

“It’s that florist isn’t it! I told you to ask her out, and now you reward my helpfulness by keeping it a secret!”

“In my defense…she asked me out,” he muttered quietly. 

“How long,” her arms folded over her chest, looking at him determinedly. 

“...A few months…sort of since the day after the class,” he answered, a tinge of guiltiness seeping into his response. 

“That was almost a year ago!” she exclaimed, pinching the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath, “As if this can’t get any worse”

Cassie interrupts while she passes by, “Oh, I’m happy for you both, it’s nice to know that you’re together, I knew you’d get along well,” there was something behind her words. 

A sense of knowing that Santos’ catches onto. 

“Did you know about this?” she raises a brow, her gaze settled upon Cassie. 

She only shrugs, “No. Well, not really–I just had a feeling.” 

Santos looks at him again, “This whole time I thought you were going out to help Amy at the farm. Was it all just lies?” The question is sincere and yet softened by a little humorous touch. 

He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck averting his gaze, “Well. That's some of the time, Y/N normally joins me–looking for wildflowers and helping out around the farm too…But other times I’m out with her…” 

A lovestruck smile forms upon his face whilst he talks about you, the memory of you entering the forefront of his mind. 

His chest warms at the thought. 

So comforting and soothing. 

So undoubtedly in love. 

He couldn’t wait to be able to go home to you. His home was wherever you were.

Santos simply plucks his phone from his pocket, holding it out to him, “Call her–I need to make sure this is all real.” She taps her foot a little impatiently. 

While those around them snicker softly, Princess and Perlah sharing amused looks. 

Dana with a shake of her head, a small laugh escaping her as she mutters quietly to Robby about what had unfolded. 

“Fine,” he says, taking the phone to call you, and before he could stop Santos, she had pressed the speaker button. 

“Hiya Love,” you answered sweetly, “How’re you–”

He interrupts you before you can continue, his face burning not from embarrassment but from the sheer amount of attention settled upon him, “Hey sweetheart, um, you’re on speakerphone”

“Oh…why?”

“Uh–” 

In a swift action, Santos leans across and plucks the phone from his hand, “Hey Y/N”

“Hi Trinity?” you respond, questioningly. “Everything ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, all good. Was just asking, are you really dating Huckleberry?” she asked, waiting for your response.

“I take it he said he was moving out?” 

“Perhaps”

The sound of your soft laughs echoes over the phone, “Don’t be too hard on him, please. I’ve got a date with him after work,” you say between laughs. 

“So it’s true,” Javadi said, eyes widening. 

Both of them peered up at Dennis, stunned by the news. 

“This is crazy–” Javaid uttered under her breath. 

Santos only asked, “Why?” 

“Why what?” you replied. 

“Why Dennis?”

“Well–He’s very sweet to me, considerate. I really do love him,” You answer honestly. 

Santos sighs, before letting a small smile creep up onto her features, “Good for you.”

“Thanks–Now I have got to go, could you put Dennis back on the phone for me?” you say. 

Santos passes it back to Dennis, who quickly turns the speaker phone off, trying to maintain a little privacy despite it all. 

“Uh huh,” he mumbled. Your words simply muffled, unable to be heard by those around him, “Sounds good–alright. Have a good day–I will, yes–Love you” 

He says softly, a bright smile spreading across his face, a twinkle lighting up his eyes. A calmness draping over him, while he hangs up on you, tucking the phone away. 

Santos nods satisfied, before wagging her finger at him, “Don’t ever try to hide anything from me again” 

He nods, endeared by her care, despite her prickliness, he knew she cared. 

“Y/N says she’d love to have you over once I’m moved in properly,” he says. 

“Good.”

“Ok–As interesting as this might be, we’ve got patients to see and an ER that’s backed up,” Robby interrupts ushering them all away to disperse. 

…

And truly Trinity was happy for Dennis. 

Glad for him. 

She could see how happy you had made him. Changes that were all for the better…

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t peeved by his secretiveness. 

So it had brought her to stand before you on one of her days off. Peering at you, looking you up and down. 

You raised a brow at her, expectantly, “What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to buy a bouquet that says fuck you. Something that’s a bit more subtle than orange lilies…maybe something more for betrayal,” she requests, her expression filled with the utmost seriousness. 

You hold back your laugh, “No problem–I had a feeling you might be coming in. Though I am surprised it’s for a bouquet”

She only shrugs, “You’re the one who said it's sometimes easier to speak through flowers”

You smile, nodding, “Touche,” your eyes scan around the store, before clicking your fingers, “I think I have the perfect flowers.”

A glint in your eyes whilst you work upon the bouquet…Despite Trinity not saying who they were for, you had a very good feeling as to who they were for…

And that very evening. 

When Dennis enters your apartment, taking in the delicious aromas of your cooking. 

He enters your view, in his hand he holds a bouquet of flowers, bursting with vibrance, perfectly arranged. Wrapped with pale cream paper, and a blue ribbon.  

The very bouquet you had arranged for Santos. 

“Can you believe that Trinity gave me flowers, said she was sorry for blowing up at me, aren’t they nice?” He says, showing them off to you, beaming with a smile. 

He moves with ease, plucking one of your many vases, as he fills it with water. 

“Dennis…” You say softly, laced with a small laugh. 

“Yeah?” He looks up at you, after having placed the flowers in the vase, now displayed beautifully upon the little dining room table you had. 

“These ones symbolise betrayal,” you stated with a small grin. 

Laughing at the stunned expression that instantly floods his features. As though he were slapped in the face. 

“Yellow roses and carnations, alongside those snapdragons, are associated with betrayal,” you add. 

“...That explains the grin she was wearing…” He says. 

You lean up to press a kiss to his cheek, before he tilts to catch your lips with his. You sigh, squeezing his hand slightly, “Don’t worry, I have a feeling she’ll come around–the daisies in the bouquet also represent friendship,” you shrug lightly, “I could make an apology bouquet for you to give her if you want? It might help”

“I love you,” he sighs, melting into your hold. Nuzzling his nose into the side of your head. 

Relishing the feeling of you in his arms, so perfect, so sweet. 

“I love you too,” you smile gently. 

It was safe to say. 

That this relationship was blooming as beautifully as the flowers you arranged daily. You couldn’t wait to see what sort of bouquet it would form into…

And Dennis.

Well he was excited to finally share all of life's highs and lows with someone. Especially because that someone, was you.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this fic and all its sweetness (perhaps I'm simply allergic to writing anything not remotely fluffy or sweet-who knows haha) Anyways I loved the idea of the relationship being secret and having such a stunned reveal, along with having Trinity give Dennis a bouquet, inspired by the floral arranging class. And just ugh-the idea of watching Dennis on the farm will haunt me in the best ways. So I hope you enjoyed its gentle sweetness!! Let me know what you thought or if you'd like to be tagged in this collection of stories / or for the next part ✨

Read the next instalment of the Bouquet of Love Stories 💐

-> Read Next...Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x Reader: WIP / Paging Dr Daisy (Part 3)

For a Dennis Whitaker centric series check out Tread Lightly 💗 Help yourself and check out my other Pitt Works on My Masterlist Here!

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  His boots’ noises grow louder as he walks into the royal wing of the Keep, finally finding some solace in the silent halls. He can even hear his own breathing while he counts his steps.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  He hears the click of a heel ruining his counting; his head whips to the sound, trying to find the person responsible for bothering his peace, but he is met only by the soft ‘whoosh’ that is barely heard in the hallway.

  He shakes his head again, thinking nothing of it before he resumes the path he was taking. Sighing, he looks around the place; the candelights are brightening the hallways enough but not too much, moonlight seeps through the cracks, and suddenly he aches for a breath of fresh air.

  He strides toward the balcony — his unnamed balcony — counting his steps again. Five, six, seven, eight. And he stops for a second when he sees the bottom of a skirt sliding against the floor before it disappears in the direction of his destination.

  Curious and cautious, Baelor walks more slowly this time, trying not to make any other sounds that could frighten the person — a woman, he assumes — and lose the chance to talk to someone who is also seeking a quieter spot.

  Nine, ten.

  He freezes. 

  Wow. 

  Beautiful is the first word that comes to his mind as his widened eyes take in the way this woman is staring up into the stars with a content look on her face. No smiles, no, but he can sense the peace and ease in her eyebrows.

  He can’t even see her full face, yet he can read her like an open book.

  He is staring, he realizes, he is staring shamefully at a woman who is so unbelievably pretty in a way that steals the air from his lungs. He watches with a heaving chest as the silver moonlight spills over her hair like a shading in one of the paintings hanging in the painting room of the castle. She is perfect.

  There is a sadness to her, he assumes, a pain that lingers in the twitch of her mouth when she notices a shooting star in the pitch-black night. It isn’t even a true smile, but it is more than he could ever ask for.

  “My lady?”

  She gasps softly, turning around with her lips parted and her hand clutching her necklace in surprise. She seems frightened, her chest heaving with each exhale as she stares at him like a deer caught by the hunter with an arrow ready to be shot.

  She seems frightened, Baelor thinks, so he takes a step back and bows his head, his hands clasped behind him. He has a soft expression, a small smile on his lips as he tries to lighten the moment, even for a small moment.

  “I apologize, I did not mean to startle you–”

  “Pardon me, your grace,” she falls into a deep courtesy, her fingers threaded in front of her dress — a black long-sleeved gown adorned by black lace at the neckline, and a very beautiful corset that tantalizingly hugs her bosom — but he is not looking. He is not looking.

  “No need,” he shakes his head softly, his fingers itching to grab her arm and help her straighten her back, “Rise, please. We are not at court; it is not needed for you to be this polite.”

  “You are a Targaryen prince, your grace. Court or not, I shall always respect you,” she replies softly, standing back to her height again, looking at him with a nervous yet curious gaze, “I am deeply sorry for wandering in the castle. I was becoming restless at the feast.”

  “As I said, no need for apologies,” he walks on the balcony, three steps until he is standing side by side with her, “That we have in common. The celebrations can get too intense at times. That is why I am also wandering about. This part of the castle grows quiet at night.”

  “Yes, it seems it does,” she agrees, her eyebrows moving down a little at a thought, “But are you not required to be in the Tower of the Hand?”

  “Ah, yes, true, I spend most of my nights there,” he nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his posture straightening for reasons unknown as he looks at you with tender eyes, “Though I still own my previous chambers in this part of the castle.”

  “The sky must be beautiful from the tower,” she sighs a little dreamily, looking between him and the stars until her stare locks with a flickering star in the pitch-black night, the reflection of it shining on her irises. “Does it not get lonely there?”

  So she is not frightened, he thinks and sighs in relief, letting out a relaxed chuckle as he takes another step closer to look at the gardens from atop the railings.

  “It is hard to sense loneliness when you have many parchments to fill with words.” He looks up at the sky, keeping one hand behind his back whilst the other moves to the railings in front of him, “Being the Hand of the King has its advantages, though you have to pay the price of the power with sleepless nights.”

  “It must be rewarding,” she sighs quietly, glancing at him before looking down at her shoes, “To have everything you could ask for, without even asking; security, respect, peace.”

  “The Targaryen name alone ensures you are never truly safe, My lady. Prince or not, even a bastard with silver hair will never see peace.” He explains, “Many lords wish me death. They might bow, they might smile, they might bring me gifts as a gesture of gratitude, but they stand with a dagger at my back. It does not matter how deep their courtesy is; they will always believe a Targaryen born means madness and unruly chaos for the realm.”

  “But you are not chaos, are you, My prince?” Her tone is as soft as a feather, a ghost of a smile on her features as she watches him, “From what I have heard, you are the calmness that holds the pieces of the Keep together.”

  “I am not as you see me,” he takes a step closer, and he notices the way her breath hitches in her throat, “I am a man before anything else, I have urges and needs. I am ambitious, even though I am told to be the most levelheaded brother,” he gazes down at her, the way her eyelashes crul in the end, “And you, My lady? Who are you?”

  “That… is a mystery for another day,” she bends her knees in a quick courtesy, grabbing the skirt of her gown in her hands before she walks past him, “Have a nice night, your grace.”

  “Goodnight, my lady,” he smiles and watches her leave, his heart beating like a bird, hard and fast and breathtaking. Who is she? 

  With a sigh, he looks back up at the sky, looking for the star she was gazing at earlier, wishing it were his reflection in her eyes instead.

Day two

  “Lady Tyrell?”

  You groan at the sound, already done with the day before it had even begun. Rolling to your back on the bed, you sigh loudly, looking at the ceiling and blinking rapidly to wipe the exhaustion off your face.

  “May we come in–”

“Mama?”

  “Ah, I was wondering where she was,” you whisper and sit up against the headboard with a yawn, the tiredness of yesterday’s feast already drying out your bones. You fear what the rest of the celebrations will do to you. 

  It is not only the feast to be blamed for your exhaustion; your late-night rendezvous is also one of the reasons you are the way you are. You did not mean to slip away, truly, you needed a second to breathe, and got lost in the castle. It was your luck that led you to that balcony, as if the stars were calling your name, as if the pull between you and the Heir had brought you together.

  He was strikingly handsome; tall, yet he used his height to bring safety and not to corner you, mismatched eyes that glimmered under the moonlight — one a very unique shade of blue that was nearly violet, and one a chocolate brown color that reminded you of his Dornish heritage. The beard on his jaw and cheeks made him soft yet authoritative.

  You have never met a man who has made your heart beat this fast. Not even your late lord husband.

  You pull your hair over one shoulder, the soft sleeves of your night shift bringing your attention back to the world surrounding you. With a quiet and resigned exhale, you speak up.

  “Come in.”

  The world is pushed open gently, your chambermaid walking in hand in hand with your daughter, peeking inside the room before she guides the little girl to you.

  “Mama! They have sea!” Little Margery exclaims with a delighted smile, rushing out of the maid’s grasp before running for the bed and crawling on the mattress with a little struggle, huffing and puffing until she is situated under the blankets with her head on your chest, blinking her doe eyes up at you, “It is so blue!”

  “It is the Blackwater Bay, sweet girl,” you kiss her forehead, wrapping your arms around her body tightly as you acknowledge your chambermaid, “Good morrow, Celeste. I apologize, she must have dragged you out of the room at dawn.”

  “It is no problem, Milady! She is the sweetest. I am glad to be of service.” She smiles at the two of you, waiting for a heartbeat before she speaks up again, “What would you like to wear today, Milady? There is to be a hunt for the White Stag in the King’s woods in honor of Lady Kiera.”

  “A hunt–”

  “With a blade?” Margery looks up at you curiously, yet you can see the sadness creeping into her eyes, “Will they hurt the animal?”

  “No, sweetness, the Stag will feel no pain,” you smooth her auburn curly hair out of her face with a gentle caress, tucking a few strands behind her ear, “And you would find great friends there! There must be a tent for the kids, am I correct, Celeste?”

  “Yes, Milady! Little lords and ladies do have their own tent for the hunt! A safe and happy place for Lady Margery, I am sure.”

  “See? All will be well, and we shall have an excellent meal with the rest of the court,” you peck her small nose, pushing the covers off both of you to slowly wiggle out of the bed with her clinging to your chest, small arms wrapped tightly around your neck, “And if anything happens, send word for me, and I will come to you.”

  “Will you really?” She asks, her legs tightening around your waist as you walk with her through your room until Celeste helps you wash your face in the basin in the corner while you hold her up with one arm, drying your face as you walk to your mirror and sit in front of it with Margery on your lap.

  “Of course! Tell Celeste, and I will run to you without a second thought,” you watch as your maid stands behind you, untangling your hair out of your breath, reaching for the brush to gently comb through your strands, bringing oil out to shape the curls with her fingers. You return to your daughter, tipping her chin up, “What do you wish to do with your hair, sweet girl?”

  She thinks for a heartbeat, Aubrun's eyebrows frowning in concentration, before she gasps, “Pearls! I want it the way Grandma used to do it!”

  “I’m sure Celeste can think of something appropriate for today,” you kiss her head, chuckling when she reaches for the box of your hairpieces, waiting patiently for her turn while she observes every pin between her small fingers.

  Your morning goes by in a blink of an eye as you break your fast with Margery and help her get dressed for the day without her causing any trouble. The silence of the room was calming at some point when the little girl fell asleep in your arms as Celeste braided your hair in the fashion of King’s Landing.

  You manage to finally walk out of your chambers, hand in hand with your daughter, as she gawks at the tapestries and the King’s Guards’ shiny helmets. She is a joyful soul, wanting to explore the world around her, talking about everything and nothing until she has tired herself out, having the mischievous glint her Lady grandmother has, the same one her father had.

  Your gown is simple: a black gown with long sleeves and a neckline that even covers your collarbone. There had been designs sewn in green under your bosom and corset, fading into the black as it reached the end of your skirt. Elegant and fitted for a freshly turned widow. Respectful enough to keep the court silent.

  Your beautiful daughter, on the contrary, decided to go with the brightest orange ever seen among the seamstresses, with a long, flowy skirt that bounces with every step she takes. 

  She is so happy, with how she is swinging your hand and jogging next to you as you make your way towards the yard to get inside your carriage and start your short journey to the King’s Woods. 

  “Are you hungry, sweetness? We could ask Celeste to bring you some for the road,” you ask her, bending your knees a little to make sure she looks you in the eyes, “Because if we leave, we would not be able to eat anything till we reach the tents.”

  “I do not think I’m hungry, Mama… but maybe I am?” She is confused due to the fact that every time she is famished, her stomach growls. But now, it does not make any sounds that could potentially alert her, “Maybe an apple for the road?”

  “That sounds amazing,” you smile at her and wait for both your chambermaid and carriage to arrive, watching your daughter rock back and forth on the balls of her feet impatiently, glancing around the yard and the castle with a bit of remorse.

  “Our home is prettier,” she whispers, “But I love it here too! Maybe you would marry a prince, and we would stay!”

  “Shh,” your eyes widen, heart pounding in your chest as an image of a certain prince passes by your vieoon for a second before you crouch down next to her and make sure she is looking you in the eye, “We were invited because of your uncle, we came as Tyrells, besides, sweetness, no prince will like me nor it is appropriate to speculate about such things.”

  “Why not?” She pouts when you pinch her cheek, crossing her small arms over her chest, “I would like to stay here! I love the castle! Please–”

  “I, too, love this place, but it is for the royal family and the people of the court; we are not a part of either of them, my love.” You pull on her fingers until she is holding your hand again, watching as your carriage approaches you, the horse stomping its feet on the ground as it stops in front of you, “Let us go and enjoy the hunt!”

  ****

  To say the lady he met the other night has not been consuming every one of his thoughts would be a lie. And he, Baelor Targaryen, does not lie. He might not say the truth out loud, but he does not twist it and utter words that are a lie.

  He has been thinking, and thinking, and thinking about her. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her face, the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the way her skin glistens under the moonlight, the reflection of the black sky in her orbs. She is all he can see, all he can hear; she has become the only thing Baelor can focus on.

  He focuses on the way wind rustles the leaves of the King’s Woods. The noises of the knights and lords who are drinking and laughing while the maids and servants put up the tents and prepare the fire for the night. And yet, no sign of the mysterious beauty he saw last night.

  Baelor Targaryen is a humble man, confident and kind, ruthless when he ought to be. But his heart has not yet slowed down from his encounter with her, and it truly makes him dizzy, so he decides to help without a care about what his lords might think about him.

  He approaches the young man who is trying his best by carrying a huge wooden box, undoubtedly holding the possessions of his good daughter, Kiera. He truly wishes to help, really hopes he can pick up a thing or two to busy his unsettled mind and ease the pain of a few of his people, but it seems as soon as he starts walking towards the boy, he is causing a lot of problems.

  “My prince!” The boy gasps, dropping the entirety of the wooden box on the mud as he bends down on the low bow, his hands shaking as he waits for Baelor to respond.

  With a long defeated sigh, Baelor smiles and asks the boy to rise, knowing he has caused more trouble than helping anyone, totally the opposite of what he had in mind. 

  “I apologize, it seems I have done nothing but cause unease today,” He smiles down at the boy, reaching to pat his head before he steps back a little, “Make sure you tell the others to clean this up. Lady Kiera won’t be pleased to see dirt on her belongings.”

  “Yes, my prince! At once!” 

  He watches the boy bend down quickly, picking up the box with a groan, before he bows his head at Baelor and dashes toward where Lady Kiera’s tent is awaiting her arrival.

  “Well done,” he shakes his head at his mistreatment of the boy, sighing and puffing out air as he strides across the field, watching everyone closely as some of them hammer the nails into the ground while the others fill the glasses with rich Dornish wine. 

  He stumbles across a large table, covered with different plates: goose, meat, lemon cakes, tarts, and even duck with lots of different little side dishes that will most likely be ravaged by the lords. 

  As soon as he reaches for a tapestry that has caught his eye, a hand comes down for the same dessert he is reaching for. He chuckles before looking up at the person, his laughter dying in his throat as he finds her in front of him.

  She looks equally shocked, her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise as she takes in his features, her gaze landing on his mismatched eyes before she remembers who he is and drops into a courtesy.

  He is quick to reach for her elbow, not letting her bend her knees for him, shaking his head softly and smiling at her gently, “No need, my lady.”

  “Your grace,” he grins at her, his fingers twitching over her covered skin, the heat radiating from her body making him dizzy. You nod and stand next to him with ease after you slowly pull your arm away, looking down at your shoes in embarrassment when he clears his throat and withdraws his touch, straightening his back with his hand behind him. “Good morrow.”

  “Good morrow, my lady. I hope you had a good night,” he says quietly, his eyes memorizing every detail as he watches her closely, “I didn’t get your name before.”

