#In Din’s defense | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

santaasi · 8 days ago

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shape of my heart

pairing: jj maybank x bsf!reader

summary: sometimes you need to wait a little longer to find your true way

warnings: angst, fluff, friends to lovers, miscommunication, family issues, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 21.2k

a/n: based on this ask. thank u love for your request and I'm again so sorry that I made you wait so long.

ᯓ★ now playing…

sting - shape of my heart

Ten years ago.

THE PLAYGROUND WAS ALIVE WITH CHAOS — a symphony of children's laughter rising above the creak of rusted swings, sneakers scuffing across cracked concrete, and the distant thud of a basketball bouncing against the asphalt. You lingered on the edge, an outsider in a sea of familiarity, clutching your purple lunchbox like it was your last line of defense. The unfamiliarity weighed heavy on your chest, like you had wandered into someone else’s story.

You kept your eyes down, avoiding the girls weaving braids into each other's hair, the boys racing toward the gym, or even the smallest glances from passersby. Instead, you stared at the ground, at the stubborn tufts of grass forcing their way through fractured cement, small triumphs of resilience in a world that didn’t seem to notice them.

“Hey!”

The voice was sharp, cutting through the din like a whistle, startling you out of your thoughts. You glanced up, squinting against the golden sun, and there he was — a boy with sun-bleached blond hair sticking up in every direction and a faint streak of dirt smudged across his cheek, as if he’d been pulled straight from the earth itself. His grin was lopsided, too wide for his face, and yet it held a kind of magic that loosened something tight in your chest.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” he asked, rocking back on his heels, as though time didn’t apply to him.

You nodded, the words you wanted to say getting stuck somewhere in the tangled knot of nerves in your throat.

“I’m JJ,” he said, thrusting out a scratched, freckled hand. His fingers were rough, the kind that told stories of climbing trees, skipping rocks, and scraping knees.

For a moment, you hesitated, before placing your smaller hand in his. You mumbled your name quietly, almost afraid to claim it out loud.

“That’s a cool name,” he said with an easy confidence that made you believe him, and then his grin widened. “Wanna see something?”

Before you could respond, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out what looked like a wand — or maybe a stick. He held it out to you like it was treasure, tilting it so you could see the jagged letters carved into its surface: JJ.

“Cool, huh?” he asked, his voice brimming with pride. “Bet no one else has a stick like this.”

You stared at it, unsure whether to laugh or frown. “Why… do you need a stick with your name on it?”

His blue eyes narrowed, his lips twitching into a smirk, like you’d just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “Why not?”

Before you could come up with a response, his expression shifted — suddenly sharp and purposeful. “Wait a second… you don’t have a stick, do you?”

You shook your head, your confusion growing.

“That’s what I thought.” He crouched down, his fingers digging through the dirt with the precision of someone who had done this before. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you one. Every tough guy — or girl — needs their own stick.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again, your words tripping over themselves. “Are you even allowed to do that?” you finally managed, watching as he pulled a small, well-worn pocketknife from his shorts like a magician revealing his trick.

“Nope,” he replied cheerfully, flicking the blade open with a quick, practiced motion that made your heart skip. “But you’re my new best friend, so you’ve gotta keep my secrets, alright?”

“Best friend?” The words felt strange in your mouth, unfamiliar and heavy, like a coat that didn’t quite fit.

“Yep.” He didn’t even look up, his focus entirely on the twig in his hands. He carved with a jeweler’s precision, the blade gliding over the bark. “That’s how it works. I pick you, and you stick with me. Forever.”

Forever.

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache, a sharp pang that softened into warmth. You watched him work, his tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth, the sun catching on the golden strands of his hair. And when he finally held up the stick, your name etched into its curve, the world seemed to tilt ever so slightly.

“Here,” he said, handing it to you like it was something sacred.

Your fingers closed around the rough bark, and you laughed — a sound that startled even you. In that moment, looking into JJ’s impossibly blue eyes, you felt the kind of calm you hadn’t known in a long, long time.

Forever with JJ didn’t sound so bad after all.

Seven years ago.

THE SKY ABOVE THE MARSH WAS AWASH IN THE MOLTEN HUES OF AN AUTUMN SUNRISE. Amber bled into fiery pinks, the colors rippling across the surface of the water like molten gold. The air carried the faint chill of impending cooler nights, but the day stubbornly clung to its warmth, as if unwilling to let go of summer. The Chateau loomed in the distance, a patchwork fortress that seemed to defy time itself. Its leaning walls echoed with laughter, the kind that concealed unspoken secrets and the weight of teenage dreams.

Inside, the usual chaos reigned. Bedding was strewn across mismatched furniture like a quilt of disorder, a testament to the ragtag family that lived there. Kiara sat perched on the porch railing, one bare foot swinging idly as she took lazy bites of an apple. She always had a knack for fitting in without trying, her sharp wit and effortless loyalty solidifying her place in the group. She was the kind of person who could call you out without making you feel small — someone who belonged.

Pope was hunched over the remnants of a broken picnic table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he fiddled with an ancient, rusted compass he’d unearthed from the swamp. Every so often, his face would light up with a flicker of triumph, his mind always chasing the next answer, the next puzzle to solve. His cautious nature often counterbalanced JJ’s wild energy, grounding their adventures in just enough reason to keep them all alive.

John B. was nowhere to be seen, but you could hear his voice faintly in the distance, shouting something about finding snacks. It was his house, after all. His rules — or lack thereof — held the fragile threads of your makeshift family together. His boundless optimism gave the chaos purpose, like a lighthouse guiding you all home.

But home didn’t feel quite right to you tonight.

You laughed when you were supposed to, smiled in all the right moments, and played your part well enough that Kiara didn’t ask questions and Pope didn’t pry. But deep down, a heaviness clung to you, a storm cloud that followed no matter how hard you tried to outrun it. Your family was crumbling, and every laugh felt like a flimsy shield against the ache in your chest.

JJ noticed. He always noticed.

He watched you from the doorway of the Chateau, his arms crossed casually over his chest. You were sitting on the edge of the porch, staring out at the horizon, your body wrapped in a loose blanket as if it could protect you from more than just the cold. The others were heading to the shore, their laughter fading into the distance, but JJ stayed behind. He leaned against the doorframe, his expression soft yet unreadable, and waited.

He didn’t push. That wasn’t his style. He’d wait until the silence wore you down.

Eventually, you stood and wandered toward the pier, your steps slow and deliberate. The wooden planks groaned underfoot, each creak a reminder of the weight you carried. Behind you, JJ’s boots clicked softly as he followed, keeping just enough distance to give you space. He caught up without a word and settled beside you at the edge of the dock, his legs dangling over the water like yours.

The swamp stretched out before you, golden and still in the last light of the day. The air was heavy with the smell of salt and earth, clinging to your skin like a second layer. But today, even that familiar comfort felt distant.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or am I supposed to guess?” JJ finally asked, his voice low but not unkind.

You shrugged, keeping your eyes on the rippling water below. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit,” he shot back, though his tone stayed light. “Come on, don’t do this. Not with me.”

A bitter laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “What do you want me to say, JJ? That my parents can’t stand the sight of each other? That I’m stuck in the middle, pretending everything’s fine when it’s not?” The words came out in a rush, raw and jagged. “That every time they fight, it feels like the whole house is gonna split in two? Or that I’m terrified my dad’s gonna leave, and I’ll be stuck alone with my mom and her... her anger?”

JJ didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, his blue eyes steady and unwavering, like he was bracing himself to catch everything you threw his way.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “That’s what I want you to say.”

The simplicity of his answer hit you harder than anything else could have. Your breath hitched, and you shook your head, willing the tears to stay put. “It’s not fair, JJ. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even think I can.”

“You’re not supposed to fix it,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s their shit to deal with”

You turned to him, your voice trembling like the first fragile breath of morning. “You don’t understand. You’ve got your own stuff — your dad...” The words faltered, dissolving into the hush between you, thick with history, with everything left unsaid.

JJ’s jaw tightened, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sky was just beginning to bleed into gold. The world held its breath, the only sound the slow, rhythmic lap of water against the dock. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice rough, worn like the tide-washed edges of a broken shell.

“Yeah. I know what happens when things break.”

You opened your mouth to apologize, but he shook his head, silencing you before the words could take shape. “It’s fine. You know about my dad. But my mom…” He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to push the weight of her memory away. “She used to talk about leaving. I was just a kid, but I remember — her promises, her trembling, the way she’d whisper about getting me out of here.” A bitter laugh escaped him, quiet and sharp. “Guess she changed her mind.”

“JJ…” Your heart ached for him, for the past neither of you could change.

He shook his head again, as if brushing off ghosts. “It was their mess. And it’s not my fault how it ended. Just like it’s not yours.”

His fingers found yours, warm and sure, grounding you in the space between then and now. When you turned your head, his blue eyes were already on you, soft but steady.

“She left this behind.”

From his pocket, he pulled a small silver ring, its surface worn, scratched — a tiny thing that had survived despite everything. He held it out to you, his fingers hesitant, reverent.

“She used to say it reminded her that no matter how bad things got, there was always something worth holding onto.”

Your fingers trembled as you took it, the cool metal pressing into your palm, heavier than it should have been. As if it carried the weight of his mother’s dreams, of his own unspoken hopes.

“JJ, I can’t- ...”

“Take it,” he said, quiet but firm. “You need it more than I do.”

With careful fingers, you slid the ring onto your finger, feeling its weight settle against your skin like an anchor. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice cracking like the first light breaking over the horizon.

JJ leaned back on his hands, tilting his head toward the sky, where the first flush of morning painted the clouds in soft pinks and golds. “You know… you remind me of her sometimes.”

“Your mom?” you asked, surprised.

“Yeah.” He glanced at you, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “She was tough as hell. Stubborn, too. But she cared — about people. About me. Even when she didn’t have to.” He paused, his gaze steady, unreadable. “You’re the same.”

The words settled deep in your chest, too heavy, too meaningful to respond to right away. Instead, you turned your eyes toward the horizon, where sunlight spilled over the water in rippling gold.

“I’m scared, JJ,” you admitted, the confession barely louder than the breeze. “I’m scared of what’s gonna happen. Of losing everything.”

JJ’s hand tightened around yours, his touch warm, certain. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he said, his voice as steady as the tide. “Not ever.”

The promise hung between you, quiet and unshakable. And as the sun lifted higher, chasing away the last traces of night, you felt something you hadn’t in a long time — hope.

Five years ago

THE OUTER BANKS SHIMMERED IN GOLD, THE KIND OF GOLD THAT MADE YOU NOSTALGIC BEFORE YOU EVEN KNEW WHAT YOU WERE MISSING. The waves lapped at the sand in gentle rhythm, their white foam catching the blush of the sun. The salt hung heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the marsh and the tang of summer heat. It wrapped around you like an old friend, welcoming you home, though the nervous flutter in your chest refused to settle. The truck rattled and groaned as it bounced over the uneven path toward the coastline, and you gripped the door handle with one hand, your bag with the other, as though bracing yourself.

“It’s just the dock,” you told yourself, your voice barely audible over the grumble of the engine. But the words rang hollow. It wasn’t the dock, and it wasn’t the coastline — not really. It was him. It was all of them. And it was what they’d come to mean to you over the years.

“Still quiet over there,” your dad said, glancing your way with a knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He always had that knack for reading you, even when you wished he wouldn’t.

You tried to shrug off the tension, forcing a lightness into your voice. “I’m just... excited, I guess.”

“Excited?” he teased, the smile deepening. “Or nervous? Those are different things, you know, kid.”

“Dad,” you groaned, rolling your eyes even as heat crept up your neck. “It’s not like that.”

He let out a low chuckle, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “Sure, kiddo. Whatever you say.”

You could tell he didn’t believe you, not even for a second. Maybe because you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Italy had been a dream, one of those picture-perfect, sunlit chapters you’d always imagined. Rolling hills stretching out endlessly, gelato melting on your tongue in the lazy heat of the afternoons, and your mom’s laughter echoing through quiet cobblestone streets. She had come alive there in a way you hadn’t seen in years. And yet, through it all — through the beauty and the memories — you’d felt something tugging at you, an ache that only grew sharper with every passing day. Homesick, you’d called it. But deep down, you’d known it wasn’t the place you missed. It was the people.

It was him.

And now, with the truck crawling to a stop behind the dock, your heart leapt into your throat.

“Are you sure they’ll be here?” your dad asked, pulling the gear into park. His tone was casual, but there was something amused in the way he looked at you, like he already knew the answer.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice a little too quick, too rehearsed. You tightened your grip on the strap of your bag. “They’re where they always are.”

The truth was, you hadn’t told anyone you were coming back early. You hadn’t even told JJ. Especially JJ. He had made you promise — more than once over late-night FaceTime calls — that you’d text him the moment your plane touched down. He’d even threatened to show up at the airport, laughing in that easy, reckless way of his, though you’d known he was only half-joking. But you hadn’t sent that text. You’d wanted to see the look on his face when he saw you standing there, unannounced. And maybe, just maybe, you’d wanted to see what you’d find in his eyes when the surprise wore off.

The dock came into view, and there they were. John B was sprawled across a bench, his cap tilted low over his eyes, giving him the appearance of a man who hadn’t moved all day. Kiara sat with her legs dangling off the edge of the dock, flicking water at Pope, who was laughing and grumbling all at once but made no effort to move away. It was a picture of everything you’d missed — easy, loud, chaotic, and alive.

And then there was him. JJ.

He stood leaning against one of the weathered wooden posts, barefoot and careless, his golden hair catching the rays of the setting sun like a halo. He was laughing at something John B had said, that loud, uninhibited laugh that always seemed to cut through everything and fill the air with warmth. The sight of him sent a rush of emotion through you, so sudden and overwhelming it left you breathless. He hadn’t changed — not really — but there was something about the way he stood there, so vividly himself, that made your chest ache.

Your father’s voice broke the silence. “Go on, kid,” he said softly, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. He nudged you with his elbow, his eyes flicking toward the group on the dock. “I’ll grab your bag.”

You hesitated for half a beat, the nerves tying knots in your stomach. But then you stepped out of the truck, the warmth of the wooden planks beneath your feet grounding you. The salty breeze tugged at your hair, carrying with it the distant hum of cicadas. None of them had noticed you yet; they were too wrapped up in their own world. For a moment, you just stood there, watching, letting the scene unfold like the opening act of a play.

And then JJ looked up.

His laughter faltered mid-breath, his head snapping toward you like a reflex. His eyes, that familiar piercing blue, went wide with disbelief, and for a split second, he didn’t move. It was as though the world had stopped spinning, frozen in the space between his surprise and your racing heart. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. “Hi, Maybank,” you called out, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way it wavered on the edges.

He blinked, like he was trying to convince himself you were real. And then, all at once, he was moving. He pushed off the post with a kind of urgency that made your breath hitch, his steps quick and unhesitating as he closed the distance between you.

Before you could say anything else, his arms were around you, pulling you into him with a force that left no room for doubt. His grip was tight, desperate, like he was holding on to something he couldn’t bear to lose. Your arms came up to wrap around his neck, and for a moment, the rest of the world melted away. It was just you and JJ, the sound of his heartbeat loud and steady against your ear.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” JJ’s voice was muffled against your neck, rough and raw in a way that made your chest tighten. His arms were still wrapped tightly around you, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. You could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the way his grip trembled just slightly. It was a rare thing for JJ to show cracks in his armor, and seeing it now left you speechless.

“I wanted to surprise you,” you murmured, your voice soft as you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. His face was so close that you could see the golden flecks in his blue eyes, the way his brows knit together like he was trying to figure out how to put words to whatever was storming inside him.

For a moment, the world shrank. It was just you and JJ, the sound of the waves lapping against the dock, and the faint hum of the evening settling over the marina. His gaze roamed your face, slow and intent, like he was memorizing every detail — the curve of your cheek, the faint freckles the summer sun had scattered across your nose, the way your lips parted slightly, trying to form words that wouldn’t come. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite name, something that made your pulse quicken. It felt like standing on the edge of something vast, something you couldn’t yet see the bottom of.

But just as quickly, the moment broke.

“Well, well, well,” John B’s familiar drawl cut through the air as he strolled over, a grin tugging at his lips. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence. Miss World Traveler.”

You let out a soft laugh, stepping back from JJ, though you felt the absence of his arms immediately. John B threw an arm around your shoulders in a casual hug. “It’s been way too quiet around here without you,” he said, giving you a playful nudge.

Kiara was next, pulling you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of you. “God, your tan makes me sick,” she teased, pulling back to inspect you. “Italy must have been amazing. I’m so jealous.”

“It was,” you said, smiling, though the word felt incomplete. Italy had been beautiful, yes — but it hadn’t been home.

Pope stepped forward, his grin crooked as he gave you a mock-serious look. “You know he was unbearable without you, right?” He jerked his thumb toward JJ, who was now leaning against a post, trying (and failing) to look indifferent. “We thought we were going to have to sedate him by the second week.”

“Shut up, Pope,” JJ snapped, but the tips of his ears turned red. He glanced at you, and for just a second, his tough exterior cracked again. There was that shy, almost sheepish smile he gave when he thought no one was looking, the one that always made your heart stutter a little.

You laughed, shaking your head, but something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in your chest. JJ looked... different. His features had sharpened over the summer — the curve of his jaw a little more defined, his shoulders broader, like he’d grown into himself in ways you hadn’t expected. But it wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the way he carried himself, with a quiet kind of confidence that hadn’t been there before. And yet, underneath it all, he was still JJ. Still the boy with the crooked smile and the reckless charm that felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“Let’s go,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now. His hand found yours, his fingers curling around it like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You have a lot to tell us.”

The group fell into step together, leading you toward the bustling marina. The warm glow of the sun bathed everything in hues of orange, and the air buzzed with life — vendors calling out their wares, the occasional shout of a fisherman unloading his catch, the distant hum of a boat engine cutting across the water. It all felt so alive, so home, in a way that Italy never could.

The Pogues bombarded you with questions as you walked. What did you see? Was the food as good as everyone says? Did you meet anyone interesting? You laughed, trying to answer them all, but your attention kept slipping back to JJ. He hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your skin — a mindless, gentle motion that sent shivers down your spine. It was such a small thing, but it made your heart race in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“Italy sounds amazing,” Kiara said, her chin propped on her palm as she looked at you. “But I bet you missed us more.”

“Of course I did,” you said, smiling. The warmth in your voice was genuine, but you couldn’t ignore the way your gaze kept drifting toward JJ.

“She missed JJ the most,” Pope teased, leaning back against a post with a grin. “You should’ve seen him. He was a mess without you.”

“Pope, I swear to God– ” JJ started, his voice sharp, but his face betrayed him. The blush that crept up his neck was impossible to hide. He muttered something under his breath and looked away, scratching the back of his head.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning closer. “Oh? Did you miss me, Maybank?”

He scoffed, trying to look unaffected, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that betrayed him. “Just a little bit,” he said, his voice low. But the way his eyes softened when they met yours told a different story.

John B leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial. “He even tried to learn Italian, you know. Thought it’d impress you.”

“John B, shut up,” JJ groaned, his face now fully red.

“It’s true,” Kiara chimed in, grinning. “He kept saying ‘ciao’ like it was going to earn him points.”

You burst out laughing, and the sound seemed to melt JJ’s embarrassment just a little. He ducked his head, but there was a small, bashful smile tugging at his lips. And in that moment, with the sun golden shine behind him and the sound of your laughter filling the air, you felt it — the quiet shift, the unspoken thing between you. It wasn’t just friendship anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a deep amber glow across the water, and the group decided to head back to the chateau for dinner. You climbed into the back of John B’s van, squeezed between Kie on one side and JJ on the other. The ride was a cacophony of laughter, teasing, and JJ’s increasingly absurd defenses.

“Learn Italian to impress her?” Kie snorted. “Did you think she’d forget English while she was gone?”

“It wasn’t like that!” JJ protested, his voice pitched higher, feigning offense. “I was broadening my horizons, okay? Becoming a cultured man of the world.”

“You downloaded one app, dude,” Pope deadpanned from the front seat.

The laughter that followed was so contagious, you clutched your stomach, gasping for breath. JJ caught your eye and grinned, nudging your arm with his elbow. “They’re all jealous of my superior intellect,” he said dramatically, leaning back against the van’s rattling side.

“Yeah, that’s it,” you teased, your shoulder pressing into his. The warmth of his presence next to you was grounding, familiar, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

By the time you arrived, the air was heavy with the scent of salt and pine, the ocean waves a distant hum. The chateau stood as it always had, leaning slightly to one side as though it was part of the landscape itself. It felt like a hug, warm and unassuming, wrapping you in its charm the moment you stepped out of the van.

The group scattered almost immediately — Kie and Pope darted into the kitchen, debating whether Kie’s avocado toast counted as dinner or a snack, and John B headed straight for the radio, mumbling something about needing “vibes” to cook. But JJ lingered, grabbing your wrist gently and pulling you toward the porch.

The wooden boards creaked beneath your feet as you stepped outside. The air had cooled, the sun’s absence leaving the sky awash in deep purples and soft blues. Stars were beginning to blink into view, scattered like salt across a velvet canvas. JJ leaned against the railing, his hands in his pockets, watching you as you took it all in.

“You missed this place, didn’t you?” His voice was quieter now, free of the bravado and teasing he wore like armor around the others.

You nodded, your throat tightening with emotion you hadn’t expected. “Yeah,” you whispered. “More than I thought I would.”

His gaze softened, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you in that way he had — the way that always made you feel like he could see through every wall you’d ever put up. “What about us?” he asked, his tone playful but laced with something more.

“I’ve already told you!” You smiled, your chest tightening as your heart thudded against your ribs. “I missed all of these. Especially you guys.”

He grinned, his signature mischievous look creeping across his face. “And me? You miss me the most, right?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way he suddenly felt so tall, so close, so... everything. “I didn’t miss you, Maybank. You wouldn’t leave me alone. You called every day,” you teased, trying to keep the mood light. But the truth lingered on the edge of your words, unspoken but heavy: I missed you more than anything.

JJ chuckled, but his smile faltered for just a moment, replaced by something uncertain. His eyes dropped to the floor before flicking back up to you. He shifted, tapping his bare foot against the wooden porch. “You... uh, you look different,” he said awkwardly.

“Different?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous way you’d seen a hundred times. “A good different. Not that you didn’t look good before, because you did, obviously, but– ”

“JJ,” you interrupted, laughing softly. “Thanks. You look different too.”

He blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

You nodded, your voice softening. “Yeah. In a good way.”

He straightened slightly, his gaze locking with yours. The dim light spilling from the house caught in his eyes, turning them into restless fragments of the sea — wild, endless, impossible to look away from. There was something in his expression, something raw and unguarded, like he was balancing on the edge of words he didn’t know how to say. It was the same look he’d had earlier at the dock, the one that had stolen the breath from your lungs.

Without thinking, your fingers found their way to the nape of his neck, threading through the soft strands of his blonde hair. He exhaled a quiet, contented hum, his eyes slipping closed for just a moment as his hand found your waist, pulling you closer. A soft giggle escaped your lips, ringing like a bell in the hush between you. His eyes fluttered open at the sound, locking onto you with an intensity that sent warmth curling through your spine.

The silence wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t easy either. It sat between you, heavy with everything unspoken, everything shifting in ways neither of you had quite named yet. The air seemed to hum, thick with something electric, something that made your skin tingle and your heart hammer against your ribs.

His fingers flexed against your waist, just enough to draw you closer, and your body, as if pulled by an invisible force, leaned toward him in return. His head dipped slightly, the space between you dwindling to something fragile, something trembling.

Then…

Kie’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp and teasing. ‘Come on, lovebirds! The food’s ready!’”

JJ let out a slow sigh, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “We better go before Kie decides to drag us in by force.”

Still, he didn’t move right away. And neither did you.

Then, as if remembering himself, he extended his hand toward you. Without hesitation, you took it. His fingers were rough with callouses, warm and sure, grounding you in the quiet shift of whatever this was between you.

As he led you back inside, you wondered if he noticed the way your hand lingered in his, the way your fingers curled just a little tighter around his. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.

But for now, it didn’t matter.

For all the things that had changed — Italy, the long summer apart, the way you caught yourself looking at him differently — one thing hadn’t. JJ was still JJ. And whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, it could wait.

Because right now, being here — being with him — was enough.

Three years ago.

THE SUMMER HEAT OF THE OUTER BANKS CLUNG TO THE WORLD LIKE A SECOND SKIN — THICK, STICKY, AND INESCAPABLE. The scent of saltwater mingled with sun-baked wood, and the ceaseless hum of cicadas filled the air, their song marking the passing hours like a heartbeat. At fifteen, you and the Pogues were in that strange, liminal space between childhood and adulthood — no longer the carefree kids you used to be, but not yet the grown-ups you pretended to be. Everything felt different now, like the tide had shifted without warning.

And for you, the biggest shift was JJ.

He’d always been your best friend, the boy you trusted with every secret, the one who could make you laugh so hard it felt like you might burst. He was constant, like the rhythm of the waves — a part of you, as familiar as your own shadow. But that summer, something about him was different. He carried himself in a new way, a confidence that made people look at him differently. His smile was sharper, his laughter louder, and there was a reckless glint in his eye that seemed to draw others to him.

And JJ didn’t shy away from the attention.

At every party, there was someone new. A girl with sun-kissed skin, her laughter ringing through the night as she leaned too close to him. She’d drape her arm over his shoulder, her fingers grazing his neck, and JJ would flash that grin — the one that could light up a room. You’d watch from the sidelines, your stomach twisting, and force yourself to look away.

It was Saturday night, and the Pogues were gathered around one of the many campfires dotting the beach. The fire popped and crackled, sending embers spiraling into the dark sky. Music blared from a nearby speaker, mixing with the steady rhythm of the waves. You sat perched on a weathered log beside Kie, clutching a can of beer, trying not to let your gaze drift.

But it always found him.

JJ was the center of attention, as he always seemed to be. He sat with a girl you didn’t recognize — a brunette with tan lines tracing her shoulders and a laugh that rang too loud. Her hand rested on his knee, and every time she shifted closer, your chest tightened. JJ leaned in, murmuring something to her, and whatever he said made her cheeks flush. She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear, and you turned your gaze toward the ocean, swallowing against the lump rising in your throat.

The moon hung low, casting its silver light across the water in a shimmering trail. You tried to focus on that, on the soothing sound of the waves, on anything other than the way JJ smiled at her like she was the only person in the world.

“Hey,” Kie’s voice broke through your thoughts, gentle but insistent. She was watching you with that look — concern mixed with a knowing edge. “You okay?”

You forced a smile, one that felt more like a grimace. “Yeah,” you lied. “Just tired.”

Kie didn’t buy it, but she didn’t press — at least not yet. “You know, he’s just… being JJ. It doesn’t mean anything.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering back to him. The girl had rested her head on his shoulder, her laughter cutting through the night like shards of glass. Your throat tightened, and you tore your eyes away again, back to the ocean, where the waves didn’t hurt to look at, gulping the rest of your beer in one go.

“That’s not it,” you said quietly, but your voice wavered, betraying you.

Kie raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into the faintest of smirks. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but stopped. What was the point? Kie already knew. She probably had for a while.

“Just forget it,” you mumbled, your fingers tracing the rim of your empty beer can.

But Kie didn’t say anything else. She just gave you a knowing look and leaned back, her attention drifting back toward the fire.

And then, as if to twist the knife, JJ’s laughter rang out again, loud and carefree. You risked another glance, unable to help yourself. He’d leaned back now, his hands resting behind him, his head tipped back slightly as he laughed at something the girl had said. The firelight danced across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the messy golden hair that never seemed to sit right, the mischievous spark in his eyes.

It was moments like this that made everything so confusing. Because no matter how much it hurt to see him like this — flirting, laughing, carefree—there were still times when JJ was just JJ. Your JJ. The boy who’d sneak out of his house at midnight to climb through your window when you couldn’t sleep. The boy who taught you how to surf, even though you were terrified of wiping out. The boy who made you feel like nothing in the world could touch you as long as he was around.

And maybe that’s what made it all hurt so much. That underneath all the bravado, the recklessness, and the flirting, JJ was still the boy you’d always known.

But now, he was someone else too. Someone who could break your heart without even realizing it.

It was easier when things were simple — when it was just the two of you, laughing, teasing, moving through life like you were invincible. But lately, even the simplest things felt like they carried a weight neither of you were ready to name.

Like now.

The sun hung high in the sky, beating down on the ocean as another wave crashed against the shore. JJ stood a few steps ahead, his board tucked under his arm, his sun-bleached hair glowing like gold in the afternoon light. That grin of his — mischievous and full of challenge — never failed to pull you in.

“Come on,” he called, his voice rising above the steady roar of the surf. “It’s simple.”

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a skeptical look. “It’s simple for you,” you muttered. “You’ve been doing this since you could walk.”

JJ rolled his eyes dramatically, wading deeper until the waves licked at his knees. “Trust me,” he said, holding out a hand. His grin softened slightly, and there was something steady in his gaze, something that made your heart skip in a way you refused to acknowledge. “I won’t let you drown.”

You hesitated, the familiar tug-of-war between reluctance and trust playing out in your chest. But, as always, JJ won. He always did.

With a resigned sigh, you grabbed the board and trudged into the water after him.

The next hour was a chaotic blend of saltwater, laughter, and repeated wipeouts. Every time you fell — and it was a lot — JJ was there, his hands steady as they pulled you back up. His laughter, warm and unrestrained, rang out like music, and though your pride took a beating, you couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said after your fifth or sixth — or maybe tenth — tumble. He placed his hands on your waist, steadying you on the board once more. Your heart betrayed you, skipping a beat at his touch, but you stubbornly pushed the feeling aside.

“Easy for you to say,” you grumbled, brushing wet hair from your face. “You’re practically part fish.”

JJ chuckled, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. Despite the summer heat, goosebumps rippled over your skin.

“Then I guess that makes you a mermaid,” he teased, his voice low and tinged with a surprising tenderness.

Your cheeks burned, and you quickly turned your gaze toward the horizon, focusing on the rolling waves rather than the boy who suddenly seemed too close. “Let’s just try again,” you muttered, desperate to redirect the moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you managed to stand. It was only for a fleeting moment — barely long enough to count — but it was enough. The triumph surged through you, exhilarating and fleeting like the waves beneath you.

“See?” JJ said, his voice softer now, as if matching the mellow hues of the setting sun. “Told you you could do it.”

You turned to him, breathless and grinning, and for a moment, the world stilled. The sun was sinking low, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks. It framed him perfectly, casting a warm glow over his features.

“Thanks, JJ,” you murmured, the words heavier than they should have been.

His gaze held yours, lingering just a moment too long. A strand of his hair fell into his eyes, and without thinking, you reached up to brush it away.

The movement froze both of you. His smirk faltered, just for a heartbeat, and something unspoken flickered in his eyes — something that made your chest tighten. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. His grin returned, as cocky and disarming as ever.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he teased, though his voice was softer now, his eyes unreadable. “Don’t go falling for my good looks.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Not a chance,” you lied, ignoring the way your stomach fluttered.

JJ laughed, loud and carefree, but you caught the way his gaze lingered just a second longer before he turned toward the waves.

And that was the thing about JJ — he could slip so easily between lightness and something deeper, between reckless teasing and the kind of silence that weighed heavy in the air. Moments like this, where the push and pull between you was almost tangible, never lasted long enough for you to grasp. Before either of you could acknowledge it, the moment was gone, carried away by the ocean breeze.

But there were other moments, quieter ones. Moments that felt heavier in their stillness, like those nights when JJ showed up at your door after another blowout with his dad.

The first time it happened, you found him sitting on your porch steps, his head in his hands, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

“JJ?” you called softly, stepping outside.

He didn’t look up right away, but when he did, your breath caught. His face was bruised, his eyes hollow, and his exposed shoulders bore fresh cuts and bloodied scrapes, like shallow knife wounds carved by chaos.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he muttered, his voice rough and breaking at the edges.

You didn’t ask questions — there wasn’t any need. You just held the door open and waited for him to step inside.

In the kitchen, the warm glow of the overhead light did nothing to soften the bruises on his skin. If anything, it made them starker, painting him in shades of blue and violet, evidence of another fight, another night gone wrong. You swallowed hard and pulled out the first-aid kit, setting it down on the counter with hands that trembled despite your best efforts to keep steady.

“Sit,” you said, barely above a whisper.

JJ obeyed without his usual smart remark, without that lopsided grin he used to mask the things he didn’t want to talk about. Instead, he sank onto the stool, shoulders heavy, jaw tight, his usual armor nowhere to be found.

You stepped closer, standing between his legs as you reached for his arm. His skin was warm under your fingertips, burning, like it was branding something into you. You worked in silence, dabbing at the cuts and bruises, trying not to think about how close he was, how you could feel his breath on your collarbone when he exhaled. Every now and then, he winced — just barely, but enough to make your chest squeeze.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost hesitant.

“I want to,” you answered, your voice soft but firm.

His eyes flickered to yours then, searching, like he was trying to read between the lines of what you were really saying. You focused on your hands instead, fingers brushing over his knuckles, the rough callouses there. When you pressed a bandage over a particularly nasty scrape near his collarbone, his breath hitched — not in pain, but in something else, something thicker, heavier.

You could feel it, that shift. The one that always hovered just beneath the surface, the one neither of you talked about.

When you finished, you didn’t step away.

And neither did he.

Instead, JJ reached out, his fingers ghosting over your hip before settling there, light at first — like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. But when you didn’t pull away, his grip tightened, tugging you closer until your thighs brushed against his.

The air felt too thin. His knees caged you in, his chest so close that every inhale felt shared.

Then, slowly, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against your sternum. His hands curled around the fabric of your shirt, fisting it like he needed something to hold onto. You froze, caught between the urge to step back and the need to stay right here, right in this moment where nothing else existed but the feeling of him against you.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your skin. His voice was rough, stripped bare in a way that made your fingers twitch with the need to touch him, to do something to ease whatever storm was raging inside his chest.

So you did.

Your hand found his hair, sliding through the messy blonde strands at the nape of his neck. He exhaled shakily, and his grip on you tightened just slightly, like he didn’t want to let go.

“Always,” you whispered, your lips barely brushing the top of his head.

The silence stretched, thick and charged. He was still leaning into you, still holding on. And you let him.

Later, when exhaustion finally claimed him, JJ collapsed onto the couch, his arm thrown over his eyes like he was shielding himself from something only he could see. You stayed close, curling up beside him on the floor, your knee brushing his where it dangled off the edge of the cushion.

At some point, his hand slipped down, his fingertips grazing your wrist. A slow, deliberate touch.

You didn’t move away.

Didn’t breathe.

Then, just as you thought he might have fallen asleep, his voice came, quiet, hesitant. “Sometimes… you’re the only good thing in my life.”

The words landed somewhere deep in your chest, something fragile cracking open at the sound of them.

You didn’t speak right away. Instead, you reached up, smoothing his messy hair back, letting your fingers linger just a little too long, letting them say the things neither of you could.

“You’re stronger than you think, JJ,” you murmured, letting your thumb graze the curve of his cheek.

His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, held onto yours for a second too long. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe, if you had both been braver, he would have.

But instead, he just sighed, eyes fluttering shut again, his hand still resting against your wrist.

As the night stretched on, as his breathing evened out, you stayed there, your fingers brushing against his in the quiet, in the space between friendship and something more, in the place where neither of you were ready to take that step — but neither of you could quite let go either.

At some point, exhaustion tugged at you, and you let your head rest against the couch, still close enough to feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. You weren’t sure when sleep finally took you, only that when you woke up, the room was filled with the soft, golden light of morning. JJ was already gone, but the warmth on your wrist where his fingers had been still lingered like a ghost of the night before.

Days passed, but that moment stayed with you, threading itself into the quiet spaces between you and him — unspoken, but always there.

And then, just like that, life moved forward.

JJ and your dad got along better than you ever expected. Your father’s easygoing nature seemed to calm JJ, something not many people could manage. The two of them spent hours on the dock fishing or tinkering with your dad’s old boat, a project perpetually in progress but never quite finished.

One evening, you leaned against the porch railing, watching the two of them by the water. The sun was low, casting golden streaks across the horizon, the kind of warmth that made everything feel softer, easier. JJ was crouched next to the tackle box, untangling a fishing line with a furrowed brow, while your dad stood beside him, gesturing animatedly as he explained some trick about casting in shallow water.

Your dad chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s a quick learner, I’ll give him that. Better than you ever were,” he teased, glancing over his shoulder at you.

“Hey!” you protested, crossing your arms with mock offense. “I was an excellent student.”

“Sure you were, kiddo,” your dad replied, grinning. “But this one’s got patience. You always wanted to skip straight to the catching part.”

JJ glanced up at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Guess I’m better at something, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small smile that slipped through. Because even as the moment shifted, as laughter replaced the weight of the night before, that quiet, unspoken something between you and JJ remained — always there, always waiting.

Later, after the lines were packed away and the mosquitoes started biting, the three of you retreated to the porch. The air was thick with the scent of salt and cut grass, the night settling comfortably around you. Your dad handed JJ a soda before easing into his chair with a contented sigh.

“He’s a good guy,” your dad said quietly, nodding toward JJ, who was leaning back against the steps, eyes lost somewhere in the stars. His fingers tapped absently against the can in his hands, his golden hair catching in the porch light.

You swallowed, your chest tightening at the sight of him like this — unguarded, weightless, like for once, the world wasn’t pressing in on him. “Yeah,” you murmured. “He is.”

Your dad turned to you then, studying your face with that knowing look only a parent could manage. “You care about him, don’t you?”

Your cheeks burned. “Of course I care about him,” you said quickly, too quickly. “He’s my friend.”

“Uh-huh.” Your dad’s voice was easy, but his eyes were serious. “Just make sure he knows it. Sometimes, people like JJ need to be reminded they’re worth something.”

The words hit deep, settling somewhere between your ribs, heavy and true. You nodded, not trusting yourself to say more.

On the steps, JJ shifted, stretching out his legs before turning toward the two of you. “What’s with all the whispering?” His grin was lazy, teasing, but his gaze flickered between you and your dad with quiet curiosity.

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

Your dad chuckled, shaking his head as if you’d just proven his point.

JJ’s grin widened. “You two always this suspicious?” He took a sip of his soda, watching you over the rim of the can. The way he looked at you — slow, steady, as if he was reading between every word—sent a shiver down your spine.

“What?” he asked when you didn’t look away. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Nothing,” you muttered, heat rising to your cheeks as you dropped your gaze.

JJ smirked and turned to your dad. “She always this mysterious?”

“She’s always something,” your dad said with a knowing smile. Then, softer, just for you, he added, “But don’t let him fool you. He looks up to you more than you realize.”

You glanced at JJ, watching the way his fingers curled around the can, the way his knee bounced slightly like he had too much energy trapped inside him. The words stuck in your throat. You wanted to tell him — to say something, anything — that might make him believe it. But before you could, he nudged your foot with his, just the smallest touch, grounding you back into the moment.

The Pogues, of course, noticed everything. Pope’s sarcastic quips, Kie’s amused smirks, and John B’s relentless teasing made it impossible to ignore the undercurrent of something more. But no one said it outright. No one dared to name the tension that crackled between you and JJ — the way your breath hitched when he leaned too close, how his gaze always found yours first in a crowded room, or how, even now, your legs rested against each other’s on the porch steps, neither of you moving away.

Maybe they were waiting for you to figure it out yourself. Or maybe, like you, they understood that some things were too precious to risk by putting them into words.

For now, you settled for moments like these — JJ’s quiet laughter mingling with your dad’s, the sound of waves lapping against the dock, and the certainty that, at least here, JJ was safe.

Two years ago.

THE SUMMER PRESSED IN AROUND YOU — THICK, RESTLESS, AND ELECTRIC, LIKE THE AIR BEFORE A STORM. It smelled of salt and adventure, but beneath it lingered something heavier, something that coiled tight in your chest with every reckless decision made in the name of gold. You had always been careful, the type to double-check before jumping, the one who hesitated when the others ran headfirst into trouble. But caution never counted for much with the Pogues. Trouble had a way of finding you anyway, slipping through the cracks, curling around your ankles, and pulling you under.

This summer was no different.

Treasure hunts, whispered secrets, maps worn soft by sweaty palms — it all blurred into the long, hazy days. But you never cared about the gold. Not really. The legend of the Royal Merchant and its lost fortune had always felt like a story belonging to another lifetime, another world. Yet somehow, you were tangled in it, caught in the chaos — not by the promise of riches, but by the boy who never once stopped to consider the fall.

JJ Maybank.

He was the reason. He had always been the reason.

With that reckless grin, sun-bleached hair that curled at the edges, and eyes that held the ocean’s mischief, JJ was impossible to ignore. He could turn a disaster into an adventure, a mistake into a story worth telling. And even when your gut twisted in fear, even when you knew the odds were stacked against you, JJ would throw an arm around your shoulders, press his cheek against the top of your head, and whisper things that made the world seem a little less terrifying.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he’d murmur, voice dripping with amusement yet carrying something softer underneath, something just for you. His fingers would squeeze your arm, grounding you. “I’m with you.”

And that was always enough. Even when it shouldn’t have been.

The search consumed everything — your days, your nights, your thoughts. You spent hours poring over clues, breaking into places you had no business being, running from men who wouldn’t hesitate to erase you if you got too close to the truth. Fear was a constant companion, coiling in your stomach, but it never seemed to touch JJ. He lived for this — the thrill, the danger, the chaos.

You wished you could say the same.

And then came Sarah Cameron.

She arrived like a summer storm — unexpected, electric, shifting the very air around her. You had spent so long balancing on the edge of what you knew, what you trusted, that you didn’t realize how tightly you had been holding onto it — until she knocked you off. At first, you resisted. The Kook princess with sun-kissed skin and a life spun from gold — what could she possibly understand about being a Pogue? About clawing your way forward with nothing but grit and a whisper of luck?

But John B fell for her — hard, fast, like a wave crashing against the shore. And somehow, without ever meaning to, so did you. Not in the way you had once imagined falling for someone, but in the way that existed in shared laughter between night shifts, in whispered confessions beneath a sky scattered with silver light. Sarah had a way of slipping past defenses, disarming without a single word. Before you could make sense of it, she was no longer just John B’s girl — she was one of you.

And just like that, the world shifted.

Something else was changing, too, hanging in the humid air like the promise of a storm. In the spaces between you and JJ, in the moments where words ran out and glances lingered too long. But neither of you dared to name it.

Not yet.

THE NIGHT FOLDED AROUND THE THREE OF YOU, WARM AND THICK WITH THE SCENT OF SALT AND SUMMER. The waves hummed their endless rhythm against the shore, distant yet steady, a lullaby you had memorized long ago. On the porch of the chateau, the wooden planks creaked beneath your weight as you leaned back on your palms, a half-empty bottle of stolen wine winking under the soft, flickering glow of string lights.

For the first time in weeks, the world was quiet. No running, no hiding — just Sarah’s easy laughter, Kiara’s sharp-edged grin, and the soft hum of night pressing in close, holding you all in the curve of its palm.

Kie stretched, her gaze flicking to you, something knowing in the curve of her lips. "Alright, let’s liven things up. Time for some girltalk."

You groaned, already knowing where this was headed. "Do we have to?"

Sarah clapped her hands, practically vibrating. "Uh, yes! I’ve been waiting for this moment forever."

"You’re tipsy," you accused, though a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

She only giggled, unbothered. "So what? That just makes it more fun. Okay, Kie, you first. What’s going on with you and Pope?"

Kiara scoffed, but the way her grip tightened around her glass didn’t go unnoticed. "What do you mean? There’s nothing going on."

"Oh, please," Sarah teased, nudging her shoulder. "The way he looks at you? It’s so obvious."

Kie sighed, tilting the bottle to her lips before answering. "Pope is... incredible. He’s kind, he’s smart, he actually listens to me. But I don’t know. If I let it turn into something and it doesn’t work out, I lose one of my best friends."

You reached over, squeezing her hand, the salt-sticky warmth of her skin grounding you. "You won’t lose him. Not Pope. He’d walk through fire for you."

Kie’s smile was soft, almost shy. But then she turned, sharp and knowing, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Okay, your turn, Honey. Any deep, dark secrets you wanna confess? Maybe about a certain blond hurricane we all know and love?"

Your stomach dropped.

Sarah practically vibrated with excitement. "Yes! I was just about to ask!"

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers moved on their own, finding the ring hanging from the chain around your neck. The metal was cool against your fingertips despite the heat of the night, familiar and grounding. A reminder.

JJ had given it to you years ago, slipping it into your palm with a rare kind of seriousness. "It was my mom’s," he had murmured, voice rough like he was handing over something more than just silver and memories. "Figured you’d keep it safe."

You had never taken it off.

The words sat on the tip of your tongue now, heavy and dangerous. You didn’t want to say it. Saying it would make it real, would give life to the thing you had buried so deep it felt like it was a part of you.

But Sarah and Kie were waiting, their trust shining so openly in the dark that it made your chest ache.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way JJ’s voice was stitched into the fabric of your memories, the way his touch lingered even when he wasn’t there. Maybe it was the fact that, deep down, a part of you had been waiting for someone to ask — waiting for an excuse to finally say it out loud.

You exhaled. "JJ," you whispered, barely more than breath. "I think I’m in love with JJ. It’s always been JJ."

Kiara’s eyes widened. Sarah let out a delighted squeal, clutching your arm. "I knew it! I freaking knew it!"

"No, you don’t," you muttered, heat crawling up your neck. "He doesn’t see me like that. He looks at me like I’m his sister."

Kie snorted, tipping her head back. "Oh, sure. And I’m the Queen of England."

You laughed, but the weight of your confession settled like an anchor in your chest.

Because how could anyone not fall in love with JJ Maybank? He made it impossible.

The teasing. The ridiculous nicknames — "Princess," "Sweetheart," — always tossed out with that signature smirk, always laced with something else, something unspoken.

You told yourself it was just JJ being JJ. That the warmth in his voice was nothing more than habit. That the way his gaze lingered sometimes — soft, searching — meant nothing at all.

But then there were the moments when he didn’t speak, when his presence alone felt louder than words.

JJ Maybank, the boy who never shut up, who always had a joke, a quip, something to say — he knew when to be quiet with you. Knew when to sit beside you, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing at all. Those moments stretched between you like an unspoken promise, like the space before a shift, before something fell apart or fell into place.

And maybe that was why it scared you.

He was your best friend and always will be. And you didn’t believed that something or someone could change it. Ever.

HE WAS ALWAYS THERE, ALWAYS WATCHING.

Protecting.

Sometimes, it was endearing. Other times, it was infuriating.

JJ had a way of stepping into your battles like they were his own, like he couldn’t stand the idea of you fighting them alone. But it wasn’t just when things got dangerous — no, it was the little things too. If someone so much as looked at you the wrong way, JJ was there, his easygoing demeanor hardening, his jaw clenching, shoulders tensing like he was ready to start a fight right then and there.

You had seen it happen before. But tonight, watching him all but snarl at some guy who had been a little too persistent at a party, you had had enough.

You grabbed his wrist before he could do something reckless — before he could do something stupid. "JJ, seriously, I can take care of myself.”

His pulse thudded under your fingertips. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t relax either, his muscles coiled tight beneath your touch.

“I know," he muttered, eyes still locked on the guy as he stalked off, his shoulders squared in something close to satisfaction. Then, softer, like he hadn’t meant to say it at all — "But you shouldn't have to."

You stared at him, heart stumbling over itself, because what the hell was that supposed to mean?

JJ looked at you then, really looked at you, and for the first time that night, you saw something in his expression that you didn’t quite know what to do with. It wasn’t cocky, wasn’t teasing. It was careful. Measured. Like he was teetering on the edge of something neither of you were ready to name.

And maybe you should have said something. Maybe you should have called him out, demanded an explanation, asked him why he felt the need to throw himself between you and the rest of the world like it was his responsibility.

But you didn’t.

Because, deep down, you already knew the answer.

THERE WERE NIGHTS WHEN IT FELT LIKE THE WORLD OUTSIDE THE CHATEAU DIDN’T EXIST.

When the danger, the chaos, the constant search for something just out of reach — all of it faded into the background, leaving only the warmth of JJ beside you, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

The two of you fit together without thinking, without needing to. His arm would drape over your shoulders, pulling you closer, and you would let yourself sink into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. The flickering glow of candlelight cast shadows on the walls, the scent of salt and smoke clinging to your skin, but all you could focus on was the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Thump. Thump. Thump. A sound so steady it could anchor you.

His fingers skimmed lazily through your hair, a slow, absentminded motion, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

"You’re too good for me, you know that?"

The words were murmured into the quiet, his voice rougher than usual, low and edged with something you couldn’t quite name.

Your fingers, which had been tracing aimless patterns on his arm, stilled for just a second before you huffed out a soft laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

But the words lacked their usual sharpness.

Because he wasn’t joking.

Because beneath the teasing, there was something vulnerable, something raw.

JJ Maybank — the boy who threw himself into fights without a second thought, who always had a reckless grin and a cocky remark — was holding you like you were something delicate. Like you were something he was afraid to break.

And that scared you.

Because you didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know how to admit that your heart beat just a little too fast when he looked at you like that, or that you had memorized the way his arms felt around you, or that the ring hanging from your neck suddenly felt heavier in moments like this.

So you stayed quiet.

And he didn’t push.

The two of you just existed there, wrapped up in something too fragile to name.

Maybe you didn’t need to name it. Maybe it was enough to exist in these stolen moments, in the spaces between words, in the way his thumb absentmindedly brushed over your shoulder, in the way your fingers lingered on his skin longer than they should have.

But the truth was there. Unspoken, but undeniable.

It was in the way he looked at you, like you had hung the stars just for him.

It was in the way your chest ached when he wasn’t around.

It was in the way he always, always found his way back to you.

The search for gold continued, the stakes growing higher with every discovery, the danger creeping closer with every step. But JJ was always there. Always at your side. His hand firm on your shoulder, his reckless grin reassuring you that no matter what came next, you’d face it together.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

For now.

One year ago.

The world felt still. Not the kind of stillness that came with silence, but the kind that settled deep in your bones, pressing pause on everything outside this moment.

You sat side by side at the water’s edge, the damp sand cool beneath your fingertips, the ocean lapping at your toes in slow, steady breaths. The weight of reality — the danger, the chase, the impossible odds — felt distant, blurred at the edges like a half-forgotten dream. Here, in this in-between space, it was just you and JJ. No past, no future. Just now.

JJ sat cross-legged beside you, absently tracing patterns in the sand with a stick with his name on it, the movement lazy, almost thoughtful. His blond hair was a tangled mess, windblown and wild, falling into his ocean-blue eyes. He looked different here — quieter, lighter, as if the weight he carried had finally loosened its grip. The sharp edges of his chaos had softened in the lull of the waves, in the warmth of your presence.

“You know,” he murmured, glancing at you, “When we get rescued, I think I’ll miss this.”

You arched an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “The part where we’re stranded on an island with no food, no real plan, and absolutely zero chances of survival? Yeah, real paradise.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and easy, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “No, dumbass,” he nudged your shoulder, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary, “I mean this. Us. The quiet. The way things feel here.” He gestured to the palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze. “Back home, it’s just one thing after another. Running, chasing, hiding. But here… it’s just us.”

His words settled between you, heavier than the humid air pressing against your skin.

You studied him — his tanned skin, the way his lips quirked up like he was always on the verge of a smirk, the freckles scattered across his nose from too many days under the sun. This version of JJ, the one sitting beside you with the ocean in his eyes and something unspoken in his touch, made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to explain.

“I get it,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, more careful. “It feels... different here. Easier. No drama, no treasure hunts, no running for our lives.”

JJ’s grin stretched wider. “Yeah, but you miss it. Don’t even try to lie.”

You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t wrong. Chaos was part of you, just like it was part of him. You weren’t built for stillness, for lives untouched by adventure. And yet, something about this island — this fragile moment — felt like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

The thought unsettled you.

Your fingers curled around the chain at your neck, the ring cool against your skin even in the warmth of the evening. JJ’s mother’s ring. His most treasured possession, now hanging from your neck as if it had always belonged there. He had given it to you to keep it safe.

And maybe — just maybe — he had meant more than just the ring.

A lump formed in your throat as another thought surfaced, unbidden.

"Do you think they’re still looking for us?" The question slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

JJ stilled. The stick in his hand froze mid-motion in the water, his jaw tensing for just a second before he turned to you. His gaze, usually so easygoing, softened.

“Of course they are,” he said, the certainty in his voice wrapping around you like a shield. “They’d never stop. And your dad? He’d tear the whole damn world apart to find you.”

You swallowed, blinking up at the sky as if you could hide from the ache building inside your chest. His words were meant to comfort you, but they only made the weight heavier.

Your father.

You could picture him, pacing the floor of your childhood home, staring at the door every night, waiting for you to walk through it. The thought twisted something deep inside you. He didn’t deserve this — didn’t deserve to be left in the dark, to wonder if you were dead, if you had abandoned him the way your mother did.

"I wouldn’t do that to you." You had told him that once, years ago, after she left.

"I’ll always come back."

And yet, here you were. Gone. Just like her.

A sharp pang of guilt dug into your ribs.

JJ must have sensed the shift in you because, without a word, he reached out and took your hand, his calloused fingers curling around yours. His grip was firm but not demanding — just solid, just there. A tether in the storm. It was such a simple gesture, familiar in the way only JJ could be, but it steadied you, pulling you back from the depths of your own thoughts.

Your gaze flickered to him, drawn in by the quiet reassurance in his eyes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just held your hand, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your knuckles, as if he knew exactly how to wordlessly tell you, I’ve got you. I always will.

And for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

For a moment, you let yourself lean into the warmth of his touch, into the silent promise between you.

"Hey." His voice was softer now, careful, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile thing had settled between you. He tossed the stick aside and shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours. “We’re gonna be fine, sweetheart. You have me, remember? I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You turned to him then, really looked at him, and the sincerity in his eyes stole the air from your lungs.

JJ’s bravado was as much a part of him as his reckless grin, his sharp wit, his fists that curled too easily in defense of the people he loved. But this — this quiet, unshakable confidence, the certainty in his voice — was something different. Something deeper. Something that made your chest feel too tight and too full all at once.

"I know," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I know we’re together forever. What did you say back then? That I’m not getting rid of you?"

JJ’s smile returned, softer this time, and before you could think too much about it, his hand was reaching up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent warmth curling through your veins, spreading beneath your skin like the lingering heat of the sun.

"There she is," he murmured, eyes crinkling at the corners as his grin widened. "That smile. For a second, I thought I lost my touch."

You rolled your eyes, but the laugh that slipped past your lips was real, unforced. It was easy, effortless — just like it had always been with him. And for a fleeting moment, the weight of everything else — the danger, the uncertainty, the endless stretch of unknown days ahead — faded into the background.

All that mattered was the golden light spilling across the sand, the waves humming their quiet song, and JJ’s laughter filling the spaces between.

As the sun dipped lower, the sky melting into deep hues of indigo and violet, JJ stretched out on the sand, hands laced behind his head. “Alright, come here,” he said, patting the spot beside him without looking.

You hesitated — just for a moment — before lying down next to him. The sand was still warm beneath you, cradling your body in its soft embrace. Above, the first stars flickered to life, tiny pinpricks of silver scattered across the darkening sky.

JJ turned his head to look at you, his expression unreadable.

"You know," he said after a long pause, his voice quieter now, almost distant, "if this is all we ever had… it wouldn’t be the worst thing."

Your heart clenched at his words, at the weight of them pressing into the space between you.

Because this — the two of you, side by side, lost but together — had always been enough.

You turned your head to meet his gaze, and for a heartbeat, the world held still.

All you saw was JJ.

The boy who had been your anchor and your storm. Your best friend. And something else, something unnamed but terrifyingly real, lingering between you like the spaces between the stars.

"Yeah," you whispered, the words slipping from your lips with the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. "I think that would be enough for me too."

JJ smiled — just barely, just enough for you to catch the way his breath hitched. And as the sky deepened and the waves whispered secrets only the ocean would ever know, you let yourself believe it.

Even if only for a moment.

Even if the world beyond this island would one day come crashing back in.

For now, in this sliver of eternity, he was yours. And that was enough.

BUT THERE ARE LESSONS YOU LEARN THE HARD WAY.

Like the fact that life is a bitch — unforgiving, cruel. And just when you think it’s finally smiling at you, it’s only a distraction before the next punch.

The golden light of the setting sun shimmered across the endless waves, casting long shadows as Kiara’s silhouette emerged in the distance. After what felt like a lifetime of being stranded, of fighting to survive, of holding onto the desperate hope that you’d all make it back — this moment should have felt like relief. Like victory.

But instead, it felt like the ground beneath you was crumbling.

Your chest tightened as Kiara took off in a sprint, her voice breaking into a joyful cry as she launched herself straight into JJ’s arms. And he caught her — easily, effortlessly. His arms wrapped around her waist as he spun her in a circle, their laughter intertwining in the salty breeze like a cruel melody.

It was the kind of moment that should have been beautiful — a testament to the unbreakable bond between friends who had been through hell together.

But all you could see was the way his hands lingered on her waist. The way her head tilted back, pure delight on her face. The way he looked at her.

You told yourself not to read into it. That it was nothing. That she knew.

She knew about the way your heart stuttered every time JJ’s hand brushed against yours. About the nights you lay awake, his voice and reckless grin haunting your thoughts. Kiara was the one you’d confided in during quiet moments, the one you trusted with the feelings you were too scared to admit even to yourself.

She wouldn’t do this to you.

Would she?

The question settled over you like a storm cloud, dark and suffocating, as the Pogues finally reunited. Their cheers and laughter rang hollow in your ears. You smiled when you had to, laughed when it was expected, but your gaze kept drifting back to JJ and Kiara.

You watched as he ruffled her hair, as she swatted his arm in playful protest. Their movements were easy, thoughtless—like they belonged to each other in a way you had only hoped you and JJ ever could. And then, for the briefest second, his eyes met yours.

And just like that, his smile faltered.

Not for long. Barely even a breath. But it was enough. Because instead of holding your gaze, he looked away.

The boat ride back to the Outer Banks should have felt like freedom. Like home.

But it was just another form of torture.

You sat alone at the stern, the wind whipping through your hair, the salty spray stinging your face as you stared out at the horizon. You forced yourself to focus on the endless blue, on the rhythmic crash of the waves, anything to drown out the quiet conversations and stolen glances happening behind you.

And then…

It happened so fast that you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.

As you turned to grab a bottle of water, your eyes landed on them.

JJ and Kiara.

Leaning toward each other, so close their faces were only inches apart.

His hand was on her cheek, his touch careful, almost reverent. And the way she looked at him — soft, open, unguarded — made your stomach drop.

You couldn’t hear what he was saying over the roar of the engine, but it didn’t matter.

It was the way his thumb brushed against her skin. The way her lips parted slightly, her breath catching. The way it looked like the entire world had faded away, leaving just the two of them.

"Hey, did you guys see the compass?"

Pope’s voice cut through the moment, shattering it like glass.

JJ and Kiara sprang apart, their movements too sudden, too guilty. JJ laughed — forced and a little too loud — scratching the back of his neck, while Kiara ducked her head, rummaging through her bag with a kind of frantic energy.

"Yeah, it’s right here," JJ said, tossing the compass over without making eye contact with you.

You turned back to the water, gripping the railing so tightly that your knuckles turned white. The salt spray burned your skin, but it was nothing compared to the ache carving itself deep into your chest.

You had seen enough.

The way he looked at her… it was different.

Or maybe — maybe — he had never really looked at you that way at all.

AFTER RETURNING TO THE MAINLAND, THINGS BEGAN TO SHIFT IN WAYS YOU COULDN’T IGNORE.

It was in the way JJ and Kiara sat close by the fire, knees brushing, heads tipped together as they whispered things only they could hear. It was in the way they disappeared on a grocery run for almost an hour, returning with matching grins and a half-empty bag of snacks, like they had just come back from some secret adventure.

It was different now.

You didn’t want to admit it — to say it — but you felt it. The weight of something slipping through your fingers, the quiet erosion of a space that had once belonged only to you and JJ.

And yet, JJ still called you by those ridiculous nicknames — "Princess," "Sweetheart" — like nothing had changed. But something had changed. Because now, when he said them, his voice held an unfamiliar warmth, something softer, something that sent an uneasy shiver down your spine.

And then there was Kiara.

Lately, her gaze lingered on JJ just a little too long. Her laughter came a little easier when he spoke. She found reasons — excuses, really — to be near him. A touch on the arm, a playful nudge, a whispered inside joke.

Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Maybe you wouldn’t have cared.

If she didn’t know.

She knew about the way your heart stuttered whenever JJ looked at you.

She knew about the ring he had given you — the one you still kept tucked safely in your pocket, as if it held something sacred.

She knew — and yet, it felt like she was stepping into a space that was never hers to begin with.

And you hated yourself for feeling betrayed.

Because Kiara was your best friend.

And JJ wasn’t yours.

And you had no right to feel this way.

But logic didn’t erase the way your stomach twisted when you saw her lean into him, her fingers grazing his wrist as she laughed at something only he could hear. Logic didn’t make it easier when JJ looked at her with that smile — the one that used to belong to you.

So you stayed quiet.

And maybe JJ noticed. Maybe that’s why his gaze lingered a little longer when he looked at you now, like he was searching for something he couldn’t quite place. Like he was trying to understand why things felt different. Why it suddenly felt like he was losing something — like you were slipping away.

And maybe, just maybe, he was just as scared as you were to find out what that meant.

You tried to brush it off, to convince yourself that you were imagining it.

But the more you watched them, the clearer it became. And the clearer it became, the more you pulled away.

Pope was the first to notice.

"You’ve been kind of quiet lately."

It was late, the two of you sitting by the dock, working to repair a torn sail. His voice was careful, gentle — like he already knew the answer but needed to hear you say it.

"Just tired," you murmured, keeping your eyes on the frayed fabric in your hands.

He didn’t believe you.

You could feel it in the way he hesitated, in the way he watched you — really watched you, like he had been seeing the cracks forming long before you were ready to admit they were there.

You’d always been tired lately.

Pope thought about saying it out loud, but he didn’t.

Because he understood. Maybe not completely — maybe not in the way that mattered — but enough. It hadn’t been easy for him either, watching his best friend and ex-girlfriend fall into something neither of them wanted to name. But for you…

For you, it had always been different.

It had always been written in your eyes — you were only his.

"Yeah," Pope finally said, voice quiet. "It wasn’t easy."

And he didn’t push further.

He didn’t need to.

Because in the silence between you, in the way he sat steady beside you, he let you know — without saying a word — that he saw you.

Even if JJ didn’t.

Over the next few days, you found yourself reaching for Pope more often.

It was easier that way. Easier than being around JJ. Easier than pretending you didn’t notice how he and Kiara seemed to orbit each other like they had their own gravitational pull.

But JJ noticed your absence.

"What’s up with you and Pope?"

His voice cut through the lazy afternoon, sharp and laced with something you couldn’t quite place. You glanced up from your book, sprawled out in a hammock, the sun warm against your skin. He stood above you, arms crossed, his jaw clenched just a little too tight.

"What do you mean?" you asked, feigning indifference.

"You two are always together," he said, his tone deceptively casual. But his fingers twitched at his sides, restless. "Did I miss something?"

You tilted your head, studying him. "Why?" A slow smirk played on your lips. "Are you jealous?"

He let out a short laugh, but it was hollow—forced. His eyes, stormy and unreadable, flickered over your face, searching for something. "Yeah, that’s right. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t leaving me in the dark."

You forced yourself to smile. "I’d never dream of it."

But the lie sat heavy between you.

SARAH WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO SAW THROUGH YOUR FACADE.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked one evening as the two of you sat on the beach, the waves whispering against the shore.

You shook your head, hugging your knees to your chest. "There’s nothing to talk about."

"Come on," she pressed, her voice soft but firm. "I see the way you look at him. And the way you don’t."

A lump formed in your throat, but you swallowed it down. "It doesn’t matter. He’s happy. That’s what’s important."

Sarah’s hand found yours, squeezing gently. "You deserve to be happy too, you know."

You nodded, but the words felt distant, like a dream slipping through your fingers before you could grasp it.

So you threw yourself into the one thing that could keep you from drowning — El Dorado. The thrill of the chase, the adrenaline, the endless dangers. It was easier to focus on that than the ache in your chest. But even then, JJ and Kiara were always there, a painful, constant reminder of everything you couldn't have.

"WHY ARE YOU AVOIDING ME?"

JJ’s voice shattered the fragile distance you had so carefully maintained.

The two of you stood on the beach, the night air thick with salt and unspoken words. He had cornered you away from the others, the ocean stretching endlessly behind him, the stars like shattered diamonds overhead.

You stiffened, forcing your arms across your chest. "I’m not avoiding you."

“Bullshit.” He took a step closer, his blue eyes burning into yours. "You’ve been different since we got back. And don’t tell me it’s nothing, because I know you."

You exhaled shakily, staring at the sand. You couldn’t look at him — not when his voice was laced with that raw, unfiltered concern that always made your walls crack. "It’s just… too much, okay?" You gestured vaguely, grasping for an excuse. "The whole El Dorado thing. Everything we’ve been through. I just needed space."

JJ studied you, his expression shifting — softening. His fingers brushed against your cheek, light as a whisper, and you froze.

"It was easier on the island, wasn’t it?" His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant.

Your throat tightened as memories of Poguelandia washed over you. The stolen moments of peace, the laughter, the way JJ felt like home. "Yeah," you admitted, barely above a whisper. "It was."

His thumb traced along your cheekbone, lingering. "I miss it." His voice cracked, just a little. "It was just… simple. Like we could just be."

Your breath hitched. "Me too."

The words hung between you, heavy with meaning neither of you dared to name.

JJ’s gaze dropped to your lips. Your heart pounded, a war raging inside you. The words you had buried for so long clawed their way to the surface, desperate to be spoken.

"JJ, I…"

But then you stopped.

Because the moment you let those words escape, there would be no going back.

JJ frowned, searching your face. "What?"

You shook your head, biting your lip so hard it stung. "Nothing. It’s nothing."

His jaw tightened, frustration flashing across his face before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything."

You nodded, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, forcing yourself to smile.

"I know."

But it felt like a lie.

And from the way JJ looked at you—the way his fingers curled into a fist at his side—you had a feeling he knew it too.

NOW THAT YOU WERE ON THE VERGE OF ANOTHER INCREDIBLE ADVENTURE, THE WEIGHT OF IT ALL THREATENED TO CRUSH YOU.

The jet’s engines hummed beneath you, a steady vibration that should have been reassuring but instead felt like a countdown. A reminder that time was slipping through your fingers. The air in the cabin was thick with anticipation, but it did little to settle the storm raging inside you.

Pope sat across from you, his fingers toying with the strap of his backpack, a nervous habit he’d developed over the years. Next to him, Cleo leaned back in her seat, her usual air of confidence contrasting sharply with the unrest in your chest. Further down the aisle, Sarah and John B. whispered to each other, their hands woven together, completely lost in their own world.

You should have been feeling the same rush they did — the thrill of what lay ahead, the rush of another impossible journey. Instead, all you could think about was him.

JJ.

Your eyes kept flicking toward the empty seat next to you. It was his seat. It was supposed to be filled by now.

He had gone to Kitty Hawk to get Kiara. He promised he’d be back in time. He promised.

"Don’t fly away without me, sweetheart," he had teased, flashing you that signature JJ Maybank grin, the one that could disarm you in seconds. And then, just before he left, he had kissed your forehead. A lingering press of lips against skin, warm and fleeting.

But now, the seconds stretched long, and he still wasn’t here.

You pressed your fingers to your temples, willing the creeping anxiety to quiet down. Your heart felt like a caged animal, slamming against your ribs with every passing minute. Because today — today — you had made a decision.

After that night on the beach, you hadn’t been able to sleep. The words you had swallowed down burned like acid in your throat. The more you tried to push them away, the heavier they became, pressing into you until you felt like you’d suffocate under their weight.

You had spent days watching JJ laugh, watching him be himself again. Carefree. Happy. And it had become unbearable. Because the truth sat between you, unspoken but screaming.

You couldn’t do it anymore.

The moment he got on this plane, you were going to tell him. Everything. Every feeling you had buried, every longing glance you had stolen, every time you had wished — God, wished — he would look at you the way he looked at her.

You were going to risk it all.

And yet, he still wasn’t here.

"Are you okay?"

Pope’s voice broke through your spiral, his expression soft with concern. He had always been able to read you too well, and you cursed how transparent you must have looked.

"Yeah," you lied, forcing a tight smile. "Just tired."

Pope didn’t push, but Cleo wasn’t so easily fooled. She studied you for a long moment, her sharp eyes catching every detail — the way your fingers gripped the armrest, the restless bounce of your knee, the tension in your shoulders.

"You’re wound tighter than a fishing net," she remarked, tilting her head. "Maybe you should tell us what’s really on your mind."

You swallowed hard.

"I’m fine," you said again, though the words tasted like sand. "I’m just… worried about all of this."

Cleo didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press. And for that, you were grateful.

Because how could you explain what was tearing you apart?

How could you tell them that this trip wasn’t what had your heart in a vice? That the only thing you feared right now wasn’t the danger that lay ahead but the way JJ’s absence felt like a missing piece of yourself?

And worst of all — what if he didn’t show up?

What if, for him, this adventure meant something different now?

What if you had already lost him before you even had the chance to tell him how much you loved him?

The minutes bled into an hour.

The empty seat beside you remained empty.

Every second that ticked by felt like a punch to the gut, the slow, agonizing kind that left you breathless but never quite knocked you out. You kept glancing at the entrance of the jet, expecting — needing — to see JJ come rushing in, his signature grin in place, an over-the-top excuse tumbling from his lips.

But he never did.

Anxiety coiled tight in your chest, a snake of worry and frustration twisting its way through your ribcage. John B. had tried to call him twice, pressing his phone so hard to his ear that his knuckles turned white, but both times, it went straight to voicemail.

"C’mon, man. Pick up."

The cabin was suffocating. The steady hum of the engines felt like a countdown to something you weren’t ready for. You gripped the seat beneath you, nails digging into the fabric, heart hammering in your chest.

"He's coming," you muttered under your breath, almost like a prayer. "He wouldn't just—"

But doubt had already crept in, dark and insidious.

Because what if he would?

What if JJ had finally stopped running back to you?

John B. exhaled sharply and pushed himself up from his seat, dragging a hand through his hair. His movements were tight, shoulders wound with tension as he turned to face the group.

"We can't wait any longer," he said, voice strained. "We'll miss the window if we don’t leave now."

Your stomach plummeted.

Sarah shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you and John B., lips pressing into a thin line. Pope shot you a cautious look, one laced with sympathy, but it only made the ache in your chest worse.

He was really not coming.

You forced yourself to nod, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. Keep it together. Don’t let them see.

Pope’s hand landed on your shoulder, warm and reassuring, but it did little to stop the sinking feeling in your chest. The moment the plane began to taxi down the runway, it was like something inside you cracked wide open.

You turned toward the window, watching as the world outside blurred past. The sky was streaked with hues of orange and pink, a soft and cruel beauty.

JJ should have been here.

The weight of disappointment pressed down on you, suffocating. And beneath it, something uglier stirred — resentment, heartbreak, the bitter taste of being left behind.

Maybe, deep down, you had always known.

Maybe you had always been waiting for the moment JJ Maybank stopped choosing you.

SOUTH AFRICA HAD BEEN CHAOS FROM THE MOMENT YOUR FEET HIT THE GROUND.

There was no time to think, no time to process, no time to feel. You were too busy running. Hiding from dangerous locals, deciphering cryptic maps, escaping gunfire in the middle of the night. Survival demanded your full attention, and you gave it — because if you didn’t, you’d drown in the thoughts that crept in every time you stopped moving.

Thoughts of him.

JJ.

You had been ready. So ready.

Before leaving the Outer Banks, you'd made a decision — to tell him. To finally put everything into words, to lay it all out, no more running, no more pretending. You’d imagined the conversation a hundred times. The way his blue eyes would widen in surprise, then soften with understanding. Maybe he’d smile that slow, lazy smile, the one that always made your knees weak, and pull you into his arms.

But he never showed up.

And now, here you were, thousands of miles away, still carrying the weight of those unsaid words, letting them fester like an open wound.

But the pain in your chest was nothing compared to the moment you saw him again.

It was late at night. You had been running — all of you — navigating the narrow alleys of some unfamiliar town, adrenaline coursing through your veins as heavy footsteps thundered behind you. Your lungs burned, every breath sharp and desperate, but you couldn’t stop.

Then you turned a corner.

And crashed straight into them.

JJ and Kiara.

The world lurched beneath your feet.

For a split second, all the noise faded — the shouts, the pounding of feet, the chaos of your escape. It was just him. Just you.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, your brain scrambling to process what you were seeing.

JJ stood there, his chest rising and falling, his hair a mess, dirt smudged across his face like he had been running too. Relief surged through you so fiercely it almost knocked you over.

But then you noticed her.

Kiara.

And then — their hands.

Intertwined.

Fingers laced together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You forgot how to breathe. The relief, the anger, the longing — it all collapsed under the weight of this.

JJ’s eyes met yours, and for a fleeting second, something passed through them — guilt. His easy, careless grin faltered, but only for a moment.

"Hi, guys," he said, as if this was nothing. As if this wasn’t everything.

Before you could even form a response, Kiara tugged on his arm, her grip tightening. On him.

"We need to move," she said urgently, her gaze flickering around the alley. "Right now."

You couldn’t move.

You couldn’t speak.

You felt everything — and yet, at the same time, nothing at all. It was like watching the ocean pull away from the shore before a tidal wave crashed down, swallowing everything whole.

Every shared moment, every stolen glance, every inside joke — gone.

Had you imagined it all?

Had you been so stupid to believe he was ever yours?

"Are you okay?"

Sarah’s voice was soft, hesitant. A hand touched your arm, grounding you. Cleo stood beside her, brows furrowed, as if she could feel the weight of your heartbreak pressing against the air.

You forced yourself to nod. Forced yourself to breathe.

"Yeah," you lied, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm fine."

But you weren’t.

You were anything but fine.

But there was no time to fall apart.

The next second, you were running again.

THE JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF GOLD HAD DRAINED YOU TO YOUR VERY CORE. Days bled into nights, exhaustion pressing into your muscles like an iron weight as the group clawed their way through dense jungles, ancient traps, and relentless enemies. Every step had been a battle. But now — here it was.

El Dorado.

The cave swallowed you in silence, thick and heavy with history. And at its center — treasure.

Gold, endless and gleaming, stacked in chaotic brilliance. The flickering torchlight made the ancient riches seem almost alive, the reflections shifting like liquid fire. The air smelled of damp earth and something metallic, something old. The sight should have felt like victory.

"We did it," John B whispered, voice unsteady with disbelief.

Pope let out a breathless laugh, his fingers tightening around Cleo’s hand. "We really did it."

Sarah turned to you, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "Can you believe this?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "We actually found it."

You nodded, but the joy that should have come never did.

Because as the others celebrated, your gaze drifted — to him.

JJ stood a few feet away, but he felt worlds apart. His blond hair was tousled, his body relaxed in a way that made it seem like this was just another wild day, another reckless adventure. But it was who he stood with that made your chest tighten.

Kiara.

Their heads were tilted toward each other, their words low and intimate, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. She said something, and JJ grinned, his signature smirk flickering across his face. The same one that had once been yours.

The gold around you blurred.

A sharp ache speared through your ribs, and you tore your gaze away before the lump in your throat could choke you whole.

The treasure was breathtaking. But it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Returning to OBX was surreal.

The sun still set over the water in a hazy blend of burnt orange and indigo, the waves still kissed the shore in a rhythmic lullaby, and the marshes still whispered secrets in the wind. Everything looked the same. But nothing felt the same.

The Pogues weren’t just Pogues anymore. They were legends. Their names passed through hushed conversations, spoken with a mixture of awe and envy. Reporters. Strangers. Questions. Cameras. The world suddenly wanted a piece of the treasure, a piece of you.

But beneath all the chaos, something far more dangerous had crept in.

Tension.

JJ stopped coming around.

At first, you told yourself it was because of everything that happened — the fame, the stress, the gold. But deep down, you knew the truth.

He didn’t come around because of her.

You saw them sometimes, glimpses of them through town — JJ and Kiara, sitting close, laughing, the world fading around them the way it once had for you and him.

You stopped looking.

You stopped waiting.

But your father noticed.

One evening, as the sun began its slow descent into the water, you found yourself sitting on the old wooden steps of your childhood home, watching the marsh sway with the breeze. You had barely spoken to him since returning. It wasn’t intentional — you just felt so lost that words had started to feel meaningless.

But then, your father sat down beside you, his presence heavy with unspoken concern.

"You’ve been quiet," he said after a long moment, his voice gentle but firm. His hands, rough and calloused from years of working on boats, rested on his knees.

You didn’t answer right away.

Because how could you?

How could you tell him that you weren’t sure who you were anymore? That everything you had fought for, bled for, had left you feeling empty? That JJ — the boy who had once been your best friend, your safe place—was now just another person who had walked away?

So you just shrugged. "I’m tired, Dad."

He turned his head, studying you. And that’s when you saw it — the flicker of pain in his eyes.

He didn’t recognize you.

Not because of the way you looked — you were still his daughter, still the same person who had grown up on these docks, chasing after dreams that once felt limitless.

But because the light in your eyes was gone.

Because the fire, the spark that made you you, had been snuffed out.

"I missed you, you know," he said quietly. "Missed my girl."

Your throat tightened, and you had to look away, your fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans.

"I’m right here," you whispered, but it felt like a lie.

Because weren’t you gone, too?

He exhaled slowly, then reached over and squeezed your hand — the simplest, smallest act, but it nearly broke you.

"I don’t know what happened out there," he admitted, voice thick with emotion. "And I won’t pretend to understand. But whatever it is, whatever’s weighing you down… you don’t have to carry it alone."

The words burrowed deep, but you just nodded, afraid that if you spoke, your voice would crack.

So he didn’t push. He just stayed there, watching the sunset with you, holding your hand like he used to when you were small.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself lean into the comfort of someone who had never left.

Someone who never would.

Days passed in a blur, and you did your best to exist.

You spent your time with Pope and Cleo, their presence grounding you when everything else felt like it was crumbling. Cleo’s quick wit and Pope’s unwavering logic kept you from unraveling completely, and you buried yourself in distractions — helping fix boats, working odd jobs, anything to keep your hands busy, to keep your mind from spiraling.

But none of it stopped the ache.

And none of it changed what had already happened.

It was a quiet afternoon when Kiara finally found you.

You were sitting on the porch with Pope, your fingers tangled in an old fishing net as you helped him untangle the stubborn knots. The rhythmic motion was comforting, something solid in a world that felt anything but.

Then Kiara’s shadow stretched across the wooden planks.

"Hey."

The single word was hesitant — uncertain. That alone made you pause.

You glanced up, fingers stilling. Her usual confidence was gone. She stood stiffly, shifting on her feet, avoiding your eyes like she wasn’t sure if she had the right to be standing there at all.

"Can we talk?"

The words made your stomach twist.

You didn’t want to talk to her.

You still felt the sting of her silence, the betrayal of knowing she had stood by and said nothing while you drowned in feelings you had never even gotten the chance to voice. Kiara had been the one to encourage you, the one who had known what JJ meant to you.

And yet, when she had taken him, she hadn’t even warned you.

But you knew the truth. You had no right to be angry.

JJ was never yours.

And that was the most painful part of all.

Kiara’s words hung between you, heavy with meaning, but not enough to fix anything.

You wanted to believe her.

You wanted to take a deep breath, let go of the ache inside you, and tell her that everything was okay. That you weren’t hurting. That it didn’t feel like something inside you had cracked wide open the moment you saw JJ’s fingers intertwined with hers.

But you couldn’t.

Because it still hurt.

Because no matter how much you tried to push it down, to convince yourself that it was just bad timing, just one of those things — you knew better.

And so did she.

"It’s just... a lot. For everyone."

It was the best you could offer. A truth, but not the whole truth.

Kiara swallowed hard, nodding like she understood. And maybe she did. Maybe she felt it too — the quiet breaking of something between you, something that no amount of apologies could completely mend.

The silence stretched.

The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the salty scent of the ocean with it. The marsh swayed in the golden afternoon light, the world moving forward while you stood still.

"I miss you," she admitted softly.

You let out a slow breath, looking at her — really looking at her. This girl who had been your friend, who had been one of your closest people, now sitting across from you like a stranger trying to find her way back.

And maybe, in another time, another life, you would have reached for her hand. Maybe you would have forgiven her, let her in, let yourself believe that nothing had changed.

But it had.

And you weren’t sure if you could ever go back.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I miss you too."

But even as you said it, you knew — some things, once broken, don’t ever fit the same way again.

THE SKY BLED WITH THE LAST REMNANTS OF DAYLIGHT, BRUISED PURPLES AND DEEP ORANGES SINKING INTO THE HORIZON LIKE A SLOW EXHALE. The ocean stretched endlessly, its surface a restless mirror, broken only by the occasional ripple of unseen movement beneath. The dock beneath your feet creaked as the tide whispered against the worn wooden pillars, a slow, rhythmic lullaby that did nothing to quiet the storm inside you.

The air was thick with salt and the distant scent of bonfire smoke drifting from the beach. A cold breeze curled around your shoulders, making you shiver — not just from the chill, but from something deeper, something that had been building inside you for months.

And then, just like you knew he would, JJ found you.

His footsteps were steady but hesitant as he approached, the kind of walk someone has when they already suspect they won’t like the answers they’re about to get. The moon cast a pale glow over him, softening the hard set of his jaw, but it couldn’t hide the tension in his shoulders, the weight in his eyes. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, like he was trying to hold himself together.

“We need to talk.” His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the urgency behind it.

You didn’t turn to him. The waves in front of you were easier to look at. Easier to understand. “About what?”

JJ let out a short, frustrated breath. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” He took a step closer, his presence radiating heat despite the cold night air. “You’ve been… different. Distant. And I don’t get it.” His voice softened for a moment, almost careful. “Did I do something?”

A bitter smile flickered across your lips before you could stop it. God, the irony. The déjà vu of it all hit like a punch to the gut. Same dock. Same moonlit ocean. Same boy, standing there, looking at you like you were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out.

The only difference was you.

Back then, you had still carried hope like a fragile ember, cradled in your chest. Now, all that was left was smoke.

Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms. You wanted to yell at him, to shake him, to make him see. But the words felt stuck, lodged deep inside a place you weren’t sure you could reach anymore.

So instead, you exhaled sharply and forced your voice into something steady.

“I’m just tired, JJ. That’s all.”

He scoffed. A sharp, humorless sound. “Bullshit.”

Your shoulders tensed. He rarely ever spoke to you like that.

“You’re always tired,” he went on, stepping closer. His eyes searched yours, desperate now. “But this is different. You’re shutting me out, and I don’t– ” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

You turned to him then, finally meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes were stormy, filled with something between anger and hurt, like he was bracing himself for an answer he didn’t want.

“That’s the problem,” you murmured. “You don’t know.”

JJ blinked. Confusion flickered across his face, followed by something else. Something heavier. But it was too late.

He let out a breath, shaking his head. “C’mon. We’re friends. We always figure this shit out.”

Friends.

The word cut deeper than it should have. It landed in your chest like an anchor, heavy and suffocating, dragging you down into a truth you had spent too long trying to ignore.

Your breath shuddered as your fingers reached for the thin chain around your neck. You felt the cool weight of the small, worn ring — the one you had carried with you for years, the one that had once meant everything.

The one that meant nothing now.

You pulled it over your head, the metal cool against your fingertips, and held it out to him.

JJ stared at it, then at you. His brows knitted together. “What the hell is this?”

Your throat burned. “I’m giving it back.”

His face twisted in something close to disbelief. “Why?”

Your fingers curled around the empty space where the ring had been. The night air felt colder now, like the ocean had crept up and wrapped itself around you.

“Because I can’t do this anymore.” The words shook, but they were final. “I can’t keep pretending. I need to let go.”

For a long moment, JJ just stood there, looking at the ring in your hand like it was a foreign object, like it was something he had never seen before. Then, slowly, his fingers closed around it.

His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “So that’s it?”

You didn’t answer.

You just turned away, walking into the night, leaving him standing there with a piece of your past clutched in his fist.

The dock groaned beneath your feet, the sound echoing into the dark. The ocean whispered its endless secrets to the shore, uncaring, unmoved.

And as you disappeared into the shadows, you made a silent vow — one last promise to yourself.

To stop waiting for something that was never going to happen.

Present time.

THE MOROCCAN SUN WAS RELENTLESS, BEATING DOWN IN WAVES OF UNBEARABLE HEAT, FLOODING THE ENDLESS DUNES WITH LIQUID GOLD. The air shimmered, thick with dust and despair, distorting the horizon into a cruel mirage of salvation that would never come. The wind howled low, stirring up the sand, slipping into your clothes, into your lungs, burning like fire. But none of it mattered.

Not the heat. Not the ache in your knees, pressed into the pitiless desert. Not the sunburn scorching your skin, making it raw and blistered. None of it mattered.

All that mattered was JJ.

He lay sprawled in front of you, his once-white shirt dark with blood, the fabric clinging to his skin, soaked in scarlet. It spread like ink across his torso, seeping between your trembling fingers as you pressed down desperately, trying — failing — to stop the life from spilling out of him.

His usual electric energy — the endless, restless spark that made him him — was flickering, dimming by the second. His blue eyes, those damn ocean-blue eyes that were always so full of trouble and laughter, were struggling to stay open, heavy-lidded, dazed. And you?

You were falling apart. Piece by piece. With every shallow breath he took.

Your hands trembled as you pressed a handkerchief — his bandana — against the wound on his side. It was already soaked through. Useless. "JJ, no!" Your voice cracked, shattered, raw with panic. You were sobbing so hard you could barely breathe. "Just- … just hold on! Help is coming soon, I swear! Just a little more, okay? You hear me?"

He let out a choked, hoarse laugh, one that made your heart lurch violently. His lips curved into that same crooked, maddeningly cocky smirk, the one you’d seen a thousand times before. "Well, well, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice like sandpaper, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. His hand, calloused and warm even now, reached up, brushing against your tear-streaked cheek.

"I'm not worth your beautiful tears."

"Don't you dare say that," you choked out, grabbing his hand, pressing it against your face, as if you could keep him here just by sheer will. “Don’t you dare.”

His gaze never left yours, steady despite everything. That infuriating, impossible calm, like he wasn’t bleeding out in the middle of the desert. Like he hadn’t just thrown himself into danger for you.

And God, you hated yourself.

You hated yourself for every moment you ignored him, every glance you turned away, every time you convinced yourself he didn’t matter as much as he did. All because you couldn’t stand the way it burned — watching him and Kiara, pretending it didn’t hurt, pretending it wasn’t killing you.

"You shouldn't have done that," you whispered, your voice shaking, barely more than a breath. "You shouldn’t have risked yourself for me."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, fading as another wave of pain crashed over him. "I couldn't help myself," he murmured, blinking slowly, his grip on your hand tightening for a fleeting second before going slack again. His smirk twitched, weaker now. “It’s just like me, huh? Playing the hero.”

You let out a shaky, broken laugh. "This isn’t funny, JJ. You don’t– ” Your voice faltered. A sob clawed its way up your throat, but you swallowed it down. “You’re not allowed to leave me.”

He tilted his head slightly, barely able to keep his eyes open, but still, still he reached for you, brushing a strand of hair from your face with trembling fingers.

"Why not?" he teased, voice softer now, thinner, like it was slipping through your fingers.

Because I…

The words tangled in your throat, caught between fear and regret and love so raw it felt like it was splitting you in two.

Tears blurred your vision, falling freely onto his cheeks, his chest, mixing with the blood. "I thought you knew," you whispered. "I- … I’ve loved you since the beginning. Please, JJ, please don’t leave me.”

His breath hitched, something flickering in his eyes — recognition, regret, something unsaid that had been there all along. A slow, fragile smile touched his lips, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he looked like himself again.

“I knew,” he breathed, the barest hint of a smirk still tugging at his mouth. His fingers curled weakly against yours. "I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, the world stopped.

The wind died. The searing heat, the endless dunes, the distant shouts of the others — none of it mattered. It was just you and him, and the weight of his words crashing over you like a tidal wave, breaking something inside you, something that had been locked away for far too long.

“What?” you gasped, disbelief twisting in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

JJ's lips curled into a faint but sincere smile, though exhaustion dulled the edges of it. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he repeated, voice hoarse but unwavering. "I broke up with Kiara before this trip. I couldn’t pretend anymore." He exhaled shakily, his grip tightening around your fingers with the last bit of strength he had left. "You’ve always been everything to me. All this damn time.”

Your heart clenched violently.

Your mind raced to keep up, to piece together the truth that had been right in front of you, buried under layers of fear, miscommunication, and unspoken feelings.

"Then why – …why didn’t you say something?"

His eyes, deep and piercing even through the pain, held yours with quiet intensity. “Because you pulled away,” he said simply. "And I thought that’s what you wanted.”

The truth hit you like a punch to the ribs. You inhaled sharply, shaking your head. "No." The word barely made it past your lips. "No. I was scared. I thought I couldn’t handle it. Seeing you with her… It hurt too much. So I ran.” Your voice cracked. Your fingers clenched around his, desperate, desperate, desperate to hold on to something you had almost let slip through your hands. "And I'm sorry, JJ. I'm so sorry.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze soft despite the pain creasing his brow. Then, with what little energy he had left, he smirked—small, tired, but undeniably him.

"Don’t apologize,” he murmured. "Just… don’t leave me hanging, okay?"

A sob broke free from your throat, raw and full of something you weren’t ready to name. You nodded fiercely, gripping his hand tighter. "I won’t. I swear to God, JJ, I won’t.”

The sound of running footsteps cut through the suffocating air, and you turned, the haze of panic breaking just enough for reality to crash back in. The Pogues. John B, Pope, Kiara — your family — rushing toward you, their faces twisted with fear.

John B dropped to his knees beside you without hesitation, his hands immediately moving to help press against JJ’s wound. His fingers were slick with blood — JJ’s blood — and the sight of it made your stomach lurch. Kiara stood frozen for a moment, her face pale, her hands trembling as Pope frantically rummaged through the bag for the supplies you had packed before the trip.

“We’ve got you, man,” John B said, trying to sound confident, but his voice wavered, just enough to betray his fear. “You’re gonna be fine.”

“Damn right,” JJ rasped, his smirk faltering as he winced. He turned his head slightly, his tired eyes finding yours again, and for a second, it was just you and him in the vast, unforgiving desert.

“Now I have something to live for.”

Your heart clenched so hard it hurt.

A fresh wave of tears burned your eyes, but you refused to let go. You reached for his hand again, holding on as if your grip alone could anchor him, could keep him here, keep him yours. “We’re not done talking about this,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady. "Not even close."

His lips twitched, a flicker of amusement dancing through the pain. "Looking forward to it, sweetheart."

The Pogues worked with frantic precision, their hands moving fast despite the tremor of fear running through them. Kiara handed Pope the bandages with shaky fingers, and John B pressed harder, murmuring reassurances to JJ, to himself, to all of you.

JJ’s breathing was shallow, but it was there. It was steady. A fragile, desperate reminder that he was still here, still fighting.

And as the sun dipped lower, painting the dunes in streaks of crimson and gold, you made a silent vow.

No more running. No more hiding.

JJ Maybank had risked everything for you.

And you’d spend the rest of your life proving to him that it was worth it.

THE NORTH CAROLINA COAST SHIMMERED UNDER THE LAZY GLOW OF THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN, ITS GOLDEN LIGHT CASTING LONG SHADOWS ACROSS THE SAND. The waves rolled in gentle, rhythmic whispers, curling and uncurling against the shore like a lullaby, as if even the ocean had settled into a rare moment of peace. A soft breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen, mingling with the distant sounds of seagulls calling to one another.

A year had passed since Morocco.

And somehow, after everything, life had fallen into something that felt too good to be true.

The Pogues, older, maybe even a little wiser — but still just as reckless and full of life — had gathered at the Chateau for one of their usual, chaotic meetings. Laughter mixed with the rolling tide, the weight of past troubles dissolving in the summer air.

At the heart of it all sat Jessica, now eight months old and the undisputed queen of their little kingdom.

She was sprawled on a sun-bleached blanket, babbling happily as she reached for a set of colorful beach toys scattered around her. Her chubby fingers wrapped around a bright yellow shovel, clumsy but determined. Beside her, JJ sat cross-legged in the sand, his usual cocky smirk softened into something infinitely more tender.

"Okay, Jess," he said in an exaggeratedly serious tone, flipping the shovel dramatically. “If we’re gonna build the greatest sandcastle this beach has ever seen, you have to stay focused. Just don’t eat the sand, alright?”

Jessica, wide-eyed and curious, blinked up at him — then immediately grabbed a fistful of sand and stuffed it into her mouth.

JJ groaned, head tilting back in exaggerated defeat, while you, a few feet away, laughed as you set out snacks on the picnic table.

"She doesn't take you seriously," you teased, leaning on the edge of the table with a knowing smirk. "I think your motivational speeches need work, Maybank."

JJ twisted to look at you over his shoulder, grinning. “You’re just jealous because she listens to me more than she listens to you.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” You raised a brow, stepping closer before squatting down next to him.

Jessica’s attention immediately snapped to you, her chubby little hands stretching out with an excited squeal. JJ gawked.

“See?” you said smugly, scooping her up into your arms. “She knows who her favorite is.”

JJ let out a loud, mock-offended gasp, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Losing my grip?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Damn, babe. You’re killing me here. Everyone knows I’m the funny one.”

“Of course you are,” you cooed, lips twitching.

As if to prove his point, JJ suddenly leaned in and made the most ridiculous face imaginable — eyes crossed, lips puckered, nose scrunched.

Jessica let out an explosive giggle, clapping her hands in delight.

You sighed, defeated, shaking your head. “Great. You’re officially raising a mini menace.”

JJ smirked, his eyes twinkling with something deep and unspoken as he watched you cradle Jessica against your chest. Despite all his bravado, his recklessness, his wild heart, there was an effortless ease to the way he was with her. Like he was made for this — this quiet, unspoken happiness. And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.

A few feet away, Kiara lounged on a blanket, lost in conversation with her friend, Maya — a quick-witted artist who had seamlessly slipped into their group like she’d always belonged. The two were locked in an animated debate over which beach snacks were superior, their laughter ringing out, blending into the symphony of the waves.

It was moments like this, the quiet ones, that made everything feel right.

That reminded you of just how much you all had survived.

And, more importantly — how much was still ahead.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in a breathtaking blend of burning oranges and soft pinks, the salty breeze carried the distant laughter of your friends. The ocean stretched out before you, its waves rolling in slow, steady murmurs, as if the entire world had exhaled into peace.

JJ stood on the porch of the Chateau, Jessica cradled against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around her tiny frame. His usual restlessness had faded into something quieter — something softer — as he rocked back and forth, his movements gentle, instinctive.

You watched from the doorway for a moment, your heart swelling at the sight of him like this. Unburdened. Present. Real.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you stepped closer.

"You're real," you murmured, the words slipping out before you even realized you’d said them.

JJ glanced at you, and for a fleeting second, his usual confidence wavered. A flicker of vulnerability crossed his face — something rare, something raw.

"I’m not sure about that," he admitted, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. His gaze dropped to the baby in his arms, and his features softened. "But everything feels... easier with her. She’s just– … God, she’s perfect, you know?"

You reached out, resting a hand lightly on his worn-out T-shirt, feeling the warmth of him beneath your fingertips.

"She’s got a pretty amazing godfather." You hesitated, searching for the right words. "And I have an even more amazing – …”

JJ's lips curled into a knowing smirk, but his eyes stayed soft.

“Boyfiend?" he teased, tilting his head. "The love of your life? A future husband?"

You let out a breathy laugh, leaning your forehead against his shoulder.

"All of the above."

For a moment, neither of you spoke, letting the ocean and the distant voices of your friends fill the quiet spaces between you.

Then, after a beat, JJ adjusted Jessica in his arms and looked down at you, something uncharacteristically shy in his expression.

"Hey," he said, clearing his throat. "I, uh... I got something for you."

You blinked, eyebrows arching in surprise as he carefully passed Jessica into your arms. Her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, warm and trusting, as she settled deeper into sleep.

JJ reached into his pocket, fingers fumbling before he pulled out a small, familiar silver ring. Your breath hitched.

"JJ..." you started, but he lifted a hand, stopping you.

"I know it’s not a proposal," he said, his voice quiet yet certain, his blue eyes steady on yours. The words were familiar — spoken once before, in a different place, under different circumstances. "Not yet. But it’s still a promise. That I’m in this. For real. For the long haul."

He swallowed hard, rolling the ring between his fingers before gently sliding it onto your hand. His fingertips lingered, tracing the delicate curve of your knuckle like he was memorizing the shape of you.

"You’re everything to me," he whispered. "Always have been. Always will be."

Emotion swelled in your chest, raw and overwhelming, knotting your throat and making words impossible. So instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you closed the space between you. His breath hitched just before your lips met, and then everything melted away.

The kiss started soft, tentative, but then he deepened it, his hand rising to cup your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, warm and rough, as though he wanted to wipe away every doubt, every fear. He kissed you like he was grounding himself in you, like he needed you to breathe. The warmth of him, the quiet strength of his arms — it left you dizzy and safe all at once.

By the time you pulled back, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the cool night air. His fingers brushed down your arm, finding your hand again, twining his fingers with yours like he never wanted to let go.

"I love you," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

JJ’s smile was crooked, soft, a little breathless. "I know. And I love you more."

By the time you returned to the group, Jessica was fast asleep in your arms, her breaths soft and steady. The Pogues greeted you with their usual mix of teasing and tenderness—John B tossing out a smirk and Kiara shooting JJ a knowing look that made him roll his eyes. Pope, ever the observant one, just grinned as if he’d seen this coming long before either of you had.

But beneath the jokes, beneath the playful nudges and sarcastic remarks, was something deeper — an unbreakable bond that had carried you through the darkest of times and would continue to hold strong in whatever came next.

And as the stars slowly blinked to life in the vast, endless sky, you realized — without a shadow of a doubt — that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

hey lovies, i'm sooo happy to finally share this piece with you. i've been working on it for three months now, and honestly, i still feel like it’s not quite perfect. but i really wanted to post it today because it’s not just any day — it’s the one-year anniversary of this blog! 🥹 i started this whole thing with a jj fic, so it felt kinda special to keep that tradition going.

i just wanna say a huge thank you to everyone who's been here with me throughout this year. your support means the world to me, truly. every like and reblog is amazing, but your comments? they’re everything. they keep me inspired and make all the effort so worth it. so if you have thoughts — whether you loved it or not — i’d be over the moon if you shared them in the comments or my inbox :3

and before i go — happy international women’s day to all the incredible women out there! you are powerful, beautiful, and unstoppable 💫

love always, your santi 🪐

masterlist

#– santi 🪐#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x you #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj maybank x bsf!reader #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank angst

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damneddamsy · 4 months ago

Text

second sight | modern!cregan stark x fem!oc ONESHOT

a/n: on this exciting version of 'second sight', it's the modern day, folks! Phones, fast cars, college, apartments, tabloids, money! (@justdazzling - I LOVE YOU, thank you, little genius)

summary: Cregan Stark, old-money, a grounded hockey star on scholarship, and Claere Velaryon, the botany-loving black sheep of a powerful dynasty, share a secret romance that teeters on the edge of scandal. Between the clash of their worlds, a gilded gala, and looming chaos, love either blossoms—or explodes.

warnings: I write this from beyond the Tumblr grave. too much fluff can kill you and this fic is proof. mild smut 16+. language. alcohol.

words: 20,000+, 1 hr read (full-time job + sleepless nights = ?)

This was it.

Final period. Tie game.

One shot could win it, and the puck was his to take. With every second, that little flat cylinder started to appear as a bomb.

The air in the arena was electric, thick with the howl of the crowd and the sharp scrape of blades against ice. Cregan Stark crouched low at the centre of the rink, the number on his jersey stretching, his stick planted, grey eyes locked on the puck. Around him, his teammates circled like wolves closing in for the kill, their jerseys streaked with sweat and ice shavings.

He could feel the pulse of the game in his veins, as natural as breathing, as wild as his home. His ears tuned out the deafening cheers and jeers of the crowd, the taunts from the opposing team, and even the PA announcer hyping up the stakes. Everything narrowed to a razor-sharp focus on the puck and the players around him.

He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye—a man in a sharp suit stepping into the bleachers, clipboard in hand, right behind his coach. That was him. The scout. He didn’t need to hear the whispers from the bench to confirm it. The guy had been making the rounds in the college leagues for weeks, cherry-picking talent for a shot at the pros.

And Cregan was under his microscope.

Not for the first time, he felt the significance of his family’s name burning a brand at the back of his neck. The Stark boy. He wasn’t here because he was a Stark; he was here because he had fought like hell, clawed his way in, and earned every inch on this rink through blood and sweat. His scholarship wasn’t a handout. His leadership wasn't for the welfare of his parents. It was proof that he belonged.

To his left, Jacaerys Velaryon skated up beside him, his usual cocky grin flashing behind his mouthguard. Jace was different—here on his mother’s dime, her political sway. Rhaenyra Targaryen was a storm in a blazer, a powerhouse who could buy her son the world. Not that Jace ever let anyone forget it.

"Feeling the pressure, Cap?" Jace said, just loud enough for Cregan to hear over the din.

Cregan didn’t look at him, keeping his gaze on the puck. “Yeah, you should feel it some time, Velaryon. Builds character.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Jace blow him a dramatic kiss, mouthguard and all. Cregan rolled his eyes.

Gods, it was impossible to hate the guy. Annoying as hell, sure, but Jace had turned out to be the kind of teammate Cregan couldn’t help but respect. A love-hate friendship: hate off the rink, love on it. When the chips were down, he was the first one in the fray, throwing elbows and taking hits like his life depended on it. More than that, he was someone Cregan could trust, on and off the ice. He could think of one, sweet thing Jace had shut the hell up about...

“Eyes on the puck, Romeo,” Cregan said, smirking as the ref blew the whistle.

The faceoff was clean. Cregan exploded into motion, stick snapping the puck toward the boards, his legs pumping with the rhythm of the game. He barked out orders to his wingers, cutting through the defense like they’d choreographed it in practice. The crowd surged to its feet as the opposing team scrambled to keep up.

“Jace! Far post!” he shouted, spotting the gap in the defence.

Jace was already there, skating into position like he’d read Cregan’s mind. A quick pass, a deflection, and the puck was back in Cregan’s control. He faked left, cutting around the defender, his body moving on instinct.

The goal was in sight.

He barely registered the crunch of skates behind him, but he heard Jace’s voice, sharp and clear. “Take it, Cap!”

Cregan planted his skates, leaned into the shot, and let it fly.

The puck sliced through the air like an arrow, slamming into the back of the net with a satisfying clang.

The arena erupted.

Cregan’s teammates swarmed him, whooping and pounding his back as the scoreboard flashed their victory like a glitching billboard. His name was a chant through the crowds, as he yanked off his helmet, sweat dripping into his eyes, and grinned like a madman. The praise, the noise, his name—this was his addiction. He ran a hand into his mussed hair; this was a victory, ten times over.

“Not bad, Stark,” Jace said, slapping his shoulder as they skated toward the bench.

“Coming from you? I’ll take it as a compliment,” Cregan shot back, ruffling Jace’s hair just to annoy him.

As they lined up to shake hands with the opposing team, Cregan glanced toward the stands. The scout was gone, but that didn’t matter. Tonight, he’d proved himself. To the crowd, to the team, and to the name Stark.

And maybe, just maybe, to himself.

The locker room was alive with noise—players laughing, hooting, the showers roaring in the background. The air was thick with the sharp tang of sweat, soap, and the lingering charge of victory. Cregan stood apart from the chaos, leaning against the cold metal of his locker. His towel hung low around his hips, and his focus was locked on the ivory card in his hand. The embossed letters shimmered under the fluorescent lights like they knew they were about to ruin his day.

“A charity gala invite,” he read aloud, voice flat, unimpressed.

Across the room, Jace was busy toweling off his hair. The ends of his grin peeked from beneath the towel, smug as hell.

“You’re welcome,” Jace said, his tone soaked in self-satisfaction.

Cregan squinted at him, holding the card like it might bite. “It’s not for me, is it?”

Jace shrugged, yanking off his shirt. “Technically, it’s a family thing.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed as suspicion settled in. “So, what—you’re trying to set me up with a scout?”

Jace snorted, tossing his towel into the laundry bin. “I'm not that nice. It’s just an invite.”

“To your family’s gala,” Cregan shot back, the card feeling heavier in his hand. “Where your dad’s gonna be. The one who made that Tyrell boy piss his trousers.”

Jace smirked as Cregan tossed the card into his bag. “Daemon. And, yeah, he’s gonna be there. That’s kind of the point.”

Cregan sighed, crushing a palm into his eye, already regretting where this was headed. “Gah, why me? Why can't you?”

“Because you’re the team captain,” Jace said, leaning casually against his locker. “You’re the guy who gets shit done. And, oh yeah." He tapped his chin, pretending to think. "You need him. Talk about sponsorships for the playoffs, Stark. You know, things that could keep our asses out of the red.”

Cregan let out a bitter laugh, dragging on a pair of pants. “Oh, I see. So I’m supposed to waltz in, make nice with your dad, and beg for his money? Like none of the hard work I’ve done to get here matters?”

“It’s not begging,” Jace said, rolling his eyes. “It’s strategy. And it’s not just for you—it’s for the team. C'mon, man. Play the game.”

Cregan scowled, staring at the card again. “I worked my ass off to get here. You really think I’m gonna throw that away by showing up to some—”

“Claere’s going to be there, too,” Jace said, cutting him off.

That stopped Cregan cold. His head snapped up, his wide-eyed stare meeting Jace’s infuriatingly smug grin. “Shut the fuck up.”

Jace took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to make Cregan’s stomach tighten with dread. “Maybe you’d like to explain to Daemon why you’ve been sneaking around with his darling daughter?”

Cregan’s pulse kicked up. His eyes darted around the room, checking if anyone was listening. Most of the guys were too busy horsing around to pay attention, but he still stepped closer to Jace, his voice a harsh whisper. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Jace said, his grin widening. “You’re going out with my sister. Daemon’s dear daughter. So unless you want to make that public knowledge—”

“You’re such a dick,” Cregan muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Absolutely,” Jace said cheerfully. “But hey, I’m trying to help.”

Cregan tilted his head. “Sounds like you're threatening to out the one good thing in my life.”

“H-E-L-P.”

“Ah, what ironic last words.”

Jace chuckled. “You show up, be the good guy, make a solid impression on my dad, and maybe—just maybe—you don’t end up on his shitlist. Hell, you might even get that sponsorship. Everybody wins.”

Cregan stared at him, torn between strangling him and walking out the door. “Or maybe this just guarantees I’m on his shitlist for life.”

Jace shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to find out.” He smacked Cregan on the shoulder and turned toward the showers. “Clock’s ticking, Stark. Better get that new suit pressed.”

Cregan glared at Jace’s retreating back, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled around the stiff card. The edges dug into his palm, a sharp contrast to the suffocating load settling in his chest. Anger was easy to name—it simmered just under his skin, directed squarely at Jace’s smug, grinning face. Dread, too, made its home in the pit of his stomach, twisting with every thought of the Targaryens’ judging stares. But there was something else, something hotter and heavier that sat in his chest like a stone.

He hated how well Jace knew him, hated the way he could be backed into a corner with nothing more than a pointed nudge and a knowing smirk. Hated, even more, the flicker of anticipation threading through his frustration—the thought of Claere, her silver hair catching the light, her sharp wit softened only for him. It made his stomach churn and his heart beat just a little too fast.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, stuffing the invite into his bag like it might disappear if he just crumpled it hard enough. “You fuckin' owe me, Velaryon. Big time.”

The room felt too small, the laughter and banter of his teammates grating against his ears. He wanted to slam his locker door, but it wouldn’t help. Nothing would, not when he was stuck between two impossible choices: walking into that dragon's den of a gala or giving Jace the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

From across the room, Jace’s voice echoed as he sauntered toward the showers. “You’re gonna thank me for this someday! Right on my mouth!”

Cregan flipped him the bird without turning around, his scowl deepening as the other guys burst into laughter.

He should’ve ripped the card in two. Should’ve tossed it in the trash and called it a day. But he didn’t. Instead, he zipped up his bag, the crisp corner of the invitation peeking out from between the seams. He slung the strap over his shoulder and headed for the door.

Secrets had a way of thriving in the dark, and tonight, Cregan Stark was stepping straight into the shadows of his own.

The greenhouse was like something out of a fairytale or nightmare, depending on the beholder—old, forgotten, swallowed by ivy and moss. Glass panels speckled with dirt softened the moonlight, casting the place in a hazy glow. Somewhere in the back, the faint sound of water dripped, rhythmic as a heartbeat. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp soil and blooming flowers, the kind of stillness that made it feel like the world outside didn’t exist.

Cregan stood just inside the glass doorway, gold medal in hand, his breath still uneven from the game. He should be out with his teammates, sharing victory beers and soaking in their roaring laughter. He should be walking into a party, medal clinking against his chest, grinning like he owned the world. Instead, he was here, surrounded by shadows and greenery, drawn by a force he couldn’t name but didn’t dare fight.

And there she was. Claere.

She sat hunched over a parapet slab near the back of the greenhouse, her silhouette framed by an unruly braid that escaped the tie meant to tame them. Her fingers moved deftly over a sketchbook, shading lines with the tip of a pencil, her rings catching the low light as her hand darted across the page. She hummed to herself, her head bobbing lightly, earphones tucked in. She hadn’t noticed him yet, completely absorbed in her work.

His heart twisted at the sight of her. Gods, this girl. She was every rumour, every ridiculous story spun about her by the campus vultures: the weirdo who talked to squirrels, who fed crows in the quad, who disappeared into forgotten corners like this greenhouse for hours on end. But to him, she was so much more. She was warmth and chaos, the perfect motley of sharp wit and shy smile. His enigma. His Claere.

He could barely believe his luck every time he laid eyes on this girl. He should be dragging her out of there, into his car, kissing her breathless in the parking lot where his teammates could see just how fortunate he was. Instead, he was standing here like she was some impermissible jewel. A dirty secret. Something precious, hidden, just for him.

Cregan shook his head and took a quiet step forward. Then another. He stopped just behind her, close enough to see the faint blue smudge of ink on her cheek, the way her lips pressed together in concentration. Without a word, he reached out and poked her waist.

Claere yelped, her legs jerking against the parapet. Papers and pencils flew everywhere, her phone clattering to the stone floor as she twisted around.

“Don’t do that!” she hissed, smacking his chest with a feeble fist.

Cregan laughed, catching her wrist before she could hit him again. “Couldn’t resist,” he said, leaning down to pepper dramatic, open-mouthed kisses along her cheeks and temple, one after another, until she gave up trying to squirm away.

“Cregan, enough,” she muttered, though her voice had softened, her hands busy gathering her scattered papers of botanical drawings. She was so good at it, weirdly good. He envied how detailed she was when it came to her diagrams.

He grinned against her temple and pulled back just enough to look at her.

“How did the game go?” she asked, pulling her notebook onto her lap and brushing a curl out of her face.

Wordlessly, he raised the gold medal before his winning smirk, letting it swing from his finger.

Her face lit up, that radiant smile of hers robbing him of a breath. It was one of those rare moments, a prize earned every time she graced that smile.

“Go Wolves,” she cheered, clapping her hands together before her gaze darted to the flowers nearby. Her eyes gleamed as she reached out, plucking a feathery blue orchid.

“Congratulations, my lord,” she said, presenting it to him with a dramatic little flourish.

Cregan laughed, twirling the orchid between his fingers. “Thank you, princess.” He winked, dropping his hockey stick and bag to the ground before climbing onto the parapet beside her.

On instinct, he nudged her papers, notebooks, and pencils aside and laid his head on his favourite spot in the world, letting out a long, contented sigh. The cool skim of her skirt and the warm scent of her combined was a balm, soothing every ache from the game.

“This,” he murmured, his eyes falling shut, “this is the best feeling in the world. Victory and you.”

Claere smiled down at him, her hand finding its way to his hair, fingers threading gently through the strands, scratching at his scalp.

“You look tired,” she said softly, full of affection. The sound of music itself.

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. “Not anymore.”

For a moment, there was only silence, the kind that made the world shrink to just the two of them. But even in this moment of calm, Cregan’s thoughts tugged at the edges of his peace. He thought about the whispers that followed her everywhere. He thought about Daemon, her father, and what he’d do if he found out.

But mostly, he thought about how none of it mattered. Not when she smiled at him like that. Not when he was in love with the campus, but moreover the city's so-called weirdo.

Claere leaned down, her lips grazing his forehead, soft and warm, the kind of touch that lingered even after it was gone. “You’re not going to tell me how many goals you scored, are you?”

Her voice, light as spun silk, carried an almost playful accusation, and Cregan couldn’t stop the smirk from curling on his lips.

“Only if you promise not to fall even more in love with me,” he teased.

Her laughter that followed was like a bell, ringing and airy, and when he opened his eyes, there she was again. Alarmingly violet eyes framed by lashes that cast soft shadows against her pale skin. Her silver hair tumbled around her ears and forehead, catching faint glimmers of moonlight filtering through the greenhouse glass. She was this arcane entity, spun from the fabric of a half-forgotten dream, so far removed from mundane that it made people uneasy.

This exotic little thing. Put there, it seemed, just to spite the ordinary.

“Jace asked me to drop by at the gala this weekend,” he murmured, letting the words fall softly between them like a test.

Her fingers paused mid-stroke in his hair, the stillness giving way to a small, almost imperceptible exhale. “Oh.” Her lips parted briefly, pressing together in thought before she nodded, the gesture light but resolute. “I’ll stay back then. You should have fun.”

“You don't have to do that, baby,” he murmured, guilt pooling in his chest. He hated this with all his heart, hated that he was making her feel worthless.

She scrunched her nose in that way she always did when he called her that, like it embarrassed her and pleased her all at once. “I never wanted to be there anyway,” she dismissed, though her eyes gave away more.

“It’s for the team,” he admitted, holding her gaze. “Daemon’s support could mean playoffs. And Jace…” He trailed off, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“You don’t need to explain, Cregan. This must be hard enough for you,” she said gently, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “ I can’t imagine what sort of nonsense my brother pulled to make you go.”

“For one, he lacks imagination,” Cregan muttered, a dry laugh escaping him.

Her laughter joined his, light and melodic, but it faded just as quickly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re the one who wanted to tell him.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face in despair. “You can break my jaw for that, really. What was I thinking?” But he knew the answer. He needed someone who had their back—both of them—if things went wrong.

Her fingers resumed their slow, soothing path, sliding down the slope of his nose, and it was almost enough to coax his eyelids shut. Almost.

“How long do we…” she trailed off, her voice dipping into a murmur.

“Claere,” he started, his voice gentle but firm, and her name tasted sacred on his tongue.

“It’s fine,” she answered quickly, brushing off the hesitation with a smile that refused to reach her eyes.

He sat up slightly, the sorrow behind her words tugging at his chest. “You know why,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “Just until I’m done. A few more months, we're almost there. Then we can do whatever you want. Hell, we can stage a whole make-out session outside the rink. Kiss before a thousand cameras. You can even put my nudes on a T-shirt. Let the whole world know I'm all yours.”

Her palm pressed against his chest, her touch so steady it was almost enough to convince him. Almost. “I'm just tired of pretending like we don't exist,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

His hand found hers, pulling it to his lips. “You know it kills me too, right?” he whispered against her skin, an edge of desperation slipping through.

“I know, I know,” she mumbled, her lips twitching into a rueful smile.

Her violet eyes softened, and for a moment, they stayed like that—caught in each other’s orbit, as if the world outside didn’t exist.

“You worked so hard to get here,” she said finally, her voice trembling just slightly. “Me and my family name cannot be the reason anyone questions that.”

“You’re not,” he said fiercely, his eyes locked on hers. “You’re the reason I get through it.”

She exhaled, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “Then don’t make me wait too long, Stark,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not a patient girl.”

He couldn’t help the grin that broke across his face, a lopsided thing she always teased him about. “I’ll make it worth it,” he promised, and he meant it. Every word.

“You better,” she replied, her tone playful but laced with that steady, quiet assurance she always carried.

And then, with a swift motion, she shoved his head off her lap, laughing softly as he sprawled onto the greenhouse floor. “Come on,” she said, already searching for the greenhouse keys in the mess of notebooks and pencils scattered around her. “It’s getting late.”

Cregan groaned, propping himself up on one elbow. “You could at least kiss me for bringing home hardware,” he complained, watching her stack up her papers and zip up her sling bag.

“I already kissed you, and you’re not helping,” she retorted, her tone half-scolding, half-amused. He groaned with exaggerated effort as he rose up on his feet, cracking the tension on his shoulders.

“Not true,” he argued as he walked over to her, looping his arms around her waist as she tried to pull away. “I’m providing all the moral support.”

She huffed but didn’t resist when he pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of her neck, his lips brushing against her skin in a way that made her pause mid-zip.

“Cregan,” she murmured, though it lacked any real bite.

“Baby?” he asked, his voice muffled as he trailed more kisses along her shoulder, content to bury himself in her warmth.

“Don't call me that. Let me go,” she said, twisting around to face him, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her sternness.

“Never,” he replied simply, his mischievous eyes gleaming as he tightened his grip for a moment before finally releasing her.

Claere shook her head, muttering something about sportsmen and their stubbornness, but the pink in her cheeks betrayed her. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she led the way out of the greenhouse. Her steps were light, but her shoulders were tense, as though she knew what was coming next.

They walked hand in hand, their fingers entwined, their conversation bubbling with the kind of playful ease that felt too private for the quiet campus night. Cregan exaggeratedly held the greenhouse door open for her as she locked up, bowing like an old-fashioned knight.

“After you, my lady,” he said, his grin boyish and crooked.

She rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Oh, such chivalry,” she muttered, but the teasing lilt in her voice made his grin widen.

Outside, the dim campus lights caught the sleek white of her electric Vespa. The thing gleamed as if it were her proudest possession, standing defiant against a world of roaring engines and gleaming sports cars. She clipped on her helmet, the scuffed and slightly dented thing perched atop her silvery hair like some bizarre crown. She'd even named her noble, janky steed—Luna.

“You know,” Cregan began, leaning lazily against his truck just behind her, “in a world of racecars and motorbikes, you ride this thing. It’s like a moving punchline.”

“Luna saves the environment, you disrespecting neanderthal,” she shot back without missing a beat, her tone so matter-of-fact he burst out laughing.

“And you never learned to drive a car,” he teased, his grin taking on a mischievous edge.

Her violet eyes narrowed at him, but before she could counter, he was already in front of her. His hand caught hers, pulling her close, his arm circling her waist with a practised ease that made her breath hitch.

“Cregan,” she warned, her voice low, but her wide, startled eyes darted around. “We’re still on campus.”

“It's too late for anyone to hang about,” he murmured, his voice soft but rough around the edges, filled with something she couldn’t name but always felt in her bones. “Kiss me. Make it big.”

She scoffed, her cheeks flaming. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, her palm pressed against his chest as if to hold him back, but the pressure was light, hesitant.

“Please, you like me unbelievable,” he countered, his grin tilting into something downright sinful as he leaned in again, trying to capture her lips.

This time, her helmet came between them with a soft, comedic thud, and she stepped back, shaking her head with an excessive sigh. “See you later,” she said, her voice airy as she mounted the Vespa, flipping the visor down with an air of finality.

He stepped back, arms spread, watching her like the lovestruck fool he was as she revved the little engine to life.

“I love you!” he hollered after her, his voice ringing out over the hum of her Vespa.

Her hands froze on the handlebars, and she turned, her cheeks redder than ever, her expression somewhere between scandalized and flustered.

“I thought you said low-key!”

“I said I love you, Claere!” he repeated, louder this time, laughter bubbling out of him.

“Shh!” she hissed, her violet eyes darting around like she expected the entire student body to emerge from the shadows.

He waved her off with a theatrical air kiss, his smile wide and utterly unshakable as her Vespa’s hum faded into the quiet of the night. For a moment, he just stood there, watching the tail light grow smaller and smaller until it vanished entirely.

Leaning back against his truck, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the grin still tugging at his lips. It wasn’t just the way she made him laugh or the way she said his name like it was her favourite secret. It was everything—her quirks, her sharp tongue, her fierce independence wrapped up in a frame so delicate he sometimes felt like just touching her would leave a mark.

Yeah, he was a goner. Completely and utterly.

And for her? For the girl who rode a funny scooter like it was a chariot, the girl who made the world feel small and vast all at once? He’d fall over and over again. And not regret a single fucking thing.

The lecture theatre was stifling. Not because it was warm—the air conditioning hummed overhead, doing its job—but because Cregan could think of a hundred better places to be than in this impractical "Philosophy of Human Civilization" module. Yes, because business administration called for the incredible knowledge of metaphysics.

He slouched in his seat, one leg stretched out beneath the fold-up desk, his pen twirling aimlessly between his fingers. The professor’s droning voice blended into white noise, accompanied by the faint clatter of keyboards and the occasional rustle of papers. The only reason he was putting up with this shit was that it was the only class Claere and he shared together. Who—surprise, surprise—was running late.

Cregan’s mind wandered. There was the game footage he still needed to review. A term paper he'd barely started. The extra drills Coach had suggested for tomorrow. And Claere. Always Claere. What was she doing right now? Probably something strange—like drawing the new dandelions around the quad. Or finding another crow to befriend. He smirked to himself, the thought warming him, even as he toyed with the pen between his knuckles.

And then it happened. The door at the base of the lecture theatre burst open, and all the simmering thoughts in his head vanished.

Claere Velaryon rushed in like a summer storm. The clicking of her sandals echoed off the walls as heads turned, the low hum of the room snapping into silence. Her long, thin brown dress clung to her frame as if she'd run halfway across campus, the loose sleeves slipping scandalously down her shoulders. She was red-faced, her silver hair a wild, untamed halo around her, strands sticking to her flushed skin. She clutched a tote bag like it might tumble out of her hands at any moment, panting as if she'd just completed a marathon.

Cregan straightened in his seat, pen forgotten in his palm.

Gods, she was a mess. A beautiful, heart-wrenching, completely irresistible mess.

The whispers started immediately. Of course, they did. This was Claere. She could walk into a room and turn every head, for better or worse. Cregan could already hear the vicious murmurs—the snide comments about her tardiness, her flushed cheeks, her dishevelled hair. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to glare at everyone around him.

“Miss Velaryon,” the professor’s voice cut through the tension, dry and unimpressed. “Late as usual. Do I even bother to ask for—”

“I’m sorry,” Claere gasped, her voice trembling but polite as ever. She clutched her tote tighter, her eyes darting to the professor. “I—I lost track of time.”

The professor sighed heavily, clearly debating whether to continue chastising her. Thankfully, he waved her off with an irritated gesture. “Sit down. I've got much to cover.”

Cregan watched as she nodded quickly, eyes wide, before hurrying up the steps. She climbed the rows with an elegance no one seemed to notice, her dress swaying with each step. Their eyes met for a fleeting second—just a heartbeat—but it was enough to send a jolt through him. Then she slipped into an empty seat a few rows ahead of him, pulling out her laptop in a flurry of quiet, frantic movements.

He fished out his phone from his pocket, sliding it under the desk deftly. His fingers flew across the screen.

Good morning, sunshine. That dress is tempting fate with me. Feeling okay?

She didn’t look at her phone, too busy digging through her bag. He frowned and texted again.

Hey. Overworked already?

Still nothing. Her computer whirred to life, and she tapped furiously at the keys. Cregan’s fingers hovered over his phone, his frustration bubbling over.

Baby.

Right behind you.

Answer me.

CLAERE.

The fourth ding caught her attention—and the professor’s.

“Miss Velaryon,” the man snapped, his irritation palpable. “I trust you can figure out how to silence your phone without further disrupting the class?”

“Sorry.” Claere’s cheeks burned as she scrambled to mute it, shooting a disconcerted glance around the room. The whispers flared up again, though most students had their eyes glued to the professor.

Cregan smothered a laugh, setting his phone face down on his desk. He stared at the back of her head, watching how her hair cascaded past her elbows, still slightly mussed from her rush. He wanted to close the distance, to sit beside her, to hold her hand, give her a sip from his water bottle, and dab away her sweat.

But he stayed put, grinding his teeth, the itch to be near her gnawing at him.

The lecture dragged on, and Cregan’s focus was entirely on her. It wasn’t fair, he thought, the way her presence could pull him out of his own head so completely. He couldn’t stop watching her—the delicate tilt of her head, the way her fingers flew over her keyboard, the little sigh she let out when she finally settled. He wanted to reach out, touch her, reassure her. He wanted—

A spark of mischief lit in his chest. He slid his phone back into his hand, shielding the screen between his chest.

Turn around if you love me.

He hit send, his smirk growing as he propped his elbow on the desk, feigning disinterest. He ran a hand over his face, trying to rub away the grin threatening to split his face.

Claere glanced at her phone, lips parting in alarm. She barely turned, eyes peeking through the curtain of her hair, shooting him a look that was equal parts caution and exasperation.

Cregan met her gaze with an unabashed wink, biting back a laugh. Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened on the edge of her laptop, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she whipped her head back around and refocused on the presentation slides ahead.

Up ahead, Claere’s phone buzzed once, then again. She glanced at it, her lips parting in alarm as her shoulders stiffened. Her fingers twitched on the keyboard, clearly debating whether to check it. She gave in, the faint glow of the screen illuminating her frown.

Cregan had already sent a follow-up.

Panting into class like that. What’d you do, chase another mouse?

She rolled her eyes, typing a quick response.

Good morning, Cregan. I dropped Viserys off at school because he wanted to ride the scooter with me instead of the car. Now, please focus on class.

Undeterred, he sent another.

Oh, so, your little brother gets a free ticket, but I'm considered too big. Where's the justice?

When she didn't bother to respond, he scowled at her head and typed again.

You didn’t even look at me before. I love you so much that I shampooed my hair, especially for you.

Her phone buzzed audibly, and her head shot up, violet eyes darting around the room. When no one seemed to notice, she let out a small breath and typed furiously.

I will throw this phone at you, Cregan. Stop distracting me.

Cregan grinned at her threat.

With your aim, you might just get the professor instead.

He saw her shake her head, obviously masking a smile. Gods, how he wished he could see it. He leaned forward and typed.

Turn around before I come down there.

That one must have hit a nerve, because her shoulders straightened, and her fingers paused mid-hover over her keyboard. Slowly, she turned her head just enough to shoot him a glare that could've melted steel, her silver hair framing her face like a storm cloud.

He touched his chest, impersonating a broken heart. You're killing me, baby, he wanted to say. A side of her twitched up before it smoothed back into the same glare.

He tipped his chin to his phone, gesturing at her to text. She rolled her eyes and retrieved her phone, beginning to type again.

I love you very much. Could you shut up?

Time stopped. The grip on his phone tightened, heart racing. He looked both ways, seeing if someone caught sight of the irredeemably giant smile on his face. He typed through trembling fingers.

That's more like it. You chose a dress for tomorrow? May I kindly suggest red? Very short? Easy access and all. Also, stockings.

He saw her pause before she began typing again.

I'm not coming. Let's not risk it.

He nearly stood off his seat in irritation. Instead, he typed so hard, that he feared denting the screen.

We aren't risking shit. You're coming, Claere. I will throw you over my shoulder and lug you there if I have to.

When she didn't type back, he sighed and then followed up calmly. This had to work.

Please come, baby? For me? Please.

She turned around, sneaking a look at him again, thinking for a long moment. She gave him an infinitesimal nod before shifting away. He controlled every urge that made him want to punch the air in victory.

He puckered his lips, blowing a small kiss to the back of her head, thoroughly pleased with himself, but the professor’s sharp voice cut through the moment.

“Stark.”

Cregan straightened in his seat, leisurely lifting his gaze to the dais in the front of the room. The professor’s eyes were fixed on him, brows raised in expectation.

“Perhaps you’d like to share with the class what's so interesting on your phone or how Plato’s Allegory of the Cave applies to modern societal hierarchies?”

A ripple of amused murmurs spread through the lecture hall. Claere’s shoulders went rigid, and she sank lower in her seat, clearly praying she could disappear into the floor.

Cregan, however, leaned back with an air of calm confidence, resting one arm along the back of his chair. He could handle a little heat.

“I'll take option two,” he drawled, his tone smooth, “it’s about perception versus reality, isn’t it? How people are trapped by their limited perspectives, thinking shadows are the truth when there’s a whole world they’re not seeing.” He let the words hang for a moment, then added with a lazy grin, “Kind of like how people in this class assume they know everything about others when they really don’t have a single clue.”

The murmurs turned into a few low laughs, though the professor’s unimpressed glare remained.

“That’s… a creative interpretation,” the professor replied, his tone clipped. “Perhaps next time, you could demonstrate your engagement by listening, rather than texting.”

The class chuckled again, and Cregan shrugged nonchalantly.

“Noted,” he said, flashing a quick, disarming smile.

The professor sighed and returned to the lecture, but Cregan could feel Claere’s mortified glare burning between his head. He glanced down at his phone, considering sending her another message, but thought better of it.

Instead, he settled back in his seat, smug and unbothered, stealing one last glance at the silver hair a few rows ahead of him. Definitely pushing his luck.

The low hum of the lecture was interrupted by a series of sporadic buzzes and chimes from phones around the room. At first, Cregan ignored them, tapping his pen idly against his notebook, his mind wandering back to Claere. But when the faint murmurs started—those hushed, vindictive whispers that only grew louder—his focus sharpened.

Furrowing his brows, he slipped his phone from the desk, angling it over his thigh. One notification stood out in bold:

Breaking: Rhaenyra Targaryen Sparks Debate as "Unfit Parent" in These Latest Photos.

His stomach dropped. He clicked on it, and there it was—Claere.

The image was grainy, clearly taken from across the street, invasive but unmistakable: Claere leaning down to kiss little Viserys on the cheek from her scooter, waving as he ran toward the school doors. The headline was grotesque, spinning the scene into some damning evidence against her mother.

Cregan clenched his jaw, swiping at the screen to close the article. The pit in his stomach wasn’t just anger; it was fear. This—this circus—was what waited for Claere at every corner. They didn’t care about her life, her compassion, her unfailing talent. All they saw was scandal, drama, and an easy target. And if their relationship ever got out?

His chest tightened. He could take the scrutiny. They could call him a joke, a flash-in-the-pan athlete, whatever they wanted. But Claere? They’d shred her apart, drag her name through the mud, and no matter how much she pretended she didn’t care, he knew it would crush her.

He glanced up at her. She sat a few rows ahead, her back stiff, head bowed low, silver hair falling in curtains around her face. One hand was curled around the edge of her desk, the other fidgeting at her neck, rubbing the skin like she was trying to soothe herself.

Cregan’s fingers hovered over his phone for a second before he typed out a quick text.

Ignore them. It's not worth your time.

Her phone buzzed on her desk, and he saw her shoulders tense. She glanced at it briefly but didn’t respond. He frowned, tapping out another.

You're incredible, Claere. Viserys is lucky to have you.

Still nothing. She didn’t even look this time, just kept her head down, pretending to take notes.

Cregan sighed, setting his phone face down on his desk. His frustration wasn’t with her—it never was. It was with the world they lived in, the world that refused to leave her alone.

He glanced at her again, biting the inside of his cheek. She looked so small, so... tired. He couldn’t fix this, couldn’t shield her from all of it, but maybe he could remind her of one thing: she wasn’t alone.

He picked up his phone again, typing deliberately.

Rink tonight ;) After practice? I love you.

The response came quickly this time.

Okay.

He allowed himself a small smile, relief flooding his chest. His fingers itched to send something else—something cheeky, playful—but he stopped himself. For now, that one word was enough. Cregan leaned back in his seat, ignoring the professor’s droning voice, ignoring the whispers still circulating the room. His eyes lingered on the silver head a few rows ahead of him.

She'll be okay. He'll make sure of it.

The ice rink was silent now, save for the scrape of Cregan’s skates and the dull thwack of his stick against the puck. The overhead lights cast an icy glow on the smooth, untouched surface, the air was crisp and faintly metallic. One by one, the last of his teammates had filtered out, offering casual goodbyes that he barely registered, too focused on the rhythm of his movements.

He practised shooting goals, each slap of the puck echoing in the empty space. One. Two. Three. Each strike was sharp and precise, but his focus wavered as the minutes ticked by. He glanced at the clock mounted on the far wall. Twenty minutes late. Was she even coming?

He tried not to let the disappointment settle in. She’d been off all day—he’d noticed it in the way she fidgeted, her avoidance of his texts during class, and the weariness in her posture. Maybe she needed space. Or maybe…

No. He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

Just as he bent down to retrieve the puck again, the sound of the swinging doors creaking open cut through the silence. He straightened, his breath catching as he turned toward the sound.

There she was. Of course, she'd never disappoint him.

Through the plexiglass, he caught sight of Claere, her silhouette bright and out of place against the stark white of the rink. Her bag hung lazily over her shoulder, bracelets and sandals jangling as she made her way to him. She moved with an easy grace, that grin he loved lighting up her face as she spotted him. She leapt over the players' bench with a playful bounce, landing softly and leaning casually against the barricade.

“You finally made it,” he called, skating toward her, his voice teasing. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Her grin widened, and she propped her chin on her hand, her violet eyes sparkling. “You can hunt me down if I ever do. I was caught up in labwork.”

He laughed, pulling out his mouthguard and letting it dangle from his fingers. “You're never that hard to find.”

She tilted her head toward the doors, thumbing the direction. “What’s Jace doing out there? Don't you usually lock the front door?”

Cregan shrugged, smirking as he glided closer to the plexiglass, wishing it wasn’t in the way. “Your shitty brother owed me.”

Claere’s giggle was like a bell, light and melodic. “So he’s chaperoning us now?”

“Standing guard,” he corrected, his grin sharp. “Until I say we’re done. Son a bitch deserves it.”

She threw her head back in a full laugh, the kind that made her whole body move. “Our personal bouncer, huh?”

Cregan had threatened to dump estrogen into his daily intake of protein shakes one way or another following his lousy uptake to make him come to the gala. He was getting his revenge and this was the perfect out. Cut to Jacaerys, sitting on the curb outside the rink, grateful it wasn't the winter time. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air. He flicked ash onto the pavement and leaned back, whistling at a couple of students who wandered too close.

“Oi! It’s closed, lads!” he called, waving them off with farfetched authority. “Run along, nothing to see here!”

One of them raised a brow but turned around with a shrug, clearly not in the mood to argue. Jace smirked, taking another drag.

“What a racket,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Little asshole.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the rink doors, his whistle turning into a lazy hum. The things he did for his little sister and her lovesick puppy.

Inside the enclosure, Cregan skated off the rink with a dexterity that came with years of practice, his blades cutting a sharp curve across the ice as he made his way to where Claere leaned against the barrier. Her arms were crossed, her nose red from the cold, but she still managed to look every bit like the faerie she was, completely out of place and somehow owning it anyway.

“Your turn,” he said, tugging her bag from her shoulder and setting it down. He pulled out a pair of skates from under the bench, holding them up like an offering.

She groaned, already shaking her head. “No way. It’s freezing, and I’m not wearing pants.”

He crouched in front of her, tapping the skates against the ice. “Freezing? You live in cardigans, baby. Come on, the ice is lonely without you. Lace up.”

Her protest was half-hearted, and within minutes, he’d coaxed her into the skates, inching them up her feet himself. She sat on the bench, her dress pooling around her knees, muttering complaints, pushing at his shoulders as she tied the laces.

“Do you always bully girls into skating?” she asked, huffing.

“Only you,” he replied, grinning. He stood and held out a hand, steadying her as she wobbled on the thin blades. “Let's go, chief. Just skate it all off.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips as she stepped onto the rink. It took a few hesitant glides before she found her balance, her movements rusty yet elegant.

Cregan hung back, leaning lazily against the barrier, his weight on one skate as he watched her begin to move more freely across the ice. Her arms swung naturally at her sides, the fabric of her skirt flaring with each gliding step. She spun slowly, deliberately, as though caught in the rhythm of some invisible melody, her hair catching the rink’s cool light like strands of molten silver.

She'd always found a way to draw him in, mesmerize him. Cregan felt his chest swell, warmth spreading despite the rink’s chill. There was something magnetic about the way she moved—not perfect, not trained, but alive and so unmistakably her. It was like she carried her own song wherever she went, a tune only she could hear.

Then she waved, breaking his trance. He blinked, startled, caught like a deer in headlights.

“You coming, or are you just going to stare all night?” she called, her voice carrying a teasing lilt.

He chuckled, pushing off the wall with ease, his movements smooth and rehearsed. He skated toward her, the faint sound of his blades slicing through the ice contrasting with her lighter, more playful strides. She stood waiting for him, hands on her hips, her smirk laced with challenges.

“Can I help you practice?” she asked, tilting her head, her hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder.

He shook his head, smirking. “What might you do for me, Claere?”

She tapped her chin, feigning deep thought. “Hmm... I can throw the puck?”

“Oh, excellent,” he replied, biting back a laugh. “What do you think I do on this rink besides 'throwing the puck'?”

She ticked off her fingers, her expression deadpan. “Elbow poor guys. Score goals. Make pretty girls flash you.”

Cregan snorted. “Not wrong,” he admitted, grinning wide.

Not moments later, a tenacious Claere stood at the net, a pair of oversized goalie gloves engulfing her hands and a spare hockey stick. She looked absolutely foolish—and yet, she carried herself with all the determination of someone about to win a championship. And gods, did she look fucking hot.

“I’m ready,” she declared, crouching low.

“You sure about this?” Cregan called a few metres across from her, his puck resting against the blade of his stick.

“Bring it on, Stark,” she challenged, knocking her gloved hands together like a boxer.

He smirked, took a few strides back, and lined up his shot. The puck zipped toward the net with a controlled flick of his wrist. Claere lunged—if you could call it that—sprawling onto the ice in a dramatic heap, her hockey stick missing the puck by a mile as it hit the post.

“Damn it,” she groused under her breath, shuffling awkwardly on all fours to retrieve the puck. “Go again.”

Cregan was bent over laughing, barely able to stay upright on his skates. “Baby, you didn’t even come close!”

She scowled at him, but there was no hiding the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re supposed to be coaching me, not laughing at me!”

He skated over, crouching beside her to help her up onto her feet. She skidded a little, and he caught her waist to steady her. “You’re hopeless,” he teased, brushing the dusting of snow off her skirt. “But sure, let’s try again.”

Many a failed tries, many bruises and complaints later, Cregan rested his stick between his knees, barely breaking a sweat, grinning down at Claere as she shuffled awkwardly back into position at the net, her oversized gloves flopping like the paws of some defeated cartoon character. The sight of her, sweating, sleeves slumping, so determined despite her absolute lack of technique, had him smiling ear to ear.

“You really think you’ve got this, don’t you? You don't even have knee pads,” he teased, his voice rich with amusement.

Claere narrowed her eyes, her lips pulling into a stubborn pout. “I know I’ve got this,” she shot back, her tone defiant despite the fact she’d barely managed to touch the puck all night.

He cocked his head, an idea forming, his grin sharpening with mischief. “Alright, let’s make this interesting,” he said, skating a slow circle around her. His voice dipped low, teasing. “You block one goal, just one, and you can sit out the gala.”

Her eyes widened, and her head snapped up, following him as he circled her. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he replied, stopping in front of her and leaning on his stick like it was a crutch. “One clean block. No cheating.”

Claere’s brows furrowed in thought before her smirk returned, victorious before the battle even began. “Deal,” she said, pointing a glove at him. “If you lose, I can use this as my trump card and say that I'm better than you at this.”

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” he said, his voice low, deliberately playful. “I'm never going to let that happen. But if you lose...” He skated closer, so close their breath mingled in the cold air. “You’re coming back home with me after the gala, and you better be wearing red.”

Her smirk faltered, just barely, and Cregan caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. But she straightened, squaring her shoulders like she was heading into a war. “Fine. You’re going to rue this day.”

He chuckled, skating backwards and giving her space. “We’ll see about that.”

After that, it was game time. He let the first few shots skim past her, fast but not too fast, watching her dive, stretch, groan, whine and lunge in increasingly absurd ways, forgetting she even had a stick to block it. He didn't have to try, she was terrible at this. The puck hit the back of the net every time, but her determination was relentless, her lips pressed tight as she shuffled back into place after every failure.

On the fourth attempt, she swiped too early, sprawling onto her back with a dramatic groan. Cregan skated over, crouching beside her and offering her a hand. “You okay down there, champ?”

“Shut up,” she muttered, glaring up at him as she took his hand. But her cheeks were pink, and not just from the cold.

He pulled her to her feet effortlessly, his hands sliding to her waist to steady her. She pushed the hair out of her face, blowing a breath into the curls over her forehead.

“You’re making it too easy for me,” he said, his voice dropping into a low murmur.

Her breath hitched, just for a second, her hands landing on his chest to balance herself. “Maybe I’m lulling you into a false sense of security,” she quipped, her voice softer now.

“Mm, is that it?” He let his fingers linger, brushing against the fabric of her dress before he finally stepped back, grinning. “Alright, let’s see your dumb strategy in action.”

Honestly, he should've given up trying to smack the puck and just hit it with his foot. By the sixth attempt, Claere was all but crawling across the ice, clumsily batting at the puck as it glided lazily toward the goal. She managed to stop it—barely—her triumphant shout ringing out as she waved her arms in victory.

“Oh, I did it! I caught it!” she celebrated, her grin splitting her face.

Cregan skated over, stopping just short of her, shaking his head in mock disbelief. He clucked his tongue in disapproval.

“That doesn’t count,” he said. “You didn’t stop it clean.”

“It does count,” she argued, more in desperation than anger, jabbing her glove at his chest.

“Nope,” he said, popping his lips. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “But I’ll give you one more shot. One last chance. Otherwise, I win.”

She swallowed hard, her breath hitching again as his hand found her waist, steadying her. “Fine,” she whispered, her bravado cracking just a little.

He let her go, giving her space as he lined up his final shot. He skated forward, slow and deliberate, the puck gliding along with him. Her focus was unwavering, her determination fierce. He sent the puck toward the net—not too fast, not too slow.

Claere lunged, stick outstretched—and miraculously, it stopped just short of the line.

Her triumphant laugh filled the rink as she scrambled to her feet, throwing her gloves into the air like confetti.

“I did it!” she squealed, spinning in place. “Ha, ha! I’m free!”

Cregan skated over, catching her by the waist mid-spin and lifting her off the ice. “You’re still coming tomorrow,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

“Deal’s a deal,” she laughed, leaning into him.

“Unfortunately for you, I don't give a shit,” he said, his voice low and soft.

Claere leaned into him, her laughter softening into something gentler. “I know you let me win,” she accused, her violet eyes narrowing as she looked up at him.

“Maybe,” he admitted, his grin turning sly. “But only because I’m nice like that.”

Her response was a roll of her eyes, but the playful tilt of her lips betrayed her. “Nice doesn't involve having your girlfriend pant after you like that.”

“I like you panting.” He winked.

Before she could retort, he moved. A sudden shift of his weight sent them tumbling onto the ice, Cregan's hand protectively going around her head and back, Claere yelping as he pinned her beneath him, careful to keep his skates and hers positioned safely.

“Victory tackle?” he declared, smug, straddling her as she wriggled beneath him.

“Cregan!” she hissed, her cheeks flushed from the cold—or maybe from being caught so off guard. “Get off me! It's freezing!”

“Here, I'll keep you warm,” he said, his grin softening as he leaned in. His lips grazed her cheek, then the tip of her nose, lingering as though the moment might slip away if he let it.

Claere stilled beneath him, her breaths coming slow and even, her gaze locked on his. Her hands lifted, her cold fingers finding the nape of his neck, slipping into his hair. The chill of her touch made him shiver, but it wasn’t unwelcome. It was his anchor.

He exhaled, letting his forehead rest against hers, closing his eyes briefly as her fingers tangled deeper into his hair. God, this was everything—she was everything. He didn't care that his arm was going numb from bearing his weight up and the freezing ice. His lips found hers, urging them apart, vying for more, too starved, a little too much until his head spun and his breaths came up in pants. A heady daze had him sneak his fingers under her skirt, feeling the softness of her thigh, fingers leaving impressions on her skin. He'd done this too many times to know, especially when her hips lifted up to his, his hand sliding onto her ass.

Her voice broke the quiet, coming out as a gasp. “You’re too big.”

He laughed softly, pressing one last kiss to her temple. “That's never been a problem for you.”

“That was before you tackled me,” Claere shot back, though her fingers threading lazily through his hair betrayed her amusement, her contentment. Her laugh was soft, breathless, and it warmed the cold air around them, sinking into him like the best kind of ache.

Cregan opened his mouth to tease the soft skin on her neck, maybe even pull her closer—but the sharp crash of the rink doors cut through the quiet, echoing across the ice. The sound shattered the little world they’d built for themselves, the fragile intimacy dissolving in an instant.

Neither of them moved at first, too wrapped in each other to care—until a familiar voice broke through.

“Guys, I'm getting bored. Seriously?” Jace’s tone carried across the rink, equal parts incredulous and exasperated. “Claere—what the fuck! Not on the fucking ice! Get off my sister!”

Cregan groaned loudly, burying his face into the curve of Claere’s neck like a child avoiding a scolding. “C’mon,” he muttered against her skin, voice muffled, his shoulders slumping dramatically.

Claere tilted her head, her laugh soft against his ear. “Should we let him think this was all spontaneous?”

“Let’s not,” Cregan grumbled, his lips brushing her collarbone as he spoke. “He’s already halfway to murdering me.”

Jace’s footsteps echoed closer, leaching with frustration. “I mean it, Stark!” he barked. “Get off her!”

Reluctantly, Cregan lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting Claere’s. There was something unspoken between them—a shared defiance, a quiet kind of rebellion. Still, he eased off her, careful and deliberate, and offered his hand to help her stand. She accepted it without hesitation, and when he caught her waist to steady her, he took his time guiding her to a slow glide toward the rink’s edge.

“You ruin everything, Jace,” Claere called over her shoulder.

Jace stood at the edge of the rink, arms crossed and expression thunderous. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, the smoke curling upward into the dim light. “I ruin everything?” he repeated, incredulous. “You’re lucky I’m not scraping either of you off the ice right now. What were you even thinking, Claere?”

Claere shrugged, leaning casually against the barricade. “That I’m twenty-one and don’t need a babysitter?”

“You’re not twenty-one in my book,” Jace shot back, stabbing the air with his cigarette for emphasis. “And you—” He turned his glare on Cregan. “What’s your excuse, Stark?”

Cregan raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk utterly unapologetic. “I'm a sucker for your sister, I guess.”

“You shameless fuckin' bastard,” Jace bit out, his voice rising.

“Jace,” Claere cut in sharply, her tone enough to make her brother pause. Her gaze was steady, unwavering. “Take it easy.”

Jace hesitated, his shoulders tense as he looked between them. Finally, he threw his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. But if you two keep pulling shit like this, don’t expect me to cover for you.” He turned toward the exit, muttering under his breath, “Goddamn idiots…”

As the doors slammed shut behind him, the rink fell quiet again. Claere turned to Cregan, her smirk gentling to a sincere smile.

“So,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “thank you for tonight, Captain. Consider it a success. Spirits lifted, smiles wide.”

Cregan stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, his touch lingering. He grinned as he leaned in, kissing her cheek, long and deep. “I am at your fingertips, my lady.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, everything else faded. But just as he was about to kiss her again, the sound of distant voices drifted into the rink, the faint shuffle of footsteps approaching.

Cregan glanced toward the doors, his jaw tightening. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, his voice firm but tinged with urgency.

Claere arched a brow. “What’s the rush?”

He gave her a crooked grin, skating backwards toward the exit as he held out his hand to her. “Call it a hunch. Trust me. Besides, I ought to warm you up with some cocoa this time.”

She hesitated, then took his hand, her grin matching his. As they left the rink, neither of them noticed the shadow lingering near the edge—a figure stepping into the dim light, watching them laugh and discard their skates with sharp, calculating eyes.

The chandelier above glimmered like a constellation, casting warm golden light over the Targaryen mansion’s sprawling, opulent hall. Every detail of the place spoke to its ancient grandeur—the polished marble floors, towering arches, and gilded frames enclosing weathered tapestries that told forgotten stories. Yet despite the atmosphere of high elegance, the purpose of the evening felt hollow, as if the mansion’s walls echoed with feigned cheer instead of sincerity.

Cregan Stark leaned against a polished column near the edge of the room, a champagne flute balanced in his fingers. He didn’t even like champagne. He hated this kind of thing—his kind of people didn’t belong in gilded halls. But Jace, Luke, and Joffrey made tolerating the event slightly easier.

“Tell me why we need an ‘art restoration fund’ when every artist they’d actually pay is on the brink of starvation,” Jace mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“Oh, Jace, for fuck's sake.” Joffrey snorted, brushing imaginary lint off his lapel. “It’s not about the art. This is just networking in a shiny costume. Daemon calls it charity, but really, it’s just a more expensive way to sell lies.”

Luke smirked, raising his glass lazily toward the crowd. “Take a good look, boys. Every handshake tonight equals at least three new yachts and an unspoken promise to backstab someone in six months.”

Cregan chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re all so cynical for a family raking in the benefits of this circus.”

“Yeah, well.” Jace grinned at him. “We grew up knowing exactly what it is. Don’t act like your world doesn’t have its share of political games.”

“True,” Cregan admitted. “But at least I don’t pretend it’s for charity. I just fight it out on the ice.”

They all laughed at that, and for a moment, Cregan allowed himself to relax, but his attention kept darting across the gilded room, scanning for the one person who mattered. The air felt heavy, too hot, the collar of his tailored suit suddenly too tight. He tugged at it with one hand, the other gripping his glass as though it might shatter.

Until his gaze strayed to the far end of the hall.

The glint of velvet red at the far end of the hall pulled Cregan’s attention like a shot of adrenaline straight to his chest. His breath caught, his pulse quickening before his brain had fully registered what—or rather, who—he was looking at.

Claere.

Her dress was every bit as bold as he’d imagined when he’d teasingly suggested she wear red, and yet it managed to surpass his wildest expectations. The fabric hugged her body in all the right ways, short enough to make his stomach tighten and billow around her legs like the petals of a rose flower. The neckline dipped just low enough to be tantalizing, thin sleeves baring her shoulders, and her silver hair, swept into a loose updo, left her neck exposed—a detail he was entirely too aware of.

She was on Daemon’s arm, the man laughing with the effortless arrogance of someone who knew he held the room in his grip. Cregan barely noticed. His focus was consumed by her, by the way her gaze flicked through the crowd. Searching. Until her eyes found his. And then she fucking smiled.

It wasn’t a coy smile or a subtle one. It was full and toothy, innocent in a way that made his blood burn hotter. She knew. She had to know. That smile unravelled him like a spool of thread tossed down a flight of stairs.

Cregan’s hand brushed over his lip, his thoughts growing dark and unreasonably wicked. She must’ve sensed it—her gaze dropped to the floor, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, and she looked shy. Shy. As if she wasn’t fully aware she had just upended his entire sense of self-control.

He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to break the spell before it completely destroyed him. His gaze snapped to Jace, who was busy swiping hors d’oeuvres off a passing tray with all the subtlety of a thief in broad daylight.

“Come on,” Cregan muttered, grabbing Jace by the arm and shoving him forward.

“Hey! Easy, Cap,” Jace grumbled around a mouthful of croquettes, stumbling into step. “What’s the rush—oh. Oh, no. Are we seriously—”

“Yes,” Cregan bit out. “We are.”

Claere’s back went visibly stiff as the two of them approached. She must’ve seen him coming, but she didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him. Not yet. Her posture was perfectly poised, her smile serene as Daemon continued to regale someone with his booming charm.

When Jace cleared his throat, Daemon turned, his sharp eyes sweeping over the two newcomers with an appraising gleam. Cregan felt that gaze like a predator sizing up a potential threat.

“Ah, Jacaerys, my boy,” Daemon said, his voice cutting through the din of the room with an authority that demanded attention. His smile was cordial but didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’ve brought a friend.”

Jace, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat. “Daemon, this is Cregan Stark. You’ve probably seen him on the ice. Our captain. He’s one of the best defensemen we’ve got.”

Daemon’s attention shifted fully to Cregan, undeniably calculating. “Cregan,” he repeated, rolling the name over his tongue like he was testing it. “Perhaps you've seen my daughter around campus? I don’t suppose you have. Claere’s rather modest.”

“Daemon,” she mumbled up at him.

“Yes, I've seen her around,” Cregan drawled out.

Cregan felt Claere’s gaze flick toward him, a subtle shift he doubted anyone else caught. She was playing along, just as she always did, her face the picture of passive disinterest. Meanwhile, every inch of his body was hyper-aware of her presence, her scent, and the way her fingers tightened on Daemon’s arm.

He cleared his throat, carefully schooling his expression into something neutral. “We've not officially met. Cregan,” he said, extending his hand. “Your brother’s teammate.”

Jace coughed suspiciously beside him, earning a sharp, sidelong glare from Cregan.

Daemon took his hand instead, his grip too firm, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if he could sense something unspoken hanging in the air. Claere let her waiting hand move to her hair, twirling a curl behind her ear.

“Teammate, huh?” he said, releasing Cregan’s hand and giving him another once-over. “Well, I imagine you’ve got plenty of stories about Jace. Unlike his sister, Jace could talk the hind legs off a donkey.”

“Agreed,” Cregan said dryly, casting Jace a sideways glance.

Claere’s lips twitched, just barely, but her gaze remained fixed ahead. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

“Yes, we're all proud of me. Anyways,” Jace sang out, clapping a hand on Cregan’s shoulder with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. “My buddy's also here to discuss some team business. You know, funding and stuff.”

Daemon’s attention shifted back to Cregan, his expression hardening ever so slightly. “The politics of sport,” he said smoothly. “I assume this means you’re here to make a pitch?”

Cregan nodded, forcing himself to focus on the moment, on the task. “That’s right. But I’d also like a word with... Claere. If you don’t mind. Later.”

Daemon’s brow arched, his gaze flicking between the two of them for a fraction of a second too long. Claere sucked in a soft breath. Then he smiled—a thin, knowing smile.

“I believe Claere has a bit more introductions to make around the room before that. Her mother expects her to keep up with appearances before the gala starts. She's quite adamant about it.”

The most cavalier and haughty a father could say to keep Cregan away. He needed no other hints. Cregan only shifted his cuffs, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Daemon nodded at him. “Business first, Stark. Let’s see if you’ve got the skills to convince me.”

Cregan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded at him, his gaze darting to Claere one last time. She still wasn’t looking at him, but he caught the faintest twitch of her fingers at her side. A silent message. Wait.

“I'll see you at the table,” Claere said to Daemon, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. She smacked Jace's chest and took him away from them. Before she left, her shoulder vaguely brushed against Cregan's forearm, and he swore that the whole portion caught on fire. It took everything in him to not glance at her back as she left.

Cregan accepted the champagne glass Daemon offered him, only to set it down on the table nearby, shaking his head.

“Sorry. I’m driving tonight.”

Daemon smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip. “Call a cab then,” he said, his tone light but edged with challenge. “Break some rules, Captain. The youth aren’t entirely fucked yet.”

Cregan forced a smile, keeping his words and tone professional. “Some of us prefer to stay on the right side of the line.”

Daemon chuckled, leaning back slightly, his sharp gaze never quite leaving Cregan’s face. “So, what is it you wanted to discuss? Something about funding, wasn’t it?”

Cregan seized the opportunity and maintained it, measured but precise. He tucked his loose hands into his pockets. “Yessir. The playoffs are coming up, and our team’s resources are... stretched thin. We’ve been looking for sponsors who can—”

Daemon raised a hand while taking a sip, cutting him off. He wasn’t brusque about it, but his disinterest was palpable. “Mm, first off,” he murmured, tipping his glass toward a man across the room. “Do you know who that is?”

Cregan followed his line of sight to a golden-haired, middle-aged man in a sharp suit, standing at the centre of a small group that seemed to hang on his every word.

Cregan shook his head. “No, sir. Someone in your trade?”

Daemon smirked, as though amused by the guess. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. That is Tyland Lannister. One of the richest men on the continent.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed, unsure where this tangent was going, but he remained polite. “Impressive.”

Daemon continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “My wife—Rhaenyra. You’ve heard of her, of course. She holds the title. She's got queen's blood in her veins.” He gestured vaguely toward the man as if Tyland were nothing more than a mildly entertaining threat.

Cregan inclined his head slightly, not wanting to show his confusion. “Of course.”

Daemon finally turned his gaze back to him, sharp and assessing. “I can’t have anyone coming for my wife’s crown, you see. Not Tyland Lannister. Not the fucking Martells. Not anyone.”

Cregan nodded, though his mind churned, trying to parse Daemon’s meaning. “Understandable.”

Then, abruptly, Daemon’s smirk deepened. “Claere.”

Cregan’s nod faltered, his jaw hardening just enough to give himself away.

Daemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You see, Claere would martyr me if she found out what I had in mind for her. She’s got this... aggressive sense of autonomy, my soft little girl. She knows what she wants, very much like her mother.”

He took another sip of champagne, savouring it. “But here’s the thing—Tyland Lannister’s been circling. Do you know what Claere would say if I suggested she spend some time with him this weekend?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond, sensing the trap.

Daemon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “She’d say not to whore her out, that he’s twice her age, smells like barrel whiskey, and probably has a harem tucked away somewhere. And you know what? She’d not be wrong.”

Cregan’s gaze darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. He didn’t trust himself to speak yet, and Daemon noticed, his smirk widening.

“But you,” Daemon said smoothly, neatening an invisible crease on Cregan's jacket. “You’re an honourable one, aren’t you? Loyal. Dependable. Steady as they come. Stark in name and spirit,” He held the back of his hand to his lips as if speaking libel, “moneyed, too.”

Cregan’s voice came out firm, collected. “I do my best.”

“Mm,” Daemon hummed, clearly entertained. “So tell me, Cregan. Where do you stand when it comes to my daughter? Hypothetically, of course.”

Cregan’s lips pressed into a thin line. Oh, he was fucked. He thought of Claere—her soft smile, the brush of her shoulder against his arm, the unspoken connection that hummed between them like a live wire. But this wasn’t about him, or even her. It was a test, a game Daemon was playing, and Cregan wouldn’t fall into the trap. If he wanted a reaction, he would very much like this one.

“We've never really talked, sir. That being said I stand where she needs me to stand,” he said simply, holding Daemon’s gaze. “With respect.”

Daemon’s smile turned sharp, a predator recognizing another who refused to back down. “Great answer.”

Cregan took a careful breath, steering the conversation back on course. “About the team funding, sir,” he said, his tone firm but respectful. “I believe investing in us isn’t just about hockey—it’s about legacy. The team represents something bigger than just a game. Community. Resilience. And with your support, we’d be unstoppable.”

Daemon’s expression didn’t betray much, but the amusement lingered. He swirled his glass again, considering. “Legacy, you say.”

“Yes,” Cregan said, meeting his gaze head-on. “Something worth standing for.”

After a moment’s pause, Daemon’s tone shifted, quieter but no less intentional. “I knew your parents.”

Cregan froze, the words hitting him like a sudden gust of wind, but he didn’t drop Daemon’s gaze.

“They were good people. Devoted to legacy, just like you,” Daemon continued, his voice carrying a surprising sincerity. “It’s a shame what happened. Truly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Cregan hesitated, his chest tightening at Daemon’s words. He hadn’t expected that shift—the quiet acknowledgement of his loss. He nodded once, his voice steady. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”

Daemon studied him for a moment, a glint of something inscrutable in his sharp eyes. “Yes. Loneliness can be quite suffocating. Something I find myself... thankfully lacking.”

His gaze drifted across the room, settling on Claere. She stood near her brothers, radiant, unconcerned as ever, quietly laughing at something Joff had said. She had an ease about her, but her fingers still played idly with the hors d’oeuvre stick, twirling it in an anxious rhythm only he could tell. Cregan’s breaths constricted further, watching her. She was magnetic, utterly herself, and it was impossible not to be drawn to her.

Daemon’s voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. “She’s beautiful, is she not?”

Cregan exhaled slowly, his composure slipping just enough to betray the impact of the question. “She is.”

Daemon chuckled softly, as though he’d expected the response. He swirled the champagne in his glass before taking a conscious sip, his gaze returning to Cregan.

“A thing like her is a blessing—and a curse. It draws attention. Finds flaws. Makes her untouchable. Spins lies. Envenoms the mind. Fools lads to think they’re worthy of even standing beside her.”

Cregan’s fists clenched at his sides, but he kept his expression neutral. “I'm sure she's smart enough to tell between worth and lack.”

“Oh, I’m sure she does,” Daemon said, a note of pride threading through his voice. “But even the strongest need someone to stand with them, don’t they? And the world has plenty of Tyland Lannisters to offer up.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened. “Then you've certainly not prospected the world as well as you have, sir.”

Daemon tilted his head, his smirk returning. “Hm. You’ve given me a lot to think about, Stark. Not just about funding your team, but... other things.” His eyes flicked toward Claere again, then back to Cregan, his meaning unmistakable.

Cregan’s heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm, to keep his tone level. “I’ll leave you to your deliberations.”

Daemon chuckled again, a low, knowing sound, and extended his hand.

“Good luck, Captain. You’ll need it.”

Cregan clasped his hand firmly, their gazes locking for a brief, loaded moment. This wasn’t just a handshake—it was a battlefield. And as Daemon’s gaze flicked once more to Claere, Cregan realized that this wasn’t just about funding or hockey. It was about something far more personal.

His heart thudded with a rhythm that refused to calm as he ascended the staircase on the far side, each step graver than the last. He grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing tray, adjusting his cuffs with snaps. The drink fizzed against his tongue, but it did little to quiet the storm brewing in his chest.

Daemon suspects something. He knows.

The thought circled like a vulture, preying on his moment of vulnerability. For all his control, all his precision, Daemon had chipped away at his armour with a few pointed words and a too-sharp smile. Now, Cregan felt raw, exposed, like a pawn being manoeuvred on a board he wasn’t fully prepared for.

When he reached the landing, he paused, leaning on the railing. The champagne flute was cold in his hand, a poor contrast to the heat in his chest. He tilted his head back, rolling his shoulders in a futile attempt to release the tension coiled within him.

Then he heard it—the faint, feverish clack of heels against the marble staircase. His gaze flicked down to the source, and his breath hitched.

Claere moved through the crowd with the kind of grace that seemed almost involuntary, her red dress clinging to her like it had been painted on. She was excusing herself from someone, her smile polite but distant, and the sight of her—all of her—made Cregan’s pulse quicken.

When her gaze lifted and met his, it hit him like a freight train. Her eyes softened: a silent question lingering in them.

He tilted his head toward the corridor at the top of the stairs—a subtle invitation.

She didn’t hesitate, her pace quickening as she made her way to him.

The sound of her heels followed him as he slipped into the corridor, each step echoing like a countdown. He didn’t turn, didn’t dare to look back, even as his senses flared with her presence drawing closer. By the time her hand caught his, warm and grounding, he felt like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“Hi,” she whispered, with a touch of her fingers on his wrist.

Cregan exhaled, allowing himself the smallest smile as she gently tugged him further down the corridor. They stopped in front of a gilded white door, its handle gleaming like polished gold and she unlocked it with a soft click.

The room was as extravagant as he’d expected. It was hard to imagine Claere growing up like this. Marble floors gleamed under the warm light of an ornate chandelier, and every piece of furniture seemed designed for display rather than comfort. A heavy desk stood at the centre, flanked by bookshelves filled with untouched tomes, their gilded spines catching the light.

Claere shut the door behind them, the lock clicking softly into place. The world outside faded, leaving just the two of them.

Cregan shrugged off his jacket like it had been a harness, draping it over a chair as he loosened his tie with a sharp tug. He ran both hands over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes like he could erase the exhaustion clawing at him.

“I like your suit,” she remarked. “You look so handsome. And smart.”

He mumbled a quiet, “Thanks,” from behind his fingers.

“Do you like my dress?” Claere’s voice was soft, tentative. She stepped closer, her hands brushing his chest as she settled them there, her warmth seeping into him. “I hate it, really. It's too tight. I wore it for you. I much prefer your jerseys.”

He peeked through his fingers, groaning softly at the sight of her. She was standing so close, her lips painted with that damned red lipstick, her hair tumbling in soft strands from its updo. Her hips swayed slightly as she shifted, the dress clinging to her curves in a way that made it impossible to think straight.

“Terrible timing for you to be acting cute,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Really, really terrible timing. I suppose that runs in the family.”

Her smile faltered, concern flickering in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed, his hands sliding into his hair, fisting it tightly. “I don’t know. It feels like Daemon suspects us.”

Claere tilted her head, a soft laugh escaping her. “Why would he—” She stopped abruptly, realization dawning. “Unless you said something. Please tell me you didn't.”

“I had to say something, Claere,” he shot back, his frustration slipping through. “I spoke up for you. He was practically making a case for whoremongering.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said, but her voice was laced with affection. She cupped his cheek, her palm warm against his skin. “And so sweet.”

Cregan closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into her touch. Everything about her—her perfume, warmth, the peace she offered—was an anchor. She felt like a reprieve, the only thing in his chaotic world that made sense, even as she drove him to the edge of his restraint.

After a moment, she tilted her head, studying him. “Are you going to take me to your place now?”

His eyes flickered open, amusement curving his lips. He cocked a brow. “Oh?”

She nodded eagerly, her excitement bubbling just under the surface. “I miss your place. It’s cushy. Not like this.” She motioned to the gilded office, a faint wrinkle of distaste creasing her brow.

Cregan couldn’t help the laugh that rumbled from his chest. “Cushy, huh?”

He slid his hands to her waist, the fabric of her dress soft under his palms. Slowly, deliberately, he let them drift lower, settling at her backside. He gave a firm but teasing push, drawing her body flush against him, her stomach pressed to his hip. Heat flared between them, sparking in her widening eyes.

“If I said, come away for the whole weekend, what would you say?” His voice was low, almost a growl, his forehead brushing hers.

Her grin was instant, lighting up her face. “I'd say yes,” she breathed, her hands sliding against his chest.

He dipped his head, the tip of his nose grazing hers in a gentle, intimate caress. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his lips just a whisper away from hers.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared—the marble floors, the gilded edges, Daemon’s shadow looming somewhere outside.

The party faded behind them, the hum of the gala replaced by the buzz of their escape. Cregan walked a pace ahead, his hand clenched into a fist at his side as they turned the corner. Claere followed, her soft laugh bubbling under her breath as she swiped at her phone. Her one-day worth of supplies hung in a poofy bag off her shoulder, and she hadn't even changed out of that gorgeous dress. Good, he wanted some fun with it.

“Jace says he’s got it covered,” she murmured, slipping her phone back into her purse. She glanced up at Cregan, her silver hair glinting under the fountain lights. “Something about you ‘owing him again.’”

Cregan snorted but didn’t slow his stride. “Remind me to get him a six-pack. Or an actual job, so he stops eating off trays.”

Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced at it. “Oh, a follow-up: ‘Be safe. Use protection.’”

“And also to strangle him.”

Claere giggled, quickening her pace to catch up. “He cares, in his own way.”

“I care, in my own way,” Cregan replied, waving his hand toward the street corner where two cabs idled. “Like making sure we don’t end up as tabloid fodder. Separate rides, Claere.”

Her nose scrunched, that playful wrinkle that never failed to tug at something deep in his chest. She sighed, clearly unimpressed with his plan, but without protest, she slid into the first cab. Her dress glinted in the dim light as the door shut, and Cregan let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He climbed into his own cab, shutting the door with more force than necessary. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, realization flashing, but Cregan ignored it, staring out at the blur of city lights. His knee bounced involuntarily, a jittery rhythm to match the thundering in his chest.

He hated this. Not her—never her. It was the situation, the secrecy, the creeping unease that came with living half in shadows. She deserved better than that, better than slinking into a cab alone because he was too afraid of what people would say, of how her family would look at her if they knew. His fingers drummed against his thigh, restless. What if someone did see? What if Jace slipped up? What if this—whatever this was—crumbled under the weight of all his fears?

But then the cab pulled up in front of his building, and there she was, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes gleaming, a soft smirk playing on her lips. All the noise in his head went quiet.

“I thought you'd forgotten me,” she said as he approached. There was a glint of good mischief in her eyes.

“You can hunt me down if I do,” he replied with a grin, his voice quieter than he intended.

She smiled back, the kind of smile that made his chest ache, and he led her into the building.

Inside the elevator, the air between them felt charged, electric. Cregan pressed the button for his floor and stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets. He tried to keep his distance, to focus on the dim numbers counting upward, counting down the seconds. But then she moved, just the smallest shift, and her perfume wrapped around him like a thread, pulling tight.

He broke.

In an instant, he was on her, his hands finding the curve of her waist and drawing her close. His lips found her neck, the warmth of her skin sparking something wild in him.

“Cregan, no. We're almost there,” she moaned, her voice high and startled, though it melted quickly into a laugh. Her hands pressed against his chest in a half-hearted attempt to push him away.

“Almost isn’t here,” he murmured, the words low and gravelly against her skin. He nipped lightly at her jaw, grinning when she groaned in mock exasperation.

“Control,” she managed between giggles, but her arms were winding around his shoulders, holding him close even as she protested.

The elevator chimed, and he pulled back reluctantly, his breath unsteady as he smoothed his shirt. She was grinning up at him, cheeks flushed, and he could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

“For now,” he muttered, his voice rough.

The doors slid open, and they stepped out together, the tension between them buzzing like static. As they approached his door, he stole a glance at her, taking in the way she skipped forward, that gentle spirit always seemed to undo him. She glanced up at him, catching his gaze, and her lips curved into an excited, knowing smile.

She reached for the keypad, keyed in the code and welcomed herself inside.

“Home sweet home,” she sang out, violet eyes glowing in the track lighting overhead. She kicked her heels off and let them clatter untidily. “You know, you should get a dog. To greet you at the door. A teeny little Maltese. No, wait—a Saint Bernard. Something drooly and... where's that mat I put down here? See, I...”

Cregan shut the door and followed her inside, letting her voice fill the space. He liked the sound of it here, the way it softened the edges of his stark, contemporary apartment.

The place was quintessentially him: sleek black and white, all sharp angles and clean lines. The walls were bare except for a few geometric art pieces, and the furniture was minimalist and masculine, with steel and leather dominating the furnishings. The only bursts of colour or life in the entire apartment were hers, scattered like breadcrumbs from her many visits.

The dried flower petals in the shallow glass bowl on the coffee table—lavender and pale pink, her handiwork. The stitching art that hung above his dining table, a whimsical, colourful thing she had given him as a joke but insisted he put up. The row of herb pots lining the kitchen windowsill, the faint scent of rosemary and basil lingering even now. And her favourite plants—towering palms and fiddle-leaf figs—clustered by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the glistening city.

“Oh, no!” She gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. “What did you do! Cregan, you completely destroyed them!”

Cregan raised a brow as she hurried over to the plants, her expression one of pure heartbreak. “They’re still alive. I’d know—I waste fifty bucks a week on that girl to take care of them.”

Claere crouched by the nearest pot, inspecting a browning leaf with despair. “Poor babies,” she mumbled, stroking one of the stems as though it could sense her concern. “Oh, it's okay. I'm going to make this better.”

Cregan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with a faint smile tugging at his lips. Her outrage over the plants was genuine—he could see it in the little furrow of her brow and the way she pouted at the wilted leaves—but it was endearing, too. There was something deeply comforting about seeing her here, in his space, moving through it as if she belonged. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone or hide behind politeness. She simply was.

The thought settled in his chest, warm and steady: this was his future. The sight of her scolding him over plants she’d insisted on, her voice filling the silence of his apartment, wasn’t just familiar—it felt right, like the missing piece to something he hadn’t realized was incomplete.

With an amused shake of her head, he let her be and turned for his room.

Cregan loosened his tie as he stepped into his bedroom, the tension of the night finally starting to unravel from his shoulders. His room was a sea of muted blacks—dark wood furniture, a sleek grey comforter on the bed, and soft lighting that made the space feel calm and uncluttered. A large window dominated one wall, the city lights glittering beyond it, while a shelf in the corner held a surprising touch of life: books Claere had picked out for him, a framed photo of his late parents, and a small succulent she’d insisted he wouldn’t kill. It was thriving. Barely.

He tugged the tie free and draped it over a chair, then rolled back his sleeves, popping the cufflinks off. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he unbuttoned his shirt, and he pulled it out, unlocking it with one hand. Jace had texted him.

Told Mom that Claere's staying with Helaena for the weekend. Ask her to run with it when she calls.

Cregan smirked, his thumb tapping out a quick reply.

So I shouldn’t do my best Helaena impression this time?

The response was instant.

Only if you want to get skinned alive by Daemon.

Cregan’s grin widened.

Thanks, Jace. I owe you.

He vanished for a moment before he responded.

Six-pack Bud Light and Milk Duds, and we’re even.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Typical Jace.

The familiar jangle of bracelets caught his attention, and he glanced toward the door. Claere stood there, leaning against the frame with one hand, her other clutching the edge of the door as though debating whether to come in. Her silver hair spilt over her shoulders, slightly mussed from the cab ride, and the warm golden light from the bedside lamp kissed her skin, underscoring the faint pink that crept up her neck as her eyes raked over him.

He knew that look. That wide-eyed, half-bitten-lip, soft-breathing look. She didn’t even try to hide it.

His shirt hung open, exposing the expanse of his chest, and he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, feigning obliviousness to the way her gaze lingered. His lips quirked in a lazy, teasing smile as he leaned against the edge of the dresser.

His gaze sharpened on her. He crooked a finger toward her, the gesture commanding yet playful.

“C’mere,” he murmured, low and rough.

For a second, she hesitated, and then, like a puppy being summoned—she crossed the room with small, slothful steps, her feet barely making a sound on the plush rug. Her velveteen red glowed with her every movement, the billowing skirt teasing just enough leg to make his head spin. By the time she stood before him, looking up with those wide, expectant eyes, Cregan was holding onto his composure by a thread.

Gods, he’d been dreaming of this moment all night. Dreaming of her in that dress, torturing him with how devastating she looked. And now here she was, close enough to touch, her scent wrapping around him like a spell.

“You remember,” he said, his voice a husky drawl, “how you asked me if I liked your dress?”

Her grin bloomed instantly, nodding. “Yeah?”

He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, towering over her now. His lips twitched into something wicked as he tilted his head. “I love it so fucking much... I'm actually starting to hate it.”

Her smile faltered, confusion flashing in her eyes. “You do?”

“I do.” He made a face, feigning distaste as he let his gaze sweep over her again, slower this time, savouring the way she shifted under the intensity of it. “It makes me want to rip it right off you.”

Her breath hitched, a faint gasp trembling out of her as her cheeks turned an even darker shade of pink. She bit her lip, the beginnings of a shy, flustered smile twisting at the corners.

“Oh,” she managed softly.

Cregan’s smirk deepened. “Yeah. Oh.”

Without another word, he reached out and took her by the waist, guiding her backwards until the backs of her legs hit the edge of the bed. Gently, he eased her to sit, her dress pooling around her like liquid fire. He sank to his knees before her, the movement fluid, reverent.

For a moment, he just looked at her. All flushed and breathless, her chest rising and falling with anticipation. His hands settled on her knees, his thumbs brushing back the fabric of her dress, tracing lazy circles as he fought the urge to give in too quickly. She was his, yes—but this moment felt sacred, and he wanted to make it last.

“I’ve been dreaming of this all night,” he confessed, his voice low and almost raw. “You. In this damn dress. Driving me insane. And now...” He let his hands slide up her thighs, slow and careful, his calloused palms grazing her soft skin where the rippling skirt of her dress exposed her. “Now you’re here, looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her gaze locked on his.

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing to me.” He leaned forward, his forehead brushing against hers for a moment before his lips found her cheek, his stubble scraping lightly against her skin. “Like you're enjoying this.”

Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers digging into his bare skin where his shirt hung open. “I am,” she whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I like seeing you like this.”

He laughed softly, kissing a trail down her neck, whispering, “Good. Because I’m not letting you go tonight, Claere. Not until you understand exactly how much I hate this dress.”

Her breath hitched as his lips brushed against her collarbone, lingering like a promise. The warmth of his mouth sent shivers rippling through her, tender and insistent. She felt the tension in his hands as they tightened on her thighs, stopping her in place as though he feared she might drift away.

Cregan’s kisses moved lower, intent dark, his stubble grazing her skin in a way that left her tingling. She gasped softly, her fingers slipping from his shoulders into his hair, tangling in the thick, dark strands.

“Cregan, please,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need, each syllable a plea she barely recognized as her own.

He paused just long enough to murmur against her skin, his voice rough and heady, “Beg all you want, Claere. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as his hands slid upward, skimming the silky fabric of her dress with an unbearable slowness that made her tremble. His thumbs brushed her bare skin, igniting sparks that danced along her nerves, and with one smooth, practised motion, he lifted her legs over his shoulders. The shift brought her even closer to him, and when his eyes met hers, the intensity in his gaze sent a chill up her spine.

“You ready?” he murmured, his voice a quiet confession that made her breath catch.

Her lips parted to respond, but the words dissolved as he pressed his lips to the inside of her knee. The kiss was soft, almost reverent, but it sent heat rushing through her veins. He moved slowly, teasingly, his lips trailing higher with each kiss, each touch deliberate and unhurried.

“Dreamy girl,” he whispered again, his breath hot against her skin, the nickname carrying a kind of reverence that left her lightheaded. His hands held her firm, his grip strong but careful, as if he was both claiming and protecting her.

When he finally ducked his head beneath the fluttering fabric of her dress, her gasp was immediate, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the edge of the bed for support. His lips found her where she needed him most, warm and insistent, and her head tipped back as her body arched into him, the tension in her muscles snapping like a taut wire.

Cregan moved with precision, a man starved but savouring every moment, his mouth pressing kisses that felt like vows against her most sensitive skin. The graze of his teeth, the willful flick of his tongue—it all worked in tandem, unravelling her in ways she couldn’t control.

She bit her lip hard, desperate to stifle the sound rising in her throat, but he wasn’t making it easy. He hummed against her, a low, resonant sound that sent shockwaves through her body.

“Cregan—” she whimpered, her voice breaking, her hand tightening in his hair.

He glanced up, his lips glistening, his pupils dark and wide with hunger. The look on his face—possessive, devoted, and utterly captivated—made her throat go dry. He looked at her as though she was a gift he’d spent his whole life waiting to unwrap.

“Everything okay up there?” he teased, his voice low and gravelly, but the smirk tugging at his lips couldn’t mask the affection in his eyes.

She could barely nod, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. He chuckled, his thumb brushing a soothing circle against that needy space of hers, a small gesture of care amidst the chaos he was creating.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his tone softening as he kissed her thigh. “Because I’m not even close to done with you.”

And then he bent his head again, this time undoing the zip and bow at the back of her dress, his hands sliding up to carefully lay her down, his focus entirely on her. The rest of the world faded away as he pulled her deeper into his orbit, leaving her no room for anything else but him.

Claere stretched languidly, her limbs reaching toward the edges of the bed before she rolled onto her stomach, her hair a tangled mess. Cregan let his head tilt toward her, unable to keep his eyes from tracing every curve of her body as she moved. She was entirely bare, her skin kissed by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and for a moment, he couldn’t believe she was real. That she was his.

Without a word, she slipped off the bed and padded toward his closet, effortless and confident. It had taken her some time to be so bold and bare-skinned before him. Cregan propped himself up on his elbows, his grin softening as he watched her braid her hair back loosely. She pulled open the closet doors, running her fingers over the rows of neatly hung clothes before plucking out a jersey—his name and number proudly emblazoned on the back.

She turned toward him, slipping it on over her head, the fabric swallowing her frame and skimming the tops of her thighs. Bare legs. His jersey. Gods. He ran a hand down his face, dragging out a groan. He didn’t stand a chance against her.

Claere twirled once, holding her arms out with a grin that could have powered a city. “Huh?”

“A billion bucks, Claere,” he said, his voice low, his gaze darkening as he took her in.

“Make that one-hundred-and-thirty,” she teased, hugging herself and letting out a dramatic sigh. “Finally comfy.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Fuckin' hell. Why can’t you sponsor my team instead?”

“What can I say? I’m a trust fund baby.” She climbed back onto the bed, all elegance and mischief, the hem of the jersey riding up to reveal the curve of her hips as she sprawled beside him. She flashed him a wicked smile from the pillow’s edge, her chin propped on her crossed arms.

“You’d get all of it if you married me.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Like I care.”

“I’ll sponsor your team if you marry me?”

“No, thanks.”

“Please marry me?”

He snickered. “Wait for me to ask.”

Claere’s smile faltered slightly, softening into something more thoughtful as she studied his face. “When’s your next game?”

“Friday,” he answered, leaning back against the headboard. “Last one before the season starts. Coach has already pulled out all the stops.”

Her brows knitted slightly, though she tried to keep her tone casual. “So this might be the last time I’m coming over for a while.”

The words hit him harder than he wanted to admit, his chest tightening. She wasn’t wrong. Once the season started, it was a relentless grind—early mornings at the rink, punishing hours of practice, travel, classes, and social obligations he couldn’t ignore. And as much as he hated it, fitting her in would become a challenge. It always did. But the thought of her not being here, of nights without her easy laughter, her sly remarks, or just the quiet comfort of her presence—it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t quite name.

He forced a smile, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “We’ve still got Sundays.”

She barely nodded. “Yeah. Sundays.”

But even as he said it, the words felt thin, like they couldn’t hold up against his growing unease. What if Sundays weren’t enough? What if the distance stretched too far, the gaps between their moments together becoming too wide to bridge?

His mind ran ahead of him, racing through possibilities he didn’t want to entertain. This was their rhythm every season—he disappeared into hockey, and she stayed back, quietly supporting him from the sidelines. But what if this time was different? What if she got tired of waiting? What if the secrecy, the stolen moments, became too much?

He glanced at her, trying to gauge her expression, but Claere only shifted closer to him. She didn’t look upset—just thoughtful, her gaze distant as she toyed with the hem of his jersey.

He wanted to reach for her, to hold her, to ask her to stay. To promise her that he’d make time, that they wouldn’t drift, that this—they—would still be okay. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled with his pride and the knowledge that he couldn’t keep her tethered to him, not when she deserved more.

Claere seemed to sense his turmoil because she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered there for a moment, warm and reassuring, brushing his hair, before she pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“I can wait,” she said gently, her voice calm in a way that made his chest ache. “It’s just a few more months. What’s that compared to everything else?”

He stared at her, the knot in his chest loosening just enough to let him breathe. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, hating how uncertain he sounded.

Her smile returned, small but unwavering. “It’s your last season in college, right? We just have to keep this private a little longer. And then…” She trailed off, her gaze mellowing as she stroked his jaw. “Then it’ll be easier. It'll be date nights, dinner at schmancy restaurants, weekend jet to St. Kitts.”

He nodded, her words sinking in like a balm, though the lingering doubt in the back of his mind refused to quiet completely.

Claere shifted again, resting her head against his shoulder, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his arm. “You’re worth it, you know,” she murmured, almost to herself.

His throat tightened, and he tilted his head to rest against hers, the faint scent of her shampoo quirking a smile on his lips. “I don’t deserve you,” he admitted, his voice rough.

She laughed softly. “Probably not. But you’ve got me anyway.”

Cregan closed his eyes, letting Claere’s words settle into the cracks of his uncertainty. She was right—what were a few months? They’d made it this far. They could make it further. And yet, that lingering fear, the whisper in the back of his mind that someday even her patience might run out, refused to fade entirely.

He exhaled deeply, shifting to press a lingering kiss to the top of her head. “You deserve a big breakfast, baby,” he murmured against her hair. “Fit for a queen.”

Claere hummed, the sound soft and content as she leaned into him. “Aw,” she teased. “Please don’t. I don’t have the number for poison control saved.”

He tossed the covers over her head, muffling her delighted giggles. “Smartass,” he said as he fumbled for his pants over the bed. Dragging them on, he hefted himself off the bed and stretched. “I’m going to make it for you anyway.”

“Poison control's toll-free!” she called after him, the smile evident in her voice.

Cregan shook his head, grinning as he padded into the hallway. The apartment was still, the faint hum of the city outside the only sound. He rolled his shoulders, the warmth of Claere’s words lingering in his chest. Gods, he loved her. Even with the challenges, even with the secrecy, she made everything feel worth it.

His smile was still tugging at his lips as he stepped into the living room—until he saw her. He froze the second his gaze landed on the figure in his living room.

Rhaenyra.

She sat on the edge of his sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her gown from the gala still immaculate like she’d stepped out of some high society painting and decided to grace his apartment with her presence. Her intricate braid was sleek and perfect, not a strand out of place, and the faint glint of a diamond bracelet caught the dim morning light as she reached for her purse on the coffee table.

She looked at him; calm, composed, unreadable. It was the kind of look that commanded attention and gave away nothing in return.

Cregan stood rooted in place, his heart thundering in his chest as his mind scrambled for answers. How did she get in? How did she find out? His panic clawed at him, wild and unrelenting. Fucking Daemon. Fucking Jace. But despite the storm raging inside him, he couldn’t move—Rhaenyra’s unflinching gaze pinned him like a predator locking onto its prey. She didn’t even need to speak. Her silence was louder than any confrontation.

Soft, cheerful footfalls approached from behind, jolting him like a slap to the back of his head.

Completely unaware of the brewing disaster, Claere leapt up, hanging off his shoulder, laughing. She nipped at his ear, her voice playful. “I’ll make us breakfast, okay? Peanut butter sandwich. No? How about eggs? Preferably not fertilized.”

Cregan’s heart sank to his stomach. Gods-fucking-damnit. He shut his eyes for a long, steadying breath, hoping against hope she would take notice—and she did. He felt her freeze against him as her gaze followed his, landing on the figure sitting serenely in the living room.

“Mom!” she squeaked, her voice a pitch higher than usual, betraying her shock.

Claere slowly dropped, her bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. Her hands smoothed down the oversized jersey she wore—the jersey with his fucking name in white letters—as if it could somehow erase the evidence of everything.

Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly. Placid, regal. “Claere,” she replied as though this were nothing more than a routine check-in rather than the powder keg it clearly was.

“What are you—?” Claere’s words tumbled out in a rush, her hands flitting nervously as she glanced at Cregan, then back to her mother. “We were just—I mean, I—”

“Put on some pants, darling,” Rhaenyra said with a faint wave toward Claere's jersey. “Then we can talk. I’ll make us some coffee, hm?”

Cregan blinked, his mouth opening to say something, but nothing came out. His throat was dry, his thoughts a chaotic mess. All he could do was stand there, shirtless, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar—except this time, the stakes were infinitely higher. He chanced a glance at Claere.

Her face was flushed, her lips parted like she was trying to catch up with what was happening. “Right,” she mumbled, tugging at the hem of the jersey as if it might magically grow longer. “I’ll… just go. Um, change.”

She darted out of the room, not a single glance in his direction, her footsteps hurried, leaving Cregan standing alone in the eye of the storm. His gaze flicked back to Rhaenyra, who had already risen from the couch. She adjusted the bracelet on her wrist, her expression still maddeningly composed, giving away nothing.

Cregan swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. He felt like a deer staring down a wolf, but there was no running from this.

“I—uh—” he started, but the words died in his throat.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, her lips curving faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. “Sit down, Cregan,” she said, her tone even. “We’ll talk when Claere’s ready.”

She turned, walking toward the kitchen without so much as a glance back.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. How in the fuck was he going to survive this?

Cregan sat stiffly on the stool, his hands clasped on the island counter as though he might steady himself against the tension in the air. Claere was beside him, separated by a single stool, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing her way. His stomach churned at how comfortable she looked, perched there in teeny shorts and a camisole, her hair pulled back lazily. She might as well have been at her own apartment, not sitting across from her mother, who looked as though she was deciding whether to disown her on the spot.

He wanted to slam his head against the table. Why, Claere? Of all the things to wear, why this? As if that drawer full of her clothes was going to make anything better. She could've just put on a pair of pants and he could've salvaged the situation as an unrepeatable situation. Her bare legs swung idly, her toes occasionally brushing his shin under the counter, oblivious to the silent chaos in his head.

Across from them, Rhaenyra stirred her spoon in the mug in front of her. The ceramic was decorated with Claere’s initials and a dainty painting of peonies. Cregan hadn’t even noticed her bring it over, which somehow made it worse. She moved with a terrifyingly calm authority like she was the only one in control of this room, of him.

"Two years," Rhaenyra said suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip. She didn’t look up from her mug, as if she’d simply plucked the number from his mind.

Cregan gritted his teeth, but before he could respond, she tilted her head, her brow furrowing in mock deliberation.

"Four?" she guessed. Her eyes finally lifted to meet theirs, sharp and unyielding. "Five? Longer? Are my grandchildren in preschool?"

Cregan flinched.

"Three," Claere muttered, her voice barely audible.

"Three years." Rhaenyra’s lips twisted into a humourless laugh, and she shook her head. "Amazing. You looked me in the eye for three years, darling, and strung me along. I must say, that's got to be some sort of record." Her voice was light, almost conversational, but there was a razor-sharp edge to it that made Cregan’s palms sweat.

Cregan cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak. "It's not her fault," he said quickly, his voice steady but tense. "I was the one who wanted to keep it hush—"

"I don’t care," Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone icy as she pointed at Claere. "I am your mother, Claere. I am responsible for you, even if you're well into being an adult. Believe me, I want to end this here and tear you two apart right now, but you've already taken every liberty."

"Mom, I'm—" Claere began, her voice trembling, but Rhaenyra cut her off with a sharp gesture.

"Don’t apologize, don't you dare," Rhaenyra snapped, her eyes narrowing as she turned her mug slowly in her hands. She let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. For the first time, she looked genuinely tired, as if this immense confrontation had finally caught up to her.

"Let me ask you something," she said softly, fixing them both with a piercing stare. "Are you pregnant? Is that something I need to—"

"No!"

The denial burst from both of them in unison, their voices overlapping in their panic.

Cregan’s heart pounded so loudly it was a miracle he could still hear the conversation. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his body screamed at him to move, to stand or pace or anything to break the suffocating stillness of the moment. But he remained rooted in place as if Rhaenyra’s unflinching gaze had nailed him to the stool.

He glanced at Claere, hoping to ground himself, but the sight of her only made his chest tighten. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands twisting in her lap as though she were trying to wring the tension out of them. It made his stomach churn to see her like this, and the urge to shield her from her mother’s scrutiny was nearly unbearable. But what could he do against her?

Rhaenyra leaned back in her seat, finally breaking the tension as she took a sip from her mug. "Good." She set the mug down with a soft clink, her eyes darting between them. "That simplifies things."

Claere hesitated, her voice trembling slightly when she finally spoke. “Who told you?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted to her daughter, her expression betraying nothing. "Why?"

Cregan could see where this was heading, and his instincts flared. He nudged Claere’s ankle under the table—a quiet warning to tread carefully—but Claere either didn’t notice or chose to ignore him.

"Was it Daemon?" she pressed, her voice stronger now, though it wavered at the edges. "How did he know?"

Rhaenyra set her spoon down. "Daemon has known for some time now. As have I. Tonight simply confirmed our suspicions." Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a scoff. "I took a little drive down to Helaena's myself and when I didn't find you there... that's when I decided I had had enough."

Cregan’s stomach twisted further. Helaena. Of course. Always so sweet, so guileless. He could almost picture her accidental slip, the quiet unravelling of a lie they’d spent years perfecting. He forced himself to sit straighter, trying to shake the knot in his gut, but Rhaenyra’s eyes pinned him again, sharp and unyielding.

“Then why didn’t you just ask me?” he said eventually, his voice firmer than he expected. He locked eyes with her, refusing to look away. “You knew. Why wait until now?”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, studying him as if he were a particularly perplexing puzzle. “Oh, I wanted to,” she admitted, her tone as cool and cutting as ever. “Believe me, I wanted to drag Claere home and ship her off to the Arctic if it meant getting her away from you.” She let out a soft sigh, the first crack in her carefully composed demeanour. “But Daemon convinced me…” She turned her gaze back to Claere, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Of some things.”

The intensity of her stare made Claere visibly shrink, her shoulders curling inward as though she could physically shield herself. The red flush on her cheeks deepened, and she looked down at her hands as if they might offer her some kind of escape.

Cregan’s chest burned with equal parts frustration and guilt. He could feel the unspoken accusations hanging in the air, the disappointment Rhaenyra didn’t need to voice. This was his idea—keeping things quiet, hiding their relationship from her family, from everything that mattered to her world. She didn’t deserve this.

“I pushed for this,” he said, his voice steady but low, like a dam holding back a flood. “She didn’t. I wanted to keep it quiet because… because I didn’t want people saying I wasn’t here on my own merit.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked back to him, sharp and scrutinizing, as though she were weighing his every word. “So, this wasn’t about protecting her from the world. It was about protecting yourself. Your career. Your reputation. Tell me, Cregan, was that your plan all along? To make a mess out of my daughter's life?”

Her question struck like a blow, but he refused to back down. “There was no plan. I saw her, we talked, I fell. We just—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over. “We just fell in love. I didn't want to lose it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous edge creeping into her tone as she shifted her gaze back to Cregan. "You’re good at this, aren’t you? Taking the blame, making it seem noble. But let’s be honest here. The real reason you kept this hush isn’t about you, is it?”

Cregan was caught off guard by the accusation. “That’s not true.”

“No?” Rhaenyra tilted her head, her voice was as sharp as a blade. “You thought they’d see you as the boy who rode her coattails. The hockey player who only got his shot because he’s tied to the girl from the headlines. No. You kept it quiet because you didn’t want to be seen with her. Because my daughter—this beautiful, extraordinary girl—is also the woman the tabloids love to shred to pieces. Because her family is a circus, and my name is a spectacle.”

“Mom—” Claere tried to interject, but her voice wavered.

“Hush, darling,” Rhaenyra dismissed, not even glancing at her daughter. Her focus remained locked on Cregan. “You can sit there and tell me this was all about protecting her, about keeping her out of the spotlight, but the truth is, you didn’t want the world to see you with her. Did you?”

“That’s not fair,” Cregan shot back, his voice rising despite his effort to stay calm. “I worked my ass off to get to where I am. And I’ve never once been ashamed of her.”

“Then why the secrecy?” Rhaenyra countered, her voice growing colder. “Why hide her if you’re so proud? You’ve been out with your friends, your teammates, your fans—but Claere? She’s been stuck in the shadows.”

“I am not about to—”

“Stop,” Claere’s voice cut through, trembling but loud enough to silence them both. She looked between them, her cheeks flushed, her hands gripping the edge of the counter as if to stabilize herself. “Just stop.”

Her wide, tear-brimmed eyes turned to Cregan, and he felt his chest tighten. “Is that true?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is that why you wanted to keep us quiet? Because you were embarrassed to be with me?”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, desperation lacing his tone. “I love you, Claere. I’ve always loved you. This was never about hiding you. It was about keeping what we have safe.”

“Safe?” Rhaenyra’s voice sliced through the moment, cool and unforgiving. “Or convenient? Let’s call this what it is: fear. You’ve let your fear and insecurity of how the world sees you dictate how you treat my daughter.”

“That’s enough!” Cregan snapped, slamming his hand on the counter. He turned to Claere, his face softening even as his voice stayed resolute. “I was afraid of what they’d think of us,” he said, his voice tight. “Afraid they’d turn something real into just another news article. I didn’t want to risk people saying I didn’t deserve what I worked for, or that you were some kind of shortcut. I didn’t want them tearing us apart before we even had a chance.”

Claere’s lip quivered, her eyes searching his face for truth. “I thought we were in this together,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “All of it. Not just the good parts.”

“Baby,” he tried.

Cregan reached for her hand, but she pulled away, shaking her head. His stomach sank, the ache in his ribs almost unbearable. He looked back at Rhaenyra, whose face remained impassive, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or vindication.

“This isn’t about how we started,” Cregan told Rhaenyra, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “It’s about where we are. I love her. I’m not perfect, but I’m here, and I’m willing to fight for her. Can you say the same for anyone else who’s ever come into her life?”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his outburst, but she didn’t respond immediately. She leaned back, crossing her arms as she studied him.

“Prove it to me. Step out of the shadows, Cregan. If you love her as much as you say, stop hiding. Own it.”

The challenge hung in the air, heavy and impossible to ignore. Cregan looked at Claere again, her expression still hurt but softening as his words sank in. He nodded slowly, a decision settling over him like a weight he was finally ready to carry.

“I will,” he said, his voice steady. “If she’ll have me, I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it.”

Cregan reached for her hand, desperate, and this time, Claere’s fingers slipped into his, anchoring him, and she looked up at her mother, meeting her piercing gaze with surprising steel.

“Mom,” she began, her voice calm but unyielding, “I’m sorry I lied to you. I should have told you sooner, and I regret the secrecy, but I don’t regret falling in love with him. Not for a second.”

Rhaenyra’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened, flicking to their intertwined hands before returning to her daughter’s face. “You can say that now,” she said evenly, “but what about when this—” she gestured to the space between Claere and Cregan, “—inevitably complicates everything? The headlines? The scrutiny? Do you really think you can keep his world and ours from colliding forever?”

Claere squared her shoulders, the flicker of doubt in her eyes extinguished by a quiet, steady resolve. “We’re not trying to live in two separate worlds, Mom. We’re building one of our own. We knew this wouldn’t be easy—we’ve known that from the start—but we’re... handling it.”

Cregan felt a little lighter, her words a balm to the storm of emotions raging inside him.

“And if it becomes too much? If his career takes him somewhere you can’t follow, or if the media turns on you?” Rhaenyra pressed, her tone deceptively soft. “Are you prepared for that kind of fallout?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Claere said firmly, her voice rising with conviction. “We’ve already figured out so much, and I trust myself. And him. Whatever comes our way, we can handle it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, her features still impassive, but there was a flicker of something—approval?—beneath the surface. “And what about me, Claere? Do you trust me?”

Claere hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. “I always do. I know you’re trying to protect me, and I love you for it. But I’m not a child anymore, Mom. I can do this on my own.”

Rhaenyra leaned back, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “Strong words,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, after a long moment of silence, she sighed, setting down her mug with deliberate care.

“Very well,” she said finally, her voice measured. “You’ve made your choice, my love. And it seems you’re determined to see it through.” Her gaze shifted to Cregan, sharp as a blade. “But make no mistake, Stark. If you break her—if you make me regret giving you this chance—you won’t have to worry about the press. You’ll answer to me.”

Cregan swallowed hard, but he didn’t flinch. “Understood.”

Rhaenyra exhaled deeply, her gaze resting on Claere with a quiet intensity that seemed to fill the room. She straightened, smoothing her dress with a deliberate gesture before speaking, her voice low but unyielding.

“Get your things, darling,” she decided. “I’m taking you back home.”

Claere sighed, her breath catching as her mother’s words settled over her. She opened her mouth as if to argue, but Rhaenyra’s firm tone silenced her before she could begin.

“Now, please,” Rhaenyra added, her voice softening slightly but still brooking no resistance. “Don’t fight me on this. Say your goodbyes. You can talk to him later.”

Cregan felt the air leave his lungs, his chest tightening as the meaning of her words sank in. He glanced at Claere, whose wide eyes darted to him in silent pleading. She looked torn, her hands fidgeting at her sides as if searching for something to hold onto.

For a moment, the urge to speak rose in him—to push back, to argue, to demand—but as his eyes locked with Rhaenyra’s unrelenting gaze, he stopped himself. He could see it there: not malice, but a mother’s determination, a fierce desire to protect her child. As much as it pained him, he understood.

He turned to Claere and gave her a small nod despite the ache beneath it. The message was clear. It’s fine. I understand. Go with her.

Claere’s lips trembled, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she searched his face. Her shoulders sagged slightly, but she nodded back, acknowledging his silent reassurance.

Rhaenyra stepped back, her company filling the space between them as she waited. Claere hesitated, then reached for her overnight bag on the counter. She moved with reluctance, and when she turned back to Cregan, her eyes were full of longing. She did not want to leave. Not like this.

Cregan forced a small smile, hoping it would be enough to hold them together for now. “Go,” he murmured, the word more breath than sound, though he knew she understood.

As Claere followed her mother out of the room, the sound of the door closing behind them left an aching silence. Cregan stood frozen for a moment, his eyes fixed on the spot where Claere had been. The pang in his chest surged until it was unbearable.

Rage and despair blinded him to control, and he grabbed the nearest object—his water bottle—and hurled it against the fridge. The loud clang echoed through the kitchen, reverberating off the walls and doing little to ease the frustration coursing through him.

Cregan braced his hands on the counter, his head hanging low as he tried to steady his breathing. The fight with Rhaenyra replayed in his mind, her sharp words, Claere’s indefinite voice, the way her hand slipped from his without hesitation. Every detail twisted in his gut.

He wanted to scream, to chase after them, to promise Claere he’d fix this. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

This isn’t over, he thought fiercely, his jaw tightening. Not by a long shot.

The days without Claere passed like months. Cregan had tried to push through it, burying himself in practice, but it was like skating on dead ice. Every empty glance at his phone added fuel to the frustration simmering under his skin. Practice was a disaster—his passes were off, and his shots lacked precision. His coach had barked at him twice during drills, and even his teammates—guys who usually let him brood in peace—started asking if he was okay. He wasn’t. Not even close.

The worst part wasn’t even the uncertainty; it was the silence. No texts, no calls. He’d tried reaching out to Claere and Jace both, but his messages hung in limbo, unanswered. Every attempt ended in static like they’d been wiped off the map. The hollow ring of her number before the dreaded voicemail beep made his stomach twist every time.

He hated not knowing. Was this it? Was she done with him? Or worse—had her family made the decision for her?

By Thursday, he was running on fumes. His body ached from overworking himself on the ice, and his mind was a mess. The Targaryen mansion wasn’t far from his practice rink, and he’d driven past it so many times that the guards were starting to eye him like he was some kind of stalker.

Four days. Four days without a word from her, and he was losing it.

Then Friday came, game day, and it hit him like a slap. He didn’t have time for this. If he didn’t get his head in the game, he’d tank the team. But just as he was about to haul himself to the locker room, he saw someone jogging toward him near the player’s bench like some divine intervention. Cregan, mid-drill, tossed his stick aside, and practically stormed to meet him, relief and frustration competing for dominance.

“About fucking time!” he said, his voice incredulous. Cregan muttered, half-tempted to hug the guy and half-tempted to shove him, “Where the hell have you been?”

Jace, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie, stopped short, hands on his hips as he caught his breath. “Man, I am so sorry. Look, I really tried. I stalled her as much as I could that night, but you know my mom. And Daemon was her accomplice—”

“Not your fault,” Cregan interrupted quickly, shaking his head. “You tried. Thanks for coming.”

Jace gave a sheepish grin. “It wasn’t just me. Daemon went full dictator. Took all our phones, and said we needed a ‘digital cleanse.’ Packed us off to fuckin' Croatia. Ancestral home or some shit. Total lockdown. No phones, no Wi-Fi, just… swimming, food, and lectures about how we’ve all failed our parents somehow and forgotten our history.”

Cregan exhaled sharply. That explained a lot. “So, you’re just getting back now?”

“This morning,” Jace confirmed. He shifted awkwardly, as if unsure of what to say next, before finally adding, “Claere’s still at home. She’s okay, though. She was miserable the first day, but… y’know. We made her come around and have fun.”

Hearing her name felt like both a balm and a wound. Cregan let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “That sounds about right.”

“Yeah,” Jace agreed. He hesitated, studying Cregan for a moment. “Mom and Daemon? Still pissed. Claere… I don’t think she gives two shits.”

Cregan’s lips twitched into a weak smile. That was Claere all right. “When’s she coming back to class? Or… anything?” His voice trailed off, unsure how much more he could ask.

Jace shrugged. “Don’t know. She’s kind of in this holding pattern right now. Guess she’s waiting for something.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Thanks, Jace. Really.”

“Look, man…” Jace scratched the back of his neck, his usual easy demeanour clouded with worry. “She’ll come around. Just… give her time.”

Cregan gave a tight nod, though the frustration bubbling inside him was threatening to boil over. Time. He’d already spent four days in limbo, and he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.

Later, after practice, he called her again. The line rang twice before going straight to voicemail. That greeting looped in his mind like a cruel joke.

“Hi, it’s Claere! I can’t come to the phone right now, probably because I’m doing something infinitely more interesting. Leave a message! Or not. Up to you.”

He clenched his jaw at the teasing tone in her pre-recorded message, so familiar yet so distant. The beep sounded, and he hesitated before speaking, his voice gruff with tension.

“Baby, it’s me. Look, I—” He stopped, dragging a hand down his face. What could he even say? “I miss you. I don’t know what you're feeling, what you're thinking, or if you’re just… done, but I need to talk to you. Please. I'm losing my mind. Call me back. Or find me on campus. Just—please, Claere... I love you. So much.”

He hung up, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. It felt futile. Every unanswered call, every unreturned message, chipped away at the hope he’d been clinging to.

What was he supposed to do? Wait? Move on? Fight harder? He didn’t even know if she wanted him to. All he knew was that every day without her was stretching him thinner, and he didn’t know how much more he could take.

His teammates had practically dragged him to the coffeeshop on campus grounds after the brutal loss that afternoon, insisting he “needed to get out of his head.” He appreciated the effort, even if their chatter washed over him like static. This whole place was crowded and loud, a stark contrast to Cregan’s own hollow mood. He gave them a smile or two and answered a few vague questions, but his responses always had a way of circling back to her.

“Man, this chick must’ve really done a number on you,” one of the guys joked, nudging him.

Cregan huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

It wasn’t just her. It was everything—what she represented, what he felt for her, and how much he’d probably screwed up everything, right from the start. He missed her more than he could explain, more than he was even comfortable admitting to himself. And now? He didn’t even know where they stood.

He was nursing his coffee, trying to shake off the tension pressing on his chest, when the door jingled. Normally, he wouldn’t have noticed, but the sudden shift in the room's energy was unmistakable. Conversations dimmed, and heads turned.

Cregan looked up—and the air left his lungs.

Had it been weeks? No, just one. Claere stepped inside, her sun-tanned skin glowing against the blue eyelet blouse and shorts she wore, sandals clicking softly on the tile floor. Silvern hair was in a loose braid, a few strands framing her face, and a scattering of thin silver rings glinted on her fingers as she adjusted the strap of her sling bag. She looked like she’d walked straight out of some sun-drenched dream.

And all he could do was sit there. Frozen. Thinking. She hadn't bothered to call him. Was she angry? Was she done with him? Didn't he deserve an explanation? Had her parents changed her mind?

His stomach twisted with longing, with a desperation that felt almost painful. She was the one thing he wanted most, and yet here he was—rooted to a chair, surrounded by people who had no idea what she meant to him. She glanced around the room, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. When her eyes met him, there was not a muscle in his body that did not clench.

She hesitated, just for a moment. He could see it in her face—the effort it took to act like she didn’t know him. Like she hadn’t been his everything all these years. He felt it too, that same instinct to pretend, to keep up the lie, even as it killed him inside.

Her gaze flicked to the guys at his table, then back to the door. His heart sank, thinking she might leave, but instead, she turned and walked to the counter. Ordered something—juice, by the sound of it—and then settled at a corner table by herself.

Cregan couldn’t help it. His eyes followed her, drawn to her like gravity. He'd been conditioned to be aware of her, near or far. Even when she pulled out a book and rolled a few pencils onto the table, so calm and indifferent, he knew her too well. There was tension in her posture, a stiffness in the way she held herself. She wasn’t as unaffected as she seemed.

“Hot damn,” one of his teammates said, cutting into his thoughts. “You saw that fine ass? Those shorts just—oomph.”

“I want a piece of that,” another chimed in, smirking. “Last week's news? That little red dress at the gala? Fuuuuckable.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his coffee forgotten in his hand.

“And a whole lot of crazy bitch,” the first one added, laughing, and something in Cregan snapped. His grip on the cup tightened, but he forced himself to stay still. He wanted to put their heads through the nearest wall.

“Crazy bitch is my speciality,” the other said, clearly feeling lucky today.

One of them leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing some great secret. “She's still screwed in the head, bro. Last semester, someone saw her—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Cregan said sharply, his tone cutting through the noise.

The guys turned to him, surprised. “Hey, what’s your problem?”

“Just drop it, okay?”

But they shrugged him off with a burst of laughter. One of them, clearly feeling bold, got up and crossed the room toward Claere, sharing an encouraging fist bump and shoulder slap. Cregan’s pulse spiked as he watched the guy tap her on the shoulder. She looked up, calm and polite as always, even when she shouldn’t have to be. Pulling out her earphones, she flashed a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Yeah?" she said, her voice as sweet as it was distant.

The guy’s grin widened as he pulled the chair out, his audacity a palpable stink in the air. “Claere, right? Mind if I join you? Name's Wil.”

For a fleeting moment, she looked at Cregan. It wasn’t just a glance—it was sharp, pointed, expectant. It wasn’t a plea for help—it was a challenge. Are you going to sit there and let some dickhead hit on your girlfriend?

But Cregan stayed rigid. His hand gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his jaw locked. He wanted to move, to stop this, but something held him back—his frustration, his guilt, his need to keep up with appearances.

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, and when he didn’t act, she let out a soft, bitter breath and turned back to Wil.

“Sure,” she said lightly, gesturing to the seat.

Cregan’s stomach churned. He dropped his gaze, staring at the scratched surface of the table, as if ignoring it would make it stop.

Wil slid into the seat across from her like he owned the place, leaning forward on his elbows. “So, what’s it like being you?” he started, his tone dripping with fake charm. “Must be hectic. Fancy trips, photographers hounding you everywhere, that kind of thing.”

Claere raised an eyebrow, somewhat bored. “It’s not all that exhilarating, I suppose.”

“Really? Come on, you don’t have to be modest with me.” His eyes swept over her, lingering just long enough to make Cregan’s stomach tighten further. “I mean, someone like you? Hot, famous, loaded—what’s not to love?”

“Hmm.” Her response was flat and dismissive, but Wil wasn’t taking the hint.

“You know, I’ve always wondered...” he started, his voice dipping conspiratorially. “What’s it like growing up with a mom like Rhaenyra Targaryen? Must’ve been wild. All those scandals, all those headlines. Does she, like, give you tips? On how to work the cameras, pose just right? Or is that all-natural?”

Her grip on her glass cup tightened, but her face remained composed. “Are you always this curious about other people’s families?”

“I’m just trying to get to know you better.” He leaned back, smirking. “I mean, everyone’s already seen so much of you, right? All those little ‘oops’ moments with the paparazzi? Those dresses, those photos—”

Cregan tensed like a coiled spring. Wil, oblivious, kept going. “Honestly, it’s impressive. Takes guts to pull off some of those pretty skirts. Or lack of them.”

The small, tense smile on Claere’s face vanished, replaced by a cold, hard stare.

“But hey,” he said, his voice dropping, as if her silence was encouraging, “if you ever wanted to, I don’t know, lean into that a little more... I’ve got a camera. Real discreet. No one even has to know.”

The table went silent. Cregan’s head snapped up, his blood boiling. The words didn’t fully register—he didn’t want them to. His chair screeched against the floor as he shifted, his vision narrowing on Wil's smug face.

Claere beat him to it. The slap echoed through the coffee shop like a gunshot. Conversations halted. Heads turned. Even the barista at the counter stopped mid-pour.

Wil stared at her, stunned, his cheek flaming red. Claere’s hand trembled as she dropped it to her side, her chest heaving. Tears gathered in her eyes, but her voice was steady, cutting. “I hope you get run over by a car and go brain-dead, you pervert.”

She grabbed her bag with sharp, jerky movements, her poise splintering as she shoved her things inside. “Can't believe this,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone, her voice thick with anger and humiliation. Without another glance at Wil—or at Cregan—she stormed out, shoving the door open so hard the bell jingled violently behind her.

Cregan moved before he could think, his chair tipping as he stood and grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt. He saw red for a moment, teeth grounding to dust.

“What the hell, Cap?” Wil sputtered, raising his hands.

Cregan shoved him back against the wall, hard enough to rattle the shelves and cups nearby. Wil's grin had vanished, replaced by wide, panicked eyes.

“You think that was funny?” Cregan hissed, his voice low and shaking with rage.

“I—it was just a joke—”

“Here’s the zinger,” Cregan snapped, leaning in close. “You’re benched. Next game, next practice, next season. I don’t care. You’re done. You so much as look at her again, and you’ll be picking your fucking teeth off the floor.”

He shoved the guy back against the wall one more time for good measure before letting go, his chest heaving.

Cregan didn’t wait to see the reaction. Grabbing his gear, he strode out of the coffee shop, his heart racing, his mind spinning. The quad was alive with students, but Cregan didn’t care about any of them. His focus locked onto Claere, halfway across the lawn, her head down and her steps hurried. He sprinted to catch up, but she moved too quick, as if she could escape the humiliation still clinging to the air around her.

“Cregan! That was sick, man!” A friend clapped him on the back as he passed, but the praise barely registered. Another student waved, calling his name, grinning like the drama was just a show for their entertainment. Cregan brushed past them, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Not now. Not now. Just get to her.

But then he stopped dead in his tracks. Claere had turned to look at him, her face pale except for the flush high on her cheeks. Her red-rimmed eyes locked onto his, and the sight gutted him. She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her wrist, her hand trembling, almost frantic.

The breeze carried the faint sound of a sob, and he saw the way she glanced around her, the way her gaze caught on the groups of students whispering, watching. He knew what they were saying. He could feel their eyes on her, hear the speculative laughter just out of earshot. The exasperation on her face made his breaths falter, her helplessness a mirror to his own.

He took a step forward, but her head snapped to the side, and she spun on her heel, heading toward the scooter parked by the curb.

He wanted to call out to her, to tell her to wait, but his throat felt like it had closed up. He watched her as she fumbled with her keys, all jerky and rushed.

Say something, his mind screamed but held too still. The whispers around him grew louder, and he could feel the eyes of the crowd shifting from her to him. Rumours hinted at, fingers pointing. For once, he just wanted to let it happen.

Her head lifted briefly, and their eyes met again—just for a heartbeat. In that glance, he saw everything. The pain, the frustration, the feeling that she was completely, utterly alone. The tears, the tremor in her shoulders, the way her chin tilted up defiantly—it was all too much.

She climbed onto her scooter, the engine sputtered to life, and she didn’t look back as she pulled out onto the campus path.

The gravel crunched under Cregan’s tires as his truck rolled to a stop in front of the towering iron gates. For a moment, he just stared. The Targaryen estate loomed ahead, its opulence stark against the dusk-painted sky. The tree-lined path that curved out of sight behind the gates was shadowed by towering oaks, their branches interlocking above like a cathedral ceiling.

He lowered his window, leaning out to nod at the guard.

The man stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “You again? I told you, kid, unless you’ve got an invite—”

Cregan sighed, gripping the wheel tighter. “Just let me talk to her. Please. I'm dying out here, pal.”

The guard studied him for a beat longer before letting out a reluctant huff. “Fine. Don’t make me regret this.” He pressed a button, and the gates creaked open slowly.

“Legend,” Cregan muttered, easing the truck forward.

The path was even more imposing than it looked from the outside, even for the second time he was here. The oaks stretched endlessly ahead, casting long shadows that danced across his windshield. The air felt cooler here, quieter, the outside world muffled by the wealth and history that clung to this place.

When the house finally came into view, it hit him like a punch to the chest. The mansion was massive, every detail of its gleaming white facade a testament to money and power. Towering pillars lined the entrance, their bases flanked by intricately carved dragons. The sheer scale of it made him feel small, like a kid crashing a royal ball. Focus, Stark.

He parked near the grand staircase and climbed out, his boots feeling too loud on the polished gravel. The enormous doors loomed ahead, but before he could even knock, one swung open. A man in a crisp black suit appeared, giving him a sharp, disapproving glance.

Cregan stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. He grabbed the man’s arm fiercely. “Claere?”

The man looked at him like he’d just insulted his ancestors. “You can’t just—”

“Where is she?” His voice cracked slightly, and the man froze, clearly taken aback. With a shake of his head, the man yanked his arm free and scurried off.

“The fu—” Before Cregan could follow, a small, clear voice echoed from above.

“Captain Stark!”

Cregan looked up to see Viserys poking his head through the railing of the first landing, his pale silver hair gleaming in the chandelier light nearby. The boy grinned, his face lighting up.

“Jace went out to see a girl,” Viserys sang out.

“Hey, little man,” Cregan called back, managing a strained smile. “Nah, not Jace. You seen your sister around?”

Viserys twisted his arms around the railing, tilting his head in thought. “Mhmm. Claerie’s in... oh, the back! She's with Auntie Hel. They're talking about big girl stuff.”

“Thanks, superstar!” Cregan called, already heading toward the back of the house as directed.

As he stepped outside, the evening air wrapped around him, cool and fragrant with the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming jasmine. The gardens stretched endlessly, but his eyes locked onto the little pagoda near the edge of the reflective pond. Its white pillars gleamed faintly under the fading light, and beneath its domed roof, from a distance, he spotted them—Claere and her aunt Helaena.

They hadn’t noticed him yet. Claere sat on the bench, her head bent over something in her lap. She was working with a needle and thread, stitching a button onto a shirt that looked about two sizes too big for her. Beside her, Helaena was lounging with the lazy grace of someone who never seemed hurried, one leg tucked beneath her as she picked at a flower on the vine

“Boys are idiots,” Helaena said lazily, flicking a petal away. “Especially Stark. That guy couldn’t comfort his way out of a paper bag.”

Claere’s fingers stilled for a moment on the button she was sewing onto Jace's shirt, the needle poised mid-air. She didn’t look up, but her lips pressed into a thin line. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?” Helaena sat up straighter, arching a sceptical brow. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like he panicked and left you hanging. Again.”

The words struck deep, even though Claere tried not to let it show. She didn’t respond, instead knotting the thread with quick, precise movements.

From his vantage point just outside the pagoda, Cregan heard every word. He’d been rooted there for the last minute, unable to bring himself to interrupt, even as Helaena’s words sank into him like daggers. His fists clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.

“Hel, please,” Claere said softly, tying off the thread and setting the shirt aside. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Helaena snorted. “Of course you don’t. Because you’re too nice to admit he’s a hurtful jerk.” She leaned forward, her gaze narrowing. “Do you know how many guys would’ve killed to defend you in that café? To put that pervert in his place and walk out with you? But no, you had to fall for the one guy who can’t figure out how to use his own damn spine.”

Cregan felt his breath hitch, a sharp pang hitting him square in the chest. He wanted to storm in, to defend himself, to tell her she was wrong—that he had tried to defend Claere in his own way, even if it hadn’t been enough. But the truth was, Helaena was right. He’d left Claere when she needed him most. He’d failed her.

Claere shook her head, her voice quiet but firm. “It's unfortunate circumstances. That does not make Cregan a bad person. Or a jerk.”

“No, just a scared one,” Helaena countered, her tone biting. “And scared people hurt others because they’re too caught up in their own head to think about what anyone else needs.”

That was it. Cregan couldn’t take another second of listening. He stepped into the pagoda, the gravel crunching under his boots loud enough to draw their attention.

Helaena’s sharp eyes snapped to him immediately. Her pale brows shot up, and she leaned back with an amused smirk. “Well, well. Speak of the devil. Loverboy’s here,” she announced, loud enough to pull Claere’s attention from the shirt in her lap.

“Breaking my heart, Hel,” Cregan remarked.

Claere’s head whipped around, her eyes widening as they met his. Her lips parted, but no words came out, and she looked as though she wasn’t sure whether to be angry, relieved, or both.

He stepped forward, trying to look more confident than he felt. “I just need five minutes with her,” he said quickly, his voice steady but low, almost pleading.

Helaena tilted her head, studying him like he was some curious artefact. Then, with her signature mischievous grin, she said, “You can get five hours, Cap. Do you think you can talk with your shirt off?”

Cregan made an impressed face, some of the tension easing from his chest. “I can be persuaded.”

Helaena turned to Claere, deadpan. “I’m down.” He glanced back at Cregan's abdomen, biting her lip. “Look at him—you've got to reap your benefits. Is it a six-pack or eight, big guy?”

“Wanna count together?” Cregan suggested with a wry smile.

Claere shook her head as she muttered, “Really, Hel.”

Helaena stood, brushing her hands on her skirt. “Alright, alright. No fun. I’ll leave you two to… whatever this is. Five minutes.” She passed by Cregan, leaning in just enough to whisper, “When in doubt, take your shirt off. Don’t mess it up.”

And then she was gone, leaving Cregan and Claere alone in the pagoda.

He stepped closer, his gaze locked on Claere as she sat, her expression caught somewhere between guarded and curious. Her hands were still clutching the shirt, the needle and thread dangling loosely between her fingers.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Cregan didn’t trust himself to, not with the way she was looking at him. He took in every detail—the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her braid curled at the ends, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

When he finally broke the silence, his voice was rough, unsteady. “Gods, I missed you.”

Before she could react, he was moving. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing the delicate planes of her cheekbones as he pulled her close. Her body stiffened for half a heartbeat before melting into his, as if unable to help herself. He cradled her head against his chest with one hand, the other pressing into the small of her back. His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the length of her spine, grounding him in the reality that she was here, that she was real.

He kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her hair, his lips moving as if to memorize her all over again. His hands slid down to her back, pressing into the curve of her spine as he held her. The scent of her shampoo—floral and sweet—was almost overwhelming.

“Before you kick me, punch me, or ask me to fuck off to the world’s end,” he murmured against her hair, “I just needed to do that.”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh against his chest. “I think I stabbed you.”

Cregan blinked, pulling back slightly to look down at his chest.

She gestured to the needle, which had pricked his side at some point during the hug. He glanced down, lifting his shirt just enough to see the faintest dot of blood beading up near his abdomen. How had he not noticed?

“Fuck. Ow.” He laughed, shaking his head as he tugged the hem back down. “You trying to finish me off, baby?”

Her lips twitched, but her brows furrowed as she reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against his side. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as being without you,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Her hand stilled, and for a moment, she just looked at him. Her eyes searched his face, her lips pressing into a thin line as though she was weighing what to say next. She stepped back and turned away, pushing her fingers into her hair.

“Cregan...” she sighed. “Don’t make this harder.”

Her words hit him like a slap, and his stomach twisted into a knot. Harder? Harder than what? He took a step toward her, his brows knitting together in confusion and a flicker of hurt.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his tone sharp with a desperation he couldn’t hide. “So, what… we're over? Is that it? I'm not allowed a clean break after three fucking years of being yours?”

She hesitated, her back still to him, her shoulders rising and falling with each measured breath. He could see the tension in her posture, the way she held herself so rigidly as if bracing for something.

“I guess…” she started, then stopped, lips thinning to a straight line. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter, and it nearly crushed him. “I guess Mom finding out about us was a wake-up call.”

“From what, Claere?” he shot back, the anger bubbling beneath the surface, anger born of confusion, guilt, and the unbearable ache of losing her. “She’s fine with us. All this is excessive. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

Claere turned to face him then, and the look in her eyes stopped him cold. It wasn’t anger, not entirely—it was something deeper, rawer, an exhaustion that made his chest tighten.

“Not the part where you treat me like some dirty secret,” she said, each word cutting like glass. Her voice was steady, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Trust me, today made me realize that. And also, you're only mine when it's reasonable for you.”

Cregan staggered back a step as if the force of her words had physically struck him.

“I wiped the floor with that fucker's ass for you!”

“I don't care,” she sighed.

“So fucking unfair,” he snapped, his voice hoarse. “You knew what this was from the start. From day one, you agreed—we agreed—it wouldn’t be public. You knew what I had to lose. My whole credibility.”

Her brows shot up, her mouth parting in disbelief before she laughed, bitter and sharp. “Oh, is that right? What you had to lose?” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “What about me? Do you have any idea what it’s like to only be worth something to you in the shadows?”

“You don’t think I’ve sacrificed?” he growled, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m trying to balance all of this—the team, the pressure, the press and us. It’s not that simple.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “It is simple, Cregan! You care more about what everyone else thinks than what I feel. You make me feel so difficult. Like I'm this vexed question. And for so long, I convinced myself that was okay. That we were okay. But it’s not. It’s not okay anymore.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Cregan’s anger faltered, replaced by a wave of guilt so heavy it nearly knocked him over. She was right, wasn’t she? He’d asked her to carry their secrecy for him, put her in this tight corner because of him, and he hadn’t even realized how much it had crushed her.

“Claere,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I never wanted to hurt you. I thought—” He stopped, his hands falling uselessly to his sides. “I thought we were alright. I didn’t know.”

“Because you didn’t care to see it,” she said, her tone quieter now, but no less sharp. “You thought that I’d keep accepting scraps, keep lying low because I…” She trailed off, looking away, her arms crossing over her chest. “Because I love you.”

His heart clenched. “I love you too,” he said quickly, taking a step toward her. “I love you so much, it hurts. You know I do.”

She shook her head, letting out a shaky breath. “Sometimes love isn’t enough, Cregan.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Then, as if he couldn’t bear the distance any longer, he stepped forward and reached for her. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and before she could push him away, he buried his head into the curve of her neck. Her scent, that faint floral sweetness, flooded his senses, grounding him even as the world seemed to tilt beneath his feet.

“I brought you something,” he murmured, his voice thick.

She stiffened slightly, her confusion clear, but he stepped back and reached into his jacket. Pulling out the jersey, he unfurled it carefully, holding it out to her. His name was stitched on the back in bold, unmistakable letters. STARK 01.

“Come to my game,” he whispered, his voice breaking under the strain of hope and fear. “Please.”

Claere’s eyes flicked to the jersey, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he thought—hoped—that maybe she would take it, that this small gesture could bridge the impossible distance between them. But then she shook her head, slowly, deliberately.

“I think we should meet after you’re done with…” she gestured toward the jersey, her voice faltering for the first time, “everything. Give us both some time to figure things out.”

The rejection hit like a fist to the gut. Cregan’s jaw tightened as his shoulders stiffened, his fingers curling tightly around the fabric.

“That’s months,” he burst out, his voice tinged with desperation.

“Good,” she replied, her tone clipped and firm. “Then this will all be over, and we can talk.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other like they were on opposite sides of a battlefield. Then Cregan let out a hollow laugh, the bitterness spilling out before he could stop it. He tossed the jersey aside.

“Fuck you, Claere.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing. “Well, fuck you too, you pathetic jerk!” she shouted back, her voice trembling with both anger and something far more fragile. She shoved at his chest, her palms pushing against him hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “Get out. Get the fuck out of my house!”

“No!” he snapped, his voice low and rough, filled with all the things he couldn’t seem to say. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here. I’m trying to fix this—”

“Yeah? You want to?” Her voice cracked as she stepped closer, her body trembling with the force of her emotions. “You want to?” She shoved him again, her hands pressing against his chest, her voice rising with every word. “You want to fix this? Then kiss me, and—”

He didn’t let her finish. He didn’t let himself think. He surged forward, ducking his head, his hands finding her waist and pulling her close as his lips crashed into hers. The kiss was fierce, raw, filled with everything he didn’t know how to say—his frustration, his fear, his longing, and the overwhelming need to not lose her.

She gasped against him, fingers clawing at his shoulders as though she didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer. He pressed forward, guiding her back until she hit the pillar behind her, her body arching against his. One of her legs hooked instinctively around his waist, and he gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her hips as though he were afraid she might disappear.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against hers, they were both gasping for air. Her lips were swollen, violet eyes wide and shining, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

“You…” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I’m trying,” he hissed. His hands trembled as they slid up her sides, searching. “I’m trying, baby. Just… don’t make me leave. Don’t—”

She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, silencing him. “Then stop running,” she whispered. “Prove it, Cregan. Prove you’re here. Prove this is real.”

Cregan’s breath came ragged, his body still pressed against hers, his heart hammering like a drum in his chest. He stared down at Claere, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. She was breathtaking, defiant and vulnerable all at once, and her whispered challenge—Prove it—rang in his ears like a dare he couldn’t refuse.

Her hand on his cheek was warm, grounding him. The fire in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks—she was everything at once: defiant, vulnerable, and heartbreakingly beautiful. And she was right. He had spent too long running, avoiding, second-guessing. It was time to stop.

His breath hitched as he cupped her face gently, his thumb grazing her temple. The rush of emotion—fear, love, determination—swept over him, but this time, he didn’t let it drown him. He let it anchor him.

“Fine,” he said, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. “Come to the game next week.”

Her brows knitted in confusion, her lips parting to speak, but he pressed on.

“Just come.”

The words were a promise, and they felt like a leap off a cliff. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His gaze stayed locked on hers, searching for something—doubt, hope, anything—that could guide him.

Her silence stretched between them, and he wasn’t sure if it was acceptance or uncertainty, but it didn’t matter. He had made his choice.

Slowly, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, lingering just long enough to feel her inhale sharply. It wasn’t desperation or passion—it was quiet, a gesture of faith. When he pulled back, he gave her hand a firm squeeze, his fingers brushing against hers like an unspoken vow.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said softly, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. Then he let go, stepping back, his hand slipping away from hers reluctantly.

The rink was electric, the roar of the crowd pulsing through the air like a living thing. The energy was infectious—chants, clapping, the rhythmic pounding of drumbeats echoing through the arena. The smell of ice and the distinct tang of adrenaline filled the air, and Cregan stood at the edge of the player’s bench, helmet tucked under his arm, a storm of exhilaration coursing through his veins.

This was it. Game season was here. And for all the noise and excitement around him, his focus was entirely on one thing—or rather, one person. Players milled around the bench, adjusting pads, stretching, and hyping each other up. Cregan, though, was glued to the boards, scanning the stands with the intensity of a hawk.

"Is she coming?" he asked, his voice low but insistent as he nudged Jace, who was lacing up his skates beside him. "You’re sure she’s coming?"

Jace groaned, yanking his laces tight. "Dude, chill the fuck out. She’ll be here."

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he scanned the stands again. It was stupid, how his chest felt like it might crack open if he didn’t see her soon. “I just need to know, Jace.”

Jace slapped his shoulder, grinning despite the tension in Cregan’s voice. "You’ll know, Cap. Now quit looking like a lovesick puppy and get your head in the game."

Cregan muttered something under his breath and turned his attention back to the stands, his stomach doing flips. She wouldn't sit too far, would she? What if she was too late? What if she changed her mind? All this would be a big dud.

Then, like the universe finally decided to cut him a break, he saw her.

Claere stood just behind the barrier, like another face in the crowd, a figure of calm amidst the chaos, her silver hair braided in two, the faintest smile gracing her lips as their eyes met. She wasn’t wearing just any jersey. She was wearing his—his name, his number proudly displayed on her back. And for a moment, everything else fell away: the noise, the crowd, the game ahead. It was just her, and the unshakable certainty he felt when he looked at her.

“Stark, get your ass on the ice!” the coach yelled, but Cregan didn't find it in himself to look away. Couldn’t.

He caught Jace’s smirk out of the corner of his eye. “Toldja,” Jace muttered, nudging him again. "Now quit gawking and do something about it."

And that’s exactly what Cregan intended to do.

The tension in his chest, the coil of uncertainty and hope that had wound tighter and tighter all week, snapped into motion. Without thinking, without hesitation, he closed the distance. His gloves hit the bench with a soft thud as he reached over the boards, his hands finding her waist like they belonged there.

“What,” she mouthed to him, amazed.

“Proof,” he mouthed back with a grin.

Her eyes widened, startled, as he pulled her closer, the warmth of her body against his enough to set his pulse racing. For a moment, he thought she might push him away, and the doubt—the fear of rejection—flared hot in his chest. But then her expression softened, and all the noise around him dulled to a hum.

He bent his head, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was everything he felt and more. It was slow and hurried, soft and desperate, deep and tender. It was everything he hadn’t said but needed her to know: that he was here, that she mattered, that he couldn’t stop thinking about her no matter how hard he’d tried.

For a second, time seemed to freeze. The roar of the crowd became a distant echo as Claere responded, her hands sliding up to cup his cheeks. Then, as her fingers tangled in his hair, the tension in his chest unraveled entirely. She was here. She wasn’t pushing him away. She was real.

The arena erupted. Cheers, whistles, and applause surged like a tidal wave, crashing into him with the force of a thousand voices. His teammates banged their sticks against the boards, shouting and hollering. The noise was deafening, but for once, he didn’t care. This moment was his—and hers. The world around them could burn for all he cared.

When they broke apart, her cheeks were flushed, her violet eyes bright and alive. She looked at him like he was the only person in the room, and his chest tightened with something dangerously close to gratitude. She didn’t shy away from the commotion or the hundreds of eyes on them. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Go get ’em, Stark.”

Her words lit something fierce in him. He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice low but steady. “Always do, baby.”

He pulled back reluctantly and winked at her, squeezing her hand once before letting go. As he turned back to the bench, the adrenaline coursing through him had nothing to do with the game ahead. His blood was pumping, his heart pounding, but it wasn’t nerves—it was her. The knowledge that she was there, that she’d chosen to be there, wearing his name and looking at him like that.

The crowd’s energy was his, the ice was his stage, and the world now knew she was his.

As he slid his helmet on, the chants and shouts of his teammates met him with even more fervour than before. Cregan Stark stepped onto the ice, the rush of the competition pulling him forward.

It's game time.

wooo!! LONGEST, TRYING ONESHOT EVER! @justdazzling this one's for you, my love! Thank you such a wonderful idea, and I couldn't get it out of my head, so here it is! I hope you love it, caught the little references, the banter, the love and just them as a whole :)

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

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suzdin · 28 days ago

Text

Home Is Wherever I’m With You

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: After the tragic loss of your father and home, you find yourself at the mercy of a cold, detached stranger who holds your fate in his hands during a violent snowstorm.

Notes: okay fair warning, I started writing this when I was feeling extremely low, and finished it several weeks later when I was doing better, so if it seems disjointed and sloppily thrown together, that’s why! But I swear there’s a happy ending!

Warnings: ANGST!!! I cannot stress the amount of angst. Suicidal thoughts and ideation, especially at the beginning. Alcohol consumption. Main character deaths; all of them. Lots of depression and poor mental health, mostly with Joel. Angsty!Joel, asshole!Joel, soft!Joel, semi-dom!Joel, protective!Joel, masturbation (m), oral (f receiving), face riding, unprotected p in v, creampie, biting/marking, pregnancy heavily hinted at, more angst

Word Count: 7,100+

dividers provided by: @saradika-graphics ❣️

Tags: @ohheypedrito @kateispunk @kellybelly1978 @berryispunk @chronically-ghosted @morallyinept @natdeandar @guelyury @daddy-dins-girl

Joel crouches in front of the old cast iron stove, his knees groaning in protest as he stokes the embers within using an extra scrap of wood.

He doesn’t know why he’s going through the trouble. It isn’t like he’ll be around much longer. Maybe he just wants to feel warmth one last time before he does it. And this time, he won’t miss.

He’ll be cold soon enough anyway.

He gets the fire breathing again, closing the hatch and settling back into the old leather recliner in the corner, worn and cracking with age, much like himself.

He palms the neck on a bottle of bourbon, taking a hefty swig and wiping his lips with the back of his hand, his face crinkling in rumination as he watches the flames dance behind slats of iron.

Sarah. Tess. Tommy. And then Ellie. He had failed each and every one of them; those he claimed to love, who he vowed to keep safe. He had let them down. He had let himself down.

He takes another pull on the bottle and sets it down heavily on the table next to him, replacing it with his Smith & Wesson, heavy digits curling around the grip.

He traces the scar on his temple with the point of his index finger, feeling the faint indentation in the flesh; a constant reminder of yet another failure.

He lowers his hand back to the revolver, finger circling the trigger guard, dark eyes downcast as he attempts to summon the strength to do what he needs to do. Again.

His hand tremors as he lifts the gun and presses the cold barrel to his temple, thumb cocking the hammer back with a hollow metallic clunk that resonates through his skull and soul.

“C’mon, Joel. Get yourself fucking together for once.”

His eyes close, nose scrunched in a deep scowl.

Just do it, Joel. Pull the fucking trigger.

The ball of his index finger curves around the bend of the trigger, twitching with indecision when the back door to the cabin abruptly flies open, temporarily snapping him out of his psychosis.

It’s just the wind. That’s all it is. A gust of wind from the incoming snowstorm.

He doesn’t move from his space on the recliner. The cold won’t matter in a few seconds anyway. He lifts the barrel to his temple again, aligning it just right…

The back door clicks shut. It wasn’t slammed, like the wind would have done had it been the culprit. It very audibly clicked. Like someone or something shut it themselves.

Immediately following the click, he hears the unmistakable scrape of boots on wood, the revolver lowering from offensive to defensive position.

No sooner do you get the door closed that you notice a faint flicker of light from the adjoining room, your heart beginning to thrum like a jackhammer in your chest. From the outside, in your weary state, the dilapidated old cabin looked abandoned as far as you could tell, realizing too late that it isn’t.

But now you’ve stumbled into someone’s den, and they could very well be armed and aiming to shoot. They could even be cannibals for all you know.

You could leave. You could just leave and pretend this never happened. But you haven’t seen any other shelters for miles… and the storm was only going to get worse.

“Who’s there?” a gruff male voice calls out from the other room, breaking through the stifling silence. You go stock still on instinct, your hackles bristled along your spine.

When you’re able to gather your bearings, you respond with your name, your vocal cords numb and strained from the cold.

“I mean no harm. I just need a place to sleep out of the storm. I promise to leave at first light,” you quickly add.

Joel stiffens when he hears a woman’s voice, his finger still circling the trigger guard as it had only moments before when the gun was trained on himself.

“Are you armed?”

“Just a small pistol and a jack knife. And I’m out of ammo,” you call back truthfully.

Everything is quiet for a moment aside from the crackle of flame and the howl of wind that rattles the windows and bends the outer wood. The silence between you and the unseen man feels like it stretches on for ages.

“Approach the door with your hands raised. An’ when I say, slide the gun and knife over to me.”

“Alright,” you reply quietly, approaching the ajar door in front of you, hands already skyward, kicking the door the rest of the way open with the toe of your boot.

You step forward two paces into the room, the scent of alcohol stinging your nostrils, your gaze settling on a haggard looking man in the furthest corner from you. His hair is wild and askew, eyes sunken in like a corpse, recognizing the hopeless glint behind them; no doubt a reflection of your own. A large pistol is clutched in his meaty fist, cocked and aimed.

“Gun first. Then the knife,” Joel says, his brow angled downward in a dark line, shading the even darker set of eyes.

You keep one hand in the air as the other reaches into the band of your jeans, removing the pistol and sliding it to him, stilling as it hits his boot.

He picks it up, discharging the clip to find that it is indeed empty, as you had claimed. He sets it next to the bourbon.

You slide the knife next, an average, run of the mill jack knife with a four inch blade. He inspects it, noticing a few remnants of blood still tarnishing the steel.

“Who’d you kill with this?”

“I used it to skin hares and squirrels.”

His face pinches with confusion, tilting his head at you like a dog hearing an unknown sound for the first time.

“Y’skinned hares and squirrels with a jack knife?” he questions doubtfully.

“It’s all I had,” you explain.

Joel eyes you warily. You’re definitely not dressed or equipped for this kind of weather. The only thing that seems to be keeping you warm is a thin hoodie, a regular set of jeans, and a pair of boots soaked through with snow.

He sighs. He isn’t going to kill himself with you here. He may not be the nicest or most caring man in the world, but he isn’t about to traumatize you. He’ll wait until you leave. You said you’d leave at first light.

In the meantime, he has to deal with someone being in his space, which he doesn’t exactly want to do, especially in his last hours. But he isn’t about sending you to your death, either. You probably have more to live for than he does.

“Here,” he says, kicking an old wicker chair toward you. “Your feet’re soaked. Take off your boots and warm your feet ‘fore you get frostbite.”

You lower your arms and take a cautious step forward, and then another, slowly sinking into the flimsy and rotten chair, bending to unlace and remove your boots.

You try to wiggle your toes but they won’t move, at least not yet. Joel watches with a scrutinizing glare, his hand still on the Smith & Wesson in his lap.

“What’s your name?” you ask him, pushing your boots aside.

“Ain’t important.”

You cast him a look but don’t press, scooting your sore and frozen feet closer to the stove, feeling yourself starting to slowly defrost.

You thank him for letting you stay.

He ignores your gratitude, dark browns drifting over your frame.

“Where’d you come from?” he asks.

“Ain’t important,” you counter, casting him another glance.

He leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, pinning you with a deep scowl.

“I’m the one with the gun,” he chides in a deep timbre, his tone brooking no room for protest. “Guns,” he quickly amends.

Your eyes lock with his momentarily, assessing his conviction before deciding not to test it.

“A settlement near Billings.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

He leans back, his gaze unmoving, letting out a breath through his nose.

“An’ exactly what prompted you to run out into a snowstorm with just a hoodie and no supplies?” he asks.

You flinch as if he’d just backhanded you, averting your gaze. If you were looking, you might notice his face softening, if only just a hair.

“Raiders came into our settlement. My father… he gave me the pistol and distracted them while I snuck under a gap in the fence. I didn’t have time to grab anything else,” you tell him.

“And your dad?” Joel asks delicately.

“Didn’t make it out,” you reply grimly, your body beginning to tremor, a combination of repressed emotion and your muscles beginning to thaw.

Joel falls silent, absorbing your words as truth. He can’t find a reason that you would lie about something like that.

“I’m sorry,” he sympathizes, his voice gentling.

You bring your knees to your chest, your chin resting between them, arms wrapped around your shins.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice hardly above a whisper.

——

Your eyes snap open, realizing you must have drifted off at some point, finding yourself curled into a fetal position directly in front of the dying fire.

A blanket you’re sure wasn’t there before is wrapped around your frame. You’ve no idea where it came from, it’s a bit scratchy and smells funky, but what matters is it’s warm, subconsciously pulling it tighter around your shoulders when you feel a chilled breeze brush over you through the cracks in the wall.

“Mornin’,” Joel hums softly above you.

“Morning,” you echo, shifting as your eyes scan the room, the cabin just as dark and cloaked in shadow as when you arrived. You’re unsure how he knows what time of day it is, but you decide not to question it.

He’s in almost the exact position in the old recliner as the previous evening, his hand unmoving from the revolver still in his lap. You can’t help but wonder if he had any rest at all, not sure if him watching you sleep should be comforting or disconcerting.

You sit up with a stretch, your joints crackling like twigs as you work out the aches of not only having traveled this far on foot, but also sleeping on a hard wooden floor all night.

Better than freezing to death, you decide.

You scoot until your back is flush with the wall, leaning against it as you silently study Joel.

“Thank you for the blanket—“ you begin, but he quickly cuts you off with a hard glare, nudging your dried out boots to you with his foot.

“Boots’re dry. It’s morning. ‘bout time for you to leave,” he says, his voice low and rough.

It dawns on you that it’s still dark because the storm hasn’t lessened at all, banks of snow clogging the windows and doors, blocking out what little available sunlight there is.

Your brow knits together and you cast him a wary glance, bottom lip trembling.

“But it… it’s…”

“The deal was first light, darlin’, and I’ve given you plenty more than that.”

“Please… just… a few more hours? Until the storm dies down some?” you plead, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes, preemptively threatening to freeze your eyelids together.

He’s silent and contemplative for what you feel is longer than necessary, a muscle fluttering in his jaw.

He knows he should send you away, even if it means a certain death. He can’t have you here, swimming in his grief, prolonging the inevitable.

The other option, of course, is to shoot you and then himself, a swift and merciful death that you deserve far more than he does. His fist tightens around the butt of the revolver, an action that does not go unnoticed by you.

“No,” he says plainly.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” you say, your voice cracking with emotion and desperation, shifting to your knees as you shuffle a few inches closer to his chair. He did give you a blanket, so there is a human being in there somewhere. “I can’t—“

“I can barely take care of myself, much less another person. Ain’t nothing you can offer me, nothing to barter with—“

“I’ll let you keep my gun and knife. Please. Just a few more hours…”

His jaw ticks again. Your odds are already low as is, but liberating you of your only means of defense, your only means of perhaps obtaining a meal, if only a meager squirrel or hare, would completely diminish any shred of a chance you have left.

He could give you his one and only jacket. Not that he’s going to need it after you leave, anyway.

“No,” he says again, more sternly than before.

His gaze is unmoving from yours, the slow, steady circling of his pointer finger on the edge of the trigger guard doing little to settle your nerves, the conflict apparent behind his dark eyes.

You know you don’t have much to offer. You’re not great at hunting. You’d exhausted your entire clip on what barely qualifies as a meal, leaving you with very little sustenance once the bullet had almost completely obliterated any viable meat.

You can’t fight or shoot worth a damn, either. Your father had tried to teach you in vain, his frustration with you growing to a fever pitch over the years, but it had never been your forte.

Because you never thought you’d have to live without him.

You can scout. Gather. Keep the cabin up, replace rotting boards and rusting nails, keep it clean and tidy. But not in this weather, and not for a few months yet.

So you default to the last thing you know how to do well. The only thing you know without a shadow of a doubt you’re good at, if any of the men at your settlement had anything to say about it before they perished.

You inch closer, your tired knees scraping against the dirty, splintered wood, hands trembling as you hesitantly reach toward his parted knees.

He anticipates more begging and pleading. Maybe a sob story or two.

What he doesn’t expect is for your hands to grab his belt, the meat of your palm ghosting over his crotch as you fumble to undo the worn rungs of leather.

His cock twitches instinctively and he can’t recall the last time a woman touched him like this. Made him feel anything but dead inside.

He moves with a sudden swiftness that surprises and startles both of you, the hand not currently on the revolver grabbing hold of your wrist like a striking serpent, his grip biting into your delicate bones so roughly you realize how effortless it would be for him to snap your wrist, should he feel so inclined.

He rises to his feet, dragging you with him and giving you a hard, reprimanding shake, teeth bared inches from your face.

It occurs to you seeing him fully upright like this just how tall, how imposing he is; worn, threadbare flannel stretched to its limits across broad shoulders and thick biceps.

“Christ, woman, the hell is wrong with you? What kind of man do you take me for?” he growls, a subtle twang piping up in his voice, his clenched fist releasing your wrist with a minor shove. You stumble backwards, catching yourself on the wall.

His nostrils flare, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, his eyes slipping shut as he tempers his simmering anger… and something else he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“Fuck,” he grunts, eyes slowly opening again, rough digits carding through his graying curls. “If it means that much to you… you stay until the snow stops, an’ not a second later,” he nearly spits in your face. “Got it?”

When you easily nod in agreement, he stalks out of the room with a huff, every heavy footfall vibrating beneath your feet, slamming the door shut between you, leaving you standing there in the middle of the room, alone and unsure what to feel.

—

Joel goes into the now defunct bathroom, the traditional porcelain toilet that was maybe brand new decades ago currently unusable, the water in the tank and plumbing frozen solid, the pipes under the earth most likely cracked and warped.

He drops trow and leans forward with the flat of one palm against the wall, the other hand gripping himself.

He lets out a shaky breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding in, pissing into the cistern he had dug under the cabin two summers ago, a task only made more difficult by the partial erection he now has thanks to your — albeit brief — touch a few moments ago.

“Fuck, Joel,” he sighs as he empties his bladder, his cock only growing stiffer in his hand as he imagines how good your lips would have felt wrapped around him, what kind of pretty sounds you would have made for him.

“Fuck,” he grits again, cramming his painfully hard erection into his jeans when he’s done.

—

Hours turn to days, days to weeks, weeks to months — “until the snow melts an’ not a day later” — spring not far around the corner, the sun growing brighter and hotter in the sky with each passing day.

Joel’s suicidal ideations were still an ever present plague on his brain, though he kept that part of himself tucked neatly away, as he did most things that were personal and private. He never spoke of Sarah, Ellie, anyone. Never talked about his life before Outbreak.

In turn, you never talked about yours either, aside from what you’d told him the first night, too frightened that you might scare him away simply by opening up, by trying to stitch together what little relationship you had with one another.

The more time you spent with him, the more of a burden you began to feel. It didn’t matter how much you helped out, even if you kept a respectful distance between you, especially when he seemed extra bristly or in his head that day. He was always skulking about, his face pinched in indignation in what you were certain was unspoken hatred for you and your existence.

It was early morning and you were at the edge of the valley, the spot near the treeline that was choked with underbrush, gathering pathetically small handfuls of wild strawberries and huckleberries that were just beginning to fruit. Definitely not enough to have much impact on your aching bellies, but it could be supplemental to whatever protein Joel could scrounge up, which hadn’t been much as of late.

You wipe a fresh layer of sweat from your brow despite the air still being bitterly cold, collecting what meager pittance of berries you can, sucking in a breath of air as you steeled your nerves to head back to the cabin.

—

Joel’s door is still closed when you return. Not surprising, considering how early you’d gotten up that morning, Joel likely still exhausted and aching from the ineffectual hunting trip the previous day.

You place the berries into a bowl on the counter, your fingers curling into the peeling linoleum as you stare out the window that overlooks the southern end of the valley, sun cresting through the twisted and gnarled branches of still-bare trees.

You’ve been milling around the idea of leaving for weeks now. You’ve come close to doing so several times, knowing it would make Joel happy to not have you on his mind or in his space anymore.

Your hand hovers near the hunting rifle slanted against the wall, ultimately deciding against it as you tuck your pistol and knife into your pants, tossing half of the berries into a bag and shrugging on the jacket Joel had found for you on a hunting trip.

You take a final glance at his door before sucking in another sharp breath, opening and closing the back door for what you assume to be the last time.

—

Joel hears you return only to leave again a few minutes later. He thinks little of it, something you do frequently throughout the day when foraging or inspecting snares.

He wishes he could express his gratitude to you, thank you for how much you help out. How much you’ve improved his life just by being here. It kills him to see how you shrink away every time he enters the room, but he understands why. He hasn’t given you a reason not to.

Once he’s sure you’re out of earshot, he resumes pumping himself, hips bucking into his fist seconds before spurting hot ribbons of come onto his lower abdomen, eyes rolling back in his skull, your name a curse on his tongue as he imagines your mouth working him over in place of his fist.

As much as he’s wanted to touch you, sink himself into you every night, he’s been too afraid. Afraid to even speak to you, afraid of becoming attached only to lose you, like he’s lost all the others.

—

When you don’t return by mid day, he begins to worry.

He tries not to. He tries to tell himself maybe you decided to forage a little longer than usual, or maybe you’re at the river searching for freshwater clams since the weather is slowly beginning to warm.

Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. That something is wrong.

He finds the bowl of fresh berries on the counter, evident that you had been foraging at least part of the day. But it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t good enough for him.

When you don’t return by nightfall, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong.

This isn’t you.

—

Two days pass and you realize just how badly you fucked up.

The berries barely made a dent in your hunger and the only other food you managed to find were a few wild mushrooms that you’re pretty sure weren’t the edible kind, if the half gallon of resulting vomit an hour later was any sort of indication.

You fucked up. You fucked up royally and you miss the cabin. You miss the warm stove and the bed Joel made for you close to the fire. You miss how he always kept you fed and protected, even if you’re certain he hates you.

You miss Joel. You miss his grunts, you miss the way his face pinches when he glowers. You miss what he looks like when he chews, almost like he’s angry at his food somehow. You miss his smell when he comes home covered in grime and sweat from a full day of hunting.

Dusk has fallen on your second day without food or water, your bones feeling like powder and your muscles like jelly. You’re exhausted, head pounding with a combination of fatigue and hunger as you take shelter from the wind in a small outcropping of rocks, wishing he was here with you.

You’ll go back tomorrow, you decide.

—

Joel watches the sun sink behind the horizon of trees, cloaking the surrounding forest in near darkness.

He knows he should stop to rest for the night. Like you, he left in a rush without grabbing much in way of supplies or sustenance, but had been lucky to graze a buck that he was passively tracking while searching for you. He’ll likely find it soon.

He periodically came across fresh deer imprints in the earth, clean tracks slowly changing to drag marks, indicating the buck was either dead or close to death.

But you were constantly at the forefront of his mind. You were his focus. His reason to keep going. His reason for continuing to live.

And when he finds a perfect indentation of your left boot moments before the sun lowers completely from the sky, he knows he can’t afford to stop now.

—

It’s still dark when you wake up, your eyes coming into focus along the faint edges of what you can see, which isn’t much. Some rocks. Some trees.

You shift, rolling to your opposite side to go back to sleep, tucking your hands under your cheek as a makeshift pillow. A breeze blows over you, made stronger by the funnel of rocks, and you shiver, pulling your jacket tighter.

Snap.

Your eyes fly open again, immediately jumping to your haunches as you palm the pistol next to you.

You train your ears toward the source of the sound, somewhere in the trees, listening intently, your mind on shuffle with all the possibilities of what it could be.

It didn’t sound large enough to be a bear. A puma, perhaps, one who didn’t seem to be hunting you, hopefully, due to how loud the sound was.

Infected? A slim possibility. Rare up here, but not unheard of, which left you with the most likely option: it was human.

You attempt to still your breath, your fist white knuckled around the butt of the gun. It’s too dark to see anything, and all you hear is the soft whistle of the wind.

—

Joel registers the sound of you shifting from somewhere up the incline above him, limbs turning to stone as his mind cycles through all the same scenarios as you.

He lost your tracks halfway through the night, finding himself going in circles, so it’s quite possible it’s not you he’s just stumbled upon.

He slowly removes the rifle from his shoulder, lifting it to half mast in case whomever he’s stumbled across is hostile… or infected.

“I’m armed!” he calls out, lifting the rifle to a defensive position with the butt pressed to his shoulder. “I have no beef with you if you have none with me,” he adds.

You swear your heart stops, tears suddenly stinging your eyes with salt.

“J-Joel?” you whimper, almost imperceptible, but it’s just loud enough.

Joel can only react, unthinking, responding on muscle memory alone as he somehow manages to traverse the steep, rocky incline in seconds without eating it.

You jump upright to your feet, despite how weak you are, and before your brain even has a chance to tell your legs to move, you’re struck by a wall of muscle, thick arms coiling around you and pulling you against his chest.

“Thank god, thank god,” Joel sobs into your hair as he drags you down to the ground with him, his voice softer than you can ever remember, the wetness of his tears soaking through your shirt. “I thought I’d lost you…” he whispers, his voice wavering.

He inhales your scent deeply, his hold on you nearly painful, but you don’t mind, your face against his chest as your own tears start to fall.

—

“I’m sorry,” Joel murmurs softly as you’re walking back the following day, glancing over at you, dark brown eyes gently regarding your side profile in the early morning light. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t care. I just…”

“I know,” you respond, pausing to collect your breath and your thoughts. “I know why you did it. I’m sorry I doubted you. I’m sorry I scared you…”

“Hey,” he says, gently cupping your jaw as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze, calloused thumb tracing your jawbone, pausing at your bottom lip. “S’okay.”

Your lips pucker, impervious to stop yourself from planting a small kiss to the pad of his thumb as it brushes your lip.

He lets out a low breath, his hand snaking around to the nape of your neck, fingers lacing through your hair as he tugs you closer, lips crashing against yours in a passionate, heated kiss that flows trembling from him with every fiber of withheld emotion and desire.

—

You arrive at the cabin half a day later, impressed but not surprised by how swiftly Joel was able to navigate both of you back safely.

He even successfully locates the downed buck, stiff with rigor mortis and cold, half chewed by a pack of wolves that scatter with a single rifle shot fired over their heads, the large animal now dragging listlessly behind Joel as you finally break through the barrier of trees encasing the valley where the cabin resides.

Smoke still curls from the chimney, fire long gone but embers undoubtedly still hot, and you find yourself smiling. With relief, with anticipation.

You’re exhausted, famished and dirty. Yet you still assist Joel in stringing up what’s left of the buck to the outside of the cabin until he can properly butcher it, feeling obligated to do so after everything that’s happened, despite his protests.

Once the task is complete, you retire to the warmth and comfort of the cabin, curled against his chest, feeling at home for the first time in months.

His fingers idly trace the bow of your spine, both of you falling into a fast sleep for what feels like days on end.

—

“I was so goddamn stupid,” Joel growls softly as his lips chart a path down your soft inner thighs, finding himself grinding his hips into the mattress for relief. “So goddamn stupid an’ bullheaded, an’ I almost lost you for it.”

Your spine arcs instinctually when his breath ghosts tauntingly close to your soaked folds, your fists finding his graying locks with a tug.

“Joel, stop talking and make it up to me,” you whine, earning a disapproving glance from between your legs, but there’s an undercurrent of playfulness behind his eyes.

“Make it up to you, huh?” he purrs, separating your folds and inhaling your natural scent. “By tastin’ this perfect little pussy?”

“Yes,” you whine again, writhing like a worm cooking under the sun in his grasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Uh uh,” he scolds, moving further away from where you’re desperate for him. “Ask nicely.”

His lip curves almost imperceptibly into a sly smirk, his gaze growing a shade darker.

“Please, Joel,” you amend, still wiggling, almost involuntary at this point, his fingers digging into your hips as he pins you against the bed.

“Please what?”

“Please, I need to feel your mouth on my pussy,” you whimper.

His nostrils flare, smirk growing just enough for you to realize you weren’t just seeing things.

He doesn’t waste another second as he dives in with a low, reverberative growl and begins feasting on you like a man starved, his meaty forearm barred across your hip to hold you in place so he can eat you out properly.

His tongue parts your folds, licking a broad stripe up your seam with a groan as he tastes your essence for the first time, moving back down to your opening to tongue fuck you, the ridge of his nose grinding deliciously against your throbbing clit.

You tug harder against his strands with a moan, helping to guide him where you need him most.

Joel grunts your name into your core, eyes locking with yours over your mound, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart right then and there.

He abruptly pulls his mouth from you, making you whine in protest, another smirk notching the corner of his lips as he rolls onto his back, rigid cock swaying slightly with the motion of his hips.

“Get on my face, baby, I need to get deeper,” he says, grabbing your wrist and gesturing you closer.

You don’t even have to give it another thought, scrambling over him, folded knees planted on either side of his head.

He yanks you down abruptly to his waiting and eager mouth before you’re halfway settled, tongue curling into your wet heat with a deep groan that vibrates straight through you.

His fingers dig into the meat of your ass, directing your movements, grinding you against his face as he continues to feast on you like you’re nothing less of a five star meal.

Your hands furl the edge of the headboard, spine arching, and it doesn’t take much longer in this position to be sent over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you like a bolt of lightning, Joel’s name a sacred prayer on your tongue as everything inside of you completely uncoils.

He keeps you there long enough to let you ride out your high, tongue still laving at your spasming walls until it’s too much for you to handle.

You shift off of him, his facial hair glistening with evidence of your release as he pulls you down into a rough, needy kiss, letting you taste yourself, flipping you over and pinning you beneath him, arms caged around your head as he grinds his hardness against you.

“You have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about you like this,” Joel confesses, nipping at your jaw, then your bottom lip. “How you would feel. How you would taste.” He kisses down to your collarbone, his teeth gently grazing.

“And you have no idea how many times I touched myself thinking about you,” you confess in reply, Joel’s head lifting to meet your eyes at your admission. “I had to bite my lip every night to keep from moaning your name...”

“Fuck…” he growls, settling his pelvis between your thighs, pushing your legs further apart, lifting one to prop against his shoulder.

“You make me feel things I haven’t felt in years,” he rumbles, giving himself a few firm pumps before notching himself at your entrance. “Y’want me to go fast or slow, darlin’?”

A warmth spreads through your chest at the simple act of him asking, knowing it isn’t just mindless sex to him, that he actually cares, if that wasn’t already obvious from how enthusiastically he just ate you out.

“Slow, then hard and fast,” you tell him, earning another deep rumble as he starts to push himself inside of you, fat head stretching your walls.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” he says softly as he steadily gains ground, his hips shuddering with restraint once he bottoms out, sheathing himself fully. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re strangling me,” he grunts. “I don’t know how long I can last...”

The pain of withholding in his voice is palpable.

“Joel, you just made me come super hard,” you tell him. “Don’t hold yourself back just for me.”

His bottom lip juts out and quivers with the thin veil of control he still has, fingertips digging into your hips, crescent moon shapes left behind in your skin.

“Y’sure?” he asks, internal conflict evident in his voice as he rolls his hips half a thrust forward. “‘cause soon as I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back…”

“I’m sure,” you reassure him, letting him hear the conviction in your voice.

He takes in a steadying breath and gently gyrates his hips forward once, twice, his head tilting down to watch the way he disappears inside of you.

It must be the way you’re taking him so well — or maybe it’s the months of not allowing himself to touch you — the thin thread of restraint suddenly fraying after the initial soft, testing thrusts, a barely audible ‘fuck’ escaping his lips seconds before he begins railing into you with everything a man of his age has to give… which is a lot.

Joel’s hand is on your calf, holding your leg flush to his chest, the other on your hip in a bruising hold, watching the way your body sways in rhythm with his motions, teeth bared in concentration.

“Darlin’… I’m… I… where do you want it?” he pants, the question almost sounding pained.

You know you should make him pull out and finish on your stomach. Contraceptives are a rare luxury these days and you’d always made your previous boyfriends pull out. But you can’t stop yourself, the permission spilling from your lips thoughtlessly.

“In… inside…” you whimper in desperation and Joel doesn’t even think to question it.

He collapses on top of you, his hips sputtering and shaking, a deep, guttural snarl sounding from his chest as he spills into you, filling you to the brim with hot jets of spend.

Despite not coming a second time, the sensation of him shooting inside of you still feels good, his warmth filling every crevice it can reach inside of you.

He buries his face against your neck, gingerly taking some of your flesh between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to leave a faint impression.

His hips gradually slow and still, your name a reverent curse on his tongue.

“Christ,” he pants, wrapping you snugly in his burly arms. “Christ, darlin’.”

—

Spring finally reaches the valley, replenishing the land with color and sunlight, allowing you and Joel to wander out further and further every day.

He tells you he wants to find something nicer than the cabin. Somewhere larger, more permanent, even though you’ve told him time and again that you’d prefer to stay.

And you do, for a spell.

That is until you find your body growing more sensitive than usual. Until you find it increasingly difficult to keep some of your meals down, trying to convince Joel it’s nothing, that it’s just a summer cold, when you both know it’s not.

Joel dotes on you, burdens himself over you, knowing exactly what it is without wanting to say it. All the signs are there, almost textbook, unable to keep his memories from drifting back to the days before Sarah was born, how her mother’s symptoms were damn near identical.

He doesn’t dare tell you how scared he is, how much this terrifies him all the the way to his bone marrow, but you know. You see it in his gaze when he looks at you, feel it in his touch when he pulls you against him at night.

—

You’re on a scouting run one warm summer day, Joel hardly more than two feet from you at any given moment, so many unspoken words and feelings still hanging in the air between you.

He reaches for your arm to steady you when your feet slide on a patch of loose rocks, his palm instinctively moving to protect your stomach. You’re almost sure he wasn’t even aware he did it.

“Joel,” you say, placing your hand over his. “I’m alright.”

His brow furrows, silence speaking louder than any words he could say.

He’s reverted into his headspace again, more quiet these last few days than he has been. And it worries you. You hate that he bottles everything up, but you know that confrontation could make him shut down even more.

You begin walking again, his hand absently resting on the small of your back, and you continue down the path in stagnant silence.

Suddenly, Joel stops, eyes squinting to confirm what he’s seeing is real.

A neighborhood.

—

The neighborhood would have been considered a new development before the world went to shit, most of the lots bare and choked with two decades worth of weeds, some houses half built and some finished but likely vacant at the time.

There are only a few that look to have been potentially occupied before everything, three larger homes next to one another in a cul-de-sac at the end of unmanaged, cracked pavement.

There’s not much of interest in the first few homes you inspect, watching the way Joel silently scrutinizes everything as a potential future dwelling, not a single corner left unchecked, his latent instincts as a contractor still well ingrained in him despite the expanse of time.

By mid day, you’re both sweating profusely, Joel moreso than you since he isn’t letting you do much, forcing you to put food and water in your body, brooking no argument when he gives you his ration as well.

He knows you should head back soon before you’re out too late, but there’s still one house left to search and he doesn’t want to make the trip a second time if it isn’t worth the trouble.

The largest house, a two story spruce green craftsman with gray trim, his heart aching with nostalgia at how much it reminds him of his former home in Austin.

You start the same route as with the other houses; from the top, room by room, working your way down, your anxiety growing the lower the sun dips in the sky, knowing you only have a couple hours at best before it’s too late to leave.

The main floors scoured, you follow Joel to the basement, your hands on his shoulders for stability as you slowly work your way down the creaking stairs, your eyes adjusting to the shadows the deeper you travel.

When you’ve reached the bottom, Joel pulls out his flashlight, hitting it against his palm a few times before it flickers to life, the thin beam of light reflecting off the freshly disturbed dust.

You cover your nose and mouth with your shirt to keep out some of the flying particles, watching as Joel stumbles upon a stack of neatly piled and labeled storage totes in the furthest corner from the stairs, adrenaline beginning to course through him like a drug as he reads the faded sharpie scrawled on the sides.

“‘Canned goods and preserves’,” Joel says quietly, his voice higher in pitch than usual, more hopeful. There’s at least four totes labeled canned goods that you can see, possibly more, dates ranging from anywhere from late 2000 to summer of 2003.

He moves slightly to the right, his body tremoring as he examines the next set of totes.

Multiple totes labeled MREs, dated around the same range as the canned goods. He rips the top off of a few of them open to confirm that his eyes aren’t deceiving him, that this isn’t a cruel dream, nearly doubling over when he sees just how real it is.

“Joel?” you ask, concerned, stepping nearer to him when you see him trembling and clutching his chest. “Baby ..?”

He suddenly turns and throws his arms around you, and it dawns on you that he’s crying, he’s crying and trembling, eyes full of happy tears.

“A fucking prepper. A fucking prepper just saved our lives,” he whimpers into your hair, squeezing you against him, and all he can think in that moment is thank fuck for those crazy assholes. Thank fuck for people like Bill.

—

In the weeks that follow, you and Joel clean and repair the house — Joel doing most of the work, per his insistence — but it’s in surprisingly good shape despite its age and lack of upkeep, and even with just the two of you, it doesn’t take as long as you’d expected.

You can’t help but miss the cabin, the natural beauty of the valley. But Joel was right to move you. It’s safer here, more insulated from weather, more space to grow. And perhaps, one day, the cabin can be someone else’s salvation, as it had been for you.

Another night falls on one of the final lingering days of summer, barely able to see the shine of Joel’s eyes in the dim light as he climbs over you, parting your legs with his knee, rumbling low in his chest as he peppers kisses and bites down the column of your neck.

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