#crega stark imagine

[damneddamsy]

second sight | modern!cregan stark x fem!oc (part ii)

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

summary: (read part i here) Ever wonder how they met? Claere and Cregan’s story forms at the intersection of opposites: a mysterious girl with a scandalous reputation and a fuelled, grounded hockey player, both trying to navigate lives that couldn’t seem more different. Parties, misunderstandings, and an unexpected kiss—that's where Claere and Cregan’s secret romance begins.

warnings: this is pure, tooth-rotting fluff and yearning. language. law-breaking. alcohol. drugs.

words: 18,000+, 45 min read (full-time job + sleepless nights = ?)

Cregan Stark had just won the game, but for the first time in his life, winning didn’t matter.

The locker room was alive with the kind of chaos only a hard-fought victory could ignite. Shouts echoed off the walls, and laughter bounced between the clangs of tossed helmets and stick taps on the floor. The air was electric, a cocktail of sweat, adrenaline, and triumph that made the walls feel like they might burst.

The riotous celebration almost drowned Coach’s gruff praise: “That’s how you fight, lads! That’s how you finish!” His words struck sparks in the room, igniting another round of cheers and fists banging against lockers.

Normally, Cregan would’ve been at the centre of it all, roaring with his team, drowning in the high of a win well-earned. His shoulders would feel lighter under the weight of the captain’s "C," his grin splitting his face as he soaked up the shared glory.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he sat slouched in his cubby, his jersey half-stripped and his skates still on, staring down at the phone lighting up in his hands like it was burning a hole through his palm. It was impossible to ignore—the insistent buzz of notifications, the glow of the screen, the words that blurred together in a flurry of disbelief and shock.

Bro, howwww XD I sniff the bullshit

How did you pull HER, Stark?

Score. You owe me a pint, brother

Lock it the fuck down, mate. She’s out of your league.

Cregan swiped the screen to dim the messages, jaw tight as the heat climbed his neck. This was what he’d signed up for, wasn’t it? The stares. The jokes. The endless fucking questions. He scrolled past the messages, thumb hovering over his camera roll. Hesitation flickered—just for a second—before he tapped on a photo. There she was, the light of his whole life.

The photo filled the screen like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Claere sat at his darkened dining table, a small strawberry cake glowing with two candles in front of her. Her silver hair was pulled into loose pigtails, her cheeks slightly flushed from the room's heat. She’d scrunched up her face for the camera, lips puckered, eyes two crescent moons of pure joy. She was laughing, the sound practically tangible even through a static image.

It was their second anniversary. He’d taken the picture after making a fool of himself trying to light the candles with a busted lighter. Claere had been in stitches. “You’re hopeless,” she had said, shaking her head before kissing him on the cheek.

“Godsdamnit, Stark.” A voice snapped him back to reality.

He jolted, fumbling to lock his phone, but not before the picture had been burned into someone else’s retinas. The voice belonged to Tomlin, his closest defenseman.

“She’s a fucking hottie, mate.”

“You lucky bastard,” someone else chimed in, and soon a cluster of guys crowded around him, craning their necks to see.

“All right, that’s my sister,” came a sharper voice.

Jacaerys Velaryon, Claere’s older brother and their star winger, emerged from the haze of damp towels and shattered sticks. His presence cut through the lingering noise of post-game banter, exasperation written in the hard set of his jaw as he shoved through the group crowding around Cregan’s bench.

“Back off, all of you. Evil eye assholes,” Jace snapped, swiping a towel from one of the guys as they dispersed. A few muttered half-hearted protests, others threw exaggerated thumbs-ups or winks in Cregan’s direction before retreating toward the showers.

Jace dropped onto the bench beside Cregan without ceremony, slinging the stolen towel over his shoulder. He didn’t say anything at first, focusing instead on unwrapping the compression bandages from his legs, wincing as the fabric peeled away from bruised, sweat-slicked skin.

“Tough game,” he muttered finally, not looking up.

Cregan let out a dry laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just say it, Jace.”

“Say what?” Jace’s grin was maddeningly lopsided like he knew exactly what Cregan expected but wouldn’t give it to him. “That I’m proud of you?”

Cregan frowned, caught off guard. “The fuck?”

“Yeah,” Jace said, leaning back against the lockers with a groan. “About time you came out with this. Can’t imagine it feels good, keeping something like that buried.”

Cregan blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Bloody hell, I could not keep your secret any longer,” Jace added with a laugh, shaking his head. “It was fouling me up. Every time I saw her, it was like I had to bite my tongue in half not to slip.”

Cregan exhaled sharply, his shoulders loosening despite himself. “That simple, huh?”

“Guess so,” Jace said, shrugging. “You make her happy, Stark. That’s all I care about.”

Before Cregan could respond, his phone buzzed again. The screen lit up, illuminating Claere’s name. Everything else—the damp towels, the clatter of skates against the locker room floor, even Jace beside him—faded into the background. It was like the whole world narrowed to that one word, that one connection.

Her name. Just six letters, but somehow it carried the weight of everything they’d built together. The stolen glances, the late-night conversations, the quiet moments where words weren’t needed. It wasn’t just a name on a screen—it was her. Her laugh, her eyes, the way she looked at him like she saw straight through every wall he’d ever put up.

And now, here it was again, in the midst of the chaos: a reminder of what mattered.

He swiped open the message, already feeling the tension in his chest ease just a fraction.

I wish I could come down and find you, but I can't stay. Paps outside. I’ll see you at home <3

His eyes caught on a single word. Home.

For a second, it didn’t feel like the locker room around him existed. That word hit harder than anything else—unexpected, simple, and strangely grounding. His place wasn’t just a crash pad or an escape for her anymore; it was home. To her. That realization settled somewhere deep, quieting the noise of everything else.

He typed back, his fingers moving almost on instinct.

Anything, baby. I got you. Can't wait xx

The response felt effortless, not because it was routine but because it was true. They’d had this conversation many times before, and they had these covert plans to meet after the chaos. The same texts and soft promises whispered in a world that didn’t quite feel ready to see them.

But even now, with everything out in the open, nothing about the core of it had changed. They still had to navigate the same moments, the same carefully coordinated endings.

He stood, grabbing his gear. The familiar weight of his hockey bag slung over his shoulder was grounding, a reminder of everything that hadn’t changed.

“Off to play house already?” one of the guys called from across the room, his grin wicked.

Another chimed in, “Cardio plans for my boooooy!”

“Yeah, don’t forget your stamina, Stark.”

The room erupted into laughter, voices overlapping with whistles and exaggerated winks.

Cregan didn’t stop. Didn’t roll his eyes or even glance back. He just held up a middle finger as he walked, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Because, yeah, they could laugh. They could tease. They didn’t know what it felt like to have her waiting on the other side of all this noise.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, the chaos of the locker room faded behind him. The sky stretched wide and endless above the parking lot, the stars faint against the glow of the city. He pulled his bag higher on his cramped shoulder, the load of it barely registering. His mind was already miles away.

Home. That word clung to him, nestled somewhere deep in his chest. It wasn’t just a place anymore—it was her. It was Claere. And knowing that made everything else—the game, the chaos, the cameras—worth it.

He unlocked his truck and tossed his bag into the bed, letting out a long breath. But as he leaned back against the driver’s door, the quiet brought memories with it, as if the night itself wanted to remind him just how far he’d fallen.

Cregan Stark had it fucking bad, and he knew it.

He was done for from the moment he’d first noticed her—really noticed her. Not the way everyone else did, with their rumours and their whispers, their tabloid snapshots and snide commentary. No, for him, it had been something else entirely.

It was her first year at the quad. He remembered the exact moment because it was impossible to forget. He’d been sitting in his truck, waiting out the morning rush, his morning green juice spilling into the cupholder and his patience thinner than usual.

Then she pulled up. That absurd little white scooter stuttered into the lot a few rows ahead of him, a stark contrast to the roaring engines of bikes and cars around it. She unclipped her helmet and shook out her hair, so unhurried and deft, the sunshine catching in the silvery strands as they tumbled free. He would be lying if he said it wasn't playing out in faded hues and slow motion to him. She smoothed her skirt, adjusted her necklace, and—gods above—spread pink lip balm with surgical precision using the side mirror as her guide. Popped her lips into a pout.

He should’ve looked away, should’ve minded his business. He honestly couldn't. She had him entirely for a moment. He would've fought another person through blood, rain and mud for this unfamiliar girl.

She pointed at her reflection, mouthed something—“You’re not a quitter”—and nodded confidently, as if the girl staring back at her needed convincing. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she rummaged in her bag, pulled out a breath mint, and placed it gently on the pavement in front of a trail of ants.

And just like that, she was gone, walking toward the quad with her bag slung over one shoulder, peering into her phone, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d left a grown man sitting slack-jawed in his truck.

Gods-fucking-dammit. He’d been a goner for that fruitcake from that moment on.

Back then, he’d told himself it was just a passing fascination. A moment of curiosity, nothing more. Another pretty Targaryen chick, nothing less. But the memory stayed with him, surfacing at the most inconvenient times, dragging his thoughts back to her in ways he couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t until much later—until her quiet, steady presence started to fill spaces he didn’t know were empty—that he realized the truth.

Claere Velaryon wasn’t just someone he’d noticed. She was someone he couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

Ever since then, he started paying attention to his surroundings more often. He picked out the clack of her strappy sandals in the halls, and noticed how her earrings changed every week—tiny hoops, dainty studs, dangling charms. Brown was her favourite colour; it showed in her clothes, her notebooks, and even the little leather straps on her bag. The way her braided silver hair caught the light, the delicate gold jewellery adorning her fingers as they moved across a notebook in slow, precise sketches—it was maddening. Fascinating. She was chipping away at him every moment she lingered.

A simple flick of her wrist as she shaded something in her sketchbook made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t explain. He didn’t even care what she was drawing; he just wanted to sit there, unnoticed, and watch her hands.

It was sick, he thought, the way he’d tailored his life around her. He’d signed up for a mind-numbingly boring horticulture elective just to be in the same room as her. His teammates had laughed for days about it—“Cregan Stark, the ice king, planting daisies?”—but none of it mattered. Not when she sat three rows ahead of him, her head bent over her notes, utterly oblivious to the chaos she caused in his chest. And every day, he longed to sit by her side and tuck that little tendril of silvery hair behind her ear.

Even at the rink, his sanctuary, she’d wormed her way into his thoughts. She rarely came to see Jace practice, but when she did, it was like the entire world shifted. He’d skate harder, faster, pulling off moves he barely practised, all in the hope that she might look up and watch him in his element. But Claere never seemed to care. She’d stretch out on her back over the benches, headphones in, world off, eyes closed. And yet, the mere sight of her was enough to light him up from the inside out.

But the thing that really drove him insane—truly made his brain short-circuit—was how she tried. She wasn’t exactly outgoing, but she made an effort. He’d see her in the library, offering an overly pleasant smile to someone in her study group, only for it to be met with an awkward nod. Or sometimes in the mess hall, where she’d hover near a table of classmates, tray in hand, like she was working up the nerve to sit down—just to turn away when no one waved her over.

He couldn’t understand it. Why did no one want to talk to this gorgeous girl? She was right there, looking like something out of a storybook, and yet everyone acted like she didn’t exist.

“I don’t get it,” he had muttered, half to himself, when his friends had finally gotten to having lunch. Claere had been perched at a table by the window, fiddling with a ring on her finger, her tray untouched.

“Get what?” his teammate, Wil, asked, not looking up from his fries.

“Why nobody talks to her,” Cregan had said, gesturing vaguely in Claere’s direction. “She’s… I mean, look at her. She’s—”

“Intense,” Wil had finished, shrugging.

Cregan frowned. “Intense?”

“You know, quiet. Standoffish. It’s like she doesn’t want to be here. Like she's above us all.” His teammate took another bite of his burger, speaking around the mouthful. “And then there’s the whole… Targaryen thing. People don’t know what to say to someone like that.”

Cregan had bristled. “Someone like what?”

Wil had shrugged again. “Rich. Loose screws. Scary-pretty.”

Scary? Cregan glanced at her again, noting the way her face softened as she leaned into her palm, absentmindedly tracing circles on her notebook.

There was nothing scary about her. Not in the way Wil meant, anyway. Sure, she was different. Quiet where others were loud. Graceful where others fumbled. She had a way of carrying herself that made her stand apart, like she was cut from a different cloth. Maybe she was. But none of that made her scary.

“She’s not scary,” Cregan said sharply, his tone brooking no argument.

Wil raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Hit a nerve, Cap?”

Cregan ignored him, his mind circling back to something else. “What about Jace, then? Why doesn’t he get this treatment? He’s just as rich, just as Targaryen, and no one seems to care.”

“Jace’s different,” Wil said with a shrug. “He’s always in your face, gets along with everyone, probably swallowed two loudspeakers. You know how it is. People don’t question you when you’re easy to like.”

Easy to like. The words sat uncomfortably in Cregan’s chest.

His gaze returned to Claere. Her soft smile lingered as she scribbled something in her notebook, completely unaware of the weight of the judgments thrown her way. Scary-pretty. What a load of bullshit. If anything, the way people talked about her was the real problem. Not her. Screw them.

“Yeah, well,” Cregan muttered, pushing his plate away, “some people wouldn’t know real class if it smacked them in the face.”

Wil snorted, but Cregan didn’t give him a chance to reply. His attention was back on Claere, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. Scary? No, she wasn’t scary. She was just different. And maybe that’s what scared everyone else.

He couldn’t even hide his big, fat crush anymore. Whenever the mess hall went quiet, the way it always did when she walked in, he’d find his seat with his friends, carefully angled just to catch a glimpse of her. And Jace—observant, infuriating, son of a bitch Jace—noticed everything.

“You’re disgusting, Cap,” Jace announced, shattering Cregan’s thoughts like glass.

“What?” Cregan muttered, dragging himself back to the pub, where the beer was warm, the lights were dim, and his best friend was clearly gearing up to humiliate him. A table beside them began to sound much like the laugh track in his disgraceful love life.

“You. With my little sister.” Jace gestured lazily with his bottle, smirking. “You’re disgusting. It’s like watching a wolf drool over a lamb.”

“Shut up,” Cregan snapped, leaning back against the booth. He tipped his head back, glaring at the ceiling. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh no? Not like what?” Jace leaned in, mock-serious now. “Not like you stare at her every time she’s within fifty feet?”

“I'm observant. She’s just not as weird as people make her out to be,” Cregan said sharply, ignoring the heat climbing up his neck.

“Who said anything about weird?” Jace’s grin was comically wolfish. “She’s whimsical. Isn’t that what you called her?”

Cregan slammed his beer down on the table, foam spilling over the side. “I swear, Velaryon—”

“What? You gonna fight me?” Jace barked a laugh, tossing his arm over the back of the booth. “Please. You’re too busy writing her name in little hearts in your pretty pink notebook.”

“Fuck. Off.” Cregan’s ears were burning now. He reached across the table, dipped his finger in his beer, and flicked the foam at Jace’s smug face.

“Oi!” Jace swatted the droplets away, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “I’m just saying, mate. Everyone else avoids her like she’s radioactive, and you’re out here choosing the worst electives and peacocking on the ice like you’re trying to land a National Geographic-level mating ritual.”

Cregan groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face, but there was no real malice behind it. “Why are we friends again?”

“Because I’m the one person who calls you out on your bullshit,” Jace shot back, looking far too pleased with himself. “Speaking of bullshit, when are you actually going to talk to her? Or is this just gonna be one long, tragic love story where you pine away while she ignores your existence?”

Cregan opened his mouth to retort, but Jace held up a hand.

“Wait—no. Don’t answer that. I’ve got a better idea.” His grin turned wicked. “Party. My place. This Saturday. Just the guys and their dates. And... I'll ask Claere to come.”

Cregan blinked, his throat suddenly dry. “What?”

“You heard me.” Jace leaned back, tossing back the rest of his drink. “I’ll bring Claere, you bring the booze. Nothing fancy, just a bunch of idiots hanging out, and you can finally stop making heart eyes at her from a distance. No pressure, no theatrics.”

“That’s…” Cregan started, then trailed off. The words finally sank in. Was it a bad idea? Probably. Was it a terrible idea? No. It was something else entirely: a chance.

“That’s not the worst plan,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair.

He stared at his beer, his pulse thundering. It felt like someone had lit his insides on fire. He wasn’t sure what scared him more—the thought of Claere being there or the hope that, for once, maybe this wasn’t a terrible idea.

“Exactly,” Jace said, smirking. “I'm a fuckin' wizard. My pleasure.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Didn’t have to. Your face says it all.” Jace mimed a dreamy expression, batting his lashes.

Cregan smirked to himself, Jace’s relentless teasing still echoing in his mind. For all his best friend’s antics, the guy wasn’t wrong. That had been a moment—a real moment. A chance. Back then, it had all felt so simple, so impossibly far away. The only block in the road seemed to be the courage to talk to her.

Now, as his truck rolled toward the entrance of his building, reality hit him like a body check on the ice. The flash of cameras erupted before he even reached the gate, a wave of chaotic light that made his head throb. The photographers swarmed the sidewalk, their lenses gleaming like predators’ eyes in the night. The cameras followed his every move like they could peel back the tinted windows and see through him.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, navigating the truck slowly and carefully, his jaw clenched. The last thing he needed was to give these vultures another story by running someone over. The beams from their cameras flickered in his mirrors, disorienting him.

Someone darted closer, their camera barely missing his side mirror. He muttered a curse under his breath and leaned on the horn, easing through the gates as they finally slid open.

He finally made it into the underground parking, the echoes of the chaos fading as the gate sealed shut behind him.

“Like hell you're all going to get to me,” he muttered, parking in his designated spot.

When he stepped out, Kennet, his building’s elderly doorman, was already waiting with his usual calm, holding the entrance door open. Kennet gave him a pointed look, nodding toward the commotion outside.

“Your girl brought them here,” he said with the faintest smile, his voice low and amused.

“Yeah,” Cregan said, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. He fished out his key fob and handed it over. “Thanks anyway, sir.”

“Anytime,” Kennet replied with a polite nod, tipping his hat.

Cregan stepped inside the building, and the air shifted. The noise, the flashes, the chaos—all of it disappeared behind the heavy glass doors. His boots echoed softly against the pristine floors as he made his way to the elevator.

As the doors slid shut, he felt his pulse settle. And then the anticipation kicked in.

The thought of Claere waiting for him upstairs lit something electric in his chest, just like the first time at the party. It had been a few hours since they’d texted, but the idea of seeing her—really seeing her—sent his mind spinning. He leaned against the elevator wall, conjuring up a dozen images of her: the way she’d smile when she opened the door, the way she'd clap for his victory, share a kiss, the warmth of her touch when she wrapped her arms around him.

He could feel the ghost of her fingertips already, his heart racing as the elevator climbed higher. And higher.

But as the doors slid open, the cold hard facts crept back in. Those photographers outside? This wasn’t the same as it used to be. Back then, when things were simpler, no one cared who he brought to Jace’s parties or why. But now? Now, this was different. Harder. More complicated.

He stepped into the hallway, steadying himself as he reached his door. This was bigger than anything they’d faced before. But for her? For Claere? He was ready to face it all over again.

He turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

X

Maybe this was an outright terrible idea. He had a lot of them, but this one was possibly the worst.

The tequila in Cregan's cup stared back at him like a challenge, daring him to go for another round. He downed his third—or was it fourth?—shot, wincing as the burn of alcohol clawed its way down his throat. He sucked in a breath and leaned back against the couch, trying to summon some kind of confidence. The party was in full swing, the music a deafening thrum that rattled his chest. Bodies pressed in around him, their movements hazy with the shimmer of dresses and dim lighting.

Maybe this was what rock bottom felt like—half-drunk on a couch, a girl perched on his lap for reasons that didn’t feel entirely clear, and no sign of the one person he actually wanted to see.

The party had started off promising enough. Jace had hyped him up earlier at night, cracking jokes and shoving a drink into his hand. “She’ll be here, man. Nine. Claere doesn’t flake, she’s just... punctual. You know, painfully so.”

But now, it was 9:15. Then 9:25. And every time the door opened, it wasn’t her. He’d stopped pretending to care about who walked in.

The girl on his lap—Sophie? Sophia? Who the fuck knew—twirled a lock of her hair, the motion somehow managing to be both coy and bored. “You’re really broody. Lighten up,” she said with a little pout, trailing a finger down his chest. “Parties are supposed to make you... un-broody.”

Cregan mustered a tight smile, muttering something noncommital, not trusting himself to say much more. He shifted under her weight, uncomfortable in more ways than one. Across the room, Jace was holding court with a group of partygoers, his laugh carrying easily over the thrum of the music. A card fluttered from his mouth as he lost a round of Suck and Blow, and he burst into laughter, slapping his knee.

“Dude, you can’t drop it! That’s the one rule!” Jace hollered, barely managing to stay upright.

Cregan tried to laugh along, but it sounded forced, even to his own ears. He glanced at the door again, his heart sinking further with every empty second.

Then, just as he was about to give up hope, at around half past nine, the door opened.

Claere stepped in, her silhouette framed by the light from the hallway. She wore a simple dress—nothing flashy, but it fit her perfectly, brushing just above her ankles, baby blue, billowing—and a pair of delicate heels. Her hair was left loose, like curled silver curtains around her, her face in a faint flush that rose as she took in the room. In her hands, she held a box.

Cregan froze, his breath catching in his chest.

She hesitated at the threshold, her eyes sweeping over the chaos—the laughing crowd, the spilt drinks, the pounding music. Her lips pressed together, her grip tightening on the box as if it might anchor her. She looked so out of place it almost hurt. She didn’t belong here.

No, that wasn’t it. She belonged everywhere, but this scene—the loud crowd, the half-drunken revelry, the boy on the couch who couldn’t stop screwing up—wasn’t good enough for her.

“Claaaerie!” Jace’s voice cut through the noise as he stumbled toward her, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. He wasn’t as drunk as he looked—Cregan could tell by the way he managed to thread through the crowd without knocking over a single cup.

“Oh, finally. I'm so drunk right now.”

Claere blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. “You said to come late,” she said quietly.

Cregan watched the interaction with a hollow pit forming in his stomach. He had waited all night for her, and now he felt like some idiot kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or, in this case, with another girl on his lap.

“Right, right! And you did that way too well!” Jace exclaimed, throwing an arm around her shoulder. He squinted at the box in her hands. “Wait, what’s that? Is that pot? Please tell me it’s pot.”

Claere tilted her head, unamused. She lifted the lid open slightly. “Mom told me to bring brownies.”

Jace groaned, leaning heavily on her. He took the box out of her hands and chucked it straight into the fridge. “Gods, Claere. Daemon would’ve stuffed weed in it at least.”

“He suggested,” she said with a shrug. Her mouth twitched into something resembling a smile, and Cregan’s chest ached. It wasn’t fair, how effortlessly she could cut through the noise with the smallest expression.

Snickering, Jace plucked a pre-filled plastic shot glass from a nearby table and thrust it into her hands. “Here. Bottoms up.”

“I’m not legal,” she pointed out, eyeing the shot.

“Someone here is. Shut up and do me proud,” Jace said, grinning.

Claere hesitated, then took a cautious sip. She winced, shuddering violently, but didn’t spit it out. She hacked up a cough, waving her hand under her scrunched nose which made Jace burst out into raucous laughter.

From across the room, unable to stop staring at her, Cregan’s chest twisted in a way that made him want to both laugh and scream. She was here. She was finally here. Can you die of proximity? Even somewhat drunk and confident, it felt like he was about to.

But then her eyes landed on him and he swore his heart tripped over itself. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then she glanced at the girl on his lap, who was leaning in to whisper something in his ear, sliding her arm around his shoulder. Claere’s gaze lingered for only a moment before she looked away as if she'd seen too much, her expression as uninterested as ever.

Panic surged through Cregan like a jolt of electricity, a sudden, visceral reminder that this was exactly the moment he’d been hoping for—and he was unprepared. With another fucking girl on his lap. As he scrambled to his feet, entirely too fast for his unsteady body to follow, the world tilted, and he promptly flopped back onto the couch with all the grace of a baby deer.

The girl next to him giggled, patting his arm like he was a child trying and failing at something cute. The embarrassment was immediate and scorching. He didn’t even look her way—didn’t dare. His attention was fixed on Claere.

Cregan’s stomach twisted painfully when her gaze flicked his way again, startled. She saw him—oh, she saw him, alright—sprawled gracelessly on the couch, the girl next to him still giggling at something he didn’t hear. His heart sank like a stone when Claere’s expression shifted. Cool. Detached. Unimpressed.