  “And I said that mystery is the only way to survive the court,” she shrugs, a ghost of a smile making its way to her lips, and he feels as his own cheeks pull in a smile as well, “How else am I supposed to keep running into His Grace if he knows who I am?”

  “You would not need to run into me,” he confesses quietly, the words hanging between the two of them, “I would seek you out myself.”

  He hears the small breath falling from her mouth, her hands stopping the fidgeting before she licks her lips and regains her composure. She looks down at the pastries, “Now you have to seek me out more, because you do not know me.”

  “How so?” He steps a tiny bit closer, reaching for the dessert he was looking for before, gazing back at her softly, “You wish for me to run after you?”

  “Maybe,” she breathes out, blinking at him from beneath her eyelashes, “but you would be too busy with the realm’s demands to notice me. And that would be upsetting.”

  “For whom?” He asks, holding up the pastry for her to take, watching as she gently replaces his fingers with hers, their skin brushing against each other, and Baelor has to flex his other hand as the shockwaves rock through his body, “You, my lady?”

  “Hmm,” she brings the dessert up, taking a gentle bite from it, licking her lips as the powdered sugar sticks to her lips, his eyes are immediately drawn to them, and he is sure she is noticing the way his kind eyes are growing darker, “Perhaps. But a prince would never bother with a widowed lady.”

  “You are too beautiful to be a widow, my lady.” his fingers are twitching behind his back as he tries to hold himself from reaching to swipe his thumb over her lips, “Young and beautiful, it is a shame you are wearing black.”

  “It is expected of me, your grace,” she shrugs slightly, finishing the pastry with a soft expression before she reaches for another one, this time, handing it to him, “You did not get to taste the sweetness of this one, my prince.”

  “Is it good?”

  “It was baked by the castle’s best maids, I can only assume this has to be the most delicious pastry one could ever taste,” she says, and for the first time, she smiles at him even with the ever present sadness in her eyes, and his heart leaps into his throat, “I can only imagine his grace, the king, hires the most talented for his kitchens.”

  “Yes, he is very fond of his desserts,” he chuckles, dragging his ringed fingers from her waist up to her knuckles until the pastry is in his palm, the corner of his eyes crinkling with ease, bringing it to his mouth and taking a big bite from it. “Mhmm…”

  “How is it?” She asks with a soft tone, her eyes twinkling, “It seems your Grace hasn’t had one in so long.”

  “I stick to my Dornish wine and salty cheese,” he replies, licking the tip of his fingers with his gaze locked on your face, “Desserts are always present because of our Lord Father, but I am too busy to stay for it. The realm never waits.”

  “Ah, that explains your reaction then, Prince Baelor,” he smiles at the way his name sounds on her tongue, “Hopefully you will not be too busy for the hunt.”

  “I sure hope not–”

  “Lady Tyrell!”

  She turns around toward the sound, watching as — assuring — her maid running to where they are standing, panting with a pitiful yet terrified look on her face.

  “What is it?” His companion asks, taking a step closer to the maid, her brows weaving into a frown, her fingers clasped in front of her, “What’s happened?”

  “Margery, she fell–”

  “Excuse me, my prince,” she — you, he knows who his mysterious woman is now — does a quick bow before turning toward the maid, “Lead the way.”

  He sends you away with a quick nod, his own eyes wide and curious as you grab your skirts in your hands and walk with haste, letting your maid lead you to Margery, whoever she might be.

  ****

  “We seem to run into each other every hour and then,” you reach him, Baelor Targaryen, near the huge bonfire, throwing the end of your shawl on your shoulder as you approach him slowly, a goblet of wine in your hand.

  He turns around at the sound of your voice, his eyes softening at your familiar face while he raises his chin to look at you. “It seems so, my lady. I see you are out again under the sky.”

  “What can I say, I love the stars,” she replies, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they both look at the edge of the flames soaring into the midnight sky, “It is too beautiful to miss, especially when the city is far away. There is no unnecessary noise, only calmness and peace.”

  “It is a hunt, my lady,” he says, taking a sip of his drink while his gaze turns from the fire to your face, taking in the way the flames shine in your eyes and lighten up your skin, “This must be the only peaceful thing about it.”

  “Will you be the one to push the lance into the white stag’s heart?” You blink at the fire, sighing when he does not respond immediately, “I am of a softer nature. I despise violence, but I know it is the way the world goes day by day.”

  “What would you wish me to do then, Lady Tyrell?” His voice is soft, his eyes even softer as he looks at you fully, watching you closely as you frown a little, even biting your cheek, and he is delighted to notice those small movements.

  “Nothing, your grace, I…” you shake your head, a small chuckle leaving your mouth before you find the courage to look him in his very breathtaking eyes, “I spoke things that were irrelevant to our conversation–”

  “No, please, I have only learned of your identity for a few hours, my lady. I do wish to know more about you,” he watches you swallow your wine, not breaking eye contact as you bring the goblet to your lips, “Tell me about your life.”

  “I am from the Reach,” you start, tightening your shawl around your shoulders as a cold breeze hits your body, “A Hightower, to be exact. I grew up with four brothers. I was taught how to use a crossbow, how to wield a sword, and to mount a stallion. That is why I detest violence.”

  “What is it that you like to do?” He points to the chairs scattered around the bonfire near his tents, where he was sitting an hour ago with Valarr and Kiera, “Please, take a seat. I would hate myself for a lifetime if I were the reason your feet ache the next morrow.”

  “Thank you, my prince,” with a smile, you walk to the chairs, choosing one that is placed the closest to his, the corner of your lips pulling up in a bashful smile, but you are quick to shake it away, “Well…” he rests his chin on the palm of his hand, “I like to… bake. It is unbecoming of a lady, I know, we are not supposed to get our fingers dirty, but after my husband’s sudden passing… it has been of great help.”

  “What do you bake, my lady?” He asks, his gaze unwavering as he keeps his irises locked on your face.

  He is so handsome, you think. His short hair makes his eyes stand out more; his beard, long and soft-looking, you wish to run your fingers through it, caress his defined jaw, and watch him lose his focus. 

  Unfortunately, it is you who is losing her focus at this point.

  With a not-so-subtle shake of your head, you look down at your goblet, the warmth of the fire kissing your cheeks, heating your body, adding to the tension hanging between the two of you.

  You met him last night for the Seven’s sake. You must not enjoy how one looks in your direction, which is enough to send your heart racing.

  “Berry tarts,” you sigh, smiling a little, “My daughter helps too. She eats more than she helps, but it is good to have us… occupied so we do not wallow in grief.”

  “You have a daughter…” Baelor hums in amusement before he raises his eyebrows in surprise, “Margery?”

  “Yes, I am impressed,” you look at him just as shocked, his cheeks pulling into a wide smile, and you have to hide your flustered amile behind your drink, sipping gently before continuing, “Did you seek out information about us?”

  “No,” he chuckles, moving away a little to lean on the back of his chair, looking up at the sky for a heartbeat before his gaze finds you again, “I put the pieces together.” 

  “Hmm, you seem to like a good riddle, my prince.” You mimic his pose and look at the side of his face, noticing the sharp ridge of his nose, “And scenery.”

  “True,” he meets your gaze, smiling at you softly, and you notice the beautiful shade of red on his cheeks; you do not know whether it is from the flames or the wine, “You seem to like a black night sky as well.”

  “We used to have a telescope to watch the stars from the highest tower of the castle,” you explain in a hushed tone, “My brothers did not enjoy it as much as I did, especially when I would drag the Maester up there to help me look at the stars. It was a beautiful time, sometimes I miss being a child; away from grief and motherhood.”

  “That is a beautiful memory,” he replies, blinking at you with a curious yet empathetic look, “Did you love your lord husband?”

  “Ah,” you laugh in a gentle manner, looking at the stick closest to you as it burns at the other end, the fire coating the length of it slowly, “I did not at first, though. We weren’t a love match, but we grew closer; he was the second son, and I was the eldest child and the only daughter. Shared troubles were the reason we grew to love each other. And then came Margery in our second year of marriage. Seven years is a long time,” you suck in a sharp breath as you finish before looking at Baelor, “What about you? I’ve heard quite the tales about you and your lady wife.”

  “The tales are pretty dramatic compared to what we had,” he starts, finishing his wine, putting the goblet down on the ground before he combs his fingers and closes his eyes, a small smile growing on his face, “Just as you, our marriage was not as pleasant as a lady would like. Heir to the throne, Hand of the king from a young age… it was a lot of responsibility for us. But we got closer as the time passed, Valarr was born, and we were happier than ever. It did not take us long to fall in love.”

  “It is a lovely thing, to love another,” you whisper, smiling when his misty eyes meet your own, “To create a human and give them life. I wish Margery had more time with her father. The Seven took him from us too soon.”

  “You will find love again,” he mutters, and you notice how he fiddles with his rings, maybe to ground himself, maybe to stop himself from touching you. “You are a young and beautiful lady.”

  “Maybe,” you nod, squeezing your own fist before you bite your lip, “Maybe.”

Day Three

  “I like eating,” Margery says as she sits at the Tyrell table with you, swinging her legs and eating the meat they have brought from the hunt for lunch, “I like eating with you, Mama!”

  “I can tell, sweetness,” you kiss the top of her head, burying your nose in her beautiful curls as you smell the petals Celeste had dropped last night in her bath, “I like eating with you too.”

  “Can we have cake later?” She asks, looking around the tent to find the cake she saw earlier, huffing when she sees it on the high table where the royal family is sitting, “So far away!”

  “I do not know, maybe. We have to wait and see what plans the court has for us,” you reply, pushing her hair out of her face when she groans and pouts, busying herself with her food. You laugh softly, kissing the crown of her head again, “If you are good and eat all your meal, they might give us a huge piece!”

  “Truly?” Her big eyes shine with happiness as she looks at you, “A big piece with looots of cream?”

  “Yes,” you nod, then point at her plate, “Eat, and I shall think of a way to get you a piece, sweetness.”

  “Thank you, Mama!”

  You are about to respond when you see Prince Valarr stand up as soon as Lady Kiera walks into the tent, kissing her hand when she reaches him and easing her into her seat. That is when you notice Baelor.

  He is looking at you in a way that could set fire to your skin; unshakable, soft, with undivided attention as if he is memorizing you, carving the shape of your face in his mind until you are all he sees in his waking moments and dreams.

  A smile threatens to pull on your face, but you are quick to notice your good sister looking at you with a curious expression on her face. And you have to try to keep a mask on as long as you need to so she does not notice anything out of the ordinary.

  It is not that something has happened, nothing is going on, but the idea of anyone finding out you have drunk with the Heir, you have stargazed together, makes your heart beat against your ribs like a rabbit being chased.

  You do not wish for anyone to find out.

  You glance at your good sister, making sure she is happy and distracted with Margery before your eyes find Baelor’s mismatched ones; truly a wonder, a dark-haired Targaryen set to rule over the kingdom with orbs lovelier than the sea itself.

  Watching with bated breath as he stands up, he raises his cup to his son and future good daughter, “It is an honor to be the host of a lovely event held for my son and Lady Kiera. I have watched you grow into a handsome capable young man, and now, you have found compassion in a loving lady who will help you become the best man and knight you can be.” He smiles, looking around the room before his eyes catch your gaze for a brief moment, “You will become a strong and fair king one day.”

  “Thank you, father,” Valarr says, smiling broadly, “May we see you happy once more.”

  “Let us thank our guests as well for joining us in this week’s beautiful celebration!” Baelor sits down after that, and your eyes are magically pulled towards him, and you notice him whisper I hope so too in response to Baelor’s words.

  ****

  He does not realize how the time passes; from riding his horse back into the castle walls to the beginning of the feast at sunset. He is already changed into a black and red doublet, sitting at the high table with the King present next to him, sipping on his wine.

  People are dancing, and the King’s guard is standing nearby as they search the hall for any threat. There sit the big houses of the realm; Starks, Hightowers, Martells, Arryns, and Tyrells have all attended, and are placed closest to the high table.

  That gives him a good look at you and your little girl, whom you are caring for. He is reminded of Jena; she took care of Valarr and Matarys fussings, fed them herself as long as she had to. She would pat their heads and kiss them goodnight. He never had the chance to have his own little girl, a princess to spoil because his wife was taken too soon from him. Just as your husband was taken so hurriedly by the Seven.

  He watches the way yet another black gown is laced across your back, too beautiful yet soulless for a woman like you. He wishes to see you in your house’s colors; Tyrell and Hightower. But more than anything, he wants to see you in the bloodiest and finest silk in the entire Westeros. In his colors. In the Targaryen colors.

  Baelo Targaryen is a man of class, a man of patience, which is why his father has bestowed the position of his Hand on him. But even the mightiest men must have one weakness, and shockingly, his newest one is you. 

  He watches you talk with an enthusiasm that could become the sole source of his heart pumping blood. He can not help but smile broadly as he sees Margery jump out of her seat and twirl at the music, showing off her green gown to everyone.

  But then, he sees it. He sees the lord approaching your table. At first, he thinks nothing of it, the lord could have many reasons to come to the Tyrells, he could have a business plan, a trade deal, something, anything. 

  Apparently, it is none of them as he stops right next to your chair, extending his hand and smiling at you sweetly. Sickeningly sweet. Baelor has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he can not stop the grimace on his face when you laugh and look down at your plate.

  “Are you well, son?” The king asks, his old body resting against his chair as he looks at Baelor with curious eyes, “You have been silent for far too long.”

  “Of course, why would I not be?” He tries to mask his emotions, but his emotions are too strong to handle, and his frown deepens even more when he sees you stand up with your hand in the Lord’s palm, your skirt sweeping behind you as the guy leads you to the dance floor.

  “Maybe you would like to dance…?” He has to stop the urge to grunt at his father, but he is not entirely wrong. He is not very good at dancing, the last time was with Jena at Matarys’ name day, the exact day he was born, in their chambers as she clung to him in pain, but she was happy and safe in his arms. 

  He thinks about the last time you danced. Was it at Margery’s name day perhaps? Or at your wedding? Could it be at a feast in the castles of Highgarden, or maybe in the garden of roses surrounding your home? Did you enjoy it? Are you enjoying it now?

  The lord is respectful, keeping his hands where Baelor can see; one on your back and the other holding yours as he slowly moves you across the floor among the other couples. 

  His body moves before he has the chance to rethink his decisions. The song is near its ending, his footsteps follow the rhythm of the music as he walks around the high table, passing the Tyrells and glancing at Margery watching you with a beautiful smile. 

  He nears the end of the dance floor where you and the lord stop, bowing as the song ends. You smile at the lord before you notice a familiar shape of dragon embroidery and turn your face to where Baelor is standing.

  “My prince,” you drop in a courtsey, ignoring as the guy bows deeply before he is dismissed with a single nod from Baelor. That was easy, he thinks, much easier than expected as he offers you his hand.

  “Please, Lady Tyrell,” he whispers, his fingers closing around yours when you place your hand gently in his palm, allowing him to pull you closer, “May I have your next dance?”

  “You may,” you reply, placing your hand on his shoulder, looking at him with wide eyes, your fingers trembling in his hold, but he is steady and will be more steady for you. “I did not take you for a dancer, your Grace.”

  “Nor did I take you as one,” he loses his head until his lips are closer to your ear, “Though you are a beautiful dancer, a delicate one too. I had to sit and watch you brighten the entire room.”

  “You flatter me, my prince,” you breathe out, your chest heaving, your skirt brushing his boots as he twirls you once, pulling you even closer than before yet still making sure it is an appropriate distance. 

  He looks at you, wide-eyed and smiling, the glee in your eyes making this experience more joyful than it already was for you. 

  As soon as the song ends, everyone stops, and for the first time, he lets his most suppressed feeling become known in his eyes; you notice his pupils are blown that the blue and violet hue of his iris is invisible, his lips are a few shades darker, and his cheeks are tinted with red.

  You are the same with how you inhale harshly, your hands getting clammy and a longing look in your eyes. He wishes to devour you if he could right here, but the king is present, the court will whisper and worse, your reputation will be tainted because he could not resist his urges.

  “Meet me at our terrace?”

  “Yes.”

  ****

  You remember the first time you walked through these hallways, needing an escape from the feast, away from the noises of the boots stomping on the ground. The dark pathway led you to the balcony, where you met the Heir to the Iron Throne. 

  That fateful night had changed something in you both; something that started to pull you to each other whenever you were next to each other. As if you were tied together with invisible strings.

  You jog through the hallways as if you were born here, turning right by a memory and grabbing your skirt in your hands as you near the end of the pathway.

  There he is, standing with his back to you. His posture is straight, hands locked against his waist as he looks up at the sky. For a brief second, you wait and watch him; his shoulders are a little tight, his fingers fiddling together, the red of his doublet as red as human blood.

  He turns around, and you move without thinking as soon as his eyes meet yours. It takes three strides to meet him, cupping his cheeks before crashing your lips into his.

  Sparks fly across your skin, his lips are soft and warm, and the realization makes you nearly melt. He is everything you have been missing, something good, something alive. 

  His hands are unbelievably warm when he places one on your waist and the other on the back of your head, his lips moving against yours in a heated rhythm, stealing the breath out of your lungs feverishly.

  You grab the short hair strands on the nape of his neck, whether to tug on them or pull him closer you do not know, but you know that you do not wish for him to ever be parted from you, today or any other day to come.

  You gasp when one of his hands slips downward, grabbing your buttocks and squeezing harshly, making you gasp into his mouth, clutching him harder. His beard rubs across your skin – so unbelievably soft – as you scratch his jaw and kiss him with an open mouth.

  He pushes his tongue past your lips, pressing you to the stone wall as he pushes his knee between your legs when he feels you begin to go soft in his arms, holding you up and straight as he tastes the wine on your tongue.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” he groans against your lips before he trails his kisses down your neck, making sure to pull down your neckline to attach his mouth to the soft flesh above your bosoms, his beard burning your skin as he kisses and nibbles across your skin.

  “My prince–”

  “Baelor,” he sinks his teeth into your collarbone a little as a warning, “It is Baelor to you, my dear.”

  “Baelor,” you whine, beginning to rock a little against his thigh, the amount of layers of your gown and his pants does not allow you to take your pleasure, “I need more.”

  “Tomorrow night,” he whispers, he kisses you again, “After the ceremony, come to my chambers. The tower of the Hand,” he licks your bottom lip and it makes you moan, “Shh, I will have you tomorrow night just the way you deserve.”

  “After the ceremony?” You rest your forehead on his, gazing into his eyes with a small smile on your swollen lips.

  “Yes,” he kisses you one last time before he steps away from you, and you notice the pained look he sends your way as soon as he loses your touch, “I will tell the guards to let you in without hesitation.”

  “I will see you then, Baelor.”

  He laughs softly at the way his name sounds this breathless and in awe, “Yes, tomorrow night.”

Day four

  His day started with the image of you, the memory of last night and the taste of your lips against his tongue, and a smile as big as his face as he got dressed. 

  Last night was magical, it had been so long since he had felt such a strong emotion swirling inside him. The last time was with his late wife, and he remembers that night the best; it was a few months after Matarys’s second name day, he was exhausted but she was very much lively and in need and they spent the rest of the night curled up together under their sheets.

  Baelor thinks of the two memories, side by side. He feels guilty for being alive after his late wife, he feels as if he is betraying her trust and love, but you… He has not felt so warm in such a long time, and you are making him feel like a person once more.

  He walks through the hallways of the Keep, passing ladies and lords as they greet him briefly, trying to keep his grin to himself but he is barely managing to hold his posture as a prince should.

  Until something, or someone small collides with his legs.

  “Save me!” Oh. Margery. She is pulling on his sleeves as she giggles and looks behind her before she tugs on him again, “She is coming after me!”

  “Who is?” He crouches in front of her, a small smile on his face as he notices the disheveled look on her; dark red curls in different directions, her white night shift large enough to cover her entire small body.

  “Mama!” She gasps when she hears the knocking of the boots against the hard floor, looking at him with wide eyes before she throws herself into his arms. “Save me from the beast!”

  He catches her effortlessly, already used to his boys tackling him down. She is far too gentler than he is used to, and he loves how she clings to him, arms wrapped around his neck.

  “Your mother is no beast,” he corrects her gently, picking her up with his forearm keeping her weight against his body as he pushes a few unruly strands out of her face, “She is a lovely woman who wants the best for you.”

  “She wants me to take a bath and wear a gown so tight it hurts my chest!” She huffs out, pouting a little and he is so close to crying because she looks so much like you, it feels him with so much endearment it nearly spills out of his ears.

  “I could save you from a gown but not a bath, little flower,” he kisses her forehead, walking slowly with her in his arms, “You should be clean, always. I took a bath this very morrow too!”

  “Did your maid scrub your arms–”

  “Margery!” You round the corner, heaving as you stare at her, eyes widening when you notice him holding her, dropping into a quick courtesy, “My prince.”

  “You are a prince?” Margery asks, tilting her head to the side, blinking her huge hazel eyes at him, “You did not tell me!”

  “I am,” he chuckles, glancing at you for a brief second, finding you smiling and looking all flustered at your daughter’s antics, “You did not give me a moment to introduce myself. I am Baelor.”

  “My prince, put her down,” You take a step closer, rubbing Margery’s back slowly, but she only hugs his neck tighter, placing her head on his shoulder, “Come on, please. We have a wedding to be ready for.”

  “Your lady mother is right,” he bites his cheek to stop from laughing when she huffs out in annoyance, “I want to see you dancing with beautiful hair at my son’s wedding.”

  “He is your son? He did not give me cake yesterday–”

  “Get down, little lady. I am not going to repeat myself, let the prince be.” Your tone changes into a stern one, making both Baelor and Margery look at each other before he kisses her forehead again before he puts her down. 

  “She was not being rude,” he states gently, taking another step closer, smiling down at Margery who grabs your hand and waves shyly at him, “I shall see you at the wedding. Would you save me a dance, little flower?”

  “Will you marry Mama if I dance with you?”

  “Margery!” You gasp, squeezing her hand in warning but she shrugs and hugs your arm closer, you close your eyes, trying not to melt when Baelor laughs softly, “I sincerely apologize, your grace. She is a child and–”

  “No need,” he shakes his head, reaching to hold your hand gently in his, the small contact between your fingers tinting his cheek in red, “I do not know about marriage, but I would like to see you in something other than black, my lady.”

  “What do you have in mind, your grace?” You ask, breathless and panting as he brings your knuckles to his lips, his beard brushing the back of your hand as he plants a kiss there, his thumb caressing your pulse point.

  “Red!” Margery squeals, pulling on your other hand as she jumps up and down, “You must wear red!”

  “I–”

  “Great choice,” he winks at Margery before kissing your hand one more time and letting go, his gentle eyes filled with an unknown warmth, “Targaryen red would be more than I could ask for.”

  “I do not believe it would be appropriate,” you whisper, clenching and unclenching your fingers, “The court will talk…”

  “They always do,” he replies, “Let them talk about your beauty, not grief.”

  “I… I will think about it,” you bend your knees in another courtesy before beginning to lead your daughter away, “Tonight…”

  “Tonight.”

  ****

  The gasp your good sister let out was truly worth it when you walked inside the Sept with Margery holding your hand. Red. A red so deep it looked as if you were draped in blood, Targaryen Red as it was requested.

  You watched the young couple get married in the eyes of the Seven, watched how Valarr’s cloak wrapped around Kiera’s body as she belonged to this house; the face of a beautiful queen to be.

  Baelor, as handsome as always, stood next to the King as he watched his son get married to the woman he so loved, but during the ceremony, his eyes would find yours. His attention, although mostly on his son and good daughter, would drift to you and Margery every moment or so.

  “Why is Prince Baelor looking your way?” Your good sister asks, her sharp judgmental eyes narrowing as she glances between you and the prince, “He seems to be shocked by your… appearance as well. You are grieving, that is an awfully inconvenient gown for a widow.”

  “I lost my husband almost a year ago,” you say, helping Margery climb into the seat next to yours as you wait for the married couple to arrive at the throne room, “I am young, I deserve to be happy.”

  “Yes, well, it seems you have lost all etiquette of the court after my lord husband’s brother died,” she smiles at you, her teeth sharp and his tongue poisonous, “At least for the sake of your daughter… do not tarnish her future.”

  “Mama, look!” She waves at Baelor, grinning when he sends a small wave back in her direction, “Prince Baelor promised me a dance!”

  “We shall wait and see, sweetness,” you run a hand over her curls, filling her plate to feed her enough if he decides to make good on his promise, “Let us have supper for now.”

  “I wish to dance! I will go to him myself!”

  “No, sit–”

  “Lady Tyrell.”

  “My prince!” Your good sister and Lord Tyrell stand up immediately, you though, can not because he is standing behind your chair, looking down at you with a gentle gaze that makes your heart palpitate so fast.

  “Your grace–”

  “Prince Baelor!” Margery squeals and wiggles in her chair, “We shall dance!”

  “Of course, my lady,” he chuckles and offers his hand to her, giving you a little room to help Margery down and hold his hand, “If it is alright with your mother…”

  “Absolutely, please,” you stand up as well, which seems to be the wrong move given how close you end up to him, having to look up at him as he towers over you, his eyes falling to your lips. You clear your throat and look down at Margery who is clutching Baelor’s fingers tightly in her small hand, “Be good for our prince, okay?”

  “I am always good!”

  “True, my lady,” he cocks his head to the side, smiling reassuringly, “We will have the best dance, and we shall show it to the court.”

  “I would not hold you back then,” you reply, bending your knees in respect and he bows his head a little before leading Margery to the middle of the room where the rest of the ladies and lords are gathering – Valarr and Kiera included – and he kneels in front of her, bringing her hand to his lips, relishing the small giggle she lets out.

  “Will you hold my hand?”

  “Dancing is all about holding hands, little flower,” he straightens his back, pulling her a little closer until she is standing on his boots with her flat boots, “Ready?”

  “Yes!”

  You watch them dance, ignoring the way some heads turn in your way, watching you then at your daughter and the Heir to the throne. You ignore them, as you always do, and watch your daughter giggle as Baelor spins her around. She looks so happy, her eyes shine as they did with her father when he was alive, and her smile makes your body warm.

  He picks her up when they have to move across the room, keeping her close and laughing when she says something, his eyes crinkling in joy.

  The dance ends sooner than you notice. Margery is fast on her feet as she bolts toward you with a big smile on her face, Prince Baelor in tow.

  “Mama! Did you see me?” She makes grabby hands at you, and you pick her up with ease, “Prince Baelor was so kind! He helped me a lot!”

  “I did! He is a prince, of course, he would help, sweetness!” You kiss her flushed cheek before meeting Baelor’s overwhelming gaze, “Thank you, your grace. You… you made her entire night.”

  “That was the least I could do for the most beautiful lady in the realm,” he pinches her cheek before withdrawing himself from your space completely, “I am very glad that I could be the cause of her happiness even for a brief moment.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” you smile, dropping in a small courtesy with Margery still in your eyes, ignoring the burning glare of your good sister against your back.

  “Have a great night, my lady.”

  ****

  Your heart is beating so fast against your chest as you walk through the hallway that you know ends at Baelor’s chambers. The guards are already standing there, white cloaks and shiny armor glinting under the soft candelight. You give them a small smile as you approach them, one of them ignoring you as the other nods, scanning you from head to toe in order to find something amiss.

  You nod in reply when they push the door open gently, slowly walking inside like a scared cat, taking in your surroundings before you find Baelor sitting behind his desk.

  His chambers are spacious; a large bed on your left, a terrace close to his work desk, a dining table close by, and even a small set of furniture gathered around a table. Lived in, dark, warm, and him. 

  You find a bathtub close to the hearth, and the steam of the water dampens the air in the room. With a curious yet shy smile, you stride in his direction, and he stands up as well, meeting you halfway.

  “Hello,” you whisper, placing your palms on his chest, his hands finding home on your waist just as quickly, pulling you closer until you are pressed against his body, “I was not aware we were going to take a bath.”

  “Neither did I, dear,” he brushes his nose along yours, “A change of plans that will only lead to me worshiping you.”

  “You are as tempting as sin,” your palm moving up slowly, cupping the side of his neck, your thumb caressing his bearded jaw softly, “It is… unbelievable, the way you make me feel.”

  “You do not give enough appreciation for your own beauty,” he bends down a little, placing a kiss on your cheek, “I believe you are the most alluring person I have ever met. Beautifully crafted by the old gods, new, and the doomed gods of the Valyria.”

  “I feel so strong about you,” you cradle his face in your hands, your lips only a breath away, “Undress me, Baelor.”

  “With pleasure,” he closes the distance, kissing you with an enthusiasm that makes you gasp into his mouth.

  His fingers reach for the laces of your gown, deliberate fingers, pulling on each knot until the red gown is pooling around your ankles, his lips moving with yours in sync.

  “Allow me,” he pecks your lips before he pulls back a little, “raise your arms,” you do and he pulls your shift up until you are only left in your small clothes, bare breasts falling into his line of vision, “Fuck me…”

  “It is unfair,” you reach to undo his doublets, dropping fabric after another until he is standing with his own white shifts until you are tugging at it, making him chuckle as he pulls it off, showing his toned chest and abdomen. “Oh…”

  “I have grown old–”

  “Do not say that,” you shake your head, “You are perfect for your age. Truly… a body sculped by the gods.”

  “You are sweet,” he kisses you again until you are breathless before he lowers himself on one of his knees, dragging your underwear down slowly, mouthing at your belly as he drops the fabric away as if it had offended him, “beautiful.”

  He grabs your hand, making sure you are secure as he helps you inside the tub with a steady hand after he kisses your thigh. His own desires made their presence known by making a tent in his underwear.

  “Join me,” you lean over the edge of the tub, resting your cheek on your forearm as you watch him stand up and pull the last piece of clothing off until he is as nude as the day he was born. 

  Your eyes are immediately drawn to his cock, noticing the soft blush that runs from the top of his stomach to his neck and cheeks, moving to make room behind your body, ignoring the way your body calls for him. Not now.

  He sits behind you, his knees bracketing yours as he pulls you flushed against his body, arms wrapped around your middle and his nose buried in the soft braids you have not bothered to undo.

  He kisses your shoulder, his fingers caressing the skin under your breasts as the warm water surrounds your bodies. He is gentle and caring in a way you have never experienced before – not even your late husband was this careful with you – and he makes you feel as if you are made of the most fragile and exquisite glass in the entire Westeros.

  “Beautiful,” he whispers, one of his hands moving to cup your breast, squeezing the flesh, making you gasp and throw your head back. He smiles, nipping on the shell of your ear, “I would pour us wine, but I am already drunk on your scent.”

  “Sweet talker,” you let out a breathless laugh, wrapping one arm around his neck before turning around a little to look him in the eyes, finding his gaze already dark and wanting, “Do you always invite noble ladies to your room?”

  “Never,” he brushes the tip of his nose against yours, the hand on your chest moving up to hold you by his fingers on the side of your neck, drawing you closer until his lips brush yours, not in a kiss but a promise of one soon, “You are the only woman I have found myself being smitten with.”

  You kiss him then, pulling him in by the back of his head, moving your lips against his forcefully, moaning in his mouth when one of his hands drops between your legs, fingers finding your pearl with ease.

  He is enjoying the way you melt in his arms, head resting on his shoulder as you let him feast on your tongue, sucking and pulling on the flesh of your lips as if they belong to him. They do, though it is too soon to admit.

  “Baelor…” you gasp when one motion of his fingers along the sensitive nerves sets your skin ablaze, “I need you.”

  “And I you–”

  You detangle yourself from him, pushing him back until his back hits the bathtub, a gush of water spilling out of the tub because of his movements.

  He is stunned, you can see it in his eyes as he spreads his arms over the edge of the tub and leans back with a surprised smile, watching with hooded eyes as you crawl into his lap, finding home on his body before kissing him again feverishly.

  You do not wish to waste any more time. You want him, here and now, and for many days as you can have with him. As you moan and gasp into his mouth, he helps you line up his cock with your winking hole, holding you against him by one hand wrapped around your back and the other on the back of your head.

  “Fuck– Fuck, Baelor.”

  “I know, dear,” he says through a choked breath, “Slow and gentle.”

  You nod but when you take him inside you finally, you slump forward on his body, your breasts rubbing against his hairy chest as you adjust to his girth. He is big; bigger than your late husband as it is only him you can compare Baelor to. 

  He groans, holding you close as he stretches your walls deliciously, enjoying the warmth of your walls as they hug him close. He tucks your face into his neck, the hand on your back moving to your buttocks, squeezing the flesh while he tries his best to resist the urge to fuck you.

  “Gods be good,” he throws his head back when you roll your hips down, using his shoulders to hold yourself up as you begin to move, leaning down enough to kiss his throat, smiling at the vibration that is felt over his skin as he groans.

  “You feel so good,” you whisper, trailing your lips up to his jaw, then cheeks, “Gods, you feel so fucking good–”

  “You were made for me,” you moan at his words, sinking your teeth into his thin bottom lip as you begin to move faster, the water around you crashing into your bodies in hurried waves. 

  He squeezes your ass, fingers digging into your flesh as he bends his knees to thrust up inside you, slotting his tongue with yours in a desperate kiss as he takes his pleasure and brings yours to the edge of yours.

  Your noises fill the room, the sound of the water hitting the bathtub over and over again, adding even more noise to your coupling.

  He kisses you like you are air, he holds you as if you are a dream and he does not wish to wake up from it. He wants you more than ever, more than yesterday, more than the first time he met you. 

  Baelor tugs in your hair until you are gazing into his eyes – misty orbs meeting each other in the throes of pleasure – and you have to try to hard not to break the contact but his cock nudges the spot inside you that has your vision going white.

  You climax with a broken cry, fingers leaving half-moons on his broad strong shoulders, cunt clenching around his length for life. You do not wish to let go of him, you want him inside you for as long as possible.

  Your legs shake around him uncontrollably until he pulls you down and holds your limp body against his while he hammers his cock inside you. You can feel his body contracting for a second before he buries himself inside you to the hilt, filling you up with his warm seed as he whimpers your name into your hair.

  He is trembling slightly from the pleasure. You are sure he has had his share of women since his wife passed, but you do not believe any of them to be this intense.

  “So good,” he whispers, caressing your bare back and holding you close with a soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder, “You were so good, my darling.”

  “So were you,” You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as the heat leaves your bodies, “It had been so long since I experienced… such a pleasant moment.”

  “I shall give you more if you allow me,” he tightens his embrace, afraid you would leave even if he is the one shielding you from the toxic reality of the court, “The night is young…”

  “I have to leave before dawn,” you whisper, but do not push him away, “But I suppose I have earned the right to join you in your bed,” he smiles at your words, pecking your lips, “And this water has grown cold and disgusting. We must get out of this instant.”

  And when his chest rumbles, you are sure of the decision you made.

Day Five

  “Look at the flowers!” Margery whines, stomping her feet as she stands in front of the bushes of the royal gardens, “They look so dead!”

  “Sweetness, they are just fine–”

  “They are not! Mama, look, the petals are turning down!” She almost starts crying, looking frantically across the field to find someone, anyone to come and listen to her, “They are not getting enough water.”

  “We shall find a way to tell the gardeners, is that alright, Marg?” You ask, turning her so you could look her in the eye, “Besides, these are not ours to mend–”

  “I miss my flowers,” she pouts, but does not pull away when you kiss her cheek and chuckle, “I love to stay but their gardens are bad, Mama! Can we tell–” she is distracted again, this time, by noticing three shadows walking in the same path as you, “PRINCE BAELOR!”

  “Margery!”

  You know the whispers will start to fly off soon with the way every head turns to the little girl running to where the Heir is standing with his son and good daughter.

  Baelor is quick to notice her, finding her panting as she reaches the three of them, frowning so deeply that a small crease forms between her light brown eyebrows. 

  “Hello, Lady Tyrell,” he says gently, leaning down a little to be less intimidating, “How can I help you on this fine morning?”

  “I am very displeased by your gardens!” She huffs, crossing her small arms across her chest, looking at him with a deadly glare that makes his heart burst through his chest, “Your flowers are dying!”

  “Oh, no,” he crouches down in front of her, his thumb moving to untangle her eyebrows. He has to stop the endearing teasing smile that threatens to overtake his features so he does not upset her further, “What shall we do, little flower?”

  “Our roses bloom when they get enough water. Yours are dying because you do not help them! If I don’t eat, I will die. Flowers are the same!” 

  “Best we start feeding them, then!” Valarr jumps in, clearly interested in the little fiery girl in front of him, and he notices you finally approaching them with a tired look, “My lady.”

  “My prince, princess,” you courtesy to the married couple before looking at Baelor, “Your grace, I apologize–”

  “No need,” he shakes his head, looking at Margery with a small smile, “Would you like to stroll with Prince Valarr and Princess Kiera?”

  “He did not give me cake!”

  “Margery, please don’t be rude–”

  “Please, my lady,” Kiera laughs softly, extending her hand to Margery, “We should remedy that! There is cake on the table at the end of the path, we could share some.”

  “Truly?” Margery asks, turning around to look at you for permission, “Mama, can I go? Please please please–”

  “If it is alright with Prince Valarr–”

  “Absolutely,” the young prince says, offering his arm to his wife as they begin to walk with Margery holding tightly on Kiera’s fingers. You can hear how Margery immediately starts talking.

  “I like your hair!” She says excitedly, making Kiera smile at her when she starts swinging their arms, “I like pink! I also like red! Like roses!”

  “Would you join me for a walk, my lady?” Baelor waits for your response, holding his elbow out for you to take, “We could stay behind them if it eases your mind.”

  “Oh, thank you,” you weave your arms through his, leaning a little of your weight on him as he guides you through the path, “She is going to talk their heads off.”

  “Good practice for when they would become parents of their own,” he replies quietly, resting his free hand on top of yours over his forearm, “Last might was…”

  “Magical,” you finish his sentence, smiling at him with a glimmer in your eyes. He chuckles and nods, remembering the vivid memories of last night with you tangled beneath his sheets, “I wish we could stay in those moments. You and me, hidden from the world.”

  “I wish you could stay,” he whispers, the words making your breath hitch, heart bursting inside your ribcage, “In the court, with me. Margery already loves this place, perhaps you could… find a position among our court.”

  “What exactly, Baelor?” You ask softly, shaking your head but smiling when you see Valarr pick Margery up, “As Princess Kiera’s lady in waiting? I am a widowed mother, no one would ever look twice my way.”

  “I would,” he stops, his grip on the back of your hand tightening slightly, “I would look more than twice. I wish I could look at you every day, my lady. Stay, I promise I will find a way to make it worth your while.”

  “We should not dwell on the unfortunate circumstances we are facing, instead,” you look around to make sure no one is actually paying you two any mind before leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek, gazing at him with a small grin, “We should find joy in the remaining moments we have.”

  “Would you want to… go somewhere less crowded?” He does not wait for an answer as he slowly leads you to a hallway that reaches the lower levels of the castle, crowding you against the wall as soon as you are out of sight.

  He kisses you without a second thought, only wishing to taste the fine morning tea you shared with the rest of your family. And taste he does with how passionately he licks and nibbles on your tongue, pushing his knee between your legs and pulling one thigh around his hips, caressing the exposed skin of your leg until it teases your garments.

  You moan and kiss him back, one hand fisting his clothes and the other clawing at the back of his neck to hold him closer. It is insanity how much you need him, the prince of the realm, the heir to the iron throne, but more than any of his titles, you need Baelor.

  His lips fall to your neck, sucking on the exposed skin and grinning against you as he notices the eye-catching green of your gown – the color of the Hightowers – you are wearing. Colors, not those black doomed dresses you would wear the first few days.

  You hear the clutter of the plates against the ground close, making you gasp and push him away with a force that nearly knocks him to the opposite wall of the hallway as you both pant and look at the servant who is visibly shaking and crying as she stares at the two of you.

  “Stay where you are,” Baelor commands gently, not a hint of anger in his voice as he approaches the maid slowly, “Do not be frightened.”

  “M-my prince! I- I…”

  “This shall stay between us, do you not think so?” He stands closer to her, clasping his hands behind his back as he looms over her a little, “There is no reason to fear me. If words do not get out, you can stay and keep your job in the Red Keep.”

  “I will not tell a soul, my prince!” She drops to her knees in front of him, clutching his boots, “I beg of you, please have mercy on me–”

  You do not wait to find out what he wants to say, instead, you flee from their company with a hand to your chest, tears burning your vision as you try to find the path ong the sea of flowers to go back inside.

  You can only hope the words do not find their way into the gossip of the court, or The Seven forbid, to the ears of your good sister.”

  ****

  What we hope for does not usually come true. What we love always comes with a price, and loving the prince of Westeros is the hardest of all. 

  You knew from the moment you set your eyes on him he would become the sun in your rainy days. He became so dear to you in the shortest time possible, not just someone you liked but someone you loved. 

  Baelor Targaryen is a maddening man with the most beautiful eyes someone can possess; a blue so rich you could paint the sky with it and a brown so pigmented you would think they have built the mountains of the hue of his iris.

  He is whole-consuming, humble, soft, kind, and he can make your heart explode if he touches you. He is everywhere in your dreams and thoughts, he was all over you the night prior, and now, he is nowhere to be found.

  It is not his fault that your good sister is yelling at you with her husband, Lord Leo Tyrell shaking his head in disbelief, Margery still clinging to Kiera and Valarr. For the best to keep her away until the issue is resolved.

  “How could you jeopardize our name!” She screams again, pacing around your chambers as you have personally offended her. “They will now write songs about your stupidity! What were you thinking? Getting involved with a prince, and not just any of them but the one who will become King?!”

  “Clearly she was not thinking–”

  “Would you two stop berating me like I’m a child?” You hiss at them, looking out of your window and at the calm water that slides over the sands, “I knew what I was doing. A mistake but I do not regret it–”

  “You should,” she grabs you by the elbow, pulling you closer by a harsh tug, “You have ruined our reputation. We are the most important vessel of the crown and you and your careless actions have put us in a tight position.”

  “The court is already talking,” Leo sighs, clearly less agitated than his wife, “They have seen you. The prince has danced with Margery, with you, you have been caught in a compromising… way. It is not looking good, sister. We were planning to wed you to a Lannister to ensure you have a good life but now… I doubt anyone would want to cross paths with you.”

  “You wanted to wed me without my consent? I have a child, a Tyrell child who belongs to Highgarden, you can not take that away from her, from me!” You pull your arm out of her grasp and walk past her, “I would rather die than marry someone I do not hold affection for again.”

  “The prince – who it seems, you like, will not marry you, get that into your head,” she scoffs and throws her hands up in surrender, “He has his hands full with responsibility. He has an heir, he would not care to marry another.”

  “You shall leave then,” Leo stands up, glaring at you, “At noon, with the first carriage you could find. Leave for Highgarden, we will decide your fate when we come back.”

  “You can not send me away–”

  “You have caused enough trouble, do not make me rethink my decision and marry you off to avoid the scandal you caused,” and with that, he leaves, his wife – burning with fury – follows after.

  You drop on the chaise in defeat, slapping your hand to your mouth to muffle the sobs that wreck your body. You are going to leave before you make your prince’s life hell.

  You do not know how long you cry, only that one second, your chest stops heaving and you fall into a dreamless slumber.

Day six

  “I have not seen her all morning, brother.”

  “Who the fuck are we talking about?” Maekar drops his weight on one of the small council’s chairs, propping his feet up on the stone table.

  “Lady Tyrell,” Baelor sighs deeply, staring into the distance from the balcony, trying to get his mind to cooperate and help him remember where he could possibly find you, “She… she has disappeared since yesterday. I saw her at the feast last night for a moment but she vanished again.”

  “Why are you looking for a Tyrell anyway?” Maekar scoffs, drinking his wine while he looks at his Baelor’s face with disdain, “I have never seen you interested in any woman that walks inside this fucking castle.”

  “Yes, because none of them were interesting to begin with,” Baelor rolls his eyes, exhaling so loud it makes Maekar snort, “If you don’t have anything remarkable to say, then get out of this room.”

  “I believe your lady has been suffering from the court gossip, your grace,” his brother laughs, and the words draw Baelor’s attention immediately, “I heard Keira talking last night. The ladies have seen her with someone inappropriately–”

  “Fuck,” Baelor’s eyes widen in panic, his palms finding the back of the King’s chair as he holds himself up, “It was me… I- I am the reason she did not attend the feast.”

  “It was you? Fuck me, I thought you had lost your charm,” another snort leaves Maekar, groaning as he sits upright before drowning the rest of his wine, “They saw her with a lord’s hand up in her skirts, unbeknownst to them it was the Heir himself. Instead of these games of cat and mouse, you could have just courted her.”

  “It was not my intention to fall for her!” Baelor’s calm tone finally breaks as the gravity of the situation dawns on him, “I have not felt such an intense desire for anyone since Jena, and now I am about to lose her because of my selfishness.”

  “You could go and ask about her whereabouts if you are truly so concerned about her,” Maekar shrugs, approaching his brother with a pointed look, “But if you do, that means you are turning the rumors into the truth. Do what you deem best.”

  “I have to find her,” Baelor shakes his head and skips his way into the room, ignoring Maekar’s voice calling for him. He must find you, he must.

  He goes for your chambers first, finding no guard stationed at the doors. He bursts through the door in hopes of finding you and Margery there, but he finds the place empty of you and your belongings.

  The bed is made, the closets already empty, the desk void of any tea glasses, no sign of toys or small clothes that could be Margery’s. 

  “No,” he exhales sharply before turning around to move and find someone, anyone, he can help him. “No, no, no…”

  He runs down the stairs, ignoring the questioning looks of the lords and the sound of his assigned guards’ armor as they follow him. He must find Lord Tyrell this very second, or he will go mad.

  And he is very successful in his hunt, as he finds him standing with his wife in a corner of a distant hallway, talking in anger and hushed whispers.

  “You,” he approaches them, grabbing the lord by the collar before he slams him to the closest wall. This is not him, this is not the calm and collected Prince Baelor, this is Baelor Breakspear who is angered and distraught. “Where is she?”

  “W-who, your grace?” Lord Tyrell swallows harshly as he utters the words and Baelor feels the bump in the lord’s throat moving against his knuckles.

  “Lady Tyrell and Margery,” he hisses, tightening his fists on the lord’s clothing, “Speak before I tell my guards to go and search for her. If they do not find her, you will pay the price–”

  “Please, my prince, let go of him–”

  “Where the fuck is she?” He yells, and he can see the fear in Leo Tyrell’s eyes for the first time, “Tell me instantly if you wish to have a place in my court–”

  “She has left!” Lady Tyrell cries out, grabbing Baelor’s sleeves to stop him even though he has not raised a finger on her husband yet, “She was told to leave at noon.”

  “You sent her away,” the realization breaks his heart as he lets go of the lord to look at the lady, his attention completely on hers, “When?”

  “An hour or so, your grace–”

  “May the Seven give me patience,” he leaves the couple without a glance as he marches downstairs and to the courtyard, grabbing the reins of the first stallion he sees before he puts one foot in the saddle and swings his body over the horse, “Hey!”

  He rides out of the gates with the King’s guard behind him, following the path that he is sure you and Margery must be on. He is not thinking clearly, his head is foggy and his hands are shaking.

  He needs you to be alright, he needs you to be close so he can get to you and bring you back. He can not, and shall never leave you again.

  He does not know how long he rides until he sees a lonely carriage on the dusty road, he only knows he has to stop it before it leaves his sight.

  His stallion gallops up to the carriage until he stands several feet away, forcing the boy behind the reins to pull a sudden stop to the horses. He waits patiently for his guards to come and take control before he jumps down and walks to the door of the carriage.

  “Prince Baelor!” Margery is the first to gasp his name, “You came for us!”

  You look at him then, with a soft pout and misty eyes. He is as equally teary as you are, body shaking with worry and agony as he stares at you. 

  There seems to be years of longing between the two of you, months of departure and pain, but it has only been a few hours. It feels as if they have chained you in a room on opposite sides without letting you speak to each other, as if you have lost him altogether in a terrible nightmare.

  “Baelor…”

  “My dear,” he holds his hand for you to take, a pleading look sent your way, “Come outside, let us talk.”

  “I have to go back–”

  “You will not go anywhere,” his tone is clipped, he is not responding to argue, “You will stay by my side, here, in King’s Landing.”

  “I can’t,” you breathe out a broken sigh before placing your palm in his, stepping out of the carriage with small steps, looking back at Margery who waits eagerly for a moment to speak, “stay inside, alright, sweetness? I will be back in no time.”

  “I wanna hear!”

  “After we’ll talk, I will let you ride with me back to the castle, alright?”

  “Do not promise her something that you will not be able to do–”

  “She will ride with me back to the Keep,” he cups your cheeks in his hands, pulling you close until his forehead rests on yours, “I am a man of my words.”

  “Baelor, this was… we did not think this through,” you whisper, placing your palms on the back of his hand, lips wobbling as you try to hold back your tears, “I have caused you too much trouble already. Allow me to leave so you can live in peace–”

  “I can not find peace if you are not with me,” he kisses the tip of your nose, letting his tears fall on his cheeks finally, “I did not get a lick of sleep last night. You are occupying every thought I have; what you are wearing, what you are eating, how your eyes crinkle when you smile, how you touch your neck when you are nervous. There is no mistake in loving you, it never was.”

  “People will talk, they already do! They think I have corrupted you, they believe I am manipulating you into taking my hand in marriage–”

  “Then you are very good at it,” he lets out a water chuckle before placing a gentle kiss on your lips, not even drawing back to talk, he allows his lips to brush against yours as he speaks, “I want your hand in marriage. I want you to become my queen when I take the throne one day, I want you by my side even more in the days ahead. Margery will become a legitimate princess if I ask my father–”

  “You can not say these things,” you shake your head tasting his salty tears on his mouth as you peck him once more, “You will find someone who is better suited for this role. I am already spoiled…”

  “Spoiled?” He forced your neck back a little to look you in the eyes, “You are the most perfect woman I have met since my wife’s passing. You are kind, generous, and gentle, how could I seek someone more loving than you when you exceed all expectations?”

  “You are a charmer,” you smile at him a little, and he sighs in contempt, “How would we do this? How would you be able to tame the people–”

  “That is my burden to bear,” he kisses you again, this time a little harder to make his point known thoroughly, “I will request an audience with the King this evening. I need you to have some faith in me, and I will make both of you the happiest women in the realm.”

  “Can I come out now?” Margery peeks at you from inside the carriage, “Please? I am hungry, I wish to eat lunchen soon!”

  “You heard the lady, dear,” he kisses the side of your head as he tucks you into his side, wrapping one arm around your waist as he helps Margery onto the ground slowly with his free hand, “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “No, Mama never lets me get close to the stable,” she pouts, “Can I go with the prince, Mama?”

  “If you promise to listen to him and follow–”

  “YES!” She grabs Baelor’s hands and tries to drag him to his stallion, “We will see you at the castle! Bye!”

  “Have a safe trip,” you manage to steal one more kiss from Baelor before he is entirely focused on your little girl, picking her up and placing her on his shoulder as he walks to where they are keeping his horse.

  With one last look at them, you sit inside the carriage on your way back to the Red Keep.

  ****

  Baelor’s head is pounding. The audience with the king went surprisingly well, but he had to be careful about the way he talked to him, even if the king was his father. It did not matter if they were related in those moments, he had to make sure every step was carefully planned to achieve what he desired.

  He pushes the door open to his chambers slowly, walking inside and finding you and Margery under the covers, sleeping soundly without a care in the world. He smiles at the sight, warmth spreading through his body as he gazes at the two of you until his feet begin to protest.

  He strips, carefully placing the clothes on his chair, peeling layers of the day off until he is standing in only his breeches. He has even discarded the white linen shirt he wears.

  Walking quietly to the basin in the corner of the room, he washes his face and hands, letting the cool water flow over his lashes and lips. With a towel that has been placed nearby, he dries himself before approaching the bed.

  “Baelor?” You whisper into the dark, slowly sitting up and searching for him, mindful of the little body sleeping next to you. You reach for him when he slides behind you under the sheets, his warm chest solid against your back, “How was the king?”

  “Well and healthy,” he replies, kissing your shoulder over your nightshift, “I told him everything, from the first night to today, I do not remember the last time I have been this detailed about something.”

  “You were nervous,” you smile craning your neck to look at him and he takes the opportunity to kiss you softly on the lips, “What else?”

  “We agreed to postpone the wedding to a fortnight from now,” he rests his head on the hollow of your neck, “It was a little tricky to tell him I wished to get married again, but my brother helped and strengthened my argument.”

  “That is good, I was worried you were alone in the dragon’s den.”

  “No, my brother couldn’t lose this chance to see me beg our father for something,” he scoffs, wrapping his arm around you while the other one stretches over your body to caress Margery’s head, “He wishes to meet you, both of you.”

  “Really?” You sigh softly, already tensing at the thought of talking to none other than the King himself, “Whatever will we say?”

  “That I am unable to predict,” he kisses your shoulder again, settling beside you with a soft smile, “Sleep, my dear. No one is going to need us on the morrow, I have made sure of that.”

  “Thank you,” you squeeze his forearm, “For coming for us, for fighting for us…”

  “I will do it a thousand times more, never think otherwise.”

Day Seven

  Baelor Targaryen spends the entire day from today to his last breath cherishing the life he has gained after years of loneliness. 

Tagging: @sylasthegrim @venmondiese <3

Even here, in a town that saw more Dornish traders than Stormland lords, word of the princes at Summerhall had spread. They were the sons of prince Maekar, grandsons of the old king, and their reputation preceded them. Prince Daeron the drunkard, prince Aerion Brightflame, prince Aemon the scholar, and the youngest, who went by Egg. The town was close enough to Summerhall that everyone knew the stories. Everyone knew to tread carefully.

The prince’s gaze swept the room as his companions started to wander around the room, lingering here and there on a bare shoulder, a painted mouth, a curve of breast. The whores preened and posed, sensing coin, sensing the kind of patron who might toss a gold dragon as carelessly as another man might toss a copper. But Aerion did not seem impressed. He looked bored, that particular brand of noble boredom that was more dangerous than outright anger, because it demanded to be alleviated.

One of the Kingsguard, a broad-shouldered man with a handsome, weathered face and short hair, crossed the room and lifted you bodily from your bench. You let out a startled gasp as he settled you on his lap, his armored thighs hard beneath you, his gauntleted hands closing around your waist.

“This one’s pretty,” he said. “Quiet, too. I like them quiet.”

You knew his face from the occasional processions through town. Ser Ronald Crakehall, a knight of some renown. He was handsome enough, not old, perhaps forty, with laugh lines around his eyes that suggested he was not entirely humorless. His fingers found the curve of your hip and squeezed, not painfully, but with a proprietary confidence that made your stomach tighten.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, his breath warm against your ear. “And what’s your rate, sweetling?”

You swallowed hard, acutely aware of the prince’s gaze on you. Aerion had turned from his survey of the room and was watching the two of you with an expression you could not quite read. Appraisal, certainly. 

“It’s my first night,” you said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected. “My first time here.”

Ser Ronald’s eyebrows rose. He looked at you more closely, taking in the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your hands had instinctively clasped together rather than reaching for him. He was not an unobservant man, it seemed.

“Truly?” he said. “A virgin to the trade. How novel.”

But before he could say more, prince Aerion was there, standing over the two of you with his arms crossed, his violet eyes bright with sudden interest. Up close, he was even more beautiful than the stories suggested, with the sharp, delicate features of old Valyria, high cheekbones and a mouth that looked made for cruelty. There was something feverish in his gaze, something hungry and not entirely sane.

“I’m bored, Ronald,” he announced, as if the knight’s name were an inconvenience. “These painted slatterns have nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times. But a new one…” His gaze dropped to you, lingering on the exposed curve of your breast above the silk gown. “I have always preferred to break things in myself. It’s the only part that’s any fun.”

Ser Ronald’s hands loosened on your waist immediately. He did not argue, did not even protest. You saw something flicker in his eyes, resignation, perhaps, or a long-practiced survival instinct, and then he was lifting you off his lap as easily as he had placed you there.

“She’s yours, my prince.”

Aerion’s hand closed around your wrist, his grip much tighter than Ser Ronald’s had been, and he hauled you to your feet. His fingers were long and elegant, but the strength in them was surprising. He did not speak to you as he dragged you through the common room, past the curious stares of the other whores and the careful blankness of the Kingsguard. He simply walked, and you stumbled after him, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

The room he chose was one of the larger ones, with a bed draped in amber silk and a brazier burning low in the corner. The air smelled of roses. He released your wrist only when the door was bolted behind you, and then he turned to face you, his head tilted slightly to one side like a hawk examining a mouse.

“How many men have you really had?” he asked. His voice was soft, almost conversational, but there was an edge to it that made the hair on your arms stand up.

“One,” you said. “My husband.”

Something shifted in his expression. Amusement, maybe, or disbelief. “Your husband lets you whore?”

“He lets me earn coin however I see fit.” You lifted your chin slightly, meeting his gaze. “We’re not starving, but we’re not rich. And you’d be surprised what a new oven costs.”

For a long moment, he simply stared at you. Then he laughed, a short, sharp sound like a blade being drawn. “You’re not lying. How refreshing. Every woman in this place has been trying to convince me she’s the most experienced courtesan from here to Lys, and you stand there and tell me about your oven.” He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath and the faint, clean scent of some expensive soap. “What’s your name?”

You told him. Your real name, not the false one Margot had suggested. You did not know why. Perhaps because he seemed like the kind of man who would know if you lied.

“I am prince Aerion Targaryen,” he said, as if you might not have known. “And since you’ve been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. I am not about to be gentle with you.” His hand came up, and one finger traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, a startling contrast to his words. “But I pay well, and I don’t leave marks where they can be seen. Will that do for you, little seamstress?”

You should have been afraid. Part of you was afraid. But another part, a part you had not known existed until that moment, was curious, thrilled. 

“Yes,” you said. “That will do.”

He did not waste time after that. There was no more conversation, no more teasing. He took what he wanted, and he wanted everything. The silk gown was torn, he would later toss three gold dragons at Margot to pay for it, more than the dress was worth by a factor of ten, and you were bent over the bed, pressed against the wall, pulled onto his lap on the single velvet-covered chair. He was rougher than Merrett had ever been, rougher than you had imagined a man could be, but there was a precision to it, a control. He wanted to see you gasp, wanted to see your fingers clench in the sheets, wanted to hear the sounds you made when pleasure and pain blurred together until you could not tell one from the other.

It was a siege. He fucked with a detached, methodical cruelty, his every touch was a calculated experiment. He’d pinch the soft skin of your inner thigh until you gasped, then soothe the sting with a lazy, swirling tongue. He’d take you right to the trembling edge of a pleasure you’d never known existed and then stop, holding perfectly still inside you, his smile a slash of white in the gloom, while he watched the frustration bloom in your face. He wanted your reactions, your raw, unpracticed honesty, and he took them, one by one, until you were a shuddering, overwrought mess of nerve endings and confused ecstasy. When he was finally spent, he didn’t collapse. He simply withdrew, stood, and adjusted his clothing as if he were alone in his private chambers. Then dropped a small leather purse on the table by the door.

“That’s for the hour,” he said. “I’ll be back. Teach yourself something new before then.”

The purse contained five gold dragons. More than your husband earned in a season.

You did not tell Merrett the details. You told him only that a wealthy patron had taken a liking to you, and that you would be returning when the opportunity arose. He looked at the gold dragons, looked at you, and asked only if you were all right. When you said yes, and meant it, he kissed your forehead and said he would speak to the baker about the oven.

Aerion returned four nights later, and then again the week after that. Each time, he paid more, stayed longer. And each time, you learned a little more about what he liked.

He liked resistance, so you gave it to him, arching away from his hands so he would have to pull you back. He liked begging, so you learned to plead, not for mercy but for more, words tumbling from your lips in a desperate litany that made his violet eyes blaze. He liked to talk, sometimes, in the aftermath, lying in the tangled sheets while the candles burned low. He talked about dragons, mostly. The ones that were gone, the ones that might return. He talked about fire and blood and the way the world had been before the Dance, when his ancestors were gods among men. He never talked about himself, not really, but you learned to read between the lines. You that his older brother Daeron was a disappointment, that his younger brother Aemon was weak, that the youngest, Egg, was a nuisance. You learned that his father prince Maekar was a hard man to please, and that Aerion had stopped trying long ago.

You learned that he was cruel, but you also learned that cruelty was a kind of armor. He expected the world to hurt him, so he hurt it first. It did not excuse anything he did, but it explained it, and understanding was its own kind of power.

The third time he came, he brought a small velvet box. Inside was a pendant, a silver dragon with ruby eyes, delicate and beautiful and worth more than everything you owned.

“Don’t read into it,” he said, his voice clipped. “I simply don’t like my whores to look cheap.”

You wore it anyway, and when he saw it against your throat, something in his expression softened for just a moment before the mask slid back into place.

Aerion kept returning. Each time, he taught you something new, how to use your mouth in ways you had never imagined, how to position your body to drive him to the edge and keep him there, how to read his moods and respond to his unspoken demands. He was a demanding lover, capricious and intense, but there was a strange intimacy in it, a knowledge of each other that went beyond the physical.

“You are the only woman who does not lie to me,” he said once, in a rare moment of something almost like tenderness, his head resting on your shoulder, a finger tracing down your spine. “Do you know how exhausting it is to be surrounded by liars? Everyone wants something from me. Everyone simpers and flatters and tells me what they think I want to hear. But you, you just tell me the truth. An oddity. An honest whore with an honest cunt.”

You did not tell him that you were lying, too, in your way. That you were playing a role just as much as any courtesan. That the truth was simply another strategy, one that happened to work on him. Some truths were too dangerous to speak aloud.

It was perhaps two moons into this arrangement when prince Daeron found you.

When he stumbled in one evening with a retinue of laughing friends and a decidedly unsteady gait, you recognized him immediately. Daeron was softer, his features blurred by drink, his eyes holding a sorrow that even the wine could not entirely drown.

He did not choose you at first. He chose two other girls, giggling things who fawned over him and called him “my prince” in breathy voices. But you watched him throughout the evening, and you saw how he flinched at their simpering, how he drank to drown out their empty flattery rather than to enhance his pleasure. He was a man who was running from something, though you did not know what.

The third time he came, Aerion had been gone for a fortnight, off to some tourney or other, and the brothel was quiet. Daeron arrived alone, which was unusual, and he sat in the corner with a flagon of Dornish red and a face like a man attending his own funeral. The other whores gave him a wide berth. A drunk prince was unpredictable, and unpredictable patrons were bad for business.

You approached him anyway.

“My prince,” you said, sitting down beside him on the bench. “You look like a man who could use a kind word more than a warm body.”

He looked at you, and for a moment, something flickered in his bloodshot eyes. Surprise, maybe. Suspicion.

“And what would a whore know of kind words?” he asked, but there was no venom in it. Only weariness.

“I’m not a whore,” you said. “I’m a seamstress. I mend things.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then he laughed, a bitter, choking sound. “A seamstress. Of course. Why not? The world is absurd enough already.” He took a long drink from his flagon. “Do you know what it’s like to have dreams that don’t stop? Dreams that feel more real than waking?”

“No,” you said honestly.

“Lucky you.” He set the flagon down with a thump. “I dream of dragons. Every night. They’re calling to me, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. It’s like a word on the tip of my tongue, but I can never quite reach it.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were wet. “My father thinks I’m a disgrace. My brother Aerion thinks I’m a joke. And the dragons won’t stop screaming.”

You did not know what to say to that. So you did not say anything. You simply reached out and took his hand, holding it in both of yours, and you sat with him in silence while the candles guttered and the other patrons came and went.

Eventually, he led you to a room. It was not like it was with Aerion. Daeron was gentle to the point of apology, his touches hesitant, his movements slow. He kept asking if you were all right, if he was hurting you, if you wanted him to stop. He was not a bad lover, exactly, but he was a sad one, and when it was over he wept silently into your shoulder while you stroked his hair.

He came back the next week, and the week after that. He never talked about dragons again, but sometimes, when he was lying beside you in the dark, you could feel him trembling. 

He liked to be held. He liked it when you ran your fingers through his hair. He liked to fall asleep with his head on your chest, and he always left a pile of coins on the nightstand when he woke, far more than the hour was worth, and never counted.

“You’re kind to me,” he said once, his voice slurred and sleepy. “Do you know how rare that is? People are always bowing and scraping and wanting things. But you’re just..kind.”

You did not tell him that kindness was part of the service. You did not tell him that you pitied him, this sad, drowning prince who was trying so hard to destroy himself. You just held him a little tighter and let him sleep.

The gifts from Daeron were different from Aerion’s payments. Aerion’s gold was  a transaction. Daeron’s was careless, extravagant, almost an afterthought. He would empty his purse onto your dresser without counting, wave off your attempts to give him change, press jewels into your palm with a vague, “Here, this matches your eyes,” even when it didn’t.

You never told Aerion that his brother visited you. And Daeron never asked if others from Summerhall came to the Moonblooms. It was an unspoken agreement, a delicate balance that you maintained with the same care you used when stitching fine silk.

Then prince Maekar came.

That was a shock. The prince of Summerhall, the King’s own son, a man who could have summoned any woman in the Seven Kingdoms to his bed with a snap of his fingers, walked into the brothel on a rainy evening with his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight and a fury simmering behind his eyes that made the air itself feel charged. He was not as beautiful as his sons: his jaw was heavier, his brow more prominent, his hair a lighter shade of silver, but he had a presence that filled the room, a weight of authority that made even Margot’s practiced composure falter.

He did not want the simpering girls. He did not want the ones who draped themselves over him and whispered empty compliments. He wanted silence, and he wanted release, and when his gaze landed on you sitting quietly in the corner with your sewing, you had taken to bringing small mending projects to work on during slow nights, his eyes narrowed.

“You,” he said, pointing. “Come here.”

You set aside the tunic you had been hemming and rose, approaching him with the same calm you had learned to project with Aerion, with Daeron, with all the men who passed through looking for something they could not name.

“My prince,” you said, curtsying.

“Do not simper,” he snapped. “I’ve had enough simpering to last a lifetime. What is your name?”

You told him. Your real name. It felt important, somehow, to be honest with these silver-haired men who could have you killed with a word.

“I am prince Maekar,” he said, though you already knew. “I have spent the day listening to my sons disappoint me in increasingly creative ways, and I have a headache that could fell an ox, and I do not want to talk. Can you manage that? Can you just be silent and let me fuck you without pretending you’re enjoying it?”

“Yes,” you said. “I can.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting such a straightforward answer. Then he nodded and led you to the room.

It was different with him. Not rough like Aerion, not sad like Daeron. It was desperate, almost frantic, as if he were trying to outrun something inside his own head. He did not speak, and he did not want you to speak, but when it was over he did not leave immediately. He lay beside you, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. Then he reached for the pitcher.

He drank the wine in one long swallow and set the cup aside. Then he looked at you again, his gaze more assessing than it had been before. “How long have you been doing this?”

“A few moons. I was a seamstress before. I still am, during the day.”

“A seamstress.” He seemed to find this amusing. “And what does your husband think of your…second profession?”

“He doesn’t mind. He trusts me.”

Maekar’s eyebrows rose, the same expression of surprise his son had worn. “A remarkable man.”

“He is,” you agreed.

Something in him seemed to crack. He lay beside you, his breathing harsh, and you saw his hands were trembling. Without thinking, you reached out and covered one of them with your own.

He flinched, but he did not pull away.

“Are you all right, my prince?” you asked softly.

“No,” he said, and his voice was raw. “I am not all right. I have not been all right for a very long time.”

He turned his head to look at you, and for a moment, he was not a prince. He was just a man, tired and weighed down by responsibilities and disappointments he could not escape.

“My sons are a trial,” he said quietly. “Daeron drinks because he dreams of things he cannot understand. Aerion burns because he feels things too deeply and has no outlet for them. Aemon hides because the world is too sharp for him. And Egg…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Egg is too young to be a disappointment yet. But he’ll get there. They all do.”

You did not know what to say, so you said nothing. You kept your hand there. He did not pull away.

Maekar came back. Not as often as Aerion, not as regularly as Daeron, but every few weeks, when the pressures of Summerhall became too much, he would appear with a face like a thundercloud and seek you out. He never wanted conversation, but sometimes, afterward, he would talk. About his father the king, about the weight of a crown that would never be his, about the sons he loved and did not understand. He brought you gifts: a bolt of Myrish lace so fine it looked like seafoam, a pair of silver hairpins set with sapphires, a small enameled box filled with Dornish spices that must have cost more than your house.

“For your husband,” he said gruffly when he gave you the spices, as if that explained anything.

You never told him about Aerion. You never told him about Daeron. And they never told him about you. It was a dance, a delicate, dangerous dance, and you were the only one who knew all the steps.

The Moonblooms prospered. Word had spread, somehow, that the establishment was favored by the princes of Summerhall, and custom increased tenfold. Margot hired more girls, expanded into the building next door, started serving food in the common room. She never asked you about your patrons because you had warned her that the princes would stop coming if she advertised you as their favorite, but she gave you the best room, the one with the feather mattress, and she never took more than her agreed-upon cut.

Your husband got his oven, his medicine, a new roof, a set of copper pots that gleamed like sunset. He never asked questions, and you never offered answers, and somehow, improbably, your marriage remained intact. Merrett still looked at you with wonder across the supper table, still reached for you in the night with a gentleness that none of your patrons possessed, still made you laugh with his dry observations about the townsfolk and their creative approach to accounting.

“You seem happy,” he said one evening, as you sat together in your small garden, watching the stars come out.

“I am,” you said, and you were surprised to realize it was true. “Are you?”

He considered the question with the same careful attention he gave his ledgers. “I am. We have good food, a sound roof, and each other. What more could a man want?”

A dragon, perhaps, you thought but did not say. A crown. A kingdom.

You had learned that princes were not happier than commoners. They were richer, certainly, more powerful, more dangerous. But happiness was a currency which did not care about bloodlines.

The summer stretched on, golden and hot, and the princes of Summerhall continued to visit.

You kept their secrets. You took their coin. And in your own way, you cared for them, each in their turn, each in the way they needed.

You woke to the sound of your phone vibrating against the nightstand.

It was not loud enough to startle you, but it was persistent enough to pull you up from somewhere deep and warm, from the heavy kind of sleep your body only gave into when it had finally run out of ways to stay afraid.

For a moment, you did not move.

Jack was behind you, one arm loose around your waist, his chest warm against your back. The curtains were pulled mostly shut, leaving the room dim and gray around the edges, the kind of light that could have belonged to morning or afternoon or whatever strange hour existed for people who worked nights and slept when the rest of the world expected them to be awake.

Your phone buzzed again.

Jack stirred behind you, his arm tightening for half a second on instinct before he seemed to realize where he was, where you were, and loosened his hold immediately.

“Sorry,” Jack murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

You blinked at the wall, still caught somewhere between dreaming and waking. “S’okay.”

The phone stopped. Then started again.

Jack sighed against the back of your shoulder. “Persistent.”

You shifted carefully, rolling enough to glance toward the nightstand. Your phone lit up again, bright against the dim room.

Sofia — Victim Advocate.

Your stomach tightened before you could stop it.

Jack felt the change in you immediately. His hand stilled at your waist, and his voice was quieter when he asked, “What?”

You stared at the screen. “It’s Sofia.”

His sleep-heavy expression sharpened slightly, not alarmed, but focused. “The advocate?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The word pulled yesterday back into the room before you were ready for it. The paperwork, the petition, the laptop on Jack’s kitchen island, the boyfriend slip, his mouth on your cheek, your own voice saying things out loud because a form had asked and a stranger had needed them written down.

You pushed yourself up on one elbow and reached for the phone, but your hand hesitated over the screen.

Jack did not reach around you. He did not answer for you. He only shifted up behind you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

“You want me here?” Jack asked.

You looked at him.

His hair was a mess, his jaw rough with sleep, his eyes steady on yours despite the fact that he had clearly been dead asleep ten seconds ago.

And he was shirtless.

Bare shoulder. Warm skin. Sleep-soft and solid behind you.

Your brain noticed that at the same time it was trying to process court dates and protective orders, which felt deeply unfair.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah.”

Jack nodded once. “Then I’m here.”

The phone buzzed again in your hand.

You drew in a breath and answered before you could talk yourself out of it. “Hello?”

Sofia said your name gently. “Hi. I’m sorry to call so early.”

You glanced toward the dark curtains, then at the clock on Jack’s nightstand.

9:47. Morning, technically. Middle of the night, biologically.

You rubbed a hand over your face. “It’s okay. We work nights, so time is fake.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly beside you.

Sofia gave a small, polite laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind. Is Jack with you?”

You glanced at him. “Yeah. I’m going to put you on speaker.”

Jack’s hand moved beside yours, not touching yet, close enough to take if you wanted it.

You tapped the speaker button and set the phone on the bed between you. “Okay. You’re on speaker.”

“Hi, Jack,” Sofia said.

“Morning,” Jack replied, his voice still rough.

Sofia’s tone stayed calm and professional. “I have an update about the temporary order.”

Your fingers tightened in the sheet.

Jack’s knuckles brushed yours, a quiet question.

You turned your hand over, and he took it without a word, his palm warm and steady around yours.

“Okay,” you said.

“There was an opening on the judge’s docket today,” Sofia said. “If you’re available, they can hear your petition by video at twelve-thirty.”

Your breath caught.

Jack’s hand tightened slightly around yours.

“Twelve-thirty today?” you asked.

“Yes,” Sofia said. “I know that’s short notice, but for a temporary order, sooner is better if you’re comfortable moving forward.”

The room seemed to get too quiet around you.

Not silent, exactly. You could still hear the hum of Jack’s house and his breathing beside you, but everything else pulled back until there was only the time sitting in front of you.

Twelve-thirty. Today. In less than three hours, you would have to sit in front of a judge and say it out loud again.

The door. The handle. The notes. The hospital. The truck. Your fear.

Sofia continued, “Trent will not be present for this hearing. This is for the judge to review your petition and decide whether to issue a temporary order until the full hearing.”

Your body loosened so suddenly it almost hurt.

Jack’s thumb moved once over the back of your hand.

“So he won’t be on the call today?” you asked.

“No,” Sofia said. “Not for this temporary hearing.”

You closed your eyes for half a second.

That helped.

More than you wanted it to.

Jack’s voice came low beside you. “What does she need to do to be ready?”

Sofia answered immediately. “She’ll need a device with a camera, a stable internet connection, and a quiet room. I’ll send the link and instructions. She should have her petition, the case number, and any notes nearby, but the judge will already have the filing and attachments.”

You nodded, then remembered she could not see you. “Okay.”

Sofia’s voice softened. “You don’t have to make a speech. The judge may ask you a few questions. The most important thing is to answer clearly and honestly.”

Your throat tightened.

Clearly and honestly.

You had done that already. You had done it for Jack, for Officer Ramirez, for Sofia, for the paperwork. Every time, you had found the words and put them somewhere outside your own body.

And somehow it still felt impossible every time someone new needed to hear them.

Jack’s thumb moved again, slow and steady.

“If the temporary order is granted,” Sofia said, “it will go into effect once it is signed and entered. Law enforcement will handle service. The full hearing would be scheduled later, and that would be the point where he has the opportunity to appear.”

You stared at the phone. The full hearing. Later. Not today.

Not in Jack’s bedroom while you were still half wrapped in his sheets, your hand held in his, your heart beating too hard for the hour.

Sofia paused. “Does twelve-thirty work for you?”

You looked at Jack. He was watching you, not deciding, not pushing, just there.

You took a breath. It shook a little, but it went in. Then out.

“Yes,” you said. “I can do twelve-thirty.”

Jack’s fingers closed more firmly around yours.

“Okay,” Sofia said. “I’ll send the link to your phone. I can also call around noon to test the connection and go over what to expect.”

You swallowed. “That would help.”

“Of course,” Sofia said. “And I know this feels fast, but fast can be good here. It means the court is looking at it quickly.”

You nodded once.

Fast could be good. Fast could also feel like being shoved into daylight before your eyes had adjusted.

Sofia gave you a few more instructions before ending the call. When the phone went dark, the room stayed quiet, and neither you nor Jack moved right away.

The sheets were warm around your legs. His hand was still holding yours. The clock on the nightstand read 9:52.

The whole day had barely started, and already it had shape.

Noon call. Judge. Temporary order. Work at seven, maybe, if you could manage it.

Your stomach twisted.

Jack watched your face. “Talk to me.”

You let out a humorless little breath. “I hate that that still works on me.”

His mouth softened. “What?”

“The calm attending voice,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved over your hand. “That wasn’t attending voice.”

You looked at him.

His eyes were steady on yours, hair sleep-mussed, jaw rough, one side of his face faintly creased from the pillow.

And shirtless.

Very, very shirtless.

Your thoughts snagged there for half a second, caught on the bare warmth of him, the faint slope of muscle across his chest, the kind of solid, sleep-warm body you had apparently been tucked against all morning while your phone rang and the court system rearranged your day.

Jack’s brow lifted slightly. “What?”

You blinked, then dragged your gaze back to his face. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed, already seeing too much. “Try again, sweetheart.”

You swallowed. Your gaze betrayed you by dropping again.

Jack looked down at himself, then back at you. His mouth curved slowly. “Oh.”

Your face warmed. “Do not.”

“That was an oh?” Jack asked.

You pressed your lips together.

His smile deepened. “Interesting.”

“You’re being smug,” you said.

“I’m shirtless in my own bed,” Jack said. “I think I’m allowed a little smug.”

You tried not to laugh. You failed.

Jack’s expression softened at the sound, though the smugness stayed because, unfortunately, he had earned it.

You looked at him again. Really looked this time.

Sleepy. Bare. Warm.

Yours.

The last word moved through you so quickly it almost hurt.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “I could get used to this.”

Jack went still.

Not dramatically. Just enough for the teasing to ease off his face.

His thumb slowed over your hand. “Yeah?”

You nodded, suddenly shy. “Yeah.”

For a second, he only looked at you.

Then his mouth softened in a way that made your chest ache.

“Good,” Jack said.

Your breath caught.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Because I could get used to you here.”

The room seemed to get quieter. Not empty. Full.

You looked down at your joined hands before the tenderness could knock you completely sideways.

“Boyfriend voice is dangerous,” you murmured.

Jack’s mouth curved again. “That wasn’t boyfriend voice.”

You glanced back up. “No?”

He shook his head. “That was just me.”

Your chest tightened.

“Well,” you said, because your voice needed somewhere safer to go, “you should know that ‘just you’ is also dangerous.”

Jack’s smile came back, slow and warm. “Noted.”

For a little while, neither of you moved.

Outside the room, the day was waiting: Sofia at noon, the judge at twelve-thirty, work at seven if you could make yourself do it.

But right now, Jack was shirtless in bed beside you, his hand wrapped around yours, and the quiet did not belong to Trent.

It belonged to this. To him. To the dangerous, ridiculous, warm possibility that you could get used to waking up here.

You looked toward the curtains again. “We’re supposed to be at work at seven.”

Jack’s expression shifted at the mention of work, careful but not against it. “We are.”

You nodded, mostly to yourself. “So we have time.”

“We have time,” Jack agreed.

The phrase should have helped. Instead, it made you feel the hours stretching out ahead of you.

Video hearing. Work. People. The ER. Everyone knowing.

Your hand tightened around his before you could stop it.

Jack looked down, then back up at you. “Hey.”

You swallowed. “I want to go in tonight.”

He was quiet for a second, not surprised and not arguing, just taking it seriously.

“Okay,” Jack said.

You looked at him quickly.

He held your gaze. “Is that because you want to go, or because you feel like you have to?”

Your throat tightened because he knew there was a difference.

You looked down at your joined hands. “Both, maybe.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your skin.

You took a breath. “I feel guilty not being there.”

“You don’t need to,” Jack said.

“I know,” you said.

Jack’s face said he was not sure you did.

You sighed. “I’m trying to know.”

His expression softened.

You looked toward the door, then back at him. “But I also want to go.”

“Why?” Jack asked.

Not challenging. Not testing. Just asking.

You thought about it.

The answer felt complicated until it suddenly did not.

“Because he already made my apartment feel wrong,” you said quietly. “And my phone. And my sleep. And the hallway outside my door.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

You kept going. “I don’t want him to get work too.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

You swallowed. “I don’t want to walk in there and feel like he made me smaller.”

For a moment, Jack said nothing. Then he nodded once, not because he liked it, but because he understood.

“Then we go to work,” Jack said.

Your chest tightened. We. Not you. Not if you insist.

You looked at him. “Yeah?”

Jack’s hand tightened around yours. “Yeah.”

A shaky breath left you.

He leaned closer, voice low and steady. “But we get through twelve-thirty first.”

You nodded.

“One thing at a time?” you asked.

Jack’s mouth softened. “One thing at a time.”

You looked at him, at the sleepy crease still faintly marked on one side of his face, at the warmth in his eyes, at his hand holding yours like none of this had scared him away.

Then you leaned forward and pressed your mouth to his.

It was not a deep kiss. Not heated. Just a thank you you did not know how to say out loud yet.

Jack kissed you back gently, and when you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours for a second.

Then your phone buzzed again on the bed between you.

Both of you looked down.

A text from Sofia. The link. The instructions. The next thing.

You exhaled slowly.

Jack reached for the phone, then stopped and looked at you. “Coffee first?”

Your mouth twitched despite everything.

“Coffee first,” you said.

Jack’s thumb brushed once over your hand. Then he got out of bed to make it.

Jack made coffee shirtless. Which was rude. Not morally, probably. Not legally. But personally, it felt like an attack.

You sat at his kitchen island with one of his T-shirts pulled over you, your phone charging beside you, Sofia’s text still open on the screen. The hearing link sat there in blue like it was nothing. Like it was a dentist appointment. Like clicking it would not put your whole life in front of a judge at twelve-thirty in the afternoon.

Jack moved around the kitchen with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done a lot of mornings after bad nights. Coffee grounds. Filter. Water. Mug from the cabinet. A glance over his shoulder at you every few seconds, subtle enough that someone else might not have noticed.

You noticed.

You noticed everything about him right now, which was inconvenient because you were trying to be a person with a legal proceeding in two and a half hours.

Jack caught you staring when he reached for the coffee pot.

His eyebrow lifted. “Problem?”

You blinked at him. “No.”

“That was a pause,” Jack said.

“It was not,” you replied. 

Jack poured coffee into two mugs. “It was.”

You looked back down at Sofia’s text. “Maybe I’m contemplating the court system.”

Jack raised a brow. “While staring at my chest?”

Your head snapped up. “Jack.”

His mouth curved, smug and sleepy and unfair. “Just clarifying.”

“You’re impossible,” you said.

Jack set one mug in front of you, then leaned one hip against the counter. “You said you could get used to this.”

You sighed. “I was vulnerable.” 

“You were honest,” Jack corrected. 

You gave him a look over the rim of the mug. “You’re weaponizing my honesty.”

Jack’s smile softened. “Only the good parts.”

That did something to you. Everything about the last twenty-four hours had.

You wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into your palms while Jack finally, mercifully, grabbed a shirt from the back of a kitchen chair and pulled it over his head.

You tried not to watch.

You were unsuccessful.

Jack caught that too, because apparently his house came with no privacy and one emotionally perceptive attending.

He did not comment that time.

Instead, he opened the refrigerator and stared into it with the kind of grim determination he usually reserved for complicated trauma cases.

You took a sip of coffee. “Are you diagnosing your fridge?”

“I’m assessing resources,” Jack said.

“Your resources are mustard and regret,” you replied. 

He looked over at you. “There are eggs.”

You corrected. “There were eggs yesterday.”

“There are still eggs today,” Jack said over his shoulder. 

You rolled your eyes. “Revolutionary.”

Jack opened the carton, checked it, and pulled it out. “Toast?”

You leaned forward on your elbows. “Do you own bread?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. You smiled for the first time all morning without trying to force it.

Jack closed the refrigerator with his hip. “Yes, I own bread.”

“Proud of you.” You said with a smile. 

“Don’t get cute,” Jack said, reaching for a pan.

You shrugged, “Too late.”

His mouth twitched.

You took another sip of coffee and let the warmth settle in your chest. For a few minutes, the kitchen made sense in a way nothing else did. Jack cracked eggs into a bowl. You found plates without asking because you had learned where he kept them. The coffee maker hissed softly behind you. Your phone stayed quiet.

It almost felt normal.

Almost.

Then your screen lit up again with a calendar reminder you had made without remembering making it. Sofia call — noon.

Your stomach tightened. The coffee in your hands suddenly felt too hot.

Jack glanced over before you could put your face back together. “Hey.”

You set the mug down carefully. “I’m fine.”

Jack gave you a look.

You huffed out a breath. “I am not fine, obviously, but I’m not actively falling apart.”

“Good distinction,” Jack said.

You nodded. “I’m trying to be precise for the medical professional in the room.”

“The medical professional appreciates that,” Jack replied. 

You tried to smile, but it did not quite land.

Jack turned the burner down, then crossed to the island. He did not crowd you. He stood on the other side of the counter, hands braced lightly against the edge, his eyes level with yours.

“What part?” Jack asked.

You knew what he meant. Not the whole impossible shape of it. Just the part your body had grabbed onto right now.

You looked down at your hands. “The judge.”

Jack waited.

You swallowed. “I know Sofia said I don’t have to make a speech, but it feels like I do. Like if I say it wrong, or leave something out, or sound too emotional, or not emotional enough, then…”

You trailed off, irritated by the sudden tightness in your throat. Jack’s jaw shifted. Not anger at you. Never at you.

“Then it won’t count,” he said quietly.

Your eyes burned. You hated that he knew, and you hated how much you needed him to.

“Yeah,” you said.

Jack nodded once, like that answer made sense. “It counts before you say it.”

You looked up at him.

His voice stayed low. “What happened counted when it happened. It counted when you were scared. It counted when you told him to stop. It counted when he came anyway. The judge doesn’t make it real.”

Your breath caught.

Jack held your gaze. “The judge puts consequences around it.”

You looked down fast, because there was too much in his face and too much in your chest and not enough air to be dignified about any of it.

“I know,” you whispered.

“I know you do,” Jack said.

You laughed once, weakly. “Do you?”

His mouth softened. “I know you’re trying.”

That made your eyes burn worse. Jack came around the island then, slowly enough that you could track every step. He stopped beside your stool, one hand resting on the counter near your elbow.

“Can I touch you?” Jack asked.

You nodded.

Jack slid his hand to the back of your neck and pulled you gently against him.

You went, of course you went.

Your forehead pressed into his stomach, your hands catching loosely at his sides. He was warm through the T-shirt, solid and real, and you hated how quickly your body believed him over your own thoughts. Jack’s fingers moved once at the nape of your neck.

“You don’t have to convince them you’re perfect,” he said, voice low above you. “You just have to tell the truth.”

Your laugh came out muffled against his shirt. “That sounds like something Sofia said.”

Jack’s hand moved soothingly down your back. “She’s smart.” 

You raised your brows. “You’ve talked to her twice.”

“I can tell,” Jack replied. 

You tilted your head enough to look up at him. “Are you saying you like her because she agrees with you?”

Jack looked down at you, expression serious except for the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. “That helps.”

You huffed a small laugh. There it was again: the good thing threading itself through the bad thing without asking permission.

Jack’s fingers stilled at your neck. “There she is.”

Your expression shifted. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack said.

You sighed, “You said it with your face.”

Jack’s brow lifted. “I have a very expressive face.”

You stared at him.

His mouth twitched. “Fine. I have one expression you’re very good at reading.”

“You have at least three,” you said.

Jack’s hand slid from the back of your neck to your shoulder. “Three?”

You counted them off against his side. “Annoyed. Attending. Smug.”

“Those are not the only three,” Jack said.

“They are the main three,” you replied. 

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Only for a second.

Barely that.

But it changed his whole face.

His hand stayed warm on your shoulder, thumb resting just below your collarbone, and when his eyes came back to yours, they were darker. Slower. Focused in a way that made your stomach drop like you had missed a step.

His voice dipped. “What about boyfriend?”

Oh.

That one. That was not adjacent to smug. That was something else entirely. Your mouth went a little dry.

Jack watched it happen.

His thumb moved once, barely there, and somehow that was worse than if he had actually done something. It was not enough to be called a touch. It was only a reminder that he could. That he was. That he wanted to.

You swallowed. “Boyfriend is…”

Jack waited, his eyes still on yours, warm and patient and way too aware of exactly what he was doing to you.

You tried again. “Boyfriend is smug.”

His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Is he?”

You gave him a look that was supposed to be unimpressed. It did not survive contact with his face.

“Adjacent,” you amended.

Jack’s smile deepened. “Better.”

You let out a small, unsteady laugh and looked down. Too late. His hand squeezed your shoulder once, warm and grounding, before he let the heat ease back into something softer.

“Careful,” you muttered.

Jack’s voice was rough with amusement. “Me?”

You looked back up at him. “Do not pretend you don’t know what your face is doing.”

Jack held your gaze for one more second, just long enough to be unfair.

Then he said, “I know exactly what my face is doing.”

Your breath caught. The pan behind him made a faint popping sound. You both looked toward the stove. Jack blinked once.

Then his expression shifted. “Fuck. My eggs.”

You laughed as he turned back to the stove, fast enough that it should not have been funny and absolutely was.

This time, the laugh did not feel like an accident.

It felt like yours.

Jack saved the eggs before they could fully solidify into rubber, and you made the toast because, despite your earlier doubts, he did own bread. You ate at the island side by side, knees nearly touching, your coffee between you and Sofia’s instructions printed from Jack’s laptop because he had a printer in the tiny office off the hall.

Of course he had a printer.

“You’re a real grownup,” you said when he handed you the pages, still warm.

Jack looked offended. “Because I own a printer?”

“Because you own a printer and it works.” You corrected. 

Jack looked at you. “That’s called being an adult.”

Your brow furrowed. “That’s called witchcraft.”

Jack slid the papers toward you. “Read.”

You saluted him with your toast. “Yes, sir.”

The second the words left your mouth, you both paused.

Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack. His eyes darkened just enough for your stomach to flip.

Then he took a very deliberate sip of coffee.

“No,” Jack said.

You pressed your lips together. “I didn’t do anything.”

Jack lowered the mug. “You know exactly what you did.”

You tried to be innocent and missed by a mile. “I was respecting your authority.”

“You were being a menace before a court hearing,” Jack said.

Your mouth twitched. “That feels like a very specific charge.”

Jack held your gaze. “It is.”

You smiled down at the instructions, and for half a second, the blue link on your phone did not feel quite so impossible. Jack let the moment sit there, warm and teasing, before he tapped the top page with one finger.

“Connection test at noon,” Jack said.

You nodded, sobering a little. “Video hearing at twelve-thirty.”

“Laptop’s charged,” Jack said. “I’ll set it up at the kitchen table. Better light there, better Wi-Fi. I’ll put the petition and notes next to you.”

You looked at him. “You have thoughts about the light?”

Jack’s expression stayed perfectly serious. “I have thoughts about you being able to see the judge without squinting at a laptop from 2009.”

“My laptop is not from 2009,” you said.

Jack gave you a look. You narrowed your eyes. “It has character.”

“It makes a noise when it starts up,” Jack said.

You looked at him. “So do you.”

Jack went still. You took a sip of coffee. His mouth twitched. “That was mean.”

“That was accurate,” you said.

Jack leaned back slightly, one hand still resting near the papers. “I’m choosing to be helpful.”

“You’re choosing to insult my laptop,” you said.

“Your laptop insulted itself when it started wheezing,” Jack said.

You pointed your toast at him. “My laptop has been through a lot.”

“So have I,” Jack said.

You looked him over, letting your gaze linger just long enough to be obvious. “And yet, here you both are. Loud, stubborn, and still functioning.”

Jack stared at you for a second. Then he shook his head, mouth fighting a smile. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You gave him a sweet look over your coffee. “I’m counting on it.”

Jack’s voice was warm with amusement. “Good.”

You looked down at the papers again, smoothing the edge with your thumb. The instructions were simple. Too simple, almost. Click the link. State your name. Answer the judge’s questions. Tell the truth. Jack’s hand settled over yours before you could wrinkle the page. You had not realized you were doing it.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You inhaled slowly.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “We get through the setup. Then the call. Then twelve-thirty.”

“One thing at a time,” you said.

“One thing at a time,” Jack agreed.

You looked at the printed instructions, then at your phone, then at the man beside you who had made coffee, eggs, toast, a plan, and a place for you to be scared without making you feel weak for it.

The hearing was still coming.

Your hands still shook a little when you reached for your mug. But Jack’s knee was warm against yours under the island, and the day, for all its sharp edges, had not swallowed you yet.

Not yet.

You made it through breakfast one bite at a time, eggs first because Jack kept giving you a look every time you got distracted by the paperwork, toast next because you could hold it in one hand while your other hovered over the printed instructions like touching them might make them easier to understand.

They were not complicated. That was the terrible part. Click the link. Wait to be admitted. State your name. Answer the judge’s questions. Keep your phone nearby.

As if any of that explained how to sit still while your fear became part of an official record.

Jack did not tell you to stop reading. He only refilled your coffee, took your empty plate, and slid a glass of water beside your mug.

You looked at the glass. “Are you hydrating me?”

Jack picked up his own plate. “Yes.”

You pushed the glass an inch away with one finger. “Objection.”

Jack looked down at the glass, then back at you. “Overruled.”

Your mouth twitched. “You are not the judge.”

Jack carried the plates to the sink. “No. I’m probably less authoritative.”

You took a sip of coffee. “That is a bold assumption.”

Jack’s shoulder lifted as he rinsed the plates. “I’m comfortable with it.”

You drank half the water out of spite.

Jack did not say anything, which somehow made it worse.

You set the glass down. “Don’t look smug.”

Jack turned from the sink with a dish towel in his hand. “I’m not looking smug.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re looking internally smug.”

Jack dried his hands. “That’s private.”

You pointed at him. “You have no private face.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “You keep saying that.”

You wrapped both hands around your mug. “Because it keeps being true.”

The minutes moved anyway.

By noon, Sofia had texted that she would stay available during the hearing. Jack checked the laptop, the charger, the hearing link, the printed petition, the water glass, and your phone with the same calm focus he brought to trauma rooms.

You watched him move around the kitchen. “You’re nesting.”

Jack looked over his shoulder. “I’m preparing.”

You tried for a smile. “You’re nesting legally.”

His mouth curved. “Do not say that during the hearing.”

You pressed your lips together. “Now I want to.”

Jack leaned one hand on the table beside you. “Menace.”

You looked up at him. “Before a court hearing?”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Repeat offender.”

When the clock on the microwave read 12:08, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Jack’s voice stayed low. “Bathroom. Water. Whatever you need.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “Are you giving me court prep instructions?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m giving you a pre-game.”

You stared at him. “A pre-game?”

Jack’s expression stayed almost serious. “You need better terminology?”

You shook your head. “I need you to never call my protective order hearing a pre-game again.”

Jack nodded. “Fair.”

You stood, your knees feeling a little unsteady but yours. “What are you going to do?”

Jack looked at the laptop, the papers, the water glass, and the charging phone. “Make sure everything’s ready.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course you are.”

Jack looked back at you. “And put on a nicer shirt.”

You paused. “You’re changing?”

Jack glanced down at himself. “I’m not sitting next to you in court wearing this.”

You gave him a look. “You’re not in court.”

Jack pointed at the laptop. “It’s a hearing.”

You pointed at the kitchen table. “By video.”

Jack’s expression did not change. “At my kitchen table. Still counts.”

Warmth spread through you, sudden and stupid and almost enough to knock you off balance.

Jack noticed that too. His voice softened. “What?”

You stepped closer, your hands finding the front of his shirt. “You’re putting on a nicer shirt for my video hearing.”

Jack looked down at your hands, then back at you. “Yeah.”

He said it like it was obvious. Like of course he would. Like there had never been another option.

You rose onto your toes and kissed him.

Jack caught your waist carefully, steadying you without pulling you too hard, and kissed you back with a softness that made the next twenty-two minutes feel survivable.

When you pulled away, you kept your hands on his shirt. “Thank you.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Always.”

The word sat between you for one quiet second. Then the microwave clock changed to 12:09.

Jack’s hands squeezed your waist once before he released you. “Go.”

You nodded and stepped back.

The hearing was coming. But Jack was changing his shirt for it.

And somehow, impossibly, that helped.

At 12:26, Jack set the laptop on the kitchen table.

Not the island. The table.

He had made that decision while you were in the bathroom, apparently, because when you came back with your face washed and your hands still damp, the whole room had been rearranged into something that looked almost official.

The laptop sat centered on the table, charger plugged in and tucked out of the way. Your petition was stacked neatly on the left. The printed instructions were on the right. Your phone sat face up beside the laptop in case Sofia called, and a glass of water waited within reach.

Jack had also changed.

He was still Jack, still rough-around-the-edges from sleep, still wearing jeans, still barefoot in his own kitchen. But he had put on a clean dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair pushed back with damp fingers like he had at least pretended to make an effort.

Your throat tightened when you saw him.

He looked up from adjusting the laptop angle. “What?”

You stopped in the doorway. “Nothing.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “We’ve established you’re bad at nothing.”

You came closer, your fingers finding the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “You look nice.”

His expression shifted. Barely. “Yeah?” Jack asked.

You nodded, suddenly shy for reasons that felt ridiculous given everything else happening. “Yeah.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “Good.”

Your hand tightened on the chair. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Jack said.

You looked at him. He held your gaze. “I wanted to.”

The words landed too gently. Too directly. You had to look away.

Jack let you.

He checked the laptop one more time, then pulled out the chair in front of it. “Sit.”

You looked back at him. “That sounded like attending voice.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “That was chair voice.”

You stared at him. “Chair voice?”

Jack nodded once, perfectly serious. “Very specific.”

Your mouth threatened to smile. “You’re weird.”

Jack’s hand stayed on the back of the chair. “Sit anyway.”

You sat.

Jack moved the glass of water a little closer to your right hand, then set a pen beside the papers, even though you had no idea what you would need to write.

You watched him do it. “You’re nesting.”

Jack looked at you. “I’m preparing.”

“You’re nesting legally.” You corrected.

His mouth curved. “Do not say that during the hearing.”

You pressed your lips together. “Now I want to.”

Jack leaned one hand on the table beside you. “Menace.”

You looked up at him. “Before a court hearing?”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Repeat offender.”

Your chest loosened for half a second.

Then the microwave clock changed to 12:29.

The looseness disappeared. Jack saw it happen. Of course he did.

His hand settled lightly on your shoulder. “Ready?”

You looked at the screen. “No.”

Jack’s thumb moved once. “Okay.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay?”

“You can be not ready and still do it,” Jack said.

You looked up at him. His face was steady, careful, close enough to ground you without crowding your space. You nodded once. Then you clicked the link.

The waiting room opened almost immediately this time, which felt personally rude after how slow the laptop had been for Sofia.

Jack leaned slightly toward the screen. “She performs under pressure.”

You shot him a look. “Do not compliment her now after all the bullying.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I contain multitudes.”

You stared at the waiting room message. “You contain something.”

Jack’s hand squeezed your shoulder once, then he stepped back. “I’ll be right here.”

You turned in the chair quickly. “Where?”

Jack’s expression changed. “Where do you want me?”

You swallowed. The answer was immediate and embarrassing in how much it mattered.

“Where I can see you,” you said.

Jack nodded once. “Then I’ll sit where you can see me.”

He moved the chair without making a thing of it, angling it slightly beside the table so he would be out of the main frame but still directly in your line of sight.

Your hand found the edge of the table. Jack sat. His knee brushed yours. The contact was small. It helped anyway. The waiting room message stayed on-screen for another minute.

Then the screen changed.

A clerk appeared, seated in what looked like an office, headset on, expression neutral but not unkind. The clerk said your name.

You sat up straighter. “Yes. That’s me.”

The clerk glanced down at something on her desk. “Can you hear me clearly?”

You nodded, then remembered the microphone. “Yes, I can hear you.”

The clerk said, “And can you confirm that you are the petitioner in this matter?”

You gripped your own knee under the table. “Yes.”

The clerk looked at the screen. “You are currently on camera. Is there anyone else in the room? If so, can you identify them for the court?”

Your stomach tightened.

Jack shifted slightly beside you but did not speak. You glanced at him. He gave you the smallest nod.

You turned back to the screen. “My boyfriend, Jack Abbot. He’s here for support.”

The clerk typed something. “Mr. Abbot, are you a witness in this matter?”

Jack leaned forward into the frame. “I can be, if needed.”

The clerk looked at something off-screen. “For now, please remain off camera and do not answer unless the judge asks you a direct question.”

Jack nodded once and moved back. “Understood.”

The clerk looked back at you. “You’ll be admitted into the hearing shortly. When the judge enters, please remain respectful and answer only what is asked. If you need a question repeated, you may ask.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

The clerk’s face softened slightly. “Take your time.”

That almost made it worse. You nodded. “Thank you.”

The screen went briefly dark again before shifting to another video room. This one had the judge.

Not in a courtroom, exactly. Or maybe it was. You could not tell. The background looked official enough to make your pulse climb, a seal behind the bench, shelves along one wall, light too bright across the judge’s face.

You felt Jack’s knee press gently against yours under the table. Not enough for anyone to see. Enough for you to know.

The judge looked down at the file. “Good afternoon. We are here on the petition for a temporary protective order filed by—”

The judge said your name.

Your name sounded strange in his voice. Official. Separated from you.

The judge continued, “The respondent is listed as Trent Wallace. Is that correct?”

You forced your voice to work. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge looked at the screen. “And you are the petitioner?”

You nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge glanced down at the paperwork. “I have reviewed the petition and the attached materials. I understand there was an incident yesterday morning involving police response at your apartment building.” 

Your fingers curled against your leg. Jack’s knee stayed against yours.

You said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge looked back up. “I am going to ask you a few questions. If you do not understand a question, say so. If you need a moment, you may take one.”

Your throat tightened. “Okay.”

The judge said, “Please describe, briefly, why you are requesting a temporary protective order.”

Briefly. As if fear came in clean, manageable pieces. Your eyes dropped to the petition. The sentence waited there. I am afraid he will come back. Jack did not speak. He did not move. He only stayed.

You inhaled, and the breath shook on the way in. Then you looked at the camera.

“I’m requesting it because Trent has repeatedly contacted me after I told him to stop,” you said. “He came to my workplace. He left notes at my apartment. Yesterday morning, he came to my apartment and tried to enter while I was inside.”

Your voice caught at the end. You stopped. The judge waited.

Jack’s knee pressed gently against yours again. You took another breath. You kept going.

“I called 911,” you said. “Police responded. When they arrived, they found him outside damaging Jack’s truck. He had keyed it and slashed two tires.”

You glanced toward Jack without fully turning your head. 

The judge looked at the paperwork. “Mr. Abbot is the individual present with you today?”

You answered clearly. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge asked, “Was Mr. Abbot with you during the incident at the apartment?”

You nodded. “Yes. He was inside with me.”

The judge asked, “Did the respondent know Mr. Abbot was present?”

You swallowed. “Yes. He was yelling through the door.”

The judge glanced down again. “The petition indicates the respondent made statements directed at Mr. Abbot as well.”

Your stomach turned. You said, “Yes.”

The judge looked up. “Can you describe that?”

You kept your eyes on the camera because if you looked at Jack, you were afraid you would lose the thread.

“He was trying to get Jack to come out,” you said. “He was yelling things about me, about Jack, about us. He tried to enter my apartment. He was angry. I was scared he was going to get inside.”

The judge’s expression stayed neutral, but his voice gentled by a fraction. “Had you invited the respondent to your apartment?”

“No, Your Honor,” you said.

The judge asked, “Had you told him not to contact you?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” you said. “Multiple times.”

The judge asked, “Did you save messages or notes?”

You nodded. “Yes. I gave the notes to the police, and I have screenshots of the calls and messages.”

The judge looked back at the file. “The petition also references an incident at your workplace. Can you summarize that?”

Your chest tightened. The ER. The hallway. The way Trent’s presence had made the hospital feel wrong. Jack’s hand appeared under the table, palm open on his thigh. He did not reach for you. He let you decide.

You slipped your hand into his. The judge could not see it. You could feel it everywhere.

You said, “He came to the hospital where I work. He confronted me there. I had already told him not to contact me, and he came anyway.”

The judge asked, “Did you feel threatened?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

The judge asked, “Do you feel threatened now?”

That one hit harder. Not because you did not know the answer.

Because you did.

Your hand tightened around Jack’s.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m afraid he’ll come back.”

Jack’s fingers closed around yours. The judge looked down at the paperwork again. For several seconds, the only sound in the kitchen was the faint hum of the laptop and your own breathing. 

Then the judge spoke. “Based on the petition, the supporting materials, and your sworn statements today, I am granting the temporary protective order.”

For one second, nothing happened inside you.

The words reached you, but your body did not seem to know what to do with them.

Jack’s thumb moved over the back of your hand.

The judge continued, “The order will prohibit the respondent from contacting you directly or indirectly. It will include no contact by phone, text, electronic communication, social media, third parties, or in person.”

Your breath left you slowly.

The judge looked at the file. “The order will also require the respondent to stay away from your residence, your workplace, your vehicle, and the residence of Mr. Abbot listed in the petition while you are present there.”

Your eyes burned. Jack’s hand tightened.

The judge continued, “This is a temporary order. A full hearing will be scheduled, and the respondent will have the opportunity to appear at that time. You will receive the signed order and hearing notice electronically. Law enforcement will handle service.”

You nodded even though your body felt far away. “Okay.”

The judge looked back at the screen. “Do you understand that this order is not a guarantee of physical safety and that you should still contact law enforcement immediately if the respondent violates it or if you believe you are in danger?”

You swallowed. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge said, “Keep a copy with you. Provide a copy to your workplace security if needed. If there is any violation, document it and report it.”

You nodded again. “I understand.”

The judge’s voice softened just slightly. “Do you have any questions for the court at this time?”

Your mind went blank. Not empty. Full.

You looked toward Jack before you could stop yourself. He did not answer. He only held your hand and waited.

You looked back at the camera. “No, Your Honor.”

The judge nodded. “The clerk will send instructions for obtaining your copy of the signed order. We are adjourned.”

The screen changed before you were ready.

The clerk appeared again. She went over the next steps in a calm, practiced voice. Email. Signed order. Full hearing date. Service notification. Keep copies. Call law enforcement if there was a violation.

You answered when she asked if you understood. You thanked her when she told you the order had been granted. You stayed still until the call ended.

Then the laptop returned to the ordinary home screen.

Your email window was still open in another tab.

It was such a normal thing to see that it nearly undid you.

Jack did not close the laptop right away. He waited. For a second, neither of you moved. Then your hand slipped out of his. You stared at your own fingers like they belonged to someone else.

Jack’s voice came quietly beside you. “Hey.”

You blinked. Nothing came out.

Jack turned his chair toward you. “Look at me.”

You tried. Your eyes made it halfway to his face and stopped somewhere around his collar.

He waited a beat, then softened his voice. “Sweetheart.”

That did it. Your breath broke, like your body had been holding itself upright with one locked joint after another and something had finally given.

Jack moved immediately but carefully, pushing his chair back and crouching in front of you again.

He did not pull you out of the chair or crowd your knees. He just put one hand over yours where it rested in your lap.

“It’s granted,” Jack said.

You nodded once. Your mouth opened, but no sound came.

Jack’s thumb moved over your knuckles. “Temporary order is granted.”

You swallowed hard. “It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “How does it feel?”

You let out a shaky breath. “Weird.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah.”

You looked past him at the laptop. “It was so fast.”

“It was,” Jack said.

“I said it,” you whispered.

Jack’s hand closed more firmly around yours. “You did.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. “I said he scared me,” you said.

Jack’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed steady. “Yeah.”

Your throat burned. “To a judge.”

Jack nodded. “To a judge.”

Your eyes filled, and you did not stop it.

“And he believed me,” you said.

Jack’s face shifted, something fierce and tender moving through it at once. “He did.”

You pressed your lips together, but the tears slipped anyway. Jack reached up slowly, giving you time to pull away. You did not. His thumb brushed one tear from your cheek.

“Good,” Jack said, voice rough. “He should.”

Your face crumpled. Jack stood then and opened his arms. You went into them so fast the chair knocked lightly against the table behind you. Jack caught you, one arm around your back, the other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. He held you against him, steady and warm and real, while the laptop sat open behind you with the hearing finished and the order granted and your name somewhere in a court record beside the truth.

You pressed your face into his chest.

Jack’s hand moved over your back once, slow and firm. “Breathe.”

You tried. The first breath shook apart.

Jack’s voice stayed low near your ear. “Again.”

You tried again. That one held.

Jack’s hand kept moving. “There you go.”

You clutched the back of his shirt. “I hated that.”

“I know,” Jack said.

You let out a wet, humorless laugh against him. “I hate that I keep saying that.”

Jack’s mouth pressed to the top of your head. “You’re allowed.”

You closed your eyes. For a while, he only held you. No instructions. No explanations. No rushing your body through it.

Eventually, your breathing slowed enough that the room came back in pieces. The kitchen table. The laptop. The printed petition. Jack’s shirt under your cheek.

His heartbeat.

The fact that the world had kept going. The fact that you had too.

You pulled back enough to look up at him. “It’s in writing now.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Yeah.”

Your voice came out small. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

Jack brushed his thumb along your jaw. “It is.”

You searched his face. He held your gaze. “It was real before. Now it has a record.”

The title of it moved through you without naming itself. On record. The fear. The truth. The consequence.

You looked back at the laptop. “Sofia said she’d call after.”

Jack glanced at your phone on the table. “She will.”

You nodded. Then your email pinged. Both of you looked at the laptop. A new message sat at the top of your inbox.

Temporary Protective Order — Signed Copy.

Your stomach dropped.

Jack’s hand settled at the small of your back. “Want me to open it?”

You stared at the subject line. For once, the answer was easy.

“No,” you said.

Jack looked at you. You wiped under one eye with the heel of your hand. “I can do it.”

Something in his expression softened. He nodded. “Okay.”

You stepped back toward the chair. Jack stayed beside you, close but not taking over. You sat down, pulled the laptop toward you, and opened the email with a hand that only shook a little.

The signed order loaded slowly. Your name appeared first. Then Trent’s. Then the words.

Temporary Protective Order Granted. No contact. Your workplace listed. Your apartment listed. Jack’s address listed.

The next hearing date listed beneath it all, waiting like another hill you would have to climb later.

But not today. Today, this was enough.

You exhaled.

Jack’s hand rested on the back of your chair. You looked up at him. “It says granted.”

Jack’s voice was quiet. “Yeah, it does.”

You looked back at the screen. For the first time since Trent had knocked on your door, there was something between you and him that was not just Jack’s body, your locked door, or your own fear.

Paper. Law. Record. Consequences.

It did not fix everything or make you safe in the way you wanted to feel safe. But it was something. It was real.

Jack leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You closed your eyes. 

The order was signed. The next hearing was coming.

Work was still waiting at seven.

But for one quiet second in Jack’s kitchen, with his hand on your shoulder and your name in black and white, you let yourself believe that maybe the day had not swallowed you.

Maybe you had taken one piece of it back.

By 6:42, the temporary order had been emailed to hospital security, saved to your phone, printed twice, and folded into the front pocket of your work bag.

Jack did not ask you again if you were sure.

He had asked once before you left his house, standing by the front door with his keys in his hand and his eyes on your face.

You had said yes. He had believed you. Or maybe he had believed the part of you that needed to try.

Either way, he had nodded, locked the door behind you, and walked with you to your car.

Now, standing just inside the employee entrance at PTMC with your badge still warm from your hand and the familiar fluorescent light spilling across the hallway, you wished certainty worked more like a switch. On. Off. Ready. Not ready.

Instead, you were both.

Your scrubs felt like yours and not yours. Your shoes knew the floor. Your hands knew the weight of your badge reel, the give of the pocket where you kept your pens, the comforting bulk of trauma shears at your hip. But your body still noticed every sound behind you. Every door opening. Every man’s voice down the hall.

Jack walked beside you, not touching you, but close enough that his shoulder came into your line of sight whenever your attention started to drift too far outward. It helped, which made you want to cry, which was deeply inconvenient in a hospital hallway at shift change.

Jack kept his voice low enough not to carry. “You okay?”

You looked straight ahead. “I’m walking.”

Jack glanced at you. “Not what I asked.”

You exhaled slowly. “I know.”

Jack did not push. You appreciated that. You hated that you appreciated that. The ER opened up in front of you the way it always did, bright and loud and too full of movement. Monitors chimed. Someone laughed near the nurses’ station. A transport tech pushed an empty stretcher through the hall with one squeaky wheel. The board was already full enough to look rude.

Day shift was still shedding itself from the department, bags over shoulders, half-finished coffees in hand, faces drawn with the particular exhaustion of twelve hours spent arguing with the universe and losing by inches.

Robby stood at the main desk with a stack of papers in one hand and his reading glasses low on his nose. He was finishing handoff with the kind of focus that made everyone around him move a little faster, even when he was not actively telling them to.

He saw you first. His sentence stopped. Not dramatically. Just enough. You braced yourself without meaning to. Jack noticed. His hand brushed the back of yours once, there and gone.

Robby set the papers down and came around the desk. “Good to see you.”

Four words. Simple. Steady. Worse, somehow, than if he had made a speech.

Your throat tightened. “I’m okay.”

Robby’s expression softened by maybe half an inch. “Didn’t ask you to prove that.”

Your eyes stung immediately. You blinked hard, annoyed with yourself.

Jack’s voice came from beside you. “Temporary order was granted.”

Robby looked at Jack. “Good.”

You reached into your work bag before you could overthink it and pulled out one of the folded copies. “I sent it to security already, but I brought this.”

Robby took the paper from you carefully, not as if it were fragile, but as if it mattered. “I’ll make sure charge has it and security confirms they got it.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Robby’s eyes came back to your face. “You don’t have to be here tonight.”

You knew he meant it kindly. You also knew you would scream if one more person gave you a door marked exit.

“I know,” you said.

Robby held your gaze. You made yourself keep going. “I want to be.”

Robby nodded once. “Okay.”

No argument. No lecture. Just okay.

Jack glanced toward the board. “How bad?”

Robby looked at him. “Busy. Manageable if the universe has a conscience, which it does not.”

Jack grunted. “So bad.”

Robby handed him a tablet. “Room twelve is yours. Fourteen’s waiting on repeat troponin. Nineteen is convinced Google has diagnosed him more accurately than we have.”

Jack took the tablet. “Google usually lacks humility.”

Robby looked at him over the top of his glasses. “So do you.”

You looked down to hide your smile. Jack’s eyes cut toward you. “Don’t start.”

You lifted both hands. “I said nothing.”

Robby looked between you and Jack, and something knowing passed over his face before he wisely did not touch it. Instead, Robby turned back to you. “You’re with Ellis tonight. Start on the lower-acuity side. If that feels like too much, you tell Jack, Ellis, Shen, Crus, security, the wall, literally anyone.”

You swallowed. “Robby.”

Robby’s face stayed steady. “I’m serious.”

You nodded once. “I know.”

Robby’s voice lowered. “You don’t have to earn being back.”

Your chest tightened. Jack went still beside you. You looked at Robby and tried to make your voice work. “I know.”

Robby gave you the look again. You huffed out a breath. “I’m trying to know.”

That seemed to satisfy him more than the lie would have. Robby nodded. “Good.”

Behind him, the night-shift doors opened, and Shen walked in, carrying a coffee and a chart, with the expression of a man already disappointed in everyone. Ellis followed him, while Crus came in behind them with a granola bar between his teeth.

Ellis saw you and stopped short. “Hey.”

Your stomach tightened. Then Ellis crossed the space and pulled you into a quick hug before you could decide whether you wanted one.

It was brief and warm and normal enough to hurt.

Ellis pulled back and squeezed your upper arm. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Me too.”

Crus stepped around Shen and pointed the granola bar at you. “You sure?”

Jack’s head turned.

Crus rolled his eyes at him. “Not asking like that.”

Jack’s brow lifted.

Crus pointed the granola bar at you again. “Asking like, if you need anything, say it before you decide to be a hero and make me emotionally responsible for finding out later.”

You stared at him. Then you laughed.

Crus nodded. “Good. Communication established.”

Shen looked from you to Jack, then down at the small space between you, then back at Jack’s face.

His eyebrows lifted. Jack saw it immediately. “Shen.”

Shen took a slow sip of coffee. “So we’re acknowledging this now?”

Your face went hot all over again. Ellis’s head snapped toward Shen. “Wait. Are we acknowledging?”

Crus pulled the granola bar from his mouth. “Officially?”

Jack looked at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ.”

Robby picked up his papers. “This is my cue to leave.”

You looked at him in alarm. “You’re abandoning me?”

Robby’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m choosing peace.”

Jack gave him a look. “Coward.”

Robby patted Jack’s shoulder as he passed. “You made choices.”

Shen’s eyes stayed on you and Jack. “Many choices, apparently.”

Robby kept walking. “Goodnight.”

Jack called after him. “Unbelievable.”

Robby did not turn around. “I said goodnight.”

Ellis leaned her hip against the desk, grinning now. “I need clarity for record-keeping purposes.”

You stared at her. “Record-keeping?”

Crus tapped the assignment board with his pen. “The pool.”

Jack went very still. “The what?”

Shen looked almost pleased. “The betting pool.”

You blinked. “You had a betting pool?”

Ellis held up both hands. “Not maliciously.”

Crus nodded. “Lovingly.”

Shen added, “Scientifically.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Absolutely not.”

Ellis looked at you, not him. “You two made eye contact over trauma bay three last month, and everyone lost their minds.”

Crus pointed at Shen. “He called it pathologic.”

Shen corrected him without looking away from Jack. “I said clinically significant.”

Jack stared at him. “Do any of you work?”

Crus looked around the nurses’ station. “This is work.”

Ellis nodded solemnly. “Team morale.”

You pressed a hand over your mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway.

Shen’s eyes flicked to you, and his expression softened just slightly before the dryness returned. “For the record, I had this week.”

Ellis groaned. “Of course you did.”

Crus threw his pen onto the counter. “I had end of month.”

You looked between them. “You bet on when we’d get together?”

Ellis grimaced. “Technically, we bet on when you would admit you were together.”

Crus pointed at Jack. “Important distinction.”

Jack looked at him. “It is not.”

Shen looked at you. “It is.”

Ellis leaned toward you, lowering her voice in a stage whisper that was not remotely quiet. “He’s been insufferable about you for months.”

Jack’s head turned. “Ellis.”

Ellis gave him an innocent look. “What? I didn’t say bad insufferable.”

Crus nodded. “Protective insufferable.”

Shen looked at Jack over his coffee. “Quietly tragic insufferable.”

Jack pointed at him. “Enough.”

Shen took another sip. “I have been waiting months. No.”

Your face hurt from trying not to smile too wide. The laughter felt rusty and fragile, but still yours.

Then Ellis’s hand touched your elbow lightly. You looked at her.

Her smile softened. “Seriously, though. We’re really glad you’re here.”

The teasing settled around that instead of trampling over it.

Crus’s expression gentled too. “And security has a copy of the order?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Robby’s checking too.”

Crus nodded once. “Good.”

Shen’s gaze flicked toward the ambulance bay doors, then back to you. “If he shows up here, he does not get past the desk.”

Jack’s expression shifted. Your throat tightened. Shen did not say it dramatically. He said it like a fact.

Ellis nodded. “Not even close.”

Crus picked his pen back up. “And now that we’ve established that, please go take report before room seven starts yelling about ice chips again.”

The normal order of the department reassembled itself around you. Report. Rooms. Vitals. Meds. Call lights. The board.

You exhaled.

Jack’s shoulder brushed yours as he leaned close enough that only you could hear him. “Still want to be here?”

You looked around the ER. At Ellis, waiting by the computer. At Crus, updating the board. At Shen, pretending not to watch you while absolutely watching you. At Robby disappearing down the hall after one last glance back. At Jack beside you.

Your ER. Loud. Messy. Awful. Yours.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Okay.”

You lifted your chin. “Go doctor something.”

His mouth twitched. “Go nurse something.”

Ellis groaned from the desk. “Please never flirt where I can hear you again.”

Crus looked over his shoulder. “No, let them. This is better than whatever room seven is doing.”

Shen did not look up from his chart. “Room seven is less clinically concerning.”

Jack sighed. “I hate all of you.”

You smiled despite yourself. “No, you don’t.”

Jack’s eyes found yours. For a second, the noise of the department thinned. Then his face softened, just enough.

“No,” Jack said. “I don’t.”

You had to look away first. Ellis bumped your shoulder with hers. “Come on. Lower acuity awaits.”

You followed her, your pulse still too quick but your feet steadier than they had been when you walked in.

The first hour was strange. Not bad, just strange.

You expected everyone to look at you for too long, but most people did not. You expected the first raised voice to crack you open, but when room seven complained about ice chips for the fourth time, you mostly just felt annoyed. You expected your hands to shake when you scanned meds, but they steadied around familiar motions.

Bracelet. Scanner. Name and date of birth. Allergies. Pain score. Blood pressure cuff. Chart. Repeat.

The rhythm found you before you found it.

Ellis stayed close without hovering, which you appreciated enough not to call out. Crus checked in once by pretending to need a flush. Shen appeared at the desk twice, allegedly for charts that were not there. Jack crossed the unit half a dozen times, professional and focused, but his eyes found you each time like a touch he knew better than to give at work.

By nine-thirty, the ER had done what the ER always did.

It gave you too much to think about for fear to keep the whole room.

You were updating vitals on an older woman in room eleven when something shifted.

Her name was Lorraine Mercer, sixty-eight, brought in by her daughter because she had been dizzy and “not acting right.” Triage had put her as possible dehydration or vertigo. Her blood pressure was slightly elevated but not alarming. Blood sugar normal. No chest pain. No obvious distress.

Lorraine was sitting upright in bed, one hand pressed to the blanket, her daughter hovering near the wall with a purse clutched against her ribs.

Lorraine gave you an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry. This is silly. I probably just didn’t eat enough.”

You wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her arm. “Not silly. Dizziness is worth checking.”

Her daughter shifted. “She was fine earlier. Then in the car, she kept saying the wrong word for things.”

You looked up. “Wrong word?”

Lorraine laughed softly. “Oh, don’t make it sound dramatic.”

Her daughter’s mouth tightened. “Mom, you called the steering wheel a window.”

Your hand stilled on the cuff. Lorraine waved that away. “I was flustered.”

You kept your voice even. “When did that happen?”

Her daughter looked at the clock on the wall. “Maybe six? Six-fifteen? I picked her up for dinner at five-thirty, and she seemed okay then.”

You looked at Lorraine. “Do you remember feeling different in the car?”

Lorraine frowned. The expression was small. So was the asymmetry. 

Barely there.

A slight pull at one side of her mouth that had not been obvious until she tried to think.

Your pulse changed. Not fear this time. Focus.

You set the blood pressure cuff down. “Lorraine, can you smile for me?”

Lorraine looked confused, but she smiled. One side lagged.

Her daughter straightened. “What?”

You kept your face calm. “Can you hold both arms out in front of you, palms up?”

Lorraine obeyed, her eyebrows drawing together.

Her right arm drifted. Just a little. You looked at Ellis through the glass wall. She saw your face and moved immediately.

You turned back to Lorraine. “You’re doing great. Can you tell me what this is?”

You held up your pen. Lorraine opened her mouth. Then stopped. Her eyes flicked to the pen, frustrated.

“It’s a…” Lorraine’s voice trailed off.

Her daughter’s hand flew to her mouth.

You stepped toward the doorway. “Ellis.”

Ellis was already there. “What do you need?”

You kept your voice steady. “Get Abbot. Possible stroke. Symptoms noticed around six-fifteen. New word-finding difficulty, right arm drift, slight facial droop.”

Ellis turned immediately. “On it.”

Lorraine’s daughter made a small sound. “Stroke?”

You moved back to the bedside. “We’re going to have the doctor evaluate her right now. The faster we check, the better.”

Lorraine looked at you, fear sharpening her face. “I’m having a stroke?”

You took her hand because she reached for you first. “I don’t know yet. But I don’t want to miss it.”

Jack came in less than a minute later with Shen behind him. Not boyfriend Jack. Not soft kitchen Jack. Attending Jack. 

His eyes flicked from Lorraine to you. “What’ve you got?”

You gave the report cleanly. “Sixty-eight-year-old female, dizziness and altered word choice per daughter. Symptoms noted around six-fifteen. Current findings: mild right facial droop, right arm drift, word-finding difficulty. Blood sugar normal. BP one-sixty-two over ninety-four.”

Jack’s face sharpened. “Call stroke alert.”

You nodded. “Calling it.”

Shen stepped to the bedside. “Lorraine, I’m Dr. Shen. We’re going to ask you a few questions and move quickly.”

Jack looked at Ellis. “CT now. Labs, EKG, IV access if not already.”

Ellis nodded. “On it.”

Jack’s eyes came back to you. “Stay with her until transport gets here.”

You nodded. “I’ve got her.”

There was no softness in his voice because this was work. And somehow that helped too.

You turned back to Lorraine, keeping your voice calm while the room began to move around you. “You’re going to see a lot of people come in fast. That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. It means we’re taking you seriously.”

Lorraine’s eyes filled. “I thought I was being stupid.”

“You weren’t,” you said.

Her daughter started crying quietly near the wall. You looked at her. “You did the right thing bringing her in.”

The daughter nodded, wiping under her eyes. “She kept saying she was fine.”

You glanced at Lorraine, then back at her daughter. “You listened anyway.”

The words landed in your own chest a half second after you said them. You listened anyway. Jack’s gaze flicked to you. Just once.

Then transport arrived, and the room turned into motion.

CT. Neuro call. Labs. Documentation. Family updates.

The kind of organized urgency that, for the first time all night, felt like something your body knew how to survive.

By the time Lorraine was back from CT and neuro had been looped in, you were charting at the desk with your coffee cold beside you and your shoulders finally sitting somewhere lower than your ears.

Jack appeared beside you, setting a fresh alcohol swab packet near your keyboard for no reason except that your hands were full and he knew you always reached for one after neuro checks.

You glanced at it. Then at him.

Jack kept his eyes on the chart in his hand. “Good catch.”

You looked back at your screen. “She said she felt off.”

Jack’s voice softened just slightly. “You listened.”

Your fingers paused over the keyboard. The line threaded back through the day. Through Sofia’s voice. Through the judge. Through the petition. Through your own shaking voice saying yes, I’m afraid he’ll come back.

You swallowed.

Shen stopped at the counter on your other side and dropped a chart into the rack. “It was a very good catch.”

You looked up, startled.

Shen’s expression stayed neutral. “Clinically significant, even.”

Ellis leaned around the med room door. “Did he just compliment you and make a callback?”

Crus looked up from the board. “Growth.”

Shen ignored both of them. “Do not make me regret speaking.”

You laughed. Not hard, not loud, but easy.

Jack’s eyes moved to your face. He saw it. Of course he did.

Ellis pointed at you. “There she is.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Do not start.”

Crus lifted both hands. “We are simply observing.”

Shen picked up his coffee. “Scientifically.”

Jack looked at him. “You need new material.”

Shen took a sip. “No, I don’t.”

The department moved around you, loud and bright and relentless. Someone needed discharge papers. Room seven still wanted ice chips. A monitor alarm went off two rooms down. The board changed again.

And you were still there.

In your scrubs. At your desk. With your hands on the keyboard and your name on the assignment board and Jack beside you, not holding you up, not speaking for you, not making you smaller by protecting you.

Just there. Seeing you. Letting everyone else see you too.

You saved your note and leaned back slightly. Jack’s shoulder brushed yours. You did not look at him right away. If you did, you might cry.

Because for the first time all day, the thing rising in your chest did not feel like panic.

It felt like yourself.

Jack’s voice came quietly beside you. “Still want to be here?”

You looked at the board. Then at Lorraine’s room, now empty and waiting to be cleaned. Then at Ellis laughing at something Crus said. Then at Shen pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. Then at Jack.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His eyes softened. “Good.”

You looked back at your computer, your mouth curving despite everything. “Someone has to keep you people functional.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “There she is.”

This time, you did not tell him not to say it.

This time, you believed him a little.

Her class had spent nearly a week talking about it. Every morning another child had a new story, another exciting detail to add. Emma was going to help frost cupcakes at her mother's bakery. Noah couldn't stop talking about riding in his dad's garbage truck, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen that he was going to press the "real buttons." Olivia was getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium where her mom worked. Even little Ben, whose father worked at a bank, marched around the classroom with a paper tie taped around his neck, declaring he would be "approving loans all day." By Thursday afternoon Lucy had listened to enough stories that she'd begun planning her own. She was absolutely certain she would wear one of those little white doctor coats she'd seen in toy stores. She'd carry a clipboard. Maybe even a stethoscope. Everyone would finally get to see how cool her parents' jobs were.

So when you and Jack walked through the front door that evening after a twelve-hour shift, you barely had time to take your shoes off before Lucy came barreling across the living room like an excited puppy.

"Mama!"

She wrapped herself around your legs so tightly you had to catch yourself against the wall to stay upright.

"Daddy!"

Jack wasn't spared either. She launched herself at him next, nearly knocking the backpack from his shoulder.

"Whoa, easy, bug," he laughed, catching her under the arms before she could accidentally headbutt him. "Someone's excited. Where's your grandma?"

"In the kitchen. I have something important to say."

You and Jack exchanged an amused look over the top of her head. Important announcements from Lucy ranged anywhere from losing a tooth to discovering worms in the garden.

"Oh?" Jack asked, setting his bag down.

Lucy nodded so enthusiastically that her ponytail bounced. "It's Take Your Kid to Work Day next Friday."

Her grin stretched so wide it nearly split her face.

"And I get to come with you."

The silence that followed was tiny.

Barely a second.

But it was enough.

Jack's smile faltered first. You watched it happen almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth relaxing as his eyes drifted toward yours. The excitement on Lucy's face hadn't dimmed yet. She was already imagining hallways and stethoscopes and showing all her friends pictures afterward.

You felt your heart sink before either of you had even opened your mouths.

Lucy noticed immediately.

Her smile wavered.

"...What's wrong?"

You crouched until you were eye level with her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear while you searched desperately for words that wouldn't break her heart.

"Oh, sweetheart..."

Jack carefully lowered himself beside you, adjusting his balance before slipping an arm around Lucy's shoulders.

"Our jobs are a little different from everyone else's."

She frowned in confusion.

"But I can still come, right?"

Jack let out the smallest sigh.

"The emergency department isn't really a place for kids."

Her forehead wrinkled.

"Why?"

You looked at Jack for half a second before answering.

"Because the people who come to see us aren't coming for fun." You spoke gently, carefully choosing every word. "They're usually having one of the worst days of their lives. They're very, very sick..."

"Or hurt," Jack added quietly.

"They can look scary sometimes," you continued. "There can be blood. People cry. Sometimes they're frightened, sometimes they're angry, and sometimes they need every doctor and nurse in the room paying attention to them."

Jack nodded. "Our job is making sure they get help as quickly as possible. We can't always stop to explain what's happening, and there are things no six-year-old should have to see."

Lucy listened with surprising seriousness, though it was obvious she still didn't understand.

"But..." she said softly, "I'll be quiet."

Your chest tightened.

"I know you would."

"I could sit in the corner and color."

Jack smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You probably could."

"I wouldn't touch anything."

"We know, sweetheart."

"I wouldn't even talk."

Jack smiled sadly. "You'd probably be the quietest kid in the whole hospital."

For the briefest moment, hope flickered across Lucy's face before reality settled back in. She looked between the two of you, swallowing hard.

"So..." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "...I can't?"

The words were so small they made your chest ache. You reached for her little hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"No, sweetie. I'm sorry."

Her eyes filled almost instantly.

"But everyone else gets to go to their parents' work."

Jack closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Every parent hated hearing those words because sometimes there simply wasn't a fair answer. He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly over the back of her tiny hand.

"I know."

"I wanna see where you guys work."

"I know."

"I wanna wear one of those little doctor coats."

Despite the ache in your chest, a smile tugged at your lips. "You would look absolutely adorable."

"I could help."

Jack let out a quiet snort, his expression turning dramatically serious.

"Oh, that's exactly the part I'm worried about."

Lucy blinked. "...Really?"

"Oh, absolutely," he said with a solemn nod. "I think you'd spend the whole day walking around the department telling everyone what to do."

"I would not."

"You absolutely would."

She crossed her arms.

"No."

"No?"

She puffed out her chest, planting both hands on her hips as she deepened her voice into what she apparently believed sounded very authoritative.

"'Okay everybody, one at a time! No pushing! You have to wait your turn!'"

Jack laughed so suddenly and genuinely that it echoed through the house.

"There it is."

You couldn't help laughing too.

"Our little charge nurse."

Lucy dissolved into giggles, pleased she'd made both of you laugh.

The moment was warm.

Light.

Comfortable.

Until it wasn't.

Her smile slowly faded as she remembered why she'd started the conversation in the first place.

"...But I still don't get to come."

Jack's laughter disappeared just as quickly. He opened his arms without saying a word, and Lucy climbed into his lap as naturally as breathing. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, wrapping her little arms around him with a sigh that sounded much older than six years old.

"No," he admitted quietly, kissing the top of her head. "Not to work."

The room fell silent.

You watched Jack gently rub circles over Lucy's back while she sat curled against him, neither of them speaking. The disappointment in the room was almost tangible. You knew Jack was feeling it just as sharply as you were. Both of you spent your careers taking care of other people's children, yet this was one of those moments where your own daughter simply had to accept that your jobs came with doors she couldn't walk through.

Finally, you leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

"How about this?"

She peeked up hopefully.

"When we're both off next weekend, we'll take you to the hospital."

Jack immediately caught on.

"We'll show you the cafeteria."

"My locker."

"The ambulance bay."

"If there aren't any helicopters flying, maybe we can see the helipad from outside."

"The empty waiting room."

"My office."

Lucy sniffled, considering the offer with all the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty.

"...Can I push a wheelchair?"

Jack looked over at you.

You shrugged.

"If nobody's using it, sure."

She thought for another long moment before giving a tiny nod.

"...Okay."

It wasn't the answer she'd wanted.

It wasn't even close.

But she accepted it with the quiet resilience children somehow managed to find after their hearts had been disappointed. Before long she was asking what was for dinner and whether Grandma was still making pancakes the next morning, and by bedtime she seemed perfectly content again.

You smiled to yourself as you tucked her in that night, smoothing the blankets over her little shoulders.

Children had an incredible ability to move on.

Or so you thought.

Lucy had absolutely no intention of moving on.

She smiled when you tucked her into bed that night. She happily ate pancakes with Grandma the next morning. She colored pictures at the kitchen table, watched cartoons, and talked excitedly about the hospital tour you had promised for the following weekend. If anyone had asked, she seemed to have accepted your answer completely.

She hadn't.

To a six-year-old, "next weekend" felt impossibly far away. Everyone else would get to visit their parents' jobs on Friday. Everyone else would come back to school Monday with stories to tell. Emma would talk about frosting cupcakes. Noah would probably tell everyone he got to honk the garbage truck horn. Olivia would have pictures of fish. And Lucy... Lucy would have to say she stayed home because her mommy and daddy worked somewhere she wasn't allowed to go.

That simply didn't seem fair.

By Wednesday she had the beginning of a plan.

By Thursday she had improved it.

By Friday morning, she was convinced it was foolproof.

Your mother had barely finished pouring herself a cup of coffee when she heard small footsteps padding down the hallway. Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway still wearing her pajamas, her favorite stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand while the other pressed dramatically against her stomach.

"Grandma..."

Your mother looked up immediately.

"Morning, sweetheart."

Lucy took two slow steps into the kitchen, making sure not to walk too quickly. Sick people probably didn't move very fast.

"I don't feel good."

The smile disappeared from your mother's face at once.

"Oh, sweetheart."

She set her mug down without taking a sip and crouched in front of her granddaughter, brushing a hand over Lucy's messy bed hair.

"What's wrong?"

"My tummy hurts."

"Oh no."

Lucy gave a pitiful little nod.

"It hurts a lot."

Your mother frowned with concern.

"Can you show me where?"

Lucy froze.

That...

She hadn't prepared for.

She looked down at herself, suddenly realizing stomachs had different parts. She'd heard you and Jack ask patients that question before. Daddy always wanted to know exactly where it hurt.

Panic fluttered in her chest for half a second.

"...Everywhere."

Your mother's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.

"Everywhere?"

Another solemn nod.

"Mhm."

She gently rested both hands on Lucy's shoulders.

"Did you throw up?"

"No."

"Do you feel like you have to?"

Lucy pretended to think about it before giving a hesitant little shrug.

"...Maybe."

"Do you have a fever?"

"I don't know."

"Hmm..."

Your mother pressed the back of her hand against Lucy's forehead before checking again with her palm, the way mothers and grandmothers always seemed to do. Her skin felt perfectly cool.

No fever.

That was reassuring. Still, children didn't always spike a temperature right away. Maybe she'd eaten something that hadn't agreed with her. Maybe a little stomach bug was just beginning.

Lucy watched every expression that crossed her grandmother's face. She could tell she wasn't entirely convinced.

She needed to make it more believable.

So she let out the tiniest little whimper she could manage. Not loud enough to sound dramatic, just enough to make it seem like the pain had returned.

Your mother's face softened immediately.

"Oh, you poor thing."

Lucy leaned instinctively into the comforting touch, a small stab of guilt twisting in her chest before she quickly pushed it aside. She wasn't trying to be naughty. She just wanted to see Mama and Daddy at work like everyone else got to.

After a long pause, she lowered her voice to an almost frightened whisper.

"I think..." She looked up through her lashes with the biggest, saddest eyes she could manage. "...I need the hospital."

Your mother smiled gently as she tucked a strand of hair behind Lucy's ear.

"Oh, honey. I don't think we're there just yet."

Lucy's heart sank.

"...But my tummy really, really hurts."

"I know it does."

"We should go."

Your mother hesitated. Normally she would've waited an hour or two, called you first, given Lucy some water, and seen whether she felt any better after breakfast before rushing to the emergency department.

But abdominal pain in children was one of those things she'd learned never to dismiss completely after watching both you and Jack work in emergency medicine for years. You had both told stories about children who seemed perfectly fine until they suddenly weren't. Appendicitis. Intussusception. Things she'd never heard of before you became a doctor and Jack became a nurse.

She didn't want to overreact.

She also didn't want to ignore something important.

Her eyes lingered on Lucy's face. The little girl looked uncomfortable enough to be believable, even if she wasn't crying. Some children tolerated pain differently.

Your mother sighed softly as she stood.

"Alright."

Lucy's eyes widened before she could stop herself.

Really?

It worked?

Excitement rushed through her so suddenly she almost smiled.

Almost.

She bit the inside of her cheek just in time, quickly lowering her head and pressing a hand dramatically back against her stomach.

"I'll get dressed," your mother said. "Then we'll have one of Mommy's friends take a quick look at you, okay?"

Lucy nodded with all the seriousness she could muster.

"...Okay."

As your mother disappeared upstairs to change, Lucy remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.

Her plan had worked.

In just a little while, she'd finally get to see where her mom and dad spent all day.

She had no idea that before the morning was over, two people who had faced mass casualty incidents, violent trauma, and countless life-or-death emergencies would see her name on the emergency department tracking board and experience a kind of fear neither of them had ever learned to prepare for.

The emergency department had been in controlled chaos since seven that morning.

Every room was occupied. Hallway beds had filled before breakfast. Monitors chimed from every direction, phones rang almost constantly, stretchers rolled past one another with practiced precision, and conversations overlapped until they became little more than background noise. Jack had barely stopped moving since clocking in. He had just finished helping stabilize an elderly patient in respiratory distress and was updating the tracking board when a new name appeared among the incoming pediatric triage patients.

His own last name.

At first his brain didn't process it.

He frowned automatically, assuming it was another family with the same surname. It wasn't uncommon.

Then his eyes shifted to the details beneath it.

Accompanied by: Lucy.

The world seemed to narrow into a single point.

His stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.

No.

No, no, no.

His mind filled the blanks long before reason had a chance to intervene.

Car accident on the way to school.

She'd fallen from the playground.

An allergic reaction.

A seizure.

Appendicitis.

A ruptured appendix.

Internal bleeding.

She'd stopped breathing.

His chest tightened so sharply that, for one terrifying second, it felt impossible to draw in air.

He was already moving before he'd consciously made the decision.

"Jack?"

Dana looked up from her workstation as he hurried past.

"You okay?"

He didn't answer.

Couldn't.

His prosthetic clicked faster against the floor as he rounded the nurses' station, weaving through stretchers and staff with an urgency that made several people instinctively step aside. Every extra second felt unbearable. His heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears that he barely registered the voices around him.

Across the department, you were finishing charting after discharging a patient when your own eyes drifted toward the tracking board.

Your last name.

Pediatric triage.

Lucy.

Everything inside you went cold.

"No..."

The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.

Your pen slipped from your fingers onto the counter.

You didn't bother picking it up.

Someone behind you asked a question you never heard. You abandoned your chart mid-sentence and hurried out of the trauma bay, every rational thought dissolving beneath one singular, suffocating fear.

Not my baby.

Please not my baby.

You'd both spent years watching parents run into emergency departments wearing that exact expression.

The look that silently begged someone to tell them their child was okay.

Now you understood it from the inside.

Jack reached pediatric triage first.

He rounded the corner so quickly he nearly lost his footing, instinctively compensating before his prosthetic could catch awkwardly beneath him.

Then he stopped.

Lucy sat on one of the triage beds beside your mother, happily swinging her legs back and forth as she hugged her stuffed rabbit. She looked perfectly content, completely fascinated by everything happening around her.

The moment she saw him, her entire face lit up.

"Hi, Daddy!"

Jack didn't answer immediately.

He couldn't.

His breathing still hadn't caught up with him. His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs as his eyes swept over her with clinical precision born from years in emergency medicine.

Skin color okay.

Breathing normal.

Alert.

Talking.

No blood.

No bruising.

No obvious deformities.

No signs of respiratory distress.

No altered mental status.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Relief crashed into him so suddenly his knees threatened to buckle.

He had to grip the back of a nearby chair to steady himself.

"Jack?"

Your mother stood immediately, guilt already written across her face.

"I am so, so sorry. I should’ve called."

You arrived only seconds later, breathing almost as hard as Jack.

"Lucy!"

Your daughter beamed.

"Hi, Mama!"

You dropped to your knees in front of her without hesitation, your hands automatically moving through the familiar sequence every parent in emergency medicine knew by instinct. Forehead. Neck. Arms. Wrists. Face.

"What happened?"

Your mother looked apologetic.

"She was perfectly fine this morning. She'd been playing, and then all of a sudden she started holding her stomach and said she was in terrible pain. I didn't know if I should wait or..."

"You absolutely did the right thing," you assured her automatically, even as your attention remained fixed entirely on Lucy.

"Honey?"

Lucy nodded solemnly.

"It hurt."

"Where does it hurt, bug?" Jack asked.

She pointed vaguely toward the center of her stomach.

"...Here."

"How bad?"

She held up eight fingers.

"On a scale of ten..."

"...Eight."

"When did it start?"

"This morning."

"Did you throw up?"

"No."

"Feel sick?"

She hesitated.

"...Maybe."

Jack exchanged the briefest glance with you.

Neither of you relaxed.

Because children lied about vegetables.

They didn't usually lie about pain.

And even when they weren't lying, they were notoriously bad at describing it. Jack had treated smiling children with ruptured appendixes, kids who laughed while walking on fractured ankles, toddlers quietly coloring despite severe dehydration. Looking well meant almost nothing in pediatrics.

You rested a reassuring hand against Lucy's abdomen.

"I'm just going to press a little, okay?"

She nodded.

You gently palpated one quadrant.

"Does this hurt?"

"No."

You moved to another.

"How about here?"

"No."

Lower right.

"No."

Lower left.

"No."

Jack watched every tiny flicker of her expression. Or rather, the complete lack of one. She wasn't tensing beneath your touch. She wasn't guarding her stomach or curling inward instinctively. If anything, she seemed far more interested in everything happening around her than in the examination itself.

Her eyes wandered constantly around the department, following nurses rushing past, patients being wheeled down the hallway, monitors chiming, stretchers rolling by, the ambulance doors sliding open every few minutes. She wasn't frightened by any of it. She looked fascinated.

You noticed it too.

Before either of you could ask another question, Lucy turned back toward Jack, wearing the brightest smile she'd had all morning.

"So..." She tilted her head innocently. "...Can I see where Daddy works now?"

Silence settled over the four of you.

Jack closed his eyes.

Very.

Very slowly.

Your mother frowned, looking between the three of you.

"...Lucy?"

Your daughter's grin only widened.

"It worked."

Jack opened one eye.

"...What worked?"

"My tummy."

Neither you nor Jack said a word.

"It wasn't really hurting." She paused, as though she'd only just realized you weren't reacting the way she'd expected. "I just wanted to come."

For several long seconds, nobody moved.

Jack slowly lowered himself onto the chair beside her, more because his legs suddenly felt weak than because he'd intended to sit.

Because his prosthetic leg suddenly felt unsteady beneath him.

He rubbed both hands over his face, forcing out a long, shaky breath before looking back at his daughter.

"You..." His voice was rougher than he intended. "...You faked it?"

Lucy nodded proudly, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane she'd just unleashed.

"That was the only way Grandma would bring me."

Your mother's mouth fell open.

"Oh my goodness..."

Lucy looked between the two of you with complete sincerity.

"I wanted to see where you work."

Jack let out another slow breath that sounded dangerously close to becoming a laugh. Not because anything about this was funny, but because relief had nowhere else to go.

"You scared ten years off my life."

Her smile faltered.

"...I did?"

Jack swallowed, the image of her name on the tracking board still burned into his mind.

"When I saw your name pop up..." His voice caught unexpectedly, forcing him to pause. He looked away for a moment before gathering himself enough to continue. "I thought something terrible had happened."

You nodded quietly beside him.

"I thought my little girl was hurt."

Lucy's face crumpled almost instantly. The excitement disappeared, replaced by confusion and guilt.

"I..." Her shoulders curled inward. "...I didn't know."

Of course she hadn't.

She was six years old. In her mind, she'd come up with the smartest plan imaginable. Pretend to have a stomachache. Go to the hospital. Surprise Mommy and Daddy. She'd never stopped to think about what it would feel like for two emergency clinicians to suddenly see their own child's name appear on the tracking board.

She looked down at her sneakers, twisting one toe against the floor.

"I'm sorry."

Jack watched her quietly for a long moment. Every ounce of frustration he'd felt dissolved beneath the sight of her trying so hard not to cry. Without another word, he opened his arms.

Lucy climbed into them immediately.

He wrapped her tightly against his chest, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against her hair.

"I'm not mad."

She looked up uncertainly.

"...You're not?"

He shook his head.

"I'm relieved."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"So unbelievably relieved."

He held her for another moment before leaning back just enough to meet her eyes.

"But you cannot ever pretend to be sick like this again."

She nodded immediately.

"Okay."

"I need a real promise."

"I promise."

You moved closer until your shoulder rested against Jack's, wrapping an arm around both of them. Almost instinctively, Lucy reached for your hand with her free one.

"I'm sorry, Mama."

You squeezed her little fingers.

"I know."

"I just wanted everyone at school to know my mommy and daddy have cool jobs."

Your heart ached.

"We know, sweetheart."

"They all got to go."

You met Jack's eyes for a brief second. Sometimes the hardest part of parenting wasn't saying no. It was understanding exactly why your child wanted something so badly and still knowing the answer couldn't change.

Jack kissed the top of Lucy's head.

Jack was quiet for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"Since you're already here..." He glanced at you, silently asking the question before either of you spoke.

You smiled back.

"I think our patient has been thoroughly examined."

Jack nodded solemnly.

"I agree."

He looked back at Lucy.

"So I'm officially discharging you."

Her eyes widened.

"You are?"

"Mhm." He reached over and gently tapped the tip of her nose. "No tummy ache. Cleared to go home with Grandma."

She giggled.

"But..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Before you go home, I think we can spare five minutes."

Lucy's mouth fell open.

"Really?"

"We can show you the nurses' station." He pointed toward the center of the department. "My locker. Maybe the ambulance bay if there isn't anything coming in."

"And the cafeteria," you added with a smile.

Jack nodded.

"But that's it."

"No treatment rooms."

"No sick patients," you said gently.

"And you stay with one of us the entire time."

Lucy threw her arms around his neck so quickly he almost laughed.

"I promise!"

"I know you do." He hugged her back before pulling away just enough to look at her seriously. "But that doesn't change one thing."

"What?"

"If you ever feel left out again, you tell Mommy or me."

She nodded.

"You don't have to scare us to spend time with us."

The smile slipped from her face.

"...Okay."

"I mean it, bug."

"I know."

She leaned forward to hug him again, then reached for you too, nearly pulling the three of you together on the waiting room chair.

Jack caught your eye over the top of Lucy's head.

"I think she inherited our problem-solving skills."

You laughed.

"No."

"Our stubbornness."

Lucy looked up immediately.

"I heard that."

"Oh, we know," Jack said with a grin. "Trust me, we know exactly who you got it from."

"I did not fake being stubborn."

"You absolutely did."

That earned another burst of laughter, loud enough that even your mother laughed through the tears she'd been quietly wiping away.

As Lucy happily slid off Jack's lap, already asking a hundred questions about ambulances and whether nurses really kept candy in the break room, the knot in his chest finally began to loosen. The fear hadn't disappeared entirely. He wasn't sure it ever would. Seeing her name on that tracking board had unlocked a terror he hoped never to feel again.

But as he watched her bounce happily between you, clutching one of your hands and one of his as though the last twenty minutes had never happened, he found himself smiling despite everything.

He would take fake stomachaches, dramatic plans, and six-year-old schemes over seeing his daughter in one of those treatment rooms for real every single day.