He wanted to disappear. Or rewind. Or do something. But he was rooted to the spot, a growing knot of shame, frustration, and longing keeping him frozen.

Jace, either oblivious or brilliantly strategic, started ushering Claere toward the balcony. “Hey, so. Have you seen the view from here? It’s like fifty floors up. Amazing. You can see the whole city.”

Claere allowed herself to be led away, and for a split second, she glanced back at Cregan. It wasn’t a long look. It wasn’t anything profound. But it gutted him all the same.

Her lips moved in a brief murmur—something to Jace—but Cregan didn’t hear it. It could've been minutes after, but his brain was stuck on the way her earrings caught the light and how much he hated himself for letting her see him like this.

The kick to Cregan’s shin was not gentle.

“You dumbass,” Jace sighed.

Cregan glared up at him. “What?”

“Snap out of it.” Jace leaned closer, his face barely serious enough to be sober. “She’s on the balcony. Alone. Do something. Sober up first.”

Cregan groaned, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Yeah, sure. After you go talk to her.” Jace nudged him again, harder this time. “Do it. Or I’ll do it for you—and make it weird.”

That was enough to get him moving. Groaning again, he pushed himself off the couch, weaving through the crowd toward the kitchen like a man on a mission—or possibly one being sent to his doom.

The mission: sober the fuck up.

He chugged a near-full gallon of water, the cold shocking his system as he tipped his head back. His stomach sloshed in protest, but he ignored it, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. Chewing furiously, he stumbled into the bathroom, fumbling with the lock.

Inside, he inspected the damage in the mirror. His hair was a mess, his breath foul enough to make him wince, and his shirt—Gods, how had it always been this wrinkled?

He turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face, scrubbing at it like it might erase his lingering tipsiness. “Get it together, Stark,” he muttered under his breath, finger-brushing his teeth with a dab of toothpaste from the sink’s edge.

By the time he re-buttoned his shirt and smoothed it down, he almost looked like himself again. Almost. His reflection stared back at him, still wasted and slightly flushed. You can do this, he told himself. It’s just a conversation. You're the fucking alpha. You got this.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he didn’t even have to search. She was still there, standing on the balcony, her skin seizing the glow of the city lights, hair slightly weaving with the breeze.

She was devastating. Heartbreaking. Breathtaking. And she was still alone.

Cregan grabbed two cans of soda from the counter—one for her, one to give his hands something to do—and started toward the balcony. His heart pounded like he was stepping onto the ice for the biggest game of his life. Gathering every ounce of courage, he approached with steady steps, balancing the sodas. His nerves must’ve betrayed him because his toe caught the edge of the balcony frame, sending him pitching forward onto his knee.

The cans clattered to the floor. For a split second, Cregan just knelt there, staring at the sodas rolling away like they were escaping his dignity. This could easily be his supervillain genesis.

“Oh, gosh. Are you okay?” Claere’s voice cut through his self-loathing spiral, soft and startled. She crouched beside him, her hand settling on his shoulder, light as a feather but searing into his skin like a brand.

His brain short-circuited. Every nerve in his body screamed, and for one horrifying moment, he thought his soul might actually leave him. He jolted upright with the force of a man fleeing a crime scene, flailing to regain some semblance of control.

“Hey-ey-ey!” His laugh was too loud, too forced. He jabbed the air a couple of times like a boxer warming up, then, because his body clearly wasn’t done betraying him, he dropped into a single, stiff jumping jack. “Tripped and fell for you, didn’t I?”

Claere’s brows arched delicately. Her mouth opened, and for a second, he thought she might laugh—but instead, she let out a quiet, sceptical hum. “'Kay.”

Cregan’s heart plummeted through the floor. Idiot, idiot, idiot. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to salvage what was left of his pride. “Sorry. Just... didn’t watch my step.”

Claere’s expression softened, and she straightened, brushing her dress. “It happens,” she said simply, like she wasn’t watching him fall apart in real-time.

When she turned back to the balcony, leaning against the railing with that same poise she carried everywhere, Cregan wanted to both thank and curse the gods. He joined her, not too close, but close enough that he could catch the faint scent of something floral—probably her perfume. He didn’t dare ask.

His eyes slid her way, the urge to glance at her irresistible. Those violet eyes, one look and his knees would buckle again. So his gaze inevitably dropped to her hands. Her rings had changed again. One was thicker than the delicate bands she usually wore, with a subtle green gem at its centre. Another, on her pinky, looked like two tiny gold snakes entwined.

Does she pick these out every day? Does she have a collection? How does she decide which ones to wear? His thoughts tumbled over one another, but all of them circled back to a singular fact: she was breaking him apart, and she didn’t even know it.

“You like rings?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Claere turned her head slightly, regarding him with mild curiosity. “Um, yes. I don't like my hands empty, I guess.” She twisted one of them absently. “This one’s my favourite.” She held out her hand, the golden dragonfly ring glinting faintly in the light. He'd seen it on her before. “It’s a dragonfly. Symbolizes new beginnings.”

Cregan swallowed hard. He wanted to hold that hand. Kiss that hand. Pull her closer. Kiss her—and he shook himself out of it. He managed a swift smile.

“That’s... cool. Really cool.”

“Thank you.” Her lips curved into the smallest smile, and his chest felt like it might explode.

For a moment, there was silence. Cregan searched for something, anything, to say, but everything that came to mind sounded stupid or desperate. He settled for leaning casually against the railing, imitating her posture, though his arms felt too long and his shoulders too stiff. His head was still buzzing, partly from all the confidence-boosting drinks but mostly from her.

Claere broke the silence first. “That girl from earlier…” Her voice was light, but there was a guarded undertone. “Is she your girlfriend?”

Cregan choked. “No!” The word came out too fast, too loud, and he winced, dragging a hand through his hair. “No, definitely not. Ha. Not my girlfriend. I'm not... yeah.”

Claere tilted her head, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a soft, “Alright,” and turned back to the city lights. From their vantage point, the streets looked like glowing microchips, an intricate network of lights and motion that stretched endlessly.

Cregan felt the silence settle again between them, but this time, it wasn’t stifling. It was tentative, like a bridge suspended by threads, fragile yet holding. His nerves were frayed, his thoughts looping in a chaotic spiral, but there was something disarmingly steady about Claere’s presence. For a moment, he thought he might just enjoy the quiet—until his mouth decided otherwise.

“You know, actually,” he started, the words spilling out before his brain could catch up, “you’re... really awesome.”

Claere turned to him, her brow lifting in surprise. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “I mean, you’re... you’re beautiful, too. Really beautiful. But, uh...” He trailed off, realizing with dawning horror where this was going. His brain scrambled to pull the handbrake, but the alcohol had other plans. “It's always. Not just now. I just think you’re kind of... perfect? In a normal way. Not weird or anything.”

She blinked at him, startled, her lips parting slightly. “Oh.”

And that was it. That one syllable. That soft, quiet oh—like she didn’t know whether to laugh or bolt—that sent his already precarious control careening over the edge.

As if preordained by the devil himself, Cregan’s stomach twisted, the telltale churn of nausea bubbling up with alarming speed. “Oh, gods,” he muttered, doubling over. “No, no, no—”

“What’s wrong?” Claere asked, stepping toward him, her voice sharp with concern.

He didn’t answer, too busy stumbling toward the nearest flowerpot. The retching came in violent waves, hunching entirely into himself, humiliating and unstoppable. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud, and he groaned, eyes watering, clutching the edge of the planter for dear life.

Claere was beside him in an instant, kneeling on the concrete. A hand stroked his spine gently, steadying him as he retched again, this time less savagely. When it was over, she rose to her feet, returning moments later with a glass of water.

“Here,” she said. She crouched again, offering him the glass. “Sip slowly.”

Cregan took the glass, his hands trembling. He swished the water in his mouth before spitting into the flowerpot, grimacing. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked, his voice raw and thick with shame. “Why me? Why, gods, why?”

Claere’s hand resumed its place on his back, rubbing gentle circles. “You’re fine. Happens to the best of us.”

“Not really,” he mumbled, still hunched over. “Or in front of...” His voice trailed off as he realized what he’d been about to say. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the ground to swallow him whole.

“In front of the carnations?” she asked lightly, almost teasing.

“In front of you,” he admitted, barely louder than a whisper. His stomach clenched, though whether it was from the lingering nausea or the sheer mortification, he couldn’t tell.

Claere laughed softly, a sound that felt more like an exhale than a noise. “So much it made you barf?” she asked, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

“The shots,” he muttered, burying his face in his hands. “Definitely the shots.”

“Okay,” she said, the amusement evident in her voice as she retrieved the empty glass from him. “Do you want to stand up?”

Her hand shifted to his shoulder, helping him to his feet. For a moment, Cregan wavered, the spinning world around him making his knees weak, but she steadied him with surprising strength.

“You’re so nice,” he said, his voice gruff and still a little slurred. His gaze met hers, blurry but sincere. “And so fuckin' gorgeous. I love your rings, too...”

Claere let out a short laugh, shaking her head as she hooked her arm through his. “Let’s get you sitting down before you take another dive.”

Cregan leaned into her, her arm the only thing keeping him steady as the world continued to tilt under the haze of alcohol. The sharp edges of his humiliation faded, replaced by the quiet lure of her presence—the warmth of her touch, the faint scent of her perfume, the glimmer of amusement she didn’t bother to hide. He wasn’t sure what burned hotter, the lingering shame or the realization that even at his worst, she hadn’t let go.

X

Regret always hit hardest in the morning. Cregan woke with a start, to sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains. His head throbbed like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, and his mouth was a desert, his tongue stuck to the roof of it like glue. Groaning, he rolled over, clutching the soft covers closer—and stilled.

This wasn’t his room.

The walls were muted green, and the trim, a soft brown, reminded him of some forest retreat. There was a small balcony visible through the open curtains, looking out over a sea of treetops swaying in the morning breeze. The bed was far too big for his apartment, the sheets too floral, too soft, too... feminine.

And he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Fuck no, this is not happening.

Panic lurched him upright—bad idea. His head spun, and he clutched his temples, groaning again as the events of last night teased the edges of his memory. So blurry. So unwanted.

“Morning, Cap!”

The voice—cheerful, bordering on obnoxious—came from the door. Cregan squinted to see Jace leaning against the frame, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Cregan rubbed his temples again.

“What the—where—why am I—” His words tumbled over each other like tripping toddlers.

“Don’t hurt yourself, vomit comet,” Jace said, casually strolling in. “We drove you back to our place last night. You were drunk as a skunk, started belting George Michael in the driveway, and insisted on sleeping in Claere’s room. With her.”

Oh, gods. It hit him like a sledgehammer. Flashes of last night came back in blurred scenes: the car ride home. His gods-awful singing. The flowerpot. The balcony. And then, stumbling over stairs, standing outside her door, swaying like an idiot, declaring to Jace and anyone who’d listen that he had to sleep next to Claere because, and he’d quote himself now, “the world would just make sense that way.”

“Just kill me,” he muttered, pulling the covers over his face.

Lingering just behind Jace was Claere. She hovered by the door, breaking his heart with that nightdress of hers, looking unsure whether to step in or vanish into thin air. When he peeked over the covers, their eyes met briefly before she glanced away, cheeks pink. Jace noticed her hesitation and, because that cheeky fucker thrived on chaos, decided to stoke the fire.

“Well,” Jace said, clapping his hands together, “I’ll leave you two babies to figure everything out.” He flashed a brazen grin and turned to leave.

“Jace, don’t you fucking dare—” Cregan started, but the traitor was already halfway down the hall, cackling. “I’m serious, asshole!” Cregan called after him, voice cracking. Jace’s only response was a loud, taunting laugh.

Claere stepped into the room, hesitant but steady, like she wasn’t sure if she was intruding. In her palm rested a small white pill, a painkiller.

“Good morning,” she said softly, holding it out to him.

Cregan wanted to sink deeper into the mattress like it might swallow him whole and save him from this mortification. He reached for the pill, avoiding her eyes as though direct contact might fry whatever remained of his dignity. Dry-swallowing it, he grimaced at the bitter aftertaste.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, the word barely audible, his throat dry as sandpaper.

“You can use my bathroom,” Claere offered, her voice uncertain, a thread of politeness holding it together. “There’s fresh towels, soap—feel free to use anything.”

“I think I’m just gonna get out of your hair,” Cregan cut in, running a hand through his tangled hair, every movement weighed down by shame and the dull throb in his skull.

Before Claere could respond, a new voice rang out, loud and entirely unwelcome.

“Wash yo’ stanky ass, son! You’re messing up the place!”

Lucerys, Jace’s younger brother, popped his head into the doorway with a grin wide enough to rival a Cheshire cat. He didn’t linger, though, darting off before Cregan could summon the strength to retort. His cackling echoed down the hall, each note like a nail in the coffin of Cregan’s pride.

Groaning, Cregan swung his legs off the bed, moving with all the grace of a crapulous toddler. His muscles protested, his joints creaked, and the dull ache behind his eyes felt like a jackhammer trying to carve through his brain.

Claere shifted on her feet, her fingers toying with the collar of her nightie. “There's a toothbrush for you, too,” she said, quiet. There was a strange softness in her tone like she was offering more than just towels—some unspoken reassurance that this wasn’t as bad as it felt.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face, his palm catching the faint stubble on his jaw. “Yeah. Thank you. I’ll... uh, clean up before I head out. Thank you.”

“Three times the thanks,” she said, smiling a little.

He cleared his throat. “Meant it.”

He shuffled toward the adjoining bathroom, each step heavy, like walking through quicksand. The door clicked shut behind him, and he let out a long, shaky breath, his head falling forward against the cool porcelain of the sink.

The reflection in the mirror was a sight to behold: bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair sticking up at every angle, and a faint red mark on his forehead that he didn’t even want to begin dissecting. Absolutely filthy. What fool had he made of himself?

“You fucking idiot,” he muttered at his reflection, the word laced with all the self-loathing he could muster.

Cregan splashed more cold water onto his face, the icy shock grounding him momentarily from the swirling storm in his head. He leaned heavily on the sink, letting water drip from his chin as fragments of last night replayed once again, more clearly, in sharp, humiliating bursts.

The balcony. The flowerpot. The singing. The driveway. Her face.

“No,” he groaned aloud, gripping the edge of the sink like it might steady his spiralling thoughts.

He tried to piece together what had happened, but every memory hit like a sucker punch. Cornering himself into her room, shirtless and half-conscious, while Claere had been all soft words and calm gestures, trying to coax him to rest. His drunken, slurred insistence that he’d rather sleep there—with her. What else had he said? Something about her eyes? Her butt? Something so embarrassingly sincere that even in his haze, he knew it had crossed a line.

He rubbed his face hard, as if sheer force could scrub the memory away, and grabbed one of the neatly folded towels on the rack. It was pink, fluffy, and faintly smelled like lavender—subtle but unmistakably hers.

With the towel pressed to his face, he took a deep breath, letting the scent calm him. He finally looked around the bathroom, his nerves gradually giving way to a strange sort of awe.

It wasn’t just a bathroom—it was her bathroom. Three months ago, this would've sent him to a stroke. The tiles were an earthy green, complemented by dark brown accents. A tiny potted plant sat on the windowsill, its leaves glossy and thriving, and the counter was meticulously organized. A small porcelain dish held a few rings, ones she must’ve taken off last night.

He couldn’t help himself; his eyes lingered on them, grinning. The dragonfly ring caught the light, the delicate details were more intricate up close. New beginnings.

His gaze shifted to the mirror, where the faint outline of a scratched smiley face peeked through the fog left from his shower. It was uneven like she’d etched it carelessly but with purpose. Gods, this girl.

He stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, still nursing the remnants of his hangover—and the crushing weight of his own embarrassment. The room was empty, golden light filtering through sheer curtains tied back in perfect symmetry. For a second, he just stood there, taking it in.

Her room was impossibly tidy. It was the kind of immaculate that only came from an army of helpers because no college kid lived like this on their own. But the more he looked, the more her he saw in it. This was Claere untold.

Her desk was pristine, glistening oak, but not barren. There was a stack of botany textbooks, their covers faded and worn like they’d been thumbed through countless times. He drifted closer, eyes catching on a half-filled page in one, the writing neat and slanted around a diagram of a cross-section of a stem, penned in a dark ink that somehow suited her.

And then there were the books. Of course, there were books. Tomes. Some were glossy, clearly fantasy or romance, their spines gleaming with titles he’d seen in a hundred social media posts. Others were thicker, heavier—textbooks or academic volumes, one of them bookmarked halfway through with a folded ticket stub. His hand itched to flip it open, but he shoved both hands into his pockets instead.

Her jewellery was arranged in a delicate tray by the edge of the desk. Rings, thin bracelets, small earrings that sparkled. Definitely diamonds or rubies. Some looked dainty enough to crush under the weight of his clumsy fingers, and yet they suited her perfectly. Like her. Elegant, expensive, untouchable.

And then his eyes landed on something else. A small stack of photo stubs on a decorated, large corkboard—some with dates, some with locations scrawled in the corners. The Amalfi Coast, Kyoto, Antibes, Mallorca, Croatia, Goa, Edinburgh, Kamchatka. One was recent, a kimono-clad Claere feeding a piece of sushi to little Viserys who had his mouth open. One of Jace and her, no older than eleven, making outlandish duck faces before a rocky cliff. One in a fancy apartment with a sea view and all the family, even Daemon, beaming for the camera in matching bathrobes. One was an expensive-looking yacht over crystal waters, all four brothers in swimsuits, squinting against the sunlight, Jace holding up a fish like it was a trophy. And there she was, off to the side, an arm slung around Luke, grinning in a wide-brimmed hat, her smile so natural it felt like it was meant to be caught on camera.

And then he saw it.

A different photo, tucked into the corner of her dresser mirror, slightly bent at the edges. Oh, he was not meant to see this at all. She wore a tight, strappy red dress, one that made his mouth go dry and his brain go fuzzy. Her lips were painted to match, her hair loose in soft waves, violet eyes striking, and even though she wasn’t smiling—just staring into the camera with a serene expression—it made something in his chest squeeze tight.

So, she could be sexy, too. He gulped, pulling his gaze away as his ears burned. He suddenly felt like he was intruding on something too personal like he’d caught her in a moment she hadn’t meant to share.

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck and wandered back to the bed, where his watch sat glinting innocently on the nightstand. As he bent to grab it, he caught his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. His hair was damp, flumping down in wet curls, and the towel slung low on his hips didn’t help him look any less ridiculous. But he caught himself grinning anyway.

She’d let him into her world—if only accidentally. And he was falling for her more with every stupid little detail he noticed.

Sliding the watch onto his wrist, he glanced back at the desk one last time, then forced himself to straighten. No more gawking, no more lingering. He needed to pull himself together before she—or worse, Jace—came back and caught him acting like an idiot.

Still, as he tied the drawstring on his borrowed sweats and reached for his shirt, he couldn’t stop the thought: She’s incredible. Every part of her is incredible. And no amount of awkwardness or hangover-induced mortification could change that.

Cregan followed the sound of voices down the wide, sunlit corridor. His socked feet padded over the marble floors, the faint scent of something buttery and warm teasing the air. And his stomach. As he rounded the corner, the dining room came into view—a sprawling table laden with plates of eggs, toast, pastries, and an array of juices in glass pitchers. A subtle reminder that these people lived in a different world. On a Sunday like this, at this time, he'd be out the door, running his miles.

The Targaryen kids were scattered around the table, each in their own universe. Joff and Luke were locked in a heated video game battle on their phones, their thumbs flying over the screens, accompanied by the occasional, “Eat this!” and “You wish, loser!” Whereas Jace was seated across from a very tiny and very serious Viserys, who looked all of five years old. The kid clutched a spoon like a sceptre, scowling at Jace, who was sneakily stealing bacon off his plate one strip at a time.

“Jace, give it back!” Viserys whine-screamed at Jace, who grinned unapologetically.

“You snooze, you lose.” Jace wiggled the strip of bacon before biting into it.

Claere sat a little apart from them, scrolling idly through her phone, her chin propped in one hand, both bored and tired. Her silver hair was loosely tied back, and she was still in something soft and casual—a far cry from the glamorous red dress etched into Cregan’s brain.

For a moment, he just stood in the doorway, watching them. It wasn’t the scene itself that hit him—it was the ease of it. The casual chaos in the sunlit room, the implicit rhythm of siblings who knew how to push each other’s buttons without real malice. The way Jace leaned over to swipe a croissant next, dodging Viserys’s attempt to slap his hand away. He never had this growing up.

“Hey!” Jace’s voice snapped him out of it. “Look who finally made it. Breakfast is served.”

Every head turned his way, even Viserys, who blinked up at him like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed.

“Morning,” Cregan said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. His gaze darted to Claere, but she barely glanced up from her phone. His stomach dropped.

“Good morning, buttercup!” Luke grinned, still not looking up from his game.

“Didn’t think you’d ever wake up after last night,” Joff added, smirking.

Cregan shuffled toward the empty seat next to Claere, trying not to think too hard about the warmth of her so close. “Still here,” he muttered.

“Alive, somehow,” Jace said, smirking. “Barely.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Cregan shot back, grabbing a piece of toast and trying not to look like he wanted to crawl under the table.

Jace leaned back in his chair, the picture of smugness. “So, Claere, how much do you bet he’s got one of your panties stuffed in his pocket right now?”

Claere’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with horror. “Jacaerys!” she hissed, her face flooding with colour.

Cregan didn’t hesitate—he kicked the back of Jace’s chair hard enough to send him jerking forward, nearly face-planting into his meal.

“Fucking shithead,” Cregan muttered darkly as Luke and Joff dissolved into laughter. Even little Viserys giggled, his spoon clinking against his plate.

Jace coughed dramatically, thumping his chest while glaring back at Cregan. “What’s your problem? Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

“No one’s thinking that,” Cregan hissed at him.

Bad, bad idea to even think about lingering here. Not with Claere around. His fork clattered against his plate, his appetite long gone. The room felt too loud, too full of eyes and jokes he couldn’t handle this early. His face burned as Jace’s words replayed in his head. Every second he sat there felt like he was sinking deeper into quicksand.

“So, anyway. Thanks for breakfast, guys,” he said abruptly, pushing back from the table. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, earning glances from everyone. “I think I'm gonna take off.”

Luke snorted, not even looking up from his game. “You’re not serious. You barely ate anything.”

“C’mon, Jace was just joking around,” Joff added, but his tone was more amused than convincing.

Cregan shook his head, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “Nah, I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll call a cab and get out of here.”

But Jace, ever the insufferable matchmaker, leaned back in his chair, his smirk practically dripping with mischief. “Claere, why don’t you help my buddy out? Make sure he doesn’t end up puking into someone else’s flowerpot this time.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened as Claere shot Jace a sharp glare.

“Jace, not funny anymore,” she hissed under her breath, but it was too late. The damage was done. Every eye was now on her, and before Cregan could even protest, she was already sliding out of her chair.

“I got it,” Cregan said quickly, his voice gruff and unconvincing. He didn’t. He really didn’t.

Claere didn’t so much as glance at him, brushing past with a waft of soft lavender. “It's alright. Come on,” she said simply, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Reluctantly, he followed her out of the dining room, the laughter and noise of breakfast fading behind them like a dull hum. The house suddenly felt too quiet, the sound of a clock ticking in the foyer sharp and relentless. Claere was a step ahead, her cherry-patterned pyjama pants swaying with her movements. Cregan caught himself staring, his eyes trailing over the soft curve of her back, that perky little butt, the effortless grace of her stride. She wasn’t even trying, and yet she managed to look... perfect. The kind of perfect that made his chest feel tight and his thoughts too loud.

She stopped by the counter, her phone already in hand as she pulled up the ride-share app.

“The driver should be here in a few minutes,” she said without looking at him, her voice calm and composed. Too composed, like she was purposely avoiding the tension that lingered between them. “Do you need—”

“I’m good,” he interrupted, too quickly, too harshly. His hands clenched into fists in his jacket pockets as the memories of last night came rushing back with a vengeance. The flowerpot. The puking. The singing. And worst of all—the half-drunken declaration outside her bedroom door.

His stomach churned. He didn’t know if he wanted to crawl into a hole or sprint out of the house and never look back.

Claere tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes flickering over him like she could see through the walls he was trying to throw up. “Are you feeling better?” she asked softly, the words careful, like she wasn’t sure how much she should push.

Better? No. Not even close. He felt like a cataclysm in human form, his brain replaying every humiliating second of last night on a loop. And yet, here she was, standing there like a bare-faced angel that looked unfairly radiant, asking him if he was okay.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, the words dry and unconvincing. He tugged at the hem of his jacket, avoiding her gaze. “Just need some air... and coffee... and maybe a new brain.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, soft and fleeting, but it was enough to make his chest squeeze uncomfortably. He didn’t deserve that smile. Not after last night.

“Let me get you some coffee for the road. There’s also this hangover cure thing Jace got delivered from Korea,” she said after a moment, already turning on her heel. “I'll just get—”

“No, no, wait.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and his hand shot out instinctively, wrapping around her wrist. The contact sent a jolt through him, her skin soft and warm beneath his fingers. She froze, turning back to look at him, her expression unreadable.

Realizing what he’d done, Cregan quickly let go, his hand falling to his side like it had been burned. “Sorry. Shit. Gods, I—I didn’t mean to...” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. But there was something in the way she looked at him—curious, almost cautious—that made his pulse quicken.

“I’m fine, thank you. But really,” he added hastily, the lie tumbling out of his mouth like a reflex. “I don’t need anything. I just...” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “I just need to get going.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she stepped back, putting an almost imperceptible amount of distance between them. “Okay.”

A horn blared outside, shattering the fragile quiet between them.

“That’s your ride,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his chest tightening as he reached for the porch stairs. He hesitated for a beat, his eyes darting back to her. She stood there, framed by the morning light streaming through the windows, her hair slightly mussed, every bit calm but equally guarded. Even like this—bare, casual, impossibly real—she was breathtaking.

And he... he was just a guy who’d embarrassed himself beyond belief the night before. A guy who didn’t know how to say what he was feeling without screwing it up.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t respond, only nodded, her arms folding loosely across her chest as she watched him go.

Cregan stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the chill biting at his skin as the cab idled at the curb. He climbed in without looking back, the weight in his chest heavier than his duffel bag.

As the car pulled away, he couldn’t shake the image of her standing in that foyer, sunlight catching the curve of her cheek, her cherry-patterned pyjamas swaying softly. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the ache in his chest told him one thing: leaving didn’t feel like the solution he thought it would.

X

Claere thought Cregan Stark was hot. Really, really hot. Like break-my-heart-and-crush-it-under-your-foot-hot.

It wasn’t exactly a groundbreaking realization—half the student body seemed to agree, judging by the way his name floated through conversations like a shared inside joke. Country boy charm, someone had called it once, humble, down-to-earth in a way that felt rare around here. He had that easy grin, the kind that could smooth over tension in any room, a personality that seemed just... good—not performative, not forced. The fact that he also happened to be jaw-droppingly attractive? That was just an added bonus.

Not that Claere had noticed before. Not really. He wasn’t her type—or at least, she’d convinced herself of that. Too loud, too comfortable in the spotlight, too... not for her.

But then she caught him looking at her.

The first time, she hadn’t even been sure it happened. She’d glanced up from her textbook in the library, and there he was, leaning back in his chair, surrounded by his friends, laughing at something Jace had said. His eyes flicked to hers like a reflex, lingering for a beat too long before he snapped his gaze away until a faint pink dusted her ears.

It happened again in the dining hall. And again, in the quad. Again, in the parking bay. And every single time, he’d look away like it was some criminal offence, like being caught noticing her was some great humiliation.

And that... that made her start noticing him. More than she wanted to admit. What was so special about him anyway?

She wasn’t sure when she started paying closer attention to herself. It was gradual, little things she told herself were unrelated—applying a slightly darker shade of lipstick one morning instead of her usual tinted balm, smearing a little more kohl under her eyes, clasping a delicate anklet around her ankle before slipping on her sandals. She fussed over her clothes more, spending an extra minute smoothing the fabric or adjusting the neckline. Dresses became her uniform, just short enough, not glaringly noticeable, muted shades that stood out a little more. One morning, she braided her hair more intricately than she had in years, and the realization hit her mid-braid, leaving her staring at herself in the mirror, mortified.

What was she even doing?

So one morning, when the classroom door groaned as Claere eased it open, late enough to draw every pair of eyes in the room. She hurried inside, head slightly bowed, hoping to avoid attention. No such luck.

“Miss Velaryon,” the professor’s voice rang out, dripping with thinly veiled condescension. He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed. “I trust you had a glamorous evening at the gala last night? So glamorous, it made you forget we have a punctuality policy?”

A faint ripple of laughter skittered through the room. Her stomach tightened, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of flinching. “Sorry,” she said simply, before making her up the aisle.

The only empty seat was next to Cregan. Her chest gave a traitorous flutter as she slid into it. “Good morning,” she murmured, risking a small smile his way.

“Hey.” His reply was polite, but distant. His gaze didn’t shift from the notes his buddy had scribbled on the desk between them, and whatever they were talking about seemed infinitely more important than her existence.

Claere tucked her bag beneath the chair and tried to ignore the knot forming in her chest. It wasn’t a big deal, she told herself. He was probably just busy, focused on whatever inside joke his friend had thrown his way. She dragged her eyes to the professor, scribbling half-hearted notes, though none of the words sank in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Cregan laughing quietly. The low, rumbling sound twisted something inside her. The same voice that had been warm and teasing with her just nights ago now felt impossibly far away.

When the lecture ended, she hesitated, giving him an opening—maybe he’d turn, say something, even just an offhanded “See you later.”

But he didn’t. Cregan slung his bag over his shoulder in one fluid motion, already halfway through some joke with his friend as they headed for the door. He didn’t glance back. Claere stayed seated, staring blankly at the desk in front of her, the noise of the room fading into a dull hum.

And yet, the next day in the hallway, when Cregan passed her with that silent, infinitesimal nod, her heart faltered anyway. Very absurd, she had to confess.

Her lips parted, the start of a breathy greeting on her tongue, but before she could speak, he was gone—off with his buddies, laughing about something she couldn’t hear. She was left standing there, her hands tightening around the strap of her bag, feeling like she’d missed some implicit opportunity.

X

The night Claere truly first made notice of Cregan Stark was chaos. Jace’s parties always were, but this one felt particularly loud, with more people spilling into every corner of the house than Claere remembered agreeing to. She’d mostly kept to herself, lingering in the less crowded spaces with her phone, occasionally letting someone drag her into polite conversation.

Then like an unmissable red dot in the distance: Cregan Stark, sprawled out like a giant overstuffed pillow, one arm slung dramatically over his face. His shirt was rumpled, his usually sharp features softened by a faint, dopey smile. Still, between his legs, he nursed a warm beer.

“He’s alive,” Jace muttered, nudging Cregan’s knee with his foot. “Hardly.”

Claere raised an eyebrow. “Hardly is right. He looks awful.”

Cregan’s head lolled to the side, his glassy eyes catching hers. For a moment, he seemed to come alive, his entire expression lighting up in drunken delight. “Claaaaaere,” he said as if her name were some profound revelation. “Queen of my heart. My queen.”

Jace groaned, hauling Cregan’s arm over his shoulder to get him upright. “C’mon, Stark. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Claere stepped forward to help, grabbing Cregan’s other arm. His weight was surprising, all lean muscle but heavy as a boulder. Together, they managed to shuffle him toward the door.

“You’re so strong,” Cregan mumbled, blinking blearily at Claere. His lips quirked into a lopsided grin. “Do you work out, baby girl? You have to, right? Like… how else do you carry the moon around on your ears every Wednesday?”

Claere blinked. “What?”

Jace snorted, clearly enjoying this far more than she was. “Ignore him. He’s hammered.”

But Cregan wasn’t done. He leaned closer, his breath warm and smelling of tequila. “No, really. Your earrings? The little diamond hoops on Wednesdays? Like the moon decided to accessorize.” He turned his attention to Jace, though his words were still clearly about her. “She’s—she’s like… I dunno, man, too fuckin' cute. Not fair. That you make me feel this way.”

Claere’s face burned. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be flattered or mortified. Maybe both.

“Let’s just get him to the car,” she muttered, tugging Cregan with more force than necessary.

It wasn’t exactly graceful. Nothing about him was. Between his stumbling feet and Jace’s half-hearted attempts to steer him straight, they barely managed to manoeuvre him out the front door. Cregan’s head lolled dramatically as he let out an exaggerated sigh, almost dragging both of them to the ground.

“You’re a lot heavier than you look,” Claere grumbled, her arm straining under his weight.

“Not heavy,” Cregan murmured, his words slurring together. “Just... dense. Like a star. Heavy but, y’know... radiant. A suuuuperstar.”

Jace barked out a laugh. “You are absolutely fucking wasted, man.”

After what felt like an eternity, they finally got him into the backseat of Jace’s car. Claere leaned against the doorframe, catching her breath while Jace tossed his keys in the air and caught them with a smirk.

“So, uh, where does he live?” Jace asked.

Claere looked at him blankly. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I know? He’s your admirer.”

Claere’s lips parted, ready with a retort, but Cregan stirred in the backseat, mumbling something unintelligible. They exchanged a look.

“Fine,” Jace said, shaking his head as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “We’re taking him back to ours. He can sleep it off there. Mom's not home anyways.”

Claere sighed but didn’t argue, sliding into the passenger seat.

The drive was quiet at first, the hum of the tyres filling the space between them. Jace fiddled with the radio, skipping through stations until a pop song came on.

From the backseat, Cregan perked up like a sunflower in the sun. “I love this song,” he slurred, grinning from ear to ear.

Before either of them could stop him, he launched into a spirited—and wildly off-key—rendition of the chorus to George Michael's Faith.

Claere pressed her lips together, trying to stifle her laughter, but a giggle escaped. She couldn't help it. He was so cute.

“You’re enabling him,” Jace complained.

Claere shrugged, her voice soft as she tentatively joined in, humming along to the melody. Jace groaned but couldn’t help joining them, and soon the car was filled with their mismatched chorus.

Cregan, for all his drunkenness, sang with his whole heart, belting out the lyrics like he was performing to a sold-out stadium. Claere found herself laughing more than singing, stealing glances at him in the rearview mirror. His face was flushed, his hair a mess, but there was something oddly endearing about his drunken enthusiasm.

By the time they pulled into the Targaryen mansion’s long driveway, all three of them were breathless with laughter.

“Alright, big guy,” Jace said, killing the engine. “Time to haul your ass upstairs.”

Getting Cregan out of the car proved even more difficult than getting him in. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, but before Claere and Jace could grab him, he took off up the stairs, all but gracefully. This was the same person who shot goals from halfway across the rink.

“Where the hell is he going now?” Claere asked, watching in disbelief as Cregan bounded ahead like a man on a mission.

Jace sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Probably looking for a bed. Or a plant to retch in again. Who knows?”

They trailed after him, footsteps echoing through the quiet mansion as they rounded the hallway toward Claere’s wing. When they caught up, Cregan was standing outside her door, swaying slightly, his expression grave as though he’d uncovered a universal truth.

“She comes out of here all the time,” he whispered loudly to Jace, pointing at the door.

Claere stiffened.

“Wearing those teeny, tiny little shorts. My queen,” Cregan added, his voice tinged with awe.

Claere’s face went up in flames. “Excuse me?”

At that moment, Luke’s door creaked open, his blond head poking out groggily. “What’s going on?” he muttered, squinting at the scene.

“Drunk confession hour,” Jace said, grinning as he motioned to Cregan.

Cregan turned to Claere, blinking slowly, his words spilling out in a rush. “I don’t look! Not for too long! Just... y’know, accidentally. The finest butt I've ever seen.”

Luke’s mouth fell open. He glanced between Claere, who looked mortified, and Cregan, who was now teetering on his feet like a happy idiot. “This is amazing,” Luke said, fully stepping into the hallway to watch.

“Alright, Stark,” Jace said, shaking his head but unable to hide his amusement, “time for bed. Not her bed.”

But Cregan, apparently, had other ideas. Before anyone could stop him, he turned the doorknob, stumbled into Claere’s room, and declared triumphantly, “You mean our bed. It's ours. This one makes sense! The world makes sense! We make sense!”

Claere, thoroughly exasperated, followed after him just in time to see Cregan yank his shirt over his head and toss it carelessly onto the floor. He flopped onto her bed, sprawling out like a starfish.

“So soft,” he mumbled, burying his face into her pillow.

Luke leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Is he calling her his queen yet, or do I need to come back later for that?”

“He’s done for,” Jace said, slapping Claere on the shoulder with a laugh. “Good luck. Dude won't be up for hours. You can crash in Mom's room.”

She tried to grab his arm. “Jace, what—but he's—”

The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the sound of Jace and Luke’s retreating laughter, leaving Claere alone with Cregan sprawled out across her bed. She stared at him, her pulse pounding in her ears, trying to decide what on earth she was supposed to do with a half-naked, stunningly attractive, and very drunk boy fawning over her.

“Hi, Claere,” Cregan said again, a crooked grin tugging at his lips as he propped himself up on one elbow. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and he looked utterly shameless.

Claere swallowed hard. “You... you should really get some sleep,” she stammered, carefully stepping closer.

“But I don’t want to sleep,” he said, his voice soft and velvety, like he was sharing a secret. His blue eyes locked onto hers with startling intensity, even if they were glassy and unfocused. “You’re here. All alone. All pretty. Why would I want to miss a second of that?”

Her cheeks burned hotter, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh, cry, or crawl under her bed to escape this moment entirely. She took a steadying breath, then reached out, brushing against his shoulder.

“God's sake,” she muttered, her voice tight with nerves. “Come on, sit up. You can’t just sprawl here like this.”

He let her guide him, his body warm and heavy under her hands. It was impossible not to notice his sheer solidness—broad shoulders, taut muscles that shifted under her touch like they belonged to someone who worked too hard to look like this without trying. Her fingers grazed the skin just above his waistband, and she yanked her hand back like she’d been burned.

“Do you just get to be like this?” she mumbled under her breath, more to herself than to him.

Cregan blinked up at her, eyes glassy but unmissably earnest. “Like what?” he asked, his voice rasping in a way that felt unfairly intimate.

“Like…” She waved a hand vaguely at him. “Like that. It’s—ugh. Never mind.”

His lips curved into a lopsided grin. “You think I’m stupid,” he said softly, his voice dropping into something deeper, almost tender. His gaze locked on hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge. He pounded a fist near his heart. “But I think you’re my whole heart.”

Her hands froze, the blanket she’d been tucking around him falling slack. Her heart gave an odd, traitorous flip. She forced herself to shake it off, focusing on pulling the covers up instead of his words. “You’re drunk,” she reminded him, her tone sharper now as if saying it firmly enough would make her immune to his charm. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t I?” he countered, his voice soft and a little pleading, like he was trying to convince her—or maybe himself. “You think this is the alcohol talking, but it’s not. I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks. Months. You don’t even know.”

“Don’t even know what?” she asked, her voice quieter now, despite herself.

“How many times I’ve seen you walk into a room and just—just forgotten how to make sounds with my mouth,” he said, his words tumbling out with unfiltered honesty. “Do you know how hard that is for me? I never shut up. Never. But you—” He broke off, shaking his head like the thought overwhelmed him.

Her hands trembled as she busied herself smoothing the edge of the blanket. She didn’t trust herself to look at him directly. Her heart was pounding too hard, her face too warm. “Cregan, you’re not thinking clearly right now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan leaned back into the pillow, his gaze softening even further, somewhere between wonder and longing. “You’re it for me,” he whispered. “You’re so it for me. I love your face, your hands, and—” His eyes darted briefly downward, and he gave a sheepish, drunken grin. “And your butt. Your perky butt. And your eyes—did I say your eyes?—and your little anklets... gods, they're like music. I can hear you before I see you.”

Claere’s breath hitched, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh, scream, or hide behind the nearest piece of furniture. “You’re a mess,” she muttered, but the words lacked real heat.

He smiled, a warm, goofy smile that only made him look more handsome, more devastatingly sincere. “Maybe. But I’m your mess.” His eyelids drooped, and his voice softened to a murmur. “You’re magic, Claere. My queen.”

Her chest tightened, and for a long moment, she stood frozen, unsure what to do or feel. This shouldn’t mean anything. He was drunk, very drunk, and she had no reason to take his words seriously. And yet…

As his breathing evened out and his head sank deeper into the pillow, she released a shaky breath and rose to her feet. She turned off the light, the room plunging into a soft glow.

Standing in the doorway, she glanced back one last time. The sight of him lying there, vulnerable and unguarded, did something strange to her. She didn’t want to admit how much he had flustered her, how much she wished his words weren’t just the result of too much alcohol.

As she stepped into the hall and shut the door, her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with helping a drunk boy to bed. Cregan Stark was dangerous—for all his foolishness, charm, and ridiculous smiles. And somehow, she wasn’t sure she minded.

Late one afternoon, Claere tried to focus on her sketch, but the lines on her tablet refused to cooperate. She hated it, but this module required precision. The precision that her notebooks or freehand didn't offer. The university quad was noisy, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the grass, and her usual spot felt... exposed today. Her gaze kept straying, involuntarily drawn to the opposite side of the lawn.

Cregan was there, sitting on a low bench near the edge of the quad, leaning back with his arm draped lazily over the backrest. Except he wasn’t alone.

The girl next to him—brunette, chatty, and way too close—leaned in with a laugh that carried across the space between them. She lightly touched his arm, and Claere’s stomach knotted. Cregan wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he looked... relaxed, even entertained, his usual easy grin in place as he leaned forward to say something in return.

At first, Claere told herself it was just a glance. Just a quick flick of her eyes before returning to her tablet, like usual. It was virtually impossible.

Cregan had this thing about him. This tenor. A secret note in the musical language. His dark hair was mussed in that careless way that looked accidental but probably wasn’t. The sunlight caught the hints of chestnut in it, making it nearly glow. Or maybe it was just her head, adding pizzazz to her sight-seeing. His jawline—sharp enough to be unfair—was tilted slightly as he laughed at something the girl next to him had said. How was it possible for someone to just exist like that? Did he escape a runway recently?

The curve of his lips, the effortless, boyish smile—it made something flutter in her chest, unwelcome and persistent. His faded-black shirt clung to his shoulders, loose in some places, fitted in others, and when he shifted, she caught a glimpse of skin where the hem lifted. Just a hint of toned, weathered muscle, definitely Bow-Flexed, the kind that came from hours on the ice and in the gym. It felt immoral to examine this.

Her stomach churned as the girl next to him leaned closer, laughing again, her hand brushing his forearm. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed perfectly at ease, his head dipping toward her slightly as if he were sharing a secret.

Claere tightened her grip on her tablet, staring blankly at the unfinished lines on the screen. Her heart gave a stubborn, traitorous tug. So unfair that he got to make her feel this way.

He really was incredible. That much was obvious to everyone on campus. Cregan Stark wasn’t just good-looking—he was obnoxiously good-looking. The kind that fueled campus-wide crushes and gossip, made people giggle in hallways. The kind that felt unattainable. Claere hadn’t cared much before. She wasn’t the type to swoon or get caught up in the hype, not when she had her own life to manage. But now... now she wasn’t so convinced.

What was she even watching this for? She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care.

Except—hadn’t this been the same guy fawning over her four nights ago? The same guy who’d drunkenly spilt his feelings, gushed about her hair and her dress and her hands, who’d looked at her like she was the most stunning thing he’d ever seen, who’d asked her out? The way he’d stood there, shirtless and rambling, his words surging in a mess of nerves and sincerity. It had left her rattled, unsure of what to think.

Seeing him like this—comfortable, laughing, and effortlessly charming with someone else—stirred something sharp and unexpected in her chest. Jealousy? No, that couldn’t be it.

Her chest tightened, the ache catching her off guard. Well, it wasn’t like he’d promised anything. He hadn’t texted her. He’d just spilled his guts, like it had been an afterthought, something tacked onto the heat of the moment.

Claere sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear, trying to focus on her sketch again. The lines were still wrong, and the proportions were off. Her fingers tightened around the stylus.

Later that night, in the quiet of her room, Claere stared at her phone lying face-up on the blanket beside her. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t.

But that nagging, unanswered question had burrowed deep. She hadn’t seen Cregan like this before, and the frustration of not knowing where she stood with him was unbearable. This wasn’t about feelings, she told herself. It wasn’t about that pinch of jealousy she definitely didn’t feel. No, this was just... curiosity. Barely anything.

She pulled her knees to her chest, the soft hum of the air-conditioning the only sound in the room. Jace’s bedroom had been unnervingly easy to slip into earlier—and his room was a filthy mess, so Claere hadn’t lingered. She’d found what she was looking for and quickly came out with a number, scribbled hastily on a crumpled piece of paper, Cregan’s name scrawled beside it.

It was wrong. Horribly wrong. She could already hear the judgment in her own mind. But here she was, sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring at her phone’s message screen like it held all the answers to her conflicted thoughts.

It was probably for the best if he didn’t reply, anyway. A boy like Cregan Stark—golden, fortuitous, uncomplicated, and so clearly idolised—wasn’t meant for someone like her. Someone of the Targaryen family. It wasn’t self-pity; it was just the truth. He was too pleasant for that.

Her gaze shifted to the phone again. The soft glow of the screen seemed to taunt her. This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.

Her fingers hovered over the keys. What would she even say?

Hey, it’s Claere. How’s it going? Too vague. So, about the other night... Too presuming. Do you like me? Because I think I like... Ugh, what was she, twelve?

Finally, she settled on something neutral; safe. Sweet. Unassuming.

Hi :) Hope this isn’t weird, but this is Claere.

She stared at the words until they blurred. Her thumb loomed over the send button, doubt creeping in with every second. This is stupid. Just delete it. Forget about him. He doesn’t matter.

Her thumb betrayed her. The message was sent.

The little "Delivered" notification appeared almost instantly, and her heart lurched painfully. For a long moment, she just sat there, frozen, staring at the screen like it might detonate in her palms.

She flipped the phone face-down on the blanket, burying her head in her knees and groaning. What had she done? Why did this matter? Why did he matter? The minutes dragged into more, filled with more overthinking. Her room was too quiet, the hum of, well, everything was too loud. She tried to distract herself, convincing herself she didn’t care if he replied.

Then her phone buzzed.

X

The library was quieter than usual for a Friday evening. Most students were at the bars, drowning the week in beer and bad decisions, but Cregan needed the stillness. Hockey practice had been brutal—his arms ached, his legs felt like dead weight—but it wasn’t the drills keeping him here tonight.

His books lay open on the table, untouched. A blank notebook page stared back at him like it knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drift to the tall windows. Outside, the campus quad was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. Couples strolled along the paths, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass. Friends clustered on benches, sharing fries and stories from their week. It all looked so... easy. Effortless.

Not for him. It never had been.

The scholarship had been a lifeline—a ticket to a world he wasn’t sure he belonged in. And it wasn’t just about hockey. It was about proving he deserved to be here. That his place on the ice, in the classroom, in this life, was earned—not handed to him by a family name no one at this school even knew.

He hadn’t told anyone about the Stark Resorts empire or the decades of wealth and expectations tied to it. That part of his life stayed buried, just like the pressure to live up to it. To succeed without leaning on it. Because if anyone found out, everything he’d worked for—every goal he’d scored, every paper he’d aced—would be stained by doubt.

Which was why Claere Velaryon was a problem.

Her name alone carried significance. Notoriety. Fuckton of fame. Old money. Stupidly beautiful. Infuriatingly out of reach. She’d slipped into his thoughts when he wasn’t paying attention, her presence lingering in ways that felt almost physical. The way she adjusted the thin chain of her anklet when she crossed her legs during a lecture. The plum shade of her lipstick, perfectly smudged like she didn’t care. The thin, pale scar just above her elbow that caught the light when she gestured—small, faint, a mystery he wanted to solve.

He noticed everything about her. Too much. He hated himself for it. This one-sided crush shit was breaking him apart.

Cregan leaned forward, running a hand through his hair. God, he was pathetic. He wanted her so much. She was right there, right between his fingertips. And he was giving it up.

But it wasn’t just her looks. It was the way she tilted her head when she was listening, really listening, as if she were cataloguing every word. The way her laugh was quiet but rich, like she’d saved it just for you. The way she’d said his name once—just that once—but it had stuck in his head, echoing like a melody he couldn’t shake.

And he’d been stupid enough to think he had a chance.

A few nights ago, when he’d seen her at that party—looking like something out of a painting—he’d let the tequila and the nerves and whatever else was eating at him take over. He’d said too much. Blurted out things he wasn’t ready to say, things he wasn’t sure he even meant. He’d asked her out. Asked her like an idiot.

And now? Nothing.

No follow-up. No calls. Not even a passing glance in the quad. She probably thought he was a joke. Some cocky jock who got drunk and decided to shoot his shot. She wouldn’t be wrong.

Cregan sighed, rubbing his temples. He shouldn’t care. There were a million reasons to let it go. She was too much—too beautiful, too untouchable, too tied to the life he was running from. And the guys? They’d eat him alive if they knew. The whispers were already bad enough.

“Velaryon’s not his type, huh?”

“Stark’s all talk. Like she’d look at him twice.”

“Bet he’s just trying to cash in.”

“Can you blame him? That’s a golden ticket right there. He’s probably already planning his next career move.”

Their voices still rattled around his head, half-joking but sharp enough to cut. The butt of the joke. It didn’t matter that they didn’t know the first thing about him—or about her. The perception was everything. He knew that better than anyone. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the way she’d stood in the lamplight that night, her smile soft but guarded. The way she’d looked at him—not like a rumour, or a player, or someone to laugh off—but like he was... real.

Maybe that’s what scared him most.

Because the more he let himself think about her, the harder it became to ignore the ache in his chest. The pull. The quiet, desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—she felt it too.

But hope wasn’t enough. Not here. Not for someone like him.

Cregan shut the notebook, pushing it aside. The books didn’t matter. None of it did. Not tonight.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted—but he knew exactly what he couldn’t have. And Claere Velaryon was at the top of that list.

Cregan barely registered Jace’s approach until he heard his voice.

“Hey.”

Startled, he glanced up to find Jace standing there, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, his expression somewhere between amused and inquisitive. Without waiting for an invitation, Jace dropped into the chair across from him, swivelling it slightly as if testing its stability.

“You look like you’re about to solve world hunger—or self-destruct,” Jace quipped, propping his chin on his folded arms. “What’s going on, man?”

Cregan straightened, quickly masking the storm churning inside him. “Nothing. Just... studying.” He gestured vaguely at the closed notebook in front of him.

Jace snorted, unimpressed. “Yeah, right.”

Cregan sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, fuck off.”

Jace gave him a long, exaggerated stare before shrugging. “Fine, keep your secrets. But you might want to let Claere know you’re alive. She’s been walking around like someone stole her favourite pair of shoes.”

Cregan froze, his chest tightening. “What?”

“You heard me.” Jace leaned closer, his tone turning more serious. “She’s been off. Distracted. And considering the way you’ve been dodging her lately, I’m guessing it’s not a coincidence.”

Cregan stiffened, his jaw tightening. “You're just a shit-stirrer, Jace.”

Jace tilted his head, giving him a look that screamed really? “Sure. And I’m not trying to get you two to stop acting like idiots.”

“I’m not—” Cregan started, but Jace cut him off with a raised hand.

“Relax, I’m not here to lecture you,” Jace said, his tone light but purposeful. “I’m just saying—if you’re into her, maybe stop overthinking everything and do something about it.”

Cregan blinked, caught off guard by how direct Jace was being. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

Jace sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. “It’s not that complicated either, man. You like her, she likes you—yes, she does, don’t even try denying it—and the only thing standing in the way is you.”

Cregan looked away, his fingers gripping his pen tightly. He didn’t know how to explain it—the fear, the doubt, the nagging voice in his head that told him he wasn’t good enough for someone like Claere.

Jace leaned forward, his voice softening. “Look, I get it. You’re scared. Maybe you think you’ll mess it up, or maybe you’re overthinking what people will say. But here’s the thing—Claere doesn’t care about all that. And she deserves someone willing to take a chance on her.”

Cregan’s chest tightened, his pulse thudding in his ears.

“And honestly?” Jace added, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’d be an idiot to let her slip away. So, do yourself a favour—text her, call her, do something. Because trust me, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Cregan hesitated, his thoughts warring with each other.

“C’mon,” Jace said, leaning back with a grin. “You’re Cregan fuckin' Stark. You can handle a puck flying at your face at ninety miles an hour, but you can’t handle texting one girl? Weak.”

Despite himself, Cregan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a pain in my ass, Velaryon.”

“It’s my greatest strength,” Jace said with a wink. He stood, clapping Cregan on the shoulder. “Seriously, though. Don't be a little bitch.”

The words hung in the air, the consequences ploughing against him with every step. He couldn’t help but wonder—was Jace right? Or was he just another fool caught in something he couldn’t handle?

X

Claere stared at her phone, pulse racing. She cared a lot. Should she check now? Would that make her seem too needy? Should she check later? Then, would it make her seem dismissive? Slowly, she flipped it over, trying to temper the ridiculous flutter in her chest, bracing herself for something dismissive—or worse, nothing at all. The screen lit up with a message from him.

Only weird if I start asking how you got my number. So - hi, Claere.

She couldn’t help it—the grin spread across her face before she could stop it. He was being cheeky. Her kind of cheeky. A laugh bubbled out of her as she fell back onto the bed, her phone clutched to her chest.

But just as quickly, her smile faded. Stop it. Why was she letting herself feel like this? Like he mattered. Like this mattered. She let her phone slip from her hands, flopping dramatically against the mattress.

“Nothing. Who cares? I don’t care,” she muttered to herself.

The phone buzzed again. Her eyes slid to her phone screen.

Unless you’re here to talk ice hockey. Then I’ll have to charge you a fee.

Claere snorted. Her fingers moved before she could overthink it.

Hard pass. You’re good, though. For a beginner.

Ouch. Right in the ego. Guess I’ll stick to what I know.

Clare chewed on a hangnail on her thumb, typing out a few responses, deleting the words and typing again. He sooner replied.

So... what're you up to right now?

The next buzz made her sit up, her stomach doing a little flip.

Because I was thinking, since I'm a shitty texter... wanna meet up?

Her eyes darted to the clock on her bedside table. Ten p.m. Late, but not too late. She bit her lip, the tug of a smile teasing her mouth. Her thumbs danced over the screen as she typed:

Bold of you to assume I’m not already in bed.

Bold of you to assume that is something I'm opposed to.

Her cheeks warmed as she bit back a laugh, typing a response.

Twenty minutes. Don’t make me regret this.

The three little dots appeared immediately.

I’ll be outside.

Claere tossed her phone aside, covering her face with her hands as she fought back the ridiculous giddiness rising in her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this nervous—this alive. The feeling was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, bubbling up in a way she couldn’t quite contain.

With a deep breath, she adjusted the hem of her dress for what felt like the tenth time, smoothing it over her thighs as she stepped out toward the tall iron gates. The sprawling house loomed behind her, its gardens stretching into the quiet evening, their stillness a stark contrast to the whirlwind inside her. Her sandals scuffed lightly against the pavement as she shifted her weight, clutching her phone in both hands like it was an anchor.

Her reflection in the screen stared back at her. A loose, floral dress (not at all her style) that she’d thrown on at the last second, kohl under her eyes, lip tint, undone braids she’d hurried through, and her usual sandals. Presentable enough, she hoped. Not overdressed, not underdressed. Just right.

The low rumble of an engine seized her attention. A familiar truck rolled down the quiet street, its headlights softening the dim evening haze. Claere’s breath hitched as it slowed to a stop right in front of her.

This was ridiculous. What was she doing? She should go back. Her fingers tightened around her phone, and she briefly considered turning around, walking back through the gates, and pretending this never happened. Without anyone knowing—without Jace knowing—she was about to meet a boy.

The thought hit her hard. Jace would lose it. The image of his incredulous glare surfaced in her mind, his hypothetical voice dripping with mockery: “You’re dating my teammate?” Wait, was this a date? She bit the inside of her cheek. What even counted as one? Was it when he showed up outside your house? When he texted you or when you texted him? When he said he wanted to hang out? Or did it have to be something more official?

Her thoughts scattered as the truck’s passenger door clicked open.

Cregan leaned over from the driver’s seat, one arm reaching across to push the door wide for her. “Hey,” he greeted, his voice low, but there was eagerness in how his gaze lingered on her.

“Hi,” she mumbled.

She hesitated for half a second, smoothing the hem of her dress again, before stepping forward. With quite a bit of effort and grunting, her breath hitched as she climbed in.

He was… well, wow.

His hair was damp, darker at the ends where it stuck just slightly to his ears and temples like he’d rushed out of the shower. She caught a faint whiff of soap, something warm and earthy, and it shouldn’t have smelled as good as it did. Her chest tightened, completely against her will.

His shirt—a button-up that clearly hadn’t seen the business end of an iron—was only half-fastened, hanging loose enough to tease a glimpse of tanned skin and the sharp edges of his collarbone. Why did that look so good? Her eyes trailed down to his jersey shorts, and her brain helpfully supplied an unprompted, unnecessary observation: oh, those were made for sex. Strong, muscular, and relaxed in a way that made it clear he didn’t overthink a single thing about this.

And then there were his arms. For the love of all the gods, the arms. Broad, resting casually on the steering wheel like they had no business stealing anyone’s attention. The compression bandages on his left didn’t ruin the effect at all; in fact, they added to it somehow, like a reminder that this was the arm of someone who did things—vigorous, sporty things. When he shifted gears, his forearm tensed, the muscles flexing in a way that felt so unreasonably intentional she almost wanted to laugh at herself.

He’s literally just driving, she calmed herself, but her gaze had already flicked back up to his face. And, well, that didn’t help either.

Even in the dim light, he was stupidly, unfairly attractive. Sharp features that somehow didn’t look harsh, a jawline that belonged in one of those broody cologne ads, and an expression so at ease it bordered on maddening. How was it possible for someone to just exist like that? Did he escape a runway recently? Meanwhile, she was sitting there, clutching her phone like it was some kind of emotional lifeline, praying she didn’t trip over her own words. Was this normal? Did people just… look like this?

Her gaze darted away quickly before he could notice her staring, her cheeks burning as she focused very hard on her phone in her lap. Or tried to. What was she even doing here?

“All okay?” His voice broke through her thoughts, low and calm, but his brow furrowed slightly as he glanced her way, catching the tension she hadn’t realized was so obvious.

“Yeah, yeah. All okay,” she said quickly, too quickly, her voice a little higher than she’d meant. Heat rushed to her face as she tried to sound casual, but the slight curve of his lips told her she’d failed.

He followed her gaze as it dipped to his bandaged arm, and then he laughed—a short, self-conscious sound as he rolled his shoulder oh-so-sexily. “Hard drills today,” he said like it was nothing.

Her frown deepened. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

He shrugged, the movement making him wince despite himself. His free hand reached up to knead the edge of his shoulder, a small grimace flashing across his face before he smoothed it away. “‘S’all good,” he said, trying for nonchalance, but the stiffness in his movements told a different story.

“Cregan,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper, but the concern laced through it made his eyes flick back to her.

His lips quirked up in a lopsided grin, almost sheepish. “I’m fine, really. Part of the package. Just need to stretch it out.”

She wasn’t convinced, not in the slightest, but what could she say? He didn’t seem the type to take being fussed over well. Instead, her gaze betrayed her again, dipping to the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, to the faint curl in his damp hair, to the easy confidence in every part of him.

Calm down. He’s just a guy. Ordinary dude. Pedestrian. A stupidly attractive guy who probably doesn’t even—no, stop. Just stop.

“Buckle up,” he said, his tone light, but his attention flicked meaningfully to her seatbelt.

“Oh, yes,” she mumbled, fumbling for the strap with clumsy fingers. The fabric caught awkwardly, and her nerves made her struggle to untangle it.

Cregan chuckled, a quiet sound that sent her already heightened awareness into overdrive. She glanced up sharply. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head with a grin that was far too amused for her liking. He turned back to the road, but the smile lingered, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Her heart hammered unsteadily, her thoughts a chaotic mess of self-reproach and stubborn fascination. She folded her hands in her lap once the seatbelt was secure, trying to force herself to focus on anything else.

And yet, one thought pressed at her relentlessly, no matter how much she tried to shove it aside.

What am I doing here?

He was too much. Too effortless, too magnetic, too… perfect. The kind of guy who should’ve been with someone who matched him, someone equally flawless. Not Claere, with her name already a whispered scandal and a lingering sense of not quite belonging.

But when he glanced at her again, offering her that easy, lopsided grin, she couldn’t help but feel it—quiet and dangerous, like stepping off the edge of something she couldn’t yet see. She swallowed hard, trying to push the ridiculous thoughts down, but it didn’t help much. This was already overwhelming. And he wasn’t even trying.

He began to ask her, “Have you had dinner? There's this great new place that—”

“I can’t step out without my parents knowing.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, sharper than she intended. She turned toward him, a little embarrassed, but the confusion on his face made her heart pinch. “I'm sorry,” she added quickly. “It’s just… if I go anywhere, someone’s bound to see. I don't have security on me. It’ll be all over the papers by morning. And probably you will be, too.”

He blinked at her, clearly trying to process this. “The papers?”

She nodded, her cheeks heating. “My mom’s very particular. If they find out…” She trailed off, pressing her lips together. “It’ll be really, really bad. Sorry.”

His brow furrowed, but there wasn’t any judgment in his expression—just quiet understanding. “Oh. No worries.”

For a moment, the air between them felt too quiet, too heavy.

“Are you hungry?” she asked softly, breaking the silence, and trying to redirect the conversation.

“Well, I—”

“You know what,” she interrupted, rubbing her eyes as frustration bubbled to the surface, “maybe you should just drop me back home. This was a bad idea.”

Cregan shifted in his seat, his gaze steady on her. “Hey-ey. It’s alright,” he said gently. “We can figure something out. Non-public.”

She hesitated, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. It wasn’t pity or dismissal—it was just calm, easy reassurance. She exhaled, both relief and guilt tugging at her chest.

The truck began to move, but instead of turning back toward her house, he pulled into the parking lot of a small convenience store. Claere frowned, watching him climb out without another word. What was he doing?

“Be right back,” he called before breaking out into a jog.

Claere sat stiffly in her seat, her hands clasped over her phone, staring straight ahead at the glowing sign of the convenience store. She tried to focus on her breathing and tried not to think too much about the sheer absurdity of what she was doing. Meeting a boy. Spontaneously. Alone. Without anyone knowing. Daemon would be livid if he found out. Her mother, less so. She would make a lecture out of it. Be protective. Screw over Cregan's whole life. Yet here she was.

The sound of the driver’s door opening made her jump. She glanced over as Cregan slid into his seat, dropping a crinkling plastic bag onto the centre armrest. He didn’t say anything at first, just started pulling things out, unpacking it all.

A bag of chips. A pack of candy bars. Two bottles of iced tea. Two small containers of sliced fruit. An inexplicable, single can of olives.

“What… is all this?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

He leaned back, flashing her a leisurely grin that made her chest do a weird little flip. “Dinner,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He popped open the bag of chips and nudged it toward her. “Go on. You like sour cream and onion, right?”

She blinked at him. “You didn’t even ask.”

“Didn’t need to.” He winked. “Everyone likes sour cream and onion.”

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, and she shook her head, taking a chip despite herself. She wanted to call it silly or absurd, but really she loved that he'd put in effort to make her stay.

“Hey, you said no going out,” he replied, leaning an elbow on the centre console as he opened the container of fruit. “So, I improvised.” He plucked a grape from the mix and popped it into his mouth, shrugging as if this was a completely normal way to spend a night.

“Look, we stay in the car. Nobody sees anything. It’s not a five-star meal, but it works. And,” he added, picking up the can of olives with a wink, “it’s classy. See? Gourmet.”

She couldn’t hold back the laugh this time, a quiet sound that surprised even her. “Really? Do you even eat olives?”

“Not really,” he admitted, shaking the can. “But you never know. Felt like the right move.”

“Did it?”

“Absolutely.” He tossed the can onto the armrest like it sealed the deal, then leaned back, relaxed and entirely at ease in his seat. “I mean, they’re expensive. Ten bucks a bottle. Fancy schmancy. Impressive?”

Claere snorted, shaking her head. “I’m pretty sure that’s the least impressive thing you’ve done tonight.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his chest, feigning injury. “Here I am, going out of my way to craft the perfect car date, and you’re out here throwing shade.”

Date. The word landed between them, soft but deliberate, making her stomach flip. Was that what this was? A date? She couldn’t tell if he’d meant to say it or if it just slipped out, but the way he casually tossed it in made her pulse quicken. Claere glanced out the window, needing a moment to collect herself. Her hands rested on her lap, fidgeting with the corner of a napkin. He wasn’t trying too hard, wasn’t pushing for anything beyond this odd, makeshift moment. It felt easy—easier than she’d expected.

She glanced back at him. He leaned comfortably against the driver’s seat, the soft light highlighted the curve of his jaw and the faint smile playing on his lips—like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. It struck her again how different he was now from the nervous, slightly reckless guy she’d been introduced to weeks ago. That version of him had been a little too cocky and chaotic, and a little too rough around the edges to fit their carefully curated image of what her life should look like. But this—this version of him was steady, charming.

He cleared his throat, shuffling awkwardly in the seat. “Look, before I say anything else—I owe you an apology.”

Claere blinked, caught off guard by his sceptical tone. She stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I know I’ve been… distant.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flickering between hers and the floor. “I didn’t mean to avoid you. I just—” He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I was really ashamed. About what I did that night. About everything.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion and something gentler. “Why embarrassed?”

Cregan let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. “To state the obvious. Because I was drunk off my ass, made a fool of myself, and dragged you into it. God, the flowerpot… the singing…” He groaned, burying his face briefly in his hands. “And then crashing in your bed like some—”

“It's okay,” she interrupted, her voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to apologize for that.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “You didn’t do anything wrong. People get drunk and, do and say unfortunate things.”

He looked at her then, a little more vulnerable now. “Still. I didn’t handle things right after. I shouldn’t have just—avoided you. That was a dick move.”

Claere’s lips parted slightly, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when he finally approached her, but this wasn’t it.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” He met her gaze fully now, his voice quieter, more sincere. “I’m sorry, Claere. For being an ass. For avoiding you. And for making things weird when you were just—” He paused, swallowing. “When you were just being nice to me.”

Her chest ached at the honesty in his words. She wasn’t used to this—people owning up to their mistakes, much less in such a raw, unpolished way.

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” she said after a beat, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “But… thank you for saying it.”

He nodded, relief flickering across his face, though his hands still fidgeted with a candy bar wrapper. “I don’t exactly remember what I said at that party,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “I hope I didn’t cross a line or—”

“No.” She cut him off, her voice soft but sure. “No, you were actually very sweet. And observant.”

“Observant,” he repeated slowly, raising a brow as if he didn’t trust where this was going.

“You pointed out my weird pattern for how I wear my clothes. Like how I like brown or wear my twisted braids on Wednesdays.”

His face fell, and he groaned, shutting his eyes in clear mortification. “God, I did say that, didn’t I? I am so sorry. So creepy of me.”

She laughed, the sound light and unguarded. “Nothing to be sorry about. I thought it was cute. And... kind of impressive.”

He opened one eye, peeking at her like a cautious kid checking if the coast was clear. “Really? That was all it took to impress you? Not my rugged handsomeness or the fact that I bought you a bottle of olives?”

She laughed with a shrug. “People don’t notice that little things.”

His lips twitched into a small, sheepish smile, but he didn’t say anything. The silence between them was comfortable, humming with something unsaid but not unwelcome.

Claere glanced at him again, studying his profile—the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. He wasn’t trying to break the quiet or fill it with meaningless chatter. He wasn’t pressuring her to leave the car or convincing her to let her guard down for his sake. He was just... here. With her.

“I just...” She hesitated, then pushed on. “Uh, this is nice. Most guys would’ve tried to force me out of the car by now. Insist we go somewhere just because, you know, it’d look better or something.”

At that, his posture shifted ever so slightly, and his head tilted toward her, his tone dipping into a playful drawl. “Most guys?” he asked, his voice tinged with obvious jealousy. “How many guys are we talking about here?”

She shook her head, laughing softly. “A few. And most of them were purely for business relations. My parents’ idea, not mine. Not exactly fun.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes softened. “Yeah, sounds like a blast,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It wasn’t,” she said simply, leaning her head back against the seat. Her gaze flicked to him again, and her smile softened. “But this? It’s the most audacious I’ve been in a while.”

His grin returned, slow and wide, as he reached for another chip from the bag between them. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her lips curving up softly. “I like this. I really do.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering in a way that made her feel exposed but not uncomfortable. It wasn’t like the way most people looked at her—curious, judgmental, or critical. And maybe that’s why what he said next hit her like a freight train.

“I'm not going to play for time. I'll say it: I’ve liked you for a while now,” he admitted, his voice quieter, tinged with a vulnerability she wasn’t expecting.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, all she could do was blink at him. “Oh,” she said, barely managing the single syllable. It sounded stupid, but her brain felt like it had short-circuited.

He gave a small laugh, but it wasn’t mocking. “Yeah, that’s pretty much how I feel too. Everyday.”

“What... what do you mean by a while?” she asked, her voice steadier now, though her heart was still pounding.

Cregan hesitated, running a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping to the steering wheel like he needed something to ground himself. “Since the start of the year? Before that, maybe?” He looked back at her with a half-smile. “It’s a blur. But then you texted me, and... I’ll be honest, I almost crashed my car.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“I mean it,” he said, laughing now. “I was pulling out of practice, checked my phone—stupid, I know—and your name, just sitting on my screen. I swerved so hard, that I almost got rear-ended. The guy behind me rolled down his window and called me a fuckface.”

Claere burst out laughing, the image too ridiculous not to. She could picture it perfectly: Cregan, bold and unbothered on the ice, suddenly reduced to a flustered mess at the sight of her name.

“I’m serious,” he said, laughing along with her. “I had to pull over. I don’t even know why. It was just a text. But you...” He trailed off, his grin fading slightly as his voice softened. “You get to me, Claere. You did. You do.”

Her laughter faded, leaving the quiet between them thick and charged. Something in her chest tightened—a subtle ache she hadn’t expected. His words were so simple, so direct, yet they carried a weight she wasn’t used to.

No one ever spoke to her like this. Not the tabloids, who reduced her to a headline, not her family, who crafted her image like she was part of their empire, and certainly not boys. Boys always wanted something from her—a photo, a name to drop, a chance to prove they could handle someone like her. But Cregan…he just sat there, watching her like she was someone worth looking at. Really looking at.

She didn’t know what to say. Her lips parted, then closed again as her thoughts tangled. Words felt too clumsy for what was twisting inside her. Instead, she just looked at him, her fingers twisting the edge of her sweater as if anchoring herself to the moment.

“I like you, Claere,” he said, and his voice cut through her overthinking like a steady hand on her shoulder. There was no teasing lilt, no hesitation, just earnestness that caught her completely off guard. “And I’d love to get to know you. Really get to know you. Spend time with you. No people, no gossip. Just you.”

Something shifted inside her, like a thread she hadn’t noticed was pulled taut had finally gone slack. Her chest ached with something warm and unfamiliar. Maybe it was relief, or maybe it was fear—fear of how much she wanted to believe him. To trust that he meant it.

Without thinking, without planning, she leaned forward. It wasn’t calculated or bold; it was instinct, a soft, quiet urge she couldn’t ignore. Her lips brushed against his cheek, feather-light, and she lingered for just a moment before pulling back.

When she did, her breath caught. She expected him to be startled, maybe even confused. She braced herself for an awkward laugh or some offhand joke to ease the tension. But instead, he was grinning. Slow and lazy, like she’d just confirmed something he’d already known for a long time.

“Gods-fucking-damnit, thought I'd be a gentleman tonight,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, roughened at the edges in a way that made her stomach flip.

She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. Her thoughts were spinning too fast, caught between the way he was looking at her and the way her heart felt like it was about to hammer out of her chest.

And then he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t some dramatic movie moment. It was careful and conscious like he was giving her all the time in the world to stop him, even though she never would have. When his lips met hers, it was soft at first, like a question he didn’t want to push too hard.

But the second her hand moved—gripping the front of his shirt like she needed something to hold on to—it deepened. His other hand came up, cradling her cheek, stroking down the length of her throat, tongue spearing between her lips, in a way that sent a shiver through her. The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was a little messy, a little uncoordinated, too heated, silly, and breathy, but it was warm and real, and her chest felt like it might burst with the intensity of it all.

Her senses were on overdrive. The faint scent of his soap, the slight scratch of his stubble against her skin, the quiet hitch of his breath when her hand slid up to his shoulder—all of it sank into her like she was trying to memorize every second of this.

When he finally pulled back, her eyes fluttered open, her cheeks flushed and lips tingling. His forehead rested against hers, his breath fanning across her skin as they both tried to catch up with themselves. His hands found a home against her waist, rubbing and squeezing, feeling the lunes of her spine and hips.

“Was that okay?” he asked, his voice so soft it almost broke something inside her.

She nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Better than okay. Really nice.”

His quiet laugh warmed the space between them. “Good,” he said, his thumb still tracing gentle, absent-minded circles on her waist.

She couldn’t look away from him. The way his stormy grey eyes searched hers, like he was trying to memorize every flicker of emotion on her face. Like he was waiting for her to pull away, to tell him this was a mistake. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

His hand, warm and steady, lingered against her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin in a touch so tender it made her heart ache. And in that moment, with the soft hum of the engine filling the space around them, she felt something she hadn’t let herself feel in years.

Safe. Seen. Wanted.

“Can we keep this to ourselves for a bit?” he asked softly, his voice laced with hesitation, as though he wasn’t sure how the words would land.

Her brows knit together slightly, her head tilting just enough to catch his gaze. “Why’s that?” she asked, not accusing, just curious. Her voice was soft, a gentle thread pulling the question closer between them.

He let out a breath, his hand falling from her cheek to rest against the console between them. It left a hollow ache where his touch had been, but she didn’t move. “It’s not that I don’t want people to know,” he started, his tone quiet but steady, each word weighed with meaning. “Trust me, I want everyone to know.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, earnest and steady. “I just… I don’t want anyone ruining this. Not yet. Not before we even figure out what this is.”

She blinked, his words wrapping around her like a fragile cocoon. The flicker of vulnerability in his expression—a barely-there crack in the armor he wore so well—hit her with the force of something unspoken but deeply felt. He wasn’t ashamed of her. He wasn’t hiding her. This wasn’t about fear or hesitation.

He was protecting this. Protecting them.

From the noise. From the outside world that had taken her life and painted it in hues that weren’t hers to begin with.

“That makes sense,” she said softly, her voice gentler than she meant it to be. But it felt right. It felt true.

“Yeah?” he asked, his gaze lifting to meet hers again, as if searching for the faintest shadow of doubt.

She smiled faintly, the curve of her lips soft and sure. “I think… we could use the quiet for a while.”

The relief that spread across his face was almost tangible. His shoulders eased, the edges of his features softening as if a weight he’d carried for too long had finally slipped away. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice so full of sincerity it nearly undid her.

She leaned back in her seat, her body slowly releasing the tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding. The silence between them felt warm, companionable, like an unspoken promise.

“You know,” she said, tilting her head slightly to look at him again, her tone lighter now, “for someone who’s usually so daring, you’re really nervous about this.”

He glanced at her, his lips curving into a crooked, self-deprecating smile. His fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel. “You’re the one who does that to me,” he admitted, his voice low, steady, and entirely too vulnerable. “I’m not used to it.”

Her laugh came without warning, bubbling up light and genuine, and it caught him so off guard that his smile widened, bright and boyish.

“That’s nice,” she teased, nudging his arm with hers. “Maybe that means you’ll behave.”

His brows lifted, his grin turning mischievous. “Behave?” He looked at her like the word itself was an insult. “Is that what you want? A well-behaved guy?”

She tilted her head as if in deep thought, though the playful glint in her eyes betrayed her. “Hmm,” she hummed, drawing it out, “I don’t know. Depends on the day, I guess. Some days I might prefer a misbehaving one.”

His laughter filled the space between them, rich and warm, a sound that made her feel like the entire world had shrunk down to just this car, just this moment. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

Her lips twitched, her smile turning coy as she leaned back. “Oh, I’ve been told.”

X

[and there you have it - sort of... I've planned another part, possibly the last one, so stay tuned!]

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurll , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[romerona]

The swan Princess; Westeros Version.

Okay so, I can’t this out of my brain so just imagine this with me:

The reader-insert Targaryen Princess, the younger sister of Rhaenyra by about 16-17 years, and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years (a rare moment of decency among men in House of the Dragon, but let's roll with it).

However, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other, setting the stage for a classic love-hate relationship.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: kids being kids.

The towering walls of Harrenhal surround you like sentinels, their dark history hidden beneath the banners of red and black for your name day celebration. It's your sixth name day, and the great hall is alive with music, laughter, and the scent of roasted meats. Nobles mill about in their finest, offering you warm smiles, expensive gifts and endless congratulations. You curtsy, thank them, and do all the things a proper princess should.

You’ve been told countless times how loved you are—how your bright smile and kind words can soften even the grumpiest lord. But the truth is, your feet ache from standing, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and you missed you sister Nyra, she couldn’t attend because she was about to give birth to her babe. You’re already planning your escape.

Your father’s voice pulls you from your thoughts.

“Come, sweetling,” King Viserys beckoned warmly, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “There is someone I would have you meet.”

With his guiding presence, he led you across the hall to a man of imposing stature, his broad shoulders and solemn expression marking him unmistakably as a lord of the North—Lord Rickon Stark. Beside him stood a boy, perhaps a few years your elder, with a mane of dark curls and piercing grey eyes that seemed to observe the world with unnerving precision.

“Lord Stark, I trust your journey was swift and uneventful?” your father inquired with the easy grace of a king accustomed to courtesies.

Lord Rickon inclined his head in a deep bow, he straightened from his bow, his voice deep and steady, carrying the weight of northern formality.

“Your Grace, the journey was as kind as one could hope this time of year. The North sends its regards, and I am honored to stand in your presence once more. Thank you for the honor of hosting us.” He glanced at you and also bow, “May the princess’s name day bring joy to all who celebrate it.”

You smile politely, dipping into a curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. It’s a pleasure to meet you and your family.”

Rickon gestures to the boy at his side. “This is my son and heir, Cregan.”

Cregan steps forward, bowing stiffly. It’s obvious he’s not used to it. He’s taller than you expected, and there’s something about the way he holds himself that reminds you of the knights in your father’s court—serious, reserved, and trying far too hard to look older than he is.

“Princess,” he says in a deep, measured voice, “happy name day. I hope it has been a joyful celebration.”

You smile at him, tilting your head.

“Thank you, my lord. It has been lively.” Your tone is polite, but you can’t help teasing him a little. He seems so serious, like he’s never laughed a day in his life.

Your father turned to speak with Lord Rickin about something you honestly had no interest in. Instead you turn to the boy, the young Lord, Cregan Stark.

“Do you always speak like that?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Cregan blinks, clearly taken aback. “Like what?”

“So formal,” you say with a grin. “Do you practice in front of a mirror?”

His ears turn red, but he doesn’t lose his composure. “It’s important to speak with respect,”

You’re about to tease him further when your father nudges you gently. You remember your manners and curtsy again, leaving Cregan to stare after you as you’re whisked away to greet the next guest.

Later that evening, after what feels like hours of endless conversation and feasting, you finally find your chance to slip away. The gardens outside Harrenhal are quiet and cool, a welcome escape from the noise of the hall. The moonlight dances on the fountains, and the scent of night-blooming flowers fills the air.

You’re wandering down a stone path when you spot him—Cregan Stark. He’s crouched under a tree, poking at the dirt with a stick.

“You’re not supposed to leave the hall,” you say, your sudden voice startling him.

He shoots to his feet, hastily brushing dirt off his tunic as though it might erase his guilt.

“Neither are you,” he counters, his tone careful yet edged with a hint of accusation.

You arch a brow, crossing your arms. “I’m the princess. I can do as I please.”

“That’s not true,” he retorts, his grey eyes narrowing as he mirrors your posture. “The king said the garden is off-limits.”

A sly smirk curls your lips, your lilac eyes gleaming with mischief. “Well, my father isn’t here, is he?”

Cregan’s frown deepens, his expression growing more serious. “If something happens to you, it’ll be my fault.”

Ignoring him, you take a step closer, letting your gaze drop to the stick he clutches. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Were you digging for treasure?”

His shoulders stiffen as he quickly moves the stick behind his back. “That’s none of your concern.”

Your grin widens, delighted at his discomfort. “So you were digging for something!”

“I wasn’t!” he insists, his ears tinged with a flush of embarrassment.

“Let me see,” you say, darting forward with a burst of energy and snatching the stick from his hand before he can react. You hold it aloft like a trophy, inspecting it with exaggerated curiosity. “What is this supposed to be?”

“It’s just a stick,” Cregan replies, his tone laced with exasperation, as if he couldn’t believe you were making such a fuss.

You tilt your head, pretending to examine it like it’s some ancient artifact. “Were you digging for dragon eggs? Gold, perhaps?”

His cheeks flush, and he glares at you. “Stop teasing me!”

But teasing him is far too entertaining to stop now. You smirk, twirling the stick.

“Or maybe you’re looking for a duel,” you say, taking a step back and mimicking a defensive stance you’d seen knights adopt in the courtyard during their sparring sessions.

Cregan raises an eyebrow at you, incredulous. “I’m not fighting a girl. And a princess, no less.”

You narrow your eyes at him, your grin growing wider. “Why not? Afraid, Stark?”

He bristles immediately, straightening his posture. “I am not afraid,”

“Really? Then prove it,” you challenge, tapping the stick against the ground like a knight preparing to strike.

Before he can respond, you jab the stick lightly at his side, making him jump. “Ow!”

You laugh as he lunges for the stick, easily sidestepping him.

“You're slow," you taunt, spinning the stick like you've seen the knights do.

It's far too big for your small hands, but you make it work, grinning all the while.

Cregan narrows his grey eyes, his jaw tightening.

"I'm not slow," he says, his voice low and deliberate.

"Prove it, then," you say with a smirk, backing away a step. "Show me what the great Stark of the north can do."

He hesitates, glancing down at the mud smudging his boots, as if weighing the consequences.

“It wouldn't be honorable," he says stiffly, his tone full of the self-importance you've come to expect from boys who think they're men.

You roll your eyes. "You're no fun, Stark. What's the point of being a lord if you can't even defend your honor from a girl with a stick?"

His cheeks flush redder. "It's not proper to fight a princess!"

"Then you'd better run," you say, raising the stick and charging at him.

Caught off guard, Cregan stumbles back, his hands flying up in defense.

“Stop that!" he growls, but you've already jabbed him lightly in the side.

"First blood!" you declare triumphantly, poking him again before he can react.

"That's enough!" he snaps, grabbing for the stick, but you dance out of reach, laughing all the while.

"Not until you admit l've bested you," you tease, circling him with the mock seriousness of a seasoned warrior.

"Never," he mutters, his brows drawing into a stormy line.

But you don’t stop. You jab him again, then again, each time with just enough force to make him flinch. His face turns red—not from pain, but from anger—and you can’t help but laugh at how easy it is to rile him up.

“That’s enough!” he snaps, lunging forward and grabbing for the stick. His sudden movement catches you off guard, and you stumble, the stick slipping from your grasp.

The two of you freeze for a moment, glaring at each other, breathing hard. Then, as if on cue, the tension explodes again, and the scuffle resumes, this time with both of you trying to wrestle control of the stick.

The tugging begins. You yank the stick one way, he pulls it back with equal force. The push and pull grows more intense with every second, the dirt beneath your feet slipping as you both struggle for control.

“Let go!” he growls through gritted teeth, his stance wide and firm.

“You let go!” you fire back, gripping the stick with all the determination of a dragon refusing to yield its hoard.

You yank the stick back with all the determination your small hands can muster, and Cregan pulls harder in retaliation. The scuffle becomes a tug-of-war, and with one final, unsteady pull, you both lose your footing.

You fall first, landing ungracefully on the grass. Thankfully, you’re spared the mud, but the same cannot be said for Cregan. He topples beside you, landing with a loud squelch in the wet muck.

For a moment, the garden is silent save for your uneven breaths. You push yourself up, brushing grass off your skirt, and glance at him. His tunic is streaked with mud, his hair tousled from the fall, and a dark streak smudges his cheek like a careless smear of war paint.

You press your lips together, trying to stifle it—but it’s no use. Laughter bursts out of you, uncontrollable and bright.

Cregan turns his head sharply, his grey eyes narrowing as he sits up stiffly.

“Why are you laughing?” His tone is formal, but there’s a sharp edge to it, his annoyance barely restrained.

You hold your sides, laughing harder at his expression.

“Because—” you manage between giggles, pointing at his face, “—because you look ridiculous! Like a pig in a mud pit!”

Cregan stiffens, his jaw tightening. “You are hardly in a position to jest, Princess. You’re the one sitting in the dirt!”

His words make you laugh even harder, and for a moment, it seems like he might let it go. But then his temper flares, and with deliberate precision, he scoops up a handful of mud.

Before you can react, the cold, wet clump splatters across the front of your gown. You gasp, your laughter replaced with sheer outrage gasp.

“You big brute!” you exclaim, rising to your knees. You scoop up your own handful of mud and hurl it back at him with all the righteous indignation of a wronged queen.

The mud hits his shoulder, leaving a dark smear on the fine fabric of his tunic. His eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks genuinely shocked. Then his lips press into a thin line, and he glares at you with all the gravity an eight-year-old can muster.

He grabs another handful of mud, flinging it with far more force this time. You shriek as it lands on your sleeve, and without hesitation, you retaliate.

The garden becomes your battleground. Mud flies through the air as you dodge and lunge, your giggles ringing out as Cregan growls in frustration. He tries to maintain his formality even as he hurls clumps of dirt at you.

“Your behavior is unbefitting of a princess!” he calls, though the mud streaking his face makes him look anything but dignified.

“And yours is no better for a lord!” you reply gleefully, tossing another clump that narrowly misses him.

By the time your attendants arrive, the scene they stumble upon is one of complete chaos. You’re both caked in mud from head to toe, your gown a ruined mess, and his tunic utterly unrecognizable.

“Your highness!” one of your handmaidens exclaims, rushing forward. “What in the name of the Seven happened here?”

“She attacked me!” Cregan says immediately, straightening his posture despite the mud dripping from his hair.

“You threw the first mud!” you counter, pointing at him with a haughty tilt of your chin.

The attendants exchange exasperated looks as they pull you both to your feet, fussing over the state of your clothes and muttering about what your fathers will say when they see this.

The second encounter.

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Song of Ice and Fire // Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader.

WARNINGS: afab!reader, mdni, SMUT, p in v sex, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, tiddy sucking, breeding kink, blackmail (not directed at reader), extreme canon divergence, simp!aemond(?), aemond is lowkey manipulative, mentions of war, prophecy bs, + not proofread.

WC: 2.5k

A/N: I said a short fic of "1k words" but then I got carried away 💀💀 divider credits: @cafekitsune

“From my blood come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire”

Those words rang in Aemond’s ears as he flew on his dragon, when he accidentally overheard his father reciting the prophecy on his bed in a moment of absolute vulnerability.

It was one of many things on his mind as he flew to the north with Vhagar, having recently disinherited Rhaenyra by placing aegon on the throne, they planned to not worry about the starks too much, but Aemond knew how much of a threat they were, considering they rule the entirety of the north, and could easily overpower them in manpower.

Which is exactly why he took his dragon and flew north immediately, and sent Daeron in his stead to secure Baratheon's loyalty.

He was not unprepared, in fact, he knew he had an advantage, which was his relationship with Cregan’s younger sister, you, who is the apple of his eye. Aemond remembers seeing you during one of the banquets and immediately taking note of your accent, which screamed that you were from the the north and his suspicions were only confirmed when one of the guards who were sent to investigate your suspicious presence came to him with the conclusion that you were indeed from the north, what was unexpected was you turning out to be cregan’s younger sister.

He remembers being smitten with you, after all you were not only beautiful but also had impressed him with your confidence and personality, something that seemed to be the trait of starks. He knew asking for your hand in marriage would secure connections with the Starks, yet his mother declined, telling him that it would be impossible to make Cregan agree with this marriage. Which obviously soured his mood.

Yet that would not be the last of your ‘interaction’, Aemond had actually approached you before, and you took quite the liking to him, you enjoyed his company whilst you stayed at the keep, he was calm, collected yet oozed off an aura that makes every shut their mouths when he enters a room. You took a liking to him.

Though you had left the keep after the ceremonies had ended, you and Aemond exchanged letters quite frequently and privately, over the course of a few months, and sometimes even sneaking off to have a little rendezvous with him, obviously by lying to your brother, you and him have gotten closer quite significantly, and you were waiting for him to ask your hand in marriage. So imagine your surprise and anxiety when you heard the news of Rhaenyra being usurped on the morrow of a fine day, only to receive a letter from Aemond on the eve, which read that he will be coming to the north soon in a few days. You had expected his arrival, but realised that Cregan didn’t, so you immediately rushed to tell him that Aemond would be coming only to find a squire sent from the Targaryen family that did your job for you.

And so you awaited the day he finally came here, and when you heard the dragon's roar in skies, you knew he had come, you waited in your room patiently likely knowing that Aemond and your brother are discussing the matters

“You want me to support your drunken brother’s claim over Rhaenyra? Our family swore an oath to her claim, and if there is one thing the starks are known for, it is not for being turncloaks.” Cregan’s voice boomed loudly as he grit his teeth, trying not to lunge at him, Aemond knew that of course, which is why he was prepared. “Not even if I tell you that your sister has my seed possibly taking root in her womb?” Aemond crosses his leg on his sitting chair, tilting his head sideways as he watches Cregan’s eyes widen. “You’re lying, you and my sister have never interacted.” Cregan says slowly, almost as if trying to convince himself that it wasn't true rather than accusing Aemond of lying. Well, yeah Aemond was lying, but it was the only way. “Not in front of you, at least..” Aemond trails off and Cregan immediately asks someone to fetch you.

And so here you are walking through the hallways and going to the room where Aemond and your brother were currently talking. The moment you enter the room, Cregan’s head snaps towards you, “Is it true?” He asks, but you had no idea what your brother was talking about, and then you came to the conclusion that Aemond probably told your brother about your secret relationship, “Yes.” You said before your brother can ask you any more questions “Since when?” he grits his teeth, “For a while, we have been meeting up occasionally as well.” You tell your brother, and Cregan sighs heavily, you turn to look at Aemond whose gaze was already on you, he gave you his signature smirk which made you blush and look away, you were not privy to know what Aemond had actually said. “I need.. Time to process this, till then you can…stay here.” Cregan says reluctantly and Aemond nods.

Just then, the guard comes rushing in, “My lord, prince Jacaerys is to be arriving here soon, i have just received the word.” Cregan wishes the world collapsed on him right now, knowing that he’s under so much pressure.

“Escort prince Aemond to the guest chambers.” he commands the guard and the guard nods, you leave along with him as well.

The night falls quickly, the air becoming much colder than before, Vhagar has flown off into the sky, unable to stand the coldness and settled somewhere warm, while you sit in your chambers undoing your braids, thoughts filled with nothing but the interaction between your brother and Aemond.

You hear gentle knocks on the door of your chamber, you get up from your vanity and make your way towards it before opening it, only to find Aemond standing there, your eyes widened and you quickly pull him inside, making sure nobody saw him and shutting the door behind you.

He walks into your room casually, taking a look at your chambers and noting everything down, “What are you doing here this late My prince? It is unseemly.” You slightly shout at him in a shocked tone, “Unseemly? Has my lady forgotten the moments of passion we shared during our secret meetings?” He raises an eyebrow and you blush, heat rising in your cheeks, you and Aemond did share a few kisses but that was all, and that too were done in private. “No, but it was away from the prying eyes of everyone.” You interject, “We are away from the prying eyes now as well, we are alone.” He steps closer to you, his presence oddly proving you with warmth.

When he notices that you are not stepping away, he wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you closer, pushing your body against his, you place your arms on his chest to maintain balance as he stares into your eyes.

“What did you tell my brother? He didn't argue at all.” You ask him as he bends down a little to place kisses to your cheek, trailing down to your jaw, “Aemond.” You say his name which makes him smirk but he continues to kiss you, face buried in the crook of your neck, you sight sweetly when you feel him suck on your sweet spot.

“I just… told something that will be true in a few months.” He replies and you furrow your eyebrows and slightly nudge him away, causing him to pull away, “And what exactly is it?” You question sternly, your frustration now evident because of the fact that something is being hidden from you.

Aemond sighs, his hand trails down before resting on your lower abdomen, “I might have lied about you being pregnant with my child.” he whispers in your ear and you gasp, “That is not true, we haven't–”

“We have not, but I had to stoop that low, otherwise he wouldn't have even considered my proposal.” He cuts you off, “If he gets a maester to check, we are done for.” You tell him and he chuckles, “I didn't mention that you were confirmed to be with my child, just that I have seeded you with the possibility of you being with my child.” He explains and you sigh in annoyance.

“Besides, It can always become true.”

You blink, “Surely you don't mean–” and before you could complete your sentence, he cuts you off, “I mean exactly what you are assuming.” His voice goes down an octave, sounding deeper as his intentions turn darker.

He lifts you up and carries you towards the bed and places you atop it, you stare at him with your eyes wide, “Aemond, it is wrong.” You protest, “Tell me my love, do you want it or not?” He questions and you fall silent, “We are yet to be man and wife, it is against the tradition-”

“I asked whether you wanted it or not, it is a yes or no question my lady, if it is a yes, I will continue, but if it is a no, I will leave your room immediately.” He cuts you off and you swallow thickly, you rub your thighs together in an attempt to get rid of the ache that had been itching since the moment he touched you.

“Yes, I want it.” You mutter and in mere moments he's on top of you, pulling off the strings and removing your bodice, he showers kisses to each and every inch of your exposed skin as his hands make quick work of removing your clothing, you aid him in doing so until you are completely bare and vulnerable beneath him.

He presses his lips against yours, you kiss back as your lips dance against each other's in rhythm, his hands trails upwards your body before grabbing your breast and giving a squeeze, you groan into the kiss as he pinches your nipple. He pulls back from the kiss before kissing the side of your mouth, and trailing down to your jaw, to your neck before stopping at your breast to place a few wet kisses on them, he takes one of your nipple in his mouth, and swirling his tongue around the nub before he pulls back with a wet pop and continues his trail of kisses down to your cunt.

He sighs in content as the sight of your glistening cunt, coated with your essence of arousal and without any warning he dives right in, indulging himself in the sweet taste of you.

You let out a loud gasp when you feel his mouth on your warm core, mind unable to comprehend what he is trying to do, yet feeling satisfied at the way his mouth moves on you. His tongue lick a long strip from your hole to your clit before he takes your clit in his mouth, sucking on the bud and nibbling it between his teeth, this sends sparks of pleasure combined with a dribble of pain as your hand flies to grip his head, not knowing whether to push him away or pull him further in. His hands wrap around from underneath your thighs and he pushes himself further in, as if he's trying to bury himself in you.

His tongue flicks against your clit constantly and you can feel a certain something approaching, and with one last final suck from him; you are sent over the edge with a loud moan as your high hits you extremely fast. You almost crush his head with your thighs because of the intensity of your peak.

He gives few final licks before pull away and getting on his haunches, you watch he undoes his breeches in a haste, “Fuck- can't hold back anymore.” He mutters and he pulls his cock free of its confines and lines it up against your entrance, yet he doesn't push in, he instead rubs his cock and nudges your clit with his tip, coating his dick in your juices.

“Aemond- please.” You beg, aching to have something inside of you, and he looks at you before cursing and lining his cock against your entrance, you mentally prepare yourself for it to hurt.

And seven hells does it hurt so much, yet the stretch was so delicious as the same time, your toes in curl pleasure combined with pain as he stretches you out on his cock, you gasp when he fully sheathes himself inside you, feeling as if thought he had entered inside of your stomach, though it is impossible.

He gives you time to adjust, and you with a nod of your head, you encourage him to move, you had had expected him to start off slow, but his patience had run thin, so instead you were met with an almost animalistic and brutal pace, he threw your legs over his shoulders as he pounded into you, hands grabbing all the available flesh of your body.

The bed creaks from the movement happening on top of it, you grip the sheets below tightly and throw your head when his tip hits a certain sweet spot inside of you, whimpering when he repeatedly rams at it.

“Going to breed you alright? ‘m going to have you bear many of my children.” He grunts, moaning when he feels your walls clench around him, “Yes–! Aemond, do as you please– ohh fuck!” You moan loudly when another wave of orgasm crashes over you, back arching as the peak was more intense than before, making you see white.

“Fuck- I'm coming, can't wait to watch you swell with my child, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He growls loudly when he reaches his peak, his hot spend painting your walls, he waits and collects his composure before pulling out, and you sigh in content yet disappointment, immediately missing the feeling of having him inside you.

He lays right next to you in bed and pulls you close, placing gentle kisses to your forehead.

“You'll give me the prince that was promised, our child will be the prince that Aegon the Conqueror has prophesied, and his will be the song of ice and fire.” He suddenly speaks to you and you stare up at him, “Prince that was promised?” You question and he nods,

“You are the ice to my fire, and from us will come a prince that will save the realm from destruction.” He tells you and you remain silent, still not understanding all of this prophecy of the Targaryens, but nevertheless nodding, “You'll melt me, you know.” You jest and he lets out a small chuckle, “That's exactly what I did right now.” he presses a kiss to your forehead once again.

Cregan stark had no other choice but to accept the proposal, rejecting Jacaerys words, it hurt Cregan, knowing they'll forever be branded as turn cloaks, yet he couldn't let his sister suffer from the words of the realm if she did happen to be with Aemond's child.

And so, the starks supported the greens, making them win the war, but it wasn't too long before Aegon had died of alcohol poisoning, and with no surviving heirs, Aemond inherited the iron throne.

GENERAL TAGLIST !

@watercolorsky @cl-0-vr @chompchompluke @namelesslosers @snowystark @spookyaemond @sweethoneyblossom1 @this-isnt-madness @persephonerinyes @eltherevir @sidni3003 @aleidag1rly @cryingforlife @fan-goddess @hannaeditzs @grungegrrrl @thekinslayersswordhand @aemondsbabygirl

Bold is who I can't tag ; DM to be removed!

— !  ݈݇- thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated greatly ♡

[st6rmbrn]

OMGGGGG THIS WAS SOOOOO SCRUMPTIOUS!!! THIS WAS SO GOOD🤭🤭🤭🤭

second sight | modern!cregan stark x fem!oc (part ii)

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

summary: (read part i here) Ever wonder how they met? Claere and Cregan’s story forms at the intersection of opposites: a mysterious girl with a scandalous reputation and a fuelled, grounded hockey player, both trying to navigate lives that couldn’t seem more different. Parties, misunderstandings, and an unexpected kiss—that's where Claere and Cregan’s secret romance begins.

warnings: this is pure, tooth-rotting fluff and yearning. language. law-breaking. alcohol. drugs.

words: 18,000+, 45 min read (full-time job + sleepless nights = ?)

Cregan Stark had just won the game, but for the first time in his life, winning didn’t matter.

The locker room was alive with the kind of chaos only a hard-fought victory could ignite. Shouts echoed off the walls, and laughter bounced between the clangs of tossed helmets and stick taps on the floor. The air was electric, a cocktail of sweat, adrenaline, and triumph that made the walls feel like they might burst.

The riotous celebration almost drowned Coach’s gruff praise: “That’s how you fight, lads! That’s how you finish!” His words struck sparks in the room, igniting another round of cheers and fists banging against lockers.

Normally, Cregan would’ve been at the centre of it all, roaring with his team, drowning in the high of a win well-earned. His shoulders would feel lighter under the weight of the captain’s "C," his grin splitting his face as he soaked up the shared glory.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he sat slouched in his cubby, his jersey half-stripped and his skates still on, staring down at the phone lighting up in his hands like it was burning a hole through his palm. It was impossible to ignore—the insistent buzz of notifications, the glow of the screen, the words that blurred together in a flurry of disbelief and shock.

Bro, howwww XD I sniff the bullshit

How did you pull HER, Stark?

Score. You owe me a pint, brother

Lock it the fuck down, mate. She’s out of your league.

Cregan swiped the screen to dim the messages, jaw tight as the heat climbed his neck. This was what he’d signed up for, wasn’t it? The stares. The jokes. The endless fucking questions. He scrolled past the messages, thumb hovering over his camera roll. Hesitation flickered—just for a second—before he tapped on a photo. There she was, the light of his whole life.

The photo filled the screen like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Claere sat at his darkened dining table, a small strawberry cake glowing with two candles in front of her. Her silver hair was pulled into loose pigtails, her cheeks slightly flushed from the room's heat. She’d scrunched up her face for the camera, lips puckered, eyes two crescent moons of pure joy. She was laughing, the sound practically tangible even through a static image.

It was their second anniversary. He’d taken the picture after making a fool of himself trying to light the candles with a busted lighter. Claere had been in stitches. “You’re hopeless,” she had said, shaking her head before kissing him on the cheek.

“Godsdamnit, Stark.” A voice snapped him back to reality.

He jolted, fumbling to lock his phone, but not before the picture had been burned into someone else’s retinas. The voice belonged to Tomlin, his closest defenseman.

“She’s a fucking hottie, mate.”

“You lucky bastard,” someone else chimed in, and soon a cluster of guys crowded around him, craning their necks to see.

“All right, that’s my sister,” came a sharper voice.

Jacaerys Velaryon, Claere’s older brother and their star winger, emerged from the haze of damp towels and shattered sticks. His presence cut through the lingering noise of post-game banter, exasperation written in the hard set of his jaw as he shoved through the group crowding around Cregan’s bench.

“Back off, all of you. Evil eye assholes,” Jace snapped, swiping a towel from one of the guys as they dispersed. A few muttered half-hearted protests, others threw exaggerated thumbs-ups or winks in Cregan’s direction before retreating toward the showers.

Jace dropped onto the bench beside Cregan without ceremony, slinging the stolen towel over his shoulder. He didn’t say anything at first, focusing instead on unwrapping the compression bandages from his legs, wincing as the fabric peeled away from bruised, sweat-slicked skin.

“Tough game,” he muttered finally, not looking up.

Cregan let out a dry laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just say it, Jace.”

“Say what?” Jace’s grin was maddeningly lopsided like he knew exactly what Cregan expected but wouldn’t give it to him. “That I’m proud of you?”

Cregan frowned, caught off guard. “The fuck?”

“Yeah,” Jace said, leaning back against the lockers with a groan. “About time you came out with this. Can’t imagine it feels good, keeping something like that buried.”

Cregan blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Bloody hell, I could not keep your secret any longer,” Jace added with a laugh, shaking his head. “It was fouling me up. Every time I saw her, it was like I had to bite my tongue in half not to slip.”

Cregan exhaled sharply, his shoulders loosening despite himself. “That simple, huh?”

“Guess so,” Jace said, shrugging. “You make her happy, Stark. That’s all I care about.”

Before Cregan could respond, his phone buzzed again. The screen lit up, illuminating Claere’s name. Everything else—the damp towels, the clatter of skates against the locker room floor, even Jace beside him—faded into the background. It was like the whole world narrowed to that one word, that one connection.

Her name. Just six letters, but somehow it carried the weight of everything they’d built together. The stolen glances, the late-night conversations, the quiet moments where words weren’t needed. It wasn’t just a name on a screen—it was her. Her laugh, her eyes, the way she looked at him like she saw straight through every wall he’d ever put up.

And now, here it was again, in the midst of the chaos: a reminder of what mattered.

He swiped open the message, already feeling the tension in his chest ease just a fraction.

I wish I could come down and find you, but I can't stay. Paps outside. I’ll see you at home <3

His eyes caught on a single word. Home.

For a second, it didn’t feel like the locker room around him existed. That word hit harder than anything else—unexpected, simple, and strangely grounding. His place wasn’t just a crash pad or an escape for her anymore; it was home. To her. That realization settled somewhere deep, quieting the noise of everything else.

He typed back, his fingers moving almost on instinct.

Anything, baby. I got you. Can't wait xx

The response felt effortless, not because it was routine but because it was true. They’d had this conversation many times before, and they had these covert plans to meet after the chaos. The same texts and soft promises whispered in a world that didn’t quite feel ready to see them.

But even now, with everything out in the open, nothing about the core of it had changed. They still had to navigate the same moments, the same carefully coordinated endings.

He stood, grabbing his gear. The familiar weight of his hockey bag slung over his shoulder was grounding, a reminder of everything that hadn’t changed.

“Off to play house already?” one of the guys called from across the room, his grin wicked.

Another chimed in, “Cardio plans for my boooooy!”

“Yeah, don’t forget your stamina, Stark.”

The room erupted into laughter, voices overlapping with whistles and exaggerated winks.

Cregan didn’t stop. Didn’t roll his eyes or even glance back. He just held up a middle finger as he walked, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Because, yeah, they could laugh. They could tease. They didn’t know what it felt like to have her waiting on the other side of all this noise.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, the chaos of the locker room faded behind him. The sky stretched wide and endless above the parking lot, the stars faint against the glow of the city. He pulled his bag higher on his cramped shoulder, the load of it barely registering. His mind was already miles away.

Home. That word clung to him, nestled somewhere deep in his chest. It wasn’t just a place anymore—it was her. It was Claere. And knowing that made everything else—the game, the chaos, the cameras—worth it.

He unlocked his truck and tossed his bag into the bed, letting out a long breath. But as he leaned back against the driver’s door, the quiet brought memories with it, as if the night itself wanted to remind him just how far he’d fallen.

Cregan Stark had it fucking bad, and he knew it.

He was done for from the moment he’d first noticed her—really noticed her. Not the way everyone else did, with their rumours and their whispers, their tabloid snapshots and snide commentary. No, for him, it had been something else entirely.

It was her first year at the quad. He remembered the exact moment because it was impossible to forget. He’d been sitting in his truck, waiting out the morning rush, his morning green juice spilling into the cupholder and his patience thinner than usual.

Then she pulled up. That absurd little white scooter stuttered into the lot a few rows ahead of him, a stark contrast to the roaring engines of bikes and cars around it. She unclipped her helmet and shook out her hair, so unhurried and deft, the sunshine catching in the silvery strands as they tumbled free. He would be lying if he said it wasn't playing out in faded hues and slow motion to him. She smoothed her skirt, adjusted her necklace, and—gods above—spread pink lip balm with surgical precision using the side mirror as her guide. Popped her lips into a pout.

He should’ve looked away, should’ve minded his business. He honestly couldn't. She had him entirely for a moment. He would've fought another person through blood, rain and mud for this unfamiliar girl.

She pointed at her reflection, mouthed something—“You’re not a quitter”—and nodded confidently, as if the girl staring back at her needed convincing. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she rummaged in her bag, pulled out a breath mint, and placed it gently on the pavement in front of a trail of ants.

And just like that, she was gone, walking toward the quad with her bag slung over one shoulder, peering into her phone, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d left a grown man sitting slack-jawed in his truck.

Gods-fucking-dammit. He’d been a goner for that fruitcake from that moment on.

Back then, he’d told himself it was just a passing fascination. A moment of curiosity, nothing more. Another pretty Targaryen chick, nothing less. But the memory stayed with him, surfacing at the most inconvenient times, dragging his thoughts back to her in ways he couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t until much later—until her quiet, steady presence started to fill spaces he didn’t know were empty—that he realized the truth.

Claere Velaryon wasn’t just someone he’d noticed. She was someone he couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

Ever since then, he started paying attention to his surroundings more often. He picked out the clack of her strappy sandals in the halls, and noticed how her earrings changed every week—tiny hoops, dainty studs, dangling charms. Brown was her favourite colour; it showed in her clothes, her notebooks, and even the little leather straps on her bag. The way her braided silver hair caught the light, the delicate gold jewellery adorning her fingers as they moved across a notebook in slow, precise sketches—it was maddening. Fascinating. She was chipping away at him every moment she lingered.

A simple flick of her wrist as she shaded something in her sketchbook made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t explain. He didn’t even care what she was drawing; he just wanted to sit there, unnoticed, and watch her hands.

It was sick, he thought, the way he’d tailored his life around her. He’d signed up for a mind-numbingly boring horticulture elective just to be in the same room as her. His teammates had laughed for days about it—“Cregan Stark, the ice king, planting daisies?”—but none of it mattered. Not when she sat three rows ahead of him, her head bent over her notes, utterly oblivious to the chaos she caused in his chest. And every day, he longed to sit by her side and tuck that little tendril of silvery hair behind her ear.

Even at the rink, his sanctuary, she’d wormed her way into his thoughts. She rarely came to see Jace practice, but when she did, it was like the entire world shifted. He’d skate harder, faster, pulling off moves he barely practised, all in the hope that she might look up and watch him in his element. But Claere never seemed to care. She’d stretch out on her back over the benches, headphones in, world off, eyes closed. And yet, the mere sight of her was enough to light him up from the inside out.

But the thing that really drove him insane—truly made his brain short-circuit—was how she tried. She wasn’t exactly outgoing, but she made an effort. He’d see her in the library, offering an overly pleasant smile to someone in her study group, only for it to be met with an awkward nod. Or sometimes in the mess hall, where she’d hover near a table of classmates, tray in hand, like she was working up the nerve to sit down—just to turn away when no one waved her over.

He couldn’t understand it. Why did no one want to talk to this gorgeous girl? She was right there, looking like something out of a storybook, and yet everyone acted like she didn’t exist.

“I don’t get it,” he had muttered, half to himself, when his friends had finally gotten to having lunch. Claere had been perched at a table by the window, fiddling with a ring on her finger, her tray untouched.

“Get what?” his teammate, Wil, asked, not looking up from his fries.

“Why nobody talks to her,” Cregan had said, gesturing vaguely in Claere’s direction. “She’s… I mean, look at her. She’s—”

“Intense,” Wil had finished, shrugging.

Cregan frowned. “Intense?”

“You know, quiet. Standoffish. It’s like she doesn’t want to be here. Like she's above us all.” His teammate took another bite of his burger, speaking around the mouthful. “And then there’s the whole… Targaryen thing. People don’t know what to say to someone like that.”

Cregan had bristled. “Someone like what?”

Wil had shrugged again. “Rich. Loose screws. Scary-pretty.”

Scary? Cregan glanced at her again, noting the way her face softened as she leaned into her palm, absentmindedly tracing circles on her notebook.

There was nothing scary about her. Not in the way Wil meant, anyway. Sure, she was different. Quiet where others were loud. Graceful where others fumbled. She had a way of carrying herself that made her stand apart, like she was cut from a different cloth. Maybe she was. But none of that made her scary.

“She’s not scary,” Cregan said sharply, his tone brooking no argument.

Wil raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Hit a nerve, Cap?”

Cregan ignored him, his mind circling back to something else. “What about Jace, then? Why doesn’t he get this treatment? He’s just as rich, just as Targaryen, and no one seems to care.”

“Jace’s different,” Wil said with a shrug. “He’s always in your face, gets along with everyone, probably swallowed two loudspeakers. You know how it is. People don’t question you when you’re easy to like.”

Easy to like. The words sat uncomfortably in Cregan’s chest.

His gaze returned to Claere. Her soft smile lingered as she scribbled something in her notebook, completely unaware of the weight of the judgments thrown her way. Scary-pretty. What a load of bullshit. If anything, the way people talked about her was the real problem. Not her. Screw them.

“Yeah, well,” Cregan muttered, pushing his plate away, “some people wouldn’t know real class if it smacked them in the face.”

Wil snorted, but Cregan didn’t give him a chance to reply. His attention was back on Claere, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. Scary? No, she wasn’t scary. She was just different. And maybe that’s what scared everyone else.

He couldn’t even hide his big, fat crush anymore. Whenever the mess hall went quiet, the way it always did when she walked in, he’d find his seat with his friends, carefully angled just to catch a glimpse of her. And Jace—observant, infuriating, son of a bitch Jace—noticed everything.

“You’re disgusting, Cap,” Jace announced, shattering Cregan’s thoughts like glass.

“What?” Cregan muttered, dragging himself back to the pub, where the beer was warm, the lights were dim, and his best friend was clearly gearing up to humiliate him. A table beside them began to sound much like the laugh track in his disgraceful love life.

“You. With my little sister.” Jace gestured lazily with his bottle, smirking. “You’re disgusting. It’s like watching a wolf drool over a lamb.”

“Shut up,” Cregan snapped, leaning back against the booth. He tipped his head back, glaring at the ceiling. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh no? Not like what?” Jace leaned in, mock-serious now. “Not like you stare at her every time she’s within fifty feet?”

“I'm observant. She’s just not as weird as people make her out to be,” Cregan said sharply, ignoring the heat climbing up his neck.

“Who said anything about weird?” Jace’s grin was comically wolfish. “She’s whimsical. Isn’t that what you called her?”

Cregan slammed his beer down on the table, foam spilling over the side. “I swear, Velaryon—”

“What? You gonna fight me?” Jace barked a laugh, tossing his arm over the back of the booth. “Please. You’re too busy writing her name in little hearts in your pretty pink notebook.”

“Fuck. Off.” Cregan’s ears were burning now. He reached across the table, dipped his finger in his beer, and flicked the foam at Jace’s smug face.

“Oi!” Jace swatted the droplets away, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “I’m just saying, mate. Everyone else avoids her like she’s radioactive, and you’re out here choosing the worst electives and peacocking on the ice like you’re trying to land a National Geographic-level mating ritual.”

Cregan groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face, but there was no real malice behind it. “Why are we friends again?”

“Because I’m the one person who calls you out on your bullshit,” Jace shot back, looking far too pleased with himself. “Speaking of bullshit, when are you actually going to talk to her? Or is this just gonna be one long, tragic love story where you pine away while she ignores your existence?”

Cregan opened his mouth to retort, but Jace held up a hand.

“Wait—no. Don’t answer that. I’ve got a better idea.” His grin turned wicked. “Party. My place. This Saturday. Just the guys and their dates. And... I'll ask Claere to come.”

Cregan blinked, his throat suddenly dry. “What?”

“You heard me.” Jace leaned back, tossing back the rest of his drink. “I’ll bring Claere, you bring the booze. Nothing fancy, just a bunch of idiots hanging out, and you can finally stop making heart eyes at her from a distance. No pressure, no theatrics.”

“That’s…” Cregan started, then trailed off. The words finally sank in. Was it a bad idea? Probably. Was it a terrible idea? No. It was something else entirely: a chance.

“That’s not the worst plan,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair.

He stared at his beer, his pulse thundering. It felt like someone had lit his insides on fire. He wasn’t sure what scared him more—the thought of Claere being there or the hope that, for once, maybe this wasn’t a terrible idea.

“Exactly,” Jace said, smirking. “I'm a fuckin' wizard. My pleasure.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Didn’t have to. Your face says it all.” Jace mimed a dreamy expression, batting his lashes.

Cregan smirked to himself, Jace’s relentless teasing still echoing in his mind. For all his best friend’s antics, the guy wasn’t wrong. That had been a moment—a real moment. A chance. Back then, it had all felt so simple, so impossibly far away. The only block in the road seemed to be the courage to talk to her.

Now, as his truck rolled toward the entrance of his building, reality hit him like a body check on the ice. The flash of cameras erupted before he even reached the gate, a wave of chaotic light that made his head throb. The photographers swarmed the sidewalk, their lenses gleaming like predators’ eyes in the night. The cameras followed his every move like they could peel back the tinted windows and see through him.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, navigating the truck slowly and carefully, his jaw clenched. The last thing he needed was to give these vultures another story by running someone over. The beams from their cameras flickered in his mirrors, disorienting him.

Someone darted closer, their camera barely missing his side mirror. He muttered a curse under his breath and leaned on the horn, easing through the gates as they finally slid open.

He finally made it into the underground parking, the echoes of the chaos fading as the gate sealed shut behind him.

“Like hell you're all going to get to me,” he muttered, parking in his designated spot.

When he stepped out, Kennet, his building’s elderly doorman, was already waiting with his usual calm, holding the entrance door open. Kennet gave him a pointed look, nodding toward the commotion outside.

“Your girl brought them here,” he said with the faintest smile, his voice low and amused.

“Yeah,” Cregan said, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. He fished out his key fob and handed it over. “Thanks anyway, sir.”

“Anytime,” Kennet replied with a polite nod, tipping his hat.

Cregan stepped inside the building, and the air shifted. The noise, the flashes, the chaos—all of it disappeared behind the heavy glass doors. His boots echoed softly against the pristine floors as he made his way to the elevator.

As the doors slid shut, he felt his pulse settle. And then the anticipation kicked in.

The thought of Claere waiting for him upstairs lit something electric in his chest, just like the first time at the party. It had been a few hours since they’d texted, but the idea of seeing her—really seeing her—sent his mind spinning. He leaned against the elevator wall, conjuring up a dozen images of her: the way she’d smile when she opened the door, the way she'd clap for his victory, share a kiss, the warmth of her touch when she wrapped her arms around him.

He could feel the ghost of her fingertips already, his heart racing as the elevator climbed higher. And higher.

But as the doors slid open, the cold hard facts crept back in. Those photographers outside? This wasn’t the same as it used to be. Back then, when things were simpler, no one cared who he brought to Jace’s parties or why. But now? Now, this was different. Harder. More complicated.

He stepped into the hallway, steadying himself as he reached his door. This was bigger than anything they’d faced before. But for her? For Claere? He was ready to face it all over again.

He turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

X

Maybe this was an outright terrible idea. He had a lot of them, but this one was possibly the worst.

The tequila in Cregan's cup stared back at him like a challenge, daring him to go for another round. He downed his third—or was it fourth?—shot, wincing as the burn of alcohol clawed its way down his throat. He sucked in a breath and leaned back against the couch, trying to summon some kind of confidence. The party was in full swing, the music a deafening thrum that rattled his chest. Bodies pressed in around him, their movements hazy with the shimmer of dresses and dim lighting.

Maybe this was what rock bottom felt like—half-drunk on a couch, a girl perched on his lap for reasons that didn’t feel entirely clear, and no sign of the one person he actually wanted to see.

The party had started off promising enough. Jace had hyped him up earlier at night, cracking jokes and shoving a drink into his hand. “She’ll be here, man. Nine. Claere doesn’t flake, she’s just... punctual. You know, painfully so.”

But now, it was 9:15. Then 9:25. And every time the door opened, it wasn’t her. He’d stopped pretending to care about who walked in.

The girl on his lap—Sophie? Sophia? Who the fuck knew—twirled a lock of her hair, the motion somehow managing to be both coy and bored. “You’re really broody. Lighten up,” she said with a little pout, trailing a finger down his chest. “Parties are supposed to make you... un-broody.”

Cregan mustered a tight smile, muttering something noncommital, not trusting himself to say much more. He shifted under her weight, uncomfortable in more ways than one. Across the room, Jace was holding court with a group of partygoers, his laugh carrying easily over the thrum of the music. A card fluttered from his mouth as he lost a round of Suck and Blow, and he burst into laughter, slapping his knee.

“Dude, you can’t drop it! That’s the one rule!” Jace hollered, barely managing to stay upright.

Cregan tried to laugh along, but it sounded forced, even to his own ears. He glanced at the door again, his heart sinking further with every empty second.

Then, just as he was about to give up hope, at around half past nine, the door opened.

Claere stepped in, her silhouette framed by the light from the hallway. She wore a simple dress—nothing flashy, but it fit her perfectly, brushing just above her ankles, baby blue, billowing—and a pair of delicate heels. Her hair was left loose, like curled silver curtains around her, her face in a faint flush that rose as she took in the room. In her hands, she held a box.

Cregan froze, his breath catching in his chest.

She hesitated at the threshold, her eyes sweeping over the chaos—the laughing crowd, the spilt drinks, the pounding music. Her lips pressed together, her grip tightening on the box as if it might anchor her. She looked so out of place it almost hurt. She didn’t belong here.

No, that wasn’t it. She belonged everywhere, but this scene—the loud crowd, the half-drunken revelry, the boy on the couch who couldn’t stop screwing up—wasn’t good enough for her.

“Claaaerie!” Jace’s voice cut through the noise as he stumbled toward her, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. He wasn’t as drunk as he looked—Cregan could tell by the way he managed to thread through the crowd without knocking over a single cup.

“Oh, finally. I'm so drunk right now.”

Claere blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. “You said to come late,” she said quietly.

Cregan watched the interaction with a hollow pit forming in his stomach. He had waited all night for her, and now he felt like some idiot kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or, in this case, with another girl on his lap.

“Right, right! And you did that way too well!” Jace exclaimed, throwing an arm around her shoulder. He squinted at the box in her hands. “Wait, what’s that? Is that pot? Please tell me it’s pot.”

Claere tilted her head, unamused. She lifted the lid open slightly. “Mom told me to bring brownies.”

Jace groaned, leaning heavily on her. He took the box out of her hands and chucked it straight into the fridge. “Gods, Claere. Daemon would’ve stuffed weed in it at least.”

“He suggested,” she said with a shrug. Her mouth twitched into something resembling a smile, and Cregan’s chest ached. It wasn’t fair, how effortlessly she could cut through the noise with the smallest expression.

Snickering, Jace plucked a pre-filled plastic shot glass from a nearby table and thrust it into her hands. “Here. Bottoms up.”

“I’m not legal,” she pointed out, eyeing the shot.

“Someone here is. Shut up and do me proud,” Jace said, grinning.

Claere hesitated, then took a cautious sip. She winced, shuddering violently, but didn’t spit it out. She hacked up a cough, waving her hand under her scrunched nose which made Jace burst out into raucous laughter.

From across the room, unable to stop staring at her, Cregan’s chest twisted in a way that made him want to both laugh and scream. She was here. She was finally here. Can you die of proximity? Even somewhat drunk and confident, it felt like he was about to.

But then her eyes landed on him and he swore his heart tripped over itself. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then she glanced at the girl on his lap, who was leaning in to whisper something in his ear, sliding her arm around his shoulder. Claere’s gaze lingered for only a moment before she looked away as if she'd seen too much, her expression as uninterested as ever.

Panic surged through Cregan like a jolt of electricity, a sudden, visceral reminder that this was exactly the moment he’d been hoping for—and he was unprepared. With another fucking girl on his lap. As he scrambled to his feet, entirely too fast for his unsteady body to follow, the world tilted, and he promptly flopped back onto the couch with all the grace of a baby deer.

The girl next to him giggled, patting his arm like he was a child trying and failing at something cute. The embarrassment was immediate and scorching. He didn’t even look her way—didn’t dare. His attention was fixed on Claere.

Cregan’s stomach twisted painfully when her gaze flicked his way again, startled. She saw him—oh, she saw him, alright—sprawled gracelessly on the couch, the girl next to him still giggling at something he didn’t hear. His heart sank like a stone when Claere’s expression shifted. Cool. Detached. Unimpressed.

He wanted to disappear. Or rewind. Or do something. But he was rooted to the spot, a growing knot of shame, frustration, and longing keeping him frozen.

Jace, either oblivious or brilliantly strategic, started ushering Claere toward the balcony. “Hey, so. Have you seen the view from here? It’s like fifty floors up. Amazing. You can see the whole city.”

Claere allowed herself to be led away, and for a split second, she glanced back at Cregan. It wasn’t a long look. It wasn’t anything profound. But it gutted him all the same.

Her lips moved in a brief murmur—something to Jace—but Cregan didn’t hear it. It could've been minutes after, but his brain was stuck on the way her earrings caught the light and how much he hated himself for letting her see him like this.

The kick to Cregan’s shin was not gentle.

“You dumbass,” Jace sighed.

Cregan glared up at him. “What?”

“Snap out of it.” Jace leaned closer, his face barely serious enough to be sober. “She’s on the balcony. Alone. Do something. Sober up first.”

Cregan groaned, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Yeah, sure. After you go talk to her.” Jace nudged him again, harder this time. “Do it. Or I’ll do it for you—and make it weird.”

That was enough to get him moving. Groaning again, he pushed himself off the couch, weaving through the crowd toward the kitchen like a man on a mission—or possibly one being sent to his doom.

The mission: sober the fuck up.

He chugged a near-full gallon of water, the cold shocking his system as he tipped his head back. His stomach sloshed in protest, but he ignored it, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. Chewing furiously, he stumbled into the bathroom, fumbling with the lock.

Inside, he inspected the damage in the mirror. His hair was a mess, his breath foul enough to make him wince, and his shirt—Gods, how had it always been this wrinkled?

He turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face, scrubbing at it like it might erase his lingering tipsiness. “Get it together, Stark,” he muttered under his breath, finger-brushing his teeth with a dab of toothpaste from the sink’s edge.

By the time he re-buttoned his shirt and smoothed it down, he almost looked like himself again. Almost. His reflection stared back at him, still wasted and slightly flushed. You can do this, he told himself. It’s just a conversation. You're the fucking alpha. You got this.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he didn’t even have to search. She was still there, standing on the balcony, her skin seizing the glow of the city lights, hair slightly weaving with the breeze.

She was devastating. Heartbreaking. Breathtaking. And she was still alone.

Cregan grabbed two cans of soda from the counter—one for her, one to give his hands something to do—and started toward the balcony. His heart pounded like he was stepping onto the ice for the biggest game of his life. Gathering every ounce of courage, he approached with steady steps, balancing the sodas. His nerves must’ve betrayed him because his toe caught the edge of the balcony frame, sending him pitching forward onto his knee.

The cans clattered to the floor. For a split second, Cregan just knelt there, staring at the sodas rolling away like they were escaping his dignity. This could easily be his supervillain genesis.

“Oh, gosh. Are you okay?” Claere’s voice cut through his self-loathing spiral, soft and startled. She crouched beside him, her hand settling on his shoulder, light as a feather but searing into his skin like a brand.

His brain short-circuited. Every nerve in his body screamed, and for one horrifying moment, he thought his soul might actually leave him. He jolted upright with the force of a man fleeing a crime scene, flailing to regain some semblance of control.

“Hey-ey-ey!” His laugh was too loud, too forced. He jabbed the air a couple of times like a boxer warming up, then, because his body clearly wasn’t done betraying him, he dropped into a single, stiff jumping jack. “Tripped and fell for you, didn’t I?”

Claere’s brows arched delicately. Her mouth opened, and for a second, he thought she might laugh—but instead, she let out a quiet, sceptical hum. “'Kay.”

Cregan’s heart plummeted through the floor. Idiot, idiot, idiot. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to salvage what was left of his pride. “Sorry. Just... didn’t watch my step.”

Claere’s expression softened, and she straightened, brushing her dress. “It happens,” she said simply, like she wasn’t watching him fall apart in real-time.

When she turned back to the balcony, leaning against the railing with that same poise she carried everywhere, Cregan wanted to both thank and curse the gods. He joined her, not too close, but close enough that he could catch the faint scent of something floral—probably her perfume. He didn’t dare ask.

His eyes slid her way, the urge to glance at her irresistible. Those violet eyes, one look and his knees would buckle again. So his gaze inevitably dropped to her hands. Her rings had changed again. One was thicker than the delicate bands she usually wore, with a subtle green gem at its centre. Another, on her pinky, looked like two tiny gold snakes entwined.

Does she pick these out every day? Does she have a collection? How does she decide which ones to wear? His thoughts tumbled over one another, but all of them circled back to a singular fact: she was breaking him apart, and she didn’t even know it.

“You like rings?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Claere turned her head slightly, regarding him with mild curiosity. “Um, yes. I don't like my hands empty, I guess.” She twisted one of them absently. “This one’s my favourite.” She held out her hand, the golden dragonfly ring glinting faintly in the light. He'd seen it on her before. “It’s a dragonfly. Symbolizes new beginnings.”

Cregan swallowed hard. He wanted to hold that hand. Kiss that hand. Pull her closer. Kiss her—and he shook himself out of it. He managed a swift smile.

“That’s... cool. Really cool.”

“Thank you.” Her lips curved into the smallest smile, and his chest felt like it might explode.

For a moment, there was silence. Cregan searched for something, anything, to say, but everything that came to mind sounded stupid or desperate. He settled for leaning casually against the railing, imitating her posture, though his arms felt too long and his shoulders too stiff. His head was still buzzing, partly from all the confidence-boosting drinks but mostly from her.

Claere broke the silence first. “That girl from earlier…” Her voice was light, but there was a guarded undertone. “Is she your girlfriend?”

Cregan choked. “No!” The word came out too fast, too loud, and he winced, dragging a hand through his hair. “No, definitely not. Ha. Not my girlfriend. I'm not... yeah.”

Claere tilted her head, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a soft, “Alright,” and turned back to the city lights. From their vantage point, the streets looked like glowing microchips, an intricate network of lights and motion that stretched endlessly.

Cregan felt the silence settle again between them, but this time, it wasn’t stifling. It was tentative, like a bridge suspended by threads, fragile yet holding. His nerves were frayed, his thoughts looping in a chaotic spiral, but there was something disarmingly steady about Claere’s presence. For a moment, he thought he might just enjoy the quiet—until his mouth decided otherwise.

“You know, actually,” he started, the words spilling out before his brain could catch up, “you’re... really awesome.”

Claere turned to him, her brow lifting in surprise. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “I mean, you’re... you’re beautiful, too. Really beautiful. But, uh...” He trailed off, realizing with dawning horror where this was going. His brain scrambled to pull the handbrake, but the alcohol had other plans. “It's always. Not just now. I just think you’re kind of... perfect? In a normal way. Not weird or anything.”

She blinked at him, startled, her lips parting slightly. “Oh.”

And that was it. That one syllable. That soft, quiet oh—like she didn’t know whether to laugh or bolt—that sent his already precarious control careening over the edge.

As if preordained by the devil himself, Cregan’s stomach twisted, the telltale churn of nausea bubbling up with alarming speed. “Oh, gods,” he muttered, doubling over. “No, no, no—”

“What’s wrong?” Claere asked, stepping toward him, her voice sharp with concern.

He didn’t answer, too busy stumbling toward the nearest flowerpot. The retching came in violent waves, hunching entirely into himself, humiliating and unstoppable. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud, and he groaned, eyes watering, clutching the edge of the planter for dear life.

Claere was beside him in an instant, kneeling on the concrete. A hand stroked his spine gently, steadying him as he retched again, this time less savagely. When it was over, she rose to her feet, returning moments later with a glass of water.

“Here,” she said. She crouched again, offering him the glass. “Sip slowly.”

Cregan took the glass, his hands trembling. He swished the water in his mouth before spitting into the flowerpot, grimacing. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked, his voice raw and thick with shame. “Why me? Why, gods, why?”

Claere’s hand resumed its place on his back, rubbing gentle circles. “You’re fine. Happens to the best of us.”

“Not really,” he mumbled, still hunched over. “Or in front of...” His voice trailed off as he realized what he’d been about to say. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the ground to swallow him whole.

“In front of the carnations?” she asked lightly, almost teasing.

“In front of you,” he admitted, barely louder than a whisper. His stomach clenched, though whether it was from the lingering nausea or the sheer mortification, he couldn’t tell.

Claere laughed softly, a sound that felt more like an exhale than a noise. “So much it made you barf?” she asked, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

“The shots,” he muttered, burying his face in his hands. “Definitely the shots.”

“Okay,” she said, the amusement evident in her voice as she retrieved the empty glass from him. “Do you want to stand up?”

Her hand shifted to his shoulder, helping him to his feet. For a moment, Cregan wavered, the spinning world around him making his knees weak, but she steadied him with surprising strength.

“You’re so nice,” he said, his voice gruff and still a little slurred. His gaze met hers, blurry but sincere. “And so fuckin' gorgeous. I love your rings, too...”

Claere let out a short laugh, shaking her head as she hooked her arm through his. “Let’s get you sitting down before you take another dive.”

Cregan leaned into her, her arm the only thing keeping him steady as the world continued to tilt under the haze of alcohol. The sharp edges of his humiliation faded, replaced by the quiet lure of her presence—the warmth of her touch, the faint scent of her perfume, the glimmer of amusement she didn’t bother to hide. He wasn’t sure what burned hotter, the lingering shame or the realization that even at his worst, she hadn’t let go.

X

Regret always hit hardest in the morning. Cregan woke with a start, to sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains. His head throbbed like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, and his mouth was a desert, his tongue stuck to the roof of it like glue. Groaning, he rolled over, clutching the soft covers closer—and stilled.

This wasn’t his room.

The walls were muted green, and the trim, a soft brown, reminded him of some forest retreat. There was a small balcony visible through the open curtains, looking out over a sea of treetops swaying in the morning breeze. The bed was far too big for his apartment, the sheets too floral, too soft, too... feminine.

And he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Fuck no, this is not happening.

Panic lurched him upright—bad idea. His head spun, and he clutched his temples, groaning again as the events of last night teased the edges of his memory. So blurry. So unwanted.

“Morning, Cap!”

The voice—cheerful, bordering on obnoxious—came from the door. Cregan squinted to see Jace leaning against the frame, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Cregan rubbed his temples again.

“What the—where—why am I—” His words tumbled over each other like tripping toddlers.

“Don’t hurt yourself, vomit comet,” Jace said, casually strolling in. “We drove you back to our place last night. You were drunk as a skunk, started belting George Michael in the driveway, and insisted on sleeping in Claere’s room. With her.”

Oh, gods. It hit him like a sledgehammer. Flashes of last night came back in blurred scenes: the car ride home. His gods-awful singing. The flowerpot. The balcony. And then, stumbling over stairs, standing outside her door, swaying like an idiot, declaring to Jace and anyone who’d listen that he had to sleep next to Claere because, and he’d quote himself now, “the world would just make sense that way.”

“Just kill me,” he muttered, pulling the covers over his face.

Lingering just behind Jace was Claere. She hovered by the door, breaking his heart with that nightdress of hers, looking unsure whether to step in or vanish into thin air. When he peeked over the covers, their eyes met briefly before she glanced away, cheeks pink. Jace noticed her hesitation and, because that cheeky fucker thrived on chaos, decided to stoke the fire.

“Well,” Jace said, clapping his hands together, “I’ll leave you two babies to figure everything out.” He flashed a brazen grin and turned to leave.

“Jace, don’t you fucking dare—” Cregan started, but the traitor was already halfway down the hall, cackling. “I’m serious, asshole!” Cregan called after him, voice cracking. Jace’s only response was a loud, taunting laugh.

Claere stepped into the room, hesitant but steady, like she wasn’t sure if she was intruding. In her palm rested a small white pill, a painkiller.

“Good morning,” she said softly, holding it out to him.

Cregan wanted to sink deeper into the mattress like it might swallow him whole and save him from this mortification. He reached for the pill, avoiding her eyes as though direct contact might fry whatever remained of his dignity. Dry-swallowing it, he grimaced at the bitter aftertaste.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, the word barely audible, his throat dry as sandpaper.

“You can use my bathroom,” Claere offered, her voice uncertain, a thread of politeness holding it together. “There’s fresh towels, soap—feel free to use anything.”

“I think I’m just gonna get out of your hair,” Cregan cut in, running a hand through his tangled hair, every movement weighed down by shame and the dull throb in his skull.

Before Claere could respond, a new voice rang out, loud and entirely unwelcome.

“Wash yo’ stanky ass, son! You’re messing up the place!”

Lucerys, Jace’s younger brother, popped his head into the doorway with a grin wide enough to rival a Cheshire cat. He didn’t linger, though, darting off before Cregan could summon the strength to retort. His cackling echoed down the hall, each note like a nail in the coffin of Cregan’s pride.

Groaning, Cregan swung his legs off the bed, moving with all the grace of a crapulous toddler. His muscles protested, his joints creaked, and the dull ache behind his eyes felt like a jackhammer trying to carve through his brain.

Claere shifted on her feet, her fingers toying with the collar of her nightie. “There's a toothbrush for you, too,” she said, quiet. There was a strange softness in her tone like she was offering more than just towels—some unspoken reassurance that this wasn’t as bad as it felt.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face, his palm catching the faint stubble on his jaw. “Yeah. Thank you. I’ll... uh, clean up before I head out. Thank you.”

“Three times the thanks,” she said, smiling a little.

He cleared his throat. “Meant it.”

He shuffled toward the adjoining bathroom, each step heavy, like walking through quicksand. The door clicked shut behind him, and he let out a long, shaky breath, his head falling forward against the cool porcelain of the sink.

The reflection in the mirror was a sight to behold: bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair sticking up at every angle, and a faint red mark on his forehead that he didn’t even want to begin dissecting. Absolutely filthy. What fool had he made of himself?

“You fucking idiot,” he muttered at his reflection, the word laced with all the self-loathing he could muster.

Cregan splashed more cold water onto his face, the icy shock grounding him momentarily from the swirling storm in his head. He leaned heavily on the sink, letting water drip from his chin as fragments of last night replayed once again, more clearly, in sharp, humiliating bursts.

The balcony. The flowerpot. The singing. The driveway. Her face.

“No,” he groaned aloud, gripping the edge of the sink like it might steady his spiralling thoughts.

He tried to piece together what had happened, but every memory hit like a sucker punch. Cornering himself into her room, shirtless and half-conscious, while Claere had been all soft words and calm gestures, trying to coax him to rest. His drunken, slurred insistence that he’d rather sleep there—with her. What else had he said? Something about her eyes? Her butt? Something so embarrassingly sincere that even in his haze, he knew it had crossed a line.

He rubbed his face hard, as if sheer force could scrub the memory away, and grabbed one of the neatly folded towels on the rack. It was pink, fluffy, and faintly smelled like lavender—subtle but unmistakably hers.

With the towel pressed to his face, he took a deep breath, letting the scent calm him. He finally looked around the bathroom, his nerves gradually giving way to a strange sort of awe.

It wasn’t just a bathroom—it was her bathroom. Three months ago, this would've sent him to a stroke. The tiles were an earthy green, complemented by dark brown accents. A tiny potted plant sat on the windowsill, its leaves glossy and thriving, and the counter was meticulously organized. A small porcelain dish held a few rings, ones she must’ve taken off last night.

He couldn’t help himself; his eyes lingered on them, grinning. The dragonfly ring caught the light, the delicate details were more intricate up close. New beginnings.

His gaze shifted to the mirror, where the faint outline of a scratched smiley face peeked through the fog left from his shower. It was uneven like she’d etched it carelessly but with purpose. Gods, this girl.

He stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, still nursing the remnants of his hangover—and the crushing weight of his own embarrassment. The room was empty, golden light filtering through sheer curtains tied back in perfect symmetry. For a second, he just stood there, taking it in.

Her room was impossibly tidy. It was the kind of immaculate that only came from an army of helpers because no college kid lived like this on their own. But the more he looked, the more her he saw in it. This was Claere untold.

Her desk was pristine, glistening oak, but not barren. There was a stack of botany textbooks, their covers faded and worn like they’d been thumbed through countless times. He drifted closer, eyes catching on a half-filled page in one, the writing neat and slanted around a diagram of a cross-section of a stem, penned in a dark ink that somehow suited her.

And then there were the books. Of course, there were books. Tomes. Some were glossy, clearly fantasy or romance, their spines gleaming with titles he’d seen in a hundred social media posts. Others were thicker, heavier—textbooks or academic volumes, one of them bookmarked halfway through with a folded ticket stub. His hand itched to flip it open, but he shoved both hands into his pockets instead.

Her jewellery was arranged in a delicate tray by the edge of the desk. Rings, thin bracelets, small earrings that sparkled. Definitely diamonds or rubies. Some looked dainty enough to crush under the weight of his clumsy fingers, and yet they suited her perfectly. Like her. Elegant, expensive, untouchable.

And then his eyes landed on something else. A small stack of photo stubs on a decorated, large corkboard—some with dates, some with locations scrawled in the corners. The Amalfi Coast, Kyoto, Antibes, Mallorca, Croatia, Goa, Edinburgh, Kamchatka. One was recent, a kimono-clad Claere feeding a piece of sushi to little Viserys who had his mouth open. One of Jace and her, no older than eleven, making outlandish duck faces before a rocky cliff. One in a fancy apartment with a sea view and all the family, even Daemon, beaming for the camera in matching bathrobes. One was an expensive-looking yacht over crystal waters, all four brothers in swimsuits, squinting against the sunlight, Jace holding up a fish like it was a trophy. And there she was, off to the side, an arm slung around Luke, grinning in a wide-brimmed hat, her smile so natural it felt like it was meant to be caught on camera.

And then he saw it.

A different photo, tucked into the corner of her dresser mirror, slightly bent at the edges. Oh, he was not meant to see this at all. She wore a tight, strappy red dress, one that made his mouth go dry and his brain go fuzzy. Her lips were painted to match, her hair loose in soft waves, violet eyes striking, and even though she wasn’t smiling—just staring into the camera with a serene expression—it made something in his chest squeeze tight.

So, she could be sexy, too. He gulped, pulling his gaze away as his ears burned. He suddenly felt like he was intruding on something too personal like he’d caught her in a moment she hadn’t meant to share.

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck and wandered back to the bed, where his watch sat glinting innocently on the nightstand. As he bent to grab it, he caught his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. His hair was damp, flumping down in wet curls, and the towel slung low on his hips didn’t help him look any less ridiculous. But he caught himself grinning anyway.

She’d let him into her world—if only accidentally. And he was falling for her more with every stupid little detail he noticed.

Sliding the watch onto his wrist, he glanced back at the desk one last time, then forced himself to straighten. No more gawking, no more lingering. He needed to pull himself together before she—or worse, Jace—came back and caught him acting like an idiot.

Still, as he tied the drawstring on his borrowed sweats and reached for his shirt, he couldn’t stop the thought: She’s incredible. Every part of her is incredible. And no amount of awkwardness or hangover-induced mortification could change that.

Cregan followed the sound of voices down the wide, sunlit corridor. His socked feet padded over the marble floors, the faint scent of something buttery and warm teasing the air. And his stomach. As he rounded the corner, the dining room came into view—a sprawling table laden with plates of eggs, toast, pastries, and an array of juices in glass pitchers. A subtle reminder that these people lived in a different world. On a Sunday like this, at this time, he'd be out the door, running his miles.

The Targaryen kids were scattered around the table, each in their own universe. Joff and Luke were locked in a heated video game battle on their phones, their thumbs flying over the screens, accompanied by the occasional, “Eat this!” and “You wish, loser!” Whereas Jace was seated across from a very tiny and very serious Viserys, who looked all of five years old. The kid clutched a spoon like a sceptre, scowling at Jace, who was sneakily stealing bacon off his plate one strip at a time.

“Jace, give it back!” Viserys whine-screamed at Jace, who grinned unapologetically.

“You snooze, you lose.” Jace wiggled the strip of bacon before biting into it.

Claere sat a little apart from them, scrolling idly through her phone, her chin propped in one hand, both bored and tired. Her silver hair was loosely tied back, and she was still in something soft and casual—a far cry from the glamorous red dress etched into Cregan’s brain.

For a moment, he just stood in the doorway, watching them. It wasn’t the scene itself that hit him—it was the ease of it. The casual chaos in the sunlit room, the implicit rhythm of siblings who knew how to push each other’s buttons without real malice. The way Jace leaned over to swipe a croissant next, dodging Viserys’s attempt to slap his hand away. He never had this growing up.

“Hey!” Jace’s voice snapped him out of it. “Look who finally made it. Breakfast is served.”

Every head turned his way, even Viserys, who blinked up at him like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed.

“Morning,” Cregan said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. His gaze darted to Claere, but she barely glanced up from her phone. His stomach dropped.

“Good morning, buttercup!” Luke grinned, still not looking up from his game.

“Didn’t think you’d ever wake up after last night,” Joff added, smirking.

Cregan shuffled toward the empty seat next to Claere, trying not to think too hard about the warmth of her so close. “Still here,” he muttered.

“Alive, somehow,” Jace said, smirking. “Barely.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Cregan shot back, grabbing a piece of toast and trying not to look like he wanted to crawl under the table.

Jace leaned back in his chair, the picture of smugness. “So, Claere, how much do you bet he’s got one of your panties stuffed in his pocket right now?”

Claere’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with horror. “Jacaerys!” she hissed, her face flooding with colour.

Cregan didn’t hesitate—he kicked the back of Jace’s chair hard enough to send him jerking forward, nearly face-planting into his meal.

“Fucking shithead,” Cregan muttered darkly as Luke and Joff dissolved into laughter. Even little Viserys giggled, his spoon clinking against his plate.

Jace coughed dramatically, thumping his chest while glaring back at Cregan. “What’s your problem? Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

“No one’s thinking that,” Cregan hissed at him.

Bad, bad idea to even think about lingering here. Not with Claere around. His fork clattered against his plate, his appetite long gone. The room felt too loud, too full of eyes and jokes he couldn’t handle this early. His face burned as Jace’s words replayed in his head. Every second he sat there felt like he was sinking deeper into quicksand.

“So, anyway. Thanks for breakfast, guys,” he said abruptly, pushing back from the table. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, earning glances from everyone. “I think I'm gonna take off.”

Luke snorted, not even looking up from his game. “You’re not serious. You barely ate anything.”

“C’mon, Jace was just joking around,” Joff added, but his tone was more amused than convincing.

Cregan shook his head, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “Nah, I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll call a cab and get out of here.”

But Jace, ever the insufferable matchmaker, leaned back in his chair, his smirk practically dripping with mischief. “Claere, why don’t you help my buddy out? Make sure he doesn’t end up puking into someone else’s flowerpot this time.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened as Claere shot Jace a sharp glare.

“Jace, not funny anymore,” she hissed under her breath, but it was too late. The damage was done. Every eye was now on her, and before Cregan could even protest, she was already sliding out of her chair.

“I got it,” Cregan said quickly, his voice gruff and unconvincing. He didn’t. He really didn’t.

Claere didn’t so much as glance at him, brushing past with a waft of soft lavender. “It's alright. Come on,” she said simply, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Reluctantly, he followed her out of the dining room, the laughter and noise of breakfast fading behind them like a dull hum. The house suddenly felt too quiet, the sound of a clock ticking in the foyer sharp and relentless. Claere was a step ahead, her cherry-patterned pyjama pants swaying with her movements. Cregan caught himself staring, his eyes trailing over the soft curve of her back, that perky little butt, the effortless grace of her stride. She wasn’t even trying, and yet she managed to look... perfect. The kind of perfect that made his chest feel tight and his thoughts too loud.

She stopped by the counter, her phone already in hand as she pulled up the ride-share app.

“The driver should be here in a few minutes,” she said without looking at him, her voice calm and composed. Too composed, like she was purposely avoiding the tension that lingered between them. “Do you need—”

“I’m good,” he interrupted, too quickly, too harshly. His hands clenched into fists in his jacket pockets as the memories of last night came rushing back with a vengeance. The flowerpot. The puking. The singing. And worst of all—the half-drunken declaration outside her bedroom door.

His stomach churned. He didn’t know if he wanted to crawl into a hole or sprint out of the house and never look back.

Claere tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes flickering over him like she could see through the walls he was trying to throw up. “Are you feeling better?” she asked softly, the words careful, like she wasn’t sure how much she should push.

Better? No. Not even close. He felt like a cataclysm in human form, his brain replaying every humiliating second of last night on a loop. And yet, here she was, standing there like a bare-faced angel that looked unfairly radiant, asking him if he was okay.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, the words dry and unconvincing. He tugged at the hem of his jacket, avoiding her gaze. “Just need some air... and coffee... and maybe a new brain.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, soft and fleeting, but it was enough to make his chest squeeze uncomfortably. He didn’t deserve that smile. Not after last night.

“Let me get you some coffee for the road. There’s also this hangover cure thing Jace got delivered from Korea,” she said after a moment, already turning on her heel. “I'll just get—”

“No, no, wait.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and his hand shot out instinctively, wrapping around her wrist. The contact sent a jolt through him, her skin soft and warm beneath his fingers. She froze, turning back to look at him, her expression unreadable.

Realizing what he’d done, Cregan quickly let go, his hand falling to his side like it had been burned. “Sorry. Shit. Gods, I—I didn’t mean to...” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. But there was something in the way she looked at him—curious, almost cautious—that made his pulse quicken.

“I’m fine, thank you. But really,” he added hastily, the lie tumbling out of his mouth like a reflex. “I don’t need anything. I just...” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “I just need to get going.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she stepped back, putting an almost imperceptible amount of distance between them. “Okay.”

A horn blared outside, shattering the fragile quiet between them.

“That’s your ride,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his chest tightening as he reached for the porch stairs. He hesitated for a beat, his eyes darting back to her. She stood there, framed by the morning light streaming through the windows, her hair slightly mussed, every bit calm but equally guarded. Even like this—bare, casual, impossibly real—she was breathtaking.

And he... he was just a guy who’d embarrassed himself beyond belief the night before. A guy who didn’t know how to say what he was feeling without screwing it up.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t respond, only nodded, her arms folding loosely across her chest as she watched him go.

Cregan stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the chill biting at his skin as the cab idled at the curb. He climbed in without looking back, the weight in his chest heavier than his duffel bag.

As the car pulled away, he couldn’t shake the image of her standing in that foyer, sunlight catching the curve of her cheek, her cherry-patterned pyjamas swaying softly. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the ache in his chest told him one thing: leaving didn’t feel like the solution he thought it would.

X

Claere thought Cregan Stark was hot. Really, really hot. Like break-my-heart-and-crush-it-under-your-foot-hot.

It wasn’t exactly a groundbreaking realization—half the student body seemed to agree, judging by the way his name floated through conversations like a shared inside joke. Country boy charm, someone had called it once, humble, down-to-earth in a way that felt rare around here. He had that easy grin, the kind that could smooth over tension in any room, a personality that seemed just... good—not performative, not forced. The fact that he also happened to be jaw-droppingly attractive? That was just an added bonus.

Not that Claere had noticed before. Not really. He wasn’t her type—or at least, she’d convinced herself of that. Too loud, too comfortable in the spotlight, too... not for her.

But then she caught him looking at her.

The first time, she hadn’t even been sure it happened. She’d glanced up from her textbook in the library, and there he was, leaning back in his chair, surrounded by his friends, laughing at something Jace had said. His eyes flicked to hers like a reflex, lingering for a beat too long before he snapped his gaze away until a faint pink dusted her ears.

It happened again in the dining hall. And again, in the quad. Again, in the parking bay. And every single time, he’d look away like it was some criminal offence, like being caught noticing her was some great humiliation.

And that... that made her start noticing him. More than she wanted to admit. What was so special about him anyway?

She wasn’t sure when she started paying closer attention to herself. It was gradual, little things she told herself were unrelated—applying a slightly darker shade of lipstick one morning instead of her usual tinted balm, smearing a little more kohl under her eyes, clasping a delicate anklet around her ankle before slipping on her sandals. She fussed over her clothes more, spending an extra minute smoothing the fabric or adjusting the neckline. Dresses became her uniform, just short enough, not glaringly noticeable, muted shades that stood out a little more. One morning, she braided her hair more intricately than she had in years, and the realization hit her mid-braid, leaving her staring at herself in the mirror, mortified.

What was she even doing?

So one morning, when the classroom door groaned as Claere eased it open, late enough to draw every pair of eyes in the room. She hurried inside, head slightly bowed, hoping to avoid attention. No such luck.

“Miss Velaryon,” the professor’s voice rang out, dripping with thinly veiled condescension. He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed. “I trust you had a glamorous evening at the gala last night? So glamorous, it made you forget we have a punctuality policy?”

A faint ripple of laughter skittered through the room. Her stomach tightened, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of flinching. “Sorry,” she said simply, before making her up the aisle.

The only empty seat was next to Cregan. Her chest gave a traitorous flutter as she slid into it. “Good morning,” she murmured, risking a small smile his way.

“Hey.” His reply was polite, but distant. His gaze didn’t shift from the notes his buddy had scribbled on the desk between them, and whatever they were talking about seemed infinitely more important than her existence.

Claere tucked her bag beneath the chair and tried to ignore the knot forming in her chest. It wasn’t a big deal, she told herself. He was probably just busy, focused on whatever inside joke his friend had thrown his way. She dragged her eyes to the professor, scribbling half-hearted notes, though none of the words sank in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Cregan laughing quietly. The low, rumbling sound twisted something inside her. The same voice that had been warm and teasing with her just nights ago now felt impossibly far away.

When the lecture ended, she hesitated, giving him an opening—maybe he’d turn, say something, even just an offhanded “See you later.”

But he didn’t. Cregan slung his bag over his shoulder in one fluid motion, already halfway through some joke with his friend as they headed for the door. He didn’t glance back. Claere stayed seated, staring blankly at the desk in front of her, the noise of the room fading into a dull hum.

And yet, the next day in the hallway, when Cregan passed her with that silent, infinitesimal nod, her heart faltered anyway. Very absurd, she had to confess.

Her lips parted, the start of a breathy greeting on her tongue, but before she could speak, he was gone—off with his buddies, laughing about something she couldn’t hear. She was left standing there, her hands tightening around the strap of her bag, feeling like she’d missed some implicit opportunity.

X

The night Claere truly first made notice of Cregan Stark was chaos. Jace’s parties always were, but this one felt particularly loud, with more people spilling into every corner of the house than Claere remembered agreeing to. She’d mostly kept to herself, lingering in the less crowded spaces with her phone, occasionally letting someone drag her into polite conversation.

Then like an unmissable red dot in the distance: Cregan Stark, sprawled out like a giant overstuffed pillow, one arm slung dramatically over his face. His shirt was rumpled, his usually sharp features softened by a faint, dopey smile. Still, between his legs, he nursed a warm beer.

“He’s alive,” Jace muttered, nudging Cregan’s knee with his foot. “Hardly.”

Claere raised an eyebrow. “Hardly is right. He looks awful.”

Cregan’s head lolled to the side, his glassy eyes catching hers. For a moment, he seemed to come alive, his entire expression lighting up in drunken delight. “Claaaaaere,” he said as if her name were some profound revelation. “Queen of my heart. My queen.”

Jace groaned, hauling Cregan’s arm over his shoulder to get him upright. “C’mon, Stark. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Claere stepped forward to help, grabbing Cregan’s other arm. His weight was surprising, all lean muscle but heavy as a boulder. Together, they managed to shuffle him toward the door.

“You’re so strong,” Cregan mumbled, blinking blearily at Claere. His lips quirked into a lopsided grin. “Do you work out, baby girl? You have to, right? Like… how else do you carry the moon around on your ears every Wednesday?”

Claere blinked. “What?”

Jace snorted, clearly enjoying this far more than she was. “Ignore him. He’s hammered.”

But Cregan wasn’t done. He leaned closer, his breath warm and smelling of tequila. “No, really. Your earrings? The little diamond hoops on Wednesdays? Like the moon decided to accessorize.” He turned his attention to Jace, though his words were still clearly about her. “She’s—she’s like… I dunno, man, too fuckin' cute. Not fair. That you make me feel this way.”

Claere’s face burned. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be flattered or mortified. Maybe both.

“Let’s just get him to the car,” she muttered, tugging Cregan with more force than necessary.

It wasn’t exactly graceful. Nothing about him was. Between his stumbling feet and Jace’s half-hearted attempts to steer him straight, they barely managed to manoeuvre him out the front door. Cregan’s head lolled dramatically as he let out an exaggerated sigh, almost dragging both of them to the ground.

“You’re a lot heavier than you look,” Claere grumbled, her arm straining under his weight.

“Not heavy,” Cregan murmured, his words slurring together. “Just... dense. Like a star. Heavy but, y’know... radiant. A suuuuperstar.”

Jace barked out a laugh. “You are absolutely fucking wasted, man.”

After what felt like an eternity, they finally got him into the backseat of Jace’s car. Claere leaned against the doorframe, catching her breath while Jace tossed his keys in the air and caught them with a smirk.

“So, uh, where does he live?” Jace asked.

Claere looked at him blankly. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I know? He’s your admirer.”

Claere’s lips parted, ready with a retort, but Cregan stirred in the backseat, mumbling something unintelligible. They exchanged a look.

“Fine,” Jace said, shaking his head as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “We’re taking him back to ours. He can sleep it off there. Mom's not home anyways.”

Claere sighed but didn’t argue, sliding into the passenger seat.

The drive was quiet at first, the hum of the tyres filling the space between them. Jace fiddled with the radio, skipping through stations until a pop song came on.

From the backseat, Cregan perked up like a sunflower in the sun. “I love this song,” he slurred, grinning from ear to ear.

Before either of them could stop him, he launched into a spirited—and wildly off-key—rendition of the chorus to George Michael's Faith.

Claere pressed her lips together, trying to stifle her laughter, but a giggle escaped. She couldn't help it. He was so cute.

“You’re enabling him,” Jace complained.

Claere shrugged, her voice soft as she tentatively joined in, humming along to the melody. Jace groaned but couldn’t help joining them, and soon the car was filled with their mismatched chorus.

Cregan, for all his drunkenness, sang with his whole heart, belting out the lyrics like he was performing to a sold-out stadium. Claere found herself laughing more than singing, stealing glances at him in the rearview mirror. His face was flushed, his hair a mess, but there was something oddly endearing about his drunken enthusiasm.

By the time they pulled into the Targaryen mansion’s long driveway, all three of them were breathless with laughter.

“Alright, big guy,” Jace said, killing the engine. “Time to haul your ass upstairs.”

Getting Cregan out of the car proved even more difficult than getting him in. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, but before Claere and Jace could grab him, he took off up the stairs, all but gracefully. This was the same person who shot goals from halfway across the rink.

“Where the hell is he going now?” Claere asked, watching in disbelief as Cregan bounded ahead like a man on a mission.

Jace sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Probably looking for a bed. Or a plant to retch in again. Who knows?”

They trailed after him, footsteps echoing through the quiet mansion as they rounded the hallway toward Claere’s wing. When they caught up, Cregan was standing outside her door, swaying slightly, his expression grave as though he’d uncovered a universal truth.

“She comes out of here all the time,” he whispered loudly to Jace, pointing at the door.

Claere stiffened.

“Wearing those teeny, tiny little shorts. My queen,” Cregan added, his voice tinged with awe.

Claere’s face went up in flames. “Excuse me?”

At that moment, Luke’s door creaked open, his blond head poking out groggily. “What’s going on?” he muttered, squinting at the scene.

“Drunk confession hour,” Jace said, grinning as he motioned to Cregan.

Cregan turned to Claere, blinking slowly, his words spilling out in a rush. “I don’t look! Not for too long! Just... y’know, accidentally. The finest butt I've ever seen.”

Luke’s mouth fell open. He glanced between Claere, who looked mortified, and Cregan, who was now teetering on his feet like a happy idiot. “This is amazing,” Luke said, fully stepping into the hallway to watch.

“Alright, Stark,” Jace said, shaking his head but unable to hide his amusement, “time for bed. Not her bed.”

But Cregan, apparently, had other ideas. Before anyone could stop him, he turned the doorknob, stumbled into Claere’s room, and declared triumphantly, “You mean our bed. It's ours. This one makes sense! The world makes sense! We make sense!”

Claere, thoroughly exasperated, followed after him just in time to see Cregan yank his shirt over his head and toss it carelessly onto the floor. He flopped onto her bed, sprawling out like a starfish.

“So soft,” he mumbled, burying his face into her pillow.

Luke leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Is he calling her his queen yet, or do I need to come back later for that?”

“He’s done for,” Jace said, slapping Claere on the shoulder with a laugh. “Good luck. Dude won't be up for hours. You can crash in Mom's room.”

She tried to grab his arm. “Jace, what—but he's—”

The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the sound of Jace and Luke’s retreating laughter, leaving Claere alone with Cregan sprawled out across her bed. She stared at him, her pulse pounding in her ears, trying to decide what on earth she was supposed to do with a half-naked, stunningly attractive, and very drunk boy fawning over her.

“Hi, Claere,” Cregan said again, a crooked grin tugging at his lips as he propped himself up on one elbow. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and he looked utterly shameless.

Claere swallowed hard. “You... you should really get some sleep,” she stammered, carefully stepping closer.

“But I don’t want to sleep,” he said, his voice soft and velvety, like he was sharing a secret. His blue eyes locked onto hers with startling intensity, even if they were glassy and unfocused. “You’re here. All alone. All pretty. Why would I want to miss a second of that?”

Her cheeks burned hotter, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh, cry, or crawl under her bed to escape this moment entirely. She took a steadying breath, then reached out, brushing against his shoulder.

“God's sake,” she muttered, her voice tight with nerves. “Come on, sit up. You can’t just sprawl here like this.”

He let her guide him, his body warm and heavy under her hands. It was impossible not to notice his sheer solidness—broad shoulders, taut muscles that shifted under her touch like they belonged to someone who worked too hard to look like this without trying. Her fingers grazed the skin just above his waistband, and she yanked her hand back like she’d been burned.

“Do you just get to be like this?” she mumbled under her breath, more to herself than to him.

Cregan blinked up at her, eyes glassy but unmissably earnest. “Like what?” he asked, his voice rasping in a way that felt unfairly intimate.

“Like…” She waved a hand vaguely at him. “Like that. It’s—ugh. Never mind.”

His lips curved into a lopsided grin. “You think I’m stupid,” he said softly, his voice dropping into something deeper, almost tender. His gaze locked on hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge. He pounded a fist near his heart. “But I think you’re my whole heart.”

Her hands froze, the blanket she’d been tucking around him falling slack. Her heart gave an odd, traitorous flip. She forced herself to shake it off, focusing on pulling the covers up instead of his words. “You’re drunk,” she reminded him, her tone sharper now as if saying it firmly enough would make her immune to his charm. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t I?” he countered, his voice soft and a little pleading, like he was trying to convince her—or maybe himself. “You think this is the alcohol talking, but it’s not. I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks. Months. You don’t even know.”

“Don’t even know what?” she asked, her voice quieter now, despite herself.

“How many times I’ve seen you walk into a room and just—just forgotten how to make sounds with my mouth,” he said, his words tumbling out with unfiltered honesty. “Do you know how hard that is for me? I never shut up. Never. But you—” He broke off, shaking his head like the thought overwhelmed him.

Her hands trembled as she busied herself smoothing the edge of the blanket. She didn’t trust herself to look at him directly. Her heart was pounding too hard, her face too warm. “Cregan, you’re not thinking clearly right now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan leaned back into the pillow, his gaze softening even further, somewhere between wonder and longing. “You’re it for me,” he whispered. “You’re so it for me. I love your face, your hands, and—” His eyes darted briefly downward, and he gave a sheepish, drunken grin. “And your butt. Your perky butt. And your eyes—did I say your eyes?—and your little anklets... gods, they're like music. I can hear you before I see you.”

Claere’s breath hitched, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh, scream, or hide behind the nearest piece of furniture. “You’re a mess,” she muttered, but the words lacked real heat.

He smiled, a warm, goofy smile that only made him look more handsome, more devastatingly sincere. “Maybe. But I’m your mess.” His eyelids drooped, and his voice softened to a murmur. “You’re magic, Claere. My queen.”

Her chest tightened, and for a long moment, she stood frozen, unsure what to do or feel. This shouldn’t mean anything. He was drunk, very drunk, and she had no reason to take his words seriously. And yet…

As his breathing evened out and his head sank deeper into the pillow, she released a shaky breath and rose to her feet. She turned off the light, the room plunging into a soft glow.

Standing in the doorway, she glanced back one last time. The sight of him lying there, vulnerable and unguarded, did something strange to her. She didn’t want to admit how much he had flustered her, how much she wished his words weren’t just the result of too much alcohol.

As she stepped into the hall and shut the door, her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with helping a drunk boy to bed. Cregan Stark was dangerous—for all his foolishness, charm, and ridiculous smiles. And somehow, she wasn’t sure she minded.

Late one afternoon, Claere tried to focus on her sketch, but the lines on her tablet refused to cooperate. She hated it, but this module required precision. The precision that her notebooks or freehand didn't offer. The university quad was noisy, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the grass, and her usual spot felt... exposed today. Her gaze kept straying, involuntarily drawn to the opposite side of the lawn.

Cregan was there, sitting on a low bench near the edge of the quad, leaning back with his arm draped lazily over the backrest. Except he wasn’t alone.

The girl next to him—brunette, chatty, and way too close—leaned in with a laugh that carried across the space between them. She lightly touched his arm, and Claere’s stomach knotted. Cregan wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he looked... relaxed, even entertained, his usual easy grin in place as he leaned forward to say something in return.

At first, Claere told herself it was just a glance. Just a quick flick of her eyes before returning to her tablet, like usual. It was virtually impossible.

Cregan had this thing about him. This tenor. A secret note in the musical language. His dark hair was mussed in that careless way that looked accidental but probably wasn’t. The sunlight caught the hints of chestnut in it, making it nearly glow. Or maybe it was just her head, adding pizzazz to her sight-seeing. His jawline—sharp enough to be unfair—was tilted slightly as he laughed at something the girl next to him had said. How was it possible for someone to just exist like that? Did he escape a runway recently?

The curve of his lips, the effortless, boyish smile—it made something flutter in her chest, unwelcome and persistent. His faded-black shirt clung to his shoulders, loose in some places, fitted in others, and when he shifted, she caught a glimpse of skin where the hem lifted. Just a hint of toned, weathered muscle, definitely Bow-Flexed, the kind that came from hours on the ice and in the gym. It felt immoral to examine this.

Her stomach churned as the girl next to him leaned closer, laughing again, her hand brushing his forearm. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed perfectly at ease, his head dipping toward her slightly as if he were sharing a secret.

Claere tightened her grip on her tablet, staring blankly at the unfinished lines on the screen. Her heart gave a stubborn, traitorous tug. So unfair that he got to make her feel this way.

He really was incredible. That much was obvious to everyone on campus. Cregan Stark wasn’t just good-looking—he was obnoxiously good-looking. The kind that fueled campus-wide crushes and gossip, made people giggle in hallways. The kind that felt unattainable. Claere hadn’t cared much before. She wasn’t the type to swoon or get caught up in the hype, not when she had her own life to manage. But now... now she wasn’t so convinced.

What was she even watching this for? She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care.

Except—hadn’t this been the same guy fawning over her four nights ago? The same guy who’d drunkenly spilt his feelings, gushed about her hair and her dress and her hands, who’d looked at her like she was the most stunning thing he’d ever seen, who’d asked her out? The way he’d stood there, shirtless and rambling, his words surging in a mess of nerves and sincerity. It had left her rattled, unsure of what to think.

Seeing him like this—comfortable, laughing, and effortlessly charming with someone else—stirred something sharp and unexpected in her chest. Jealousy? No, that couldn’t be it.

Her chest tightened, the ache catching her off guard. Well, it wasn’t like he’d promised anything. He hadn’t texted her. He’d just spilled his guts, like it had been an afterthought, something tacked onto the heat of the moment.

Claere sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear, trying to focus on her sketch again. The lines were still wrong, and the proportions were off. Her fingers tightened around the stylus.

Later that night, in the quiet of her room, Claere stared at her phone lying face-up on the blanket beside her. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t.

But that nagging, unanswered question had burrowed deep. She hadn’t seen Cregan like this before, and the frustration of not knowing where she stood with him was unbearable. This wasn’t about feelings, she told herself. It wasn’t about that pinch of jealousy she definitely didn’t feel. No, this was just... curiosity. Barely anything.

She pulled her knees to her chest, the soft hum of the air-conditioning the only sound in the room. Jace’s bedroom had been unnervingly easy to slip into earlier—and his room was a filthy mess, so Claere hadn’t lingered. She’d found what she was looking for and quickly came out with a number, scribbled hastily on a crumpled piece of paper, Cregan’s name scrawled beside it.

It was wrong. Horribly wrong. She could already hear the judgment in her own mind. But here she was, sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring at her phone’s message screen like it held all the answers to her conflicted thoughts.

It was probably for the best if he didn’t reply, anyway. A boy like Cregan Stark—golden, fortuitous, uncomplicated, and so clearly idolised—wasn’t meant for someone like her. Someone of the Targaryen family. It wasn’t self-pity; it was just the truth. He was too pleasant for that.

Her gaze shifted to the phone again. The soft glow of the screen seemed to taunt her. This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.

Her fingers hovered over the keys. What would she even say?

Hey, it’s Claere. How’s it going? Too vague. So, about the other night... Too presuming. Do you like me? Because I think I like... Ugh, what was she, twelve?

Finally, she settled on something neutral; safe. Sweet. Unassuming.

Hi :) Hope this isn’t weird, but this is Claere.

She stared at the words until they blurred. Her thumb loomed over the send button, doubt creeping in with every second. This is stupid. Just delete it. Forget about him. He doesn’t matter.

Her thumb betrayed her. The message was sent.

The little "Delivered" notification appeared almost instantly, and her heart lurched painfully. For a long moment, she just sat there, frozen, staring at the screen like it might detonate in her palms.

She flipped the phone face-down on the blanket, burying her head in her knees and groaning. What had she done? Why did this matter? Why did he matter? The minutes dragged into more, filled with more overthinking. Her room was too quiet, the hum of, well, everything was too loud. She tried to distract herself, convincing herself she didn’t care if he replied.

Then her phone buzzed.

X

The library was quieter than usual for a Friday evening. Most students were at the bars, drowning the week in beer and bad decisions, but Cregan needed the stillness. Hockey practice had been brutal—his arms ached, his legs felt like dead weight—but it wasn’t the drills keeping him here tonight.

His books lay open on the table, untouched. A blank notebook page stared back at him like it knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drift to the tall windows. Outside, the campus quad was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. Couples strolled along the paths, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass. Friends clustered on benches, sharing fries and stories from their week. It all looked so... easy. Effortless.

Not for him. It never had been.

The scholarship had been a lifeline—a ticket to a world he wasn’t sure he belonged in. And it wasn’t just about hockey. It was about proving he deserved to be here. That his place on the ice, in the classroom, in this life, was earned—not handed to him by a family name no one at this school even knew.

He hadn’t told anyone about the Stark Resorts empire or the decades of wealth and expectations tied to it. That part of his life stayed buried, just like the pressure to live up to it. To succeed without leaning on it. Because if anyone found out, everything he’d worked for—every goal he’d scored, every paper he’d aced—would be stained by doubt.

Which was why Claere Velaryon was a problem.

Her name alone carried significance. Notoriety. Fuckton of fame. Old money. Stupidly beautiful. Infuriatingly out of reach. She’d slipped into his thoughts when he wasn’t paying attention, her presence lingering in ways that felt almost physical. The way she adjusted the thin chain of her anklet when she crossed her legs during a lecture. The plum shade of her lipstick, perfectly smudged like she didn’t care. The thin, pale scar just above her elbow that caught the light when she gestured—small, faint, a mystery he wanted to solve.

He noticed everything about her. Too much. He hated himself for it. This one-sided crush shit was breaking him apart.

Cregan leaned forward, running a hand through his hair. God, he was pathetic. He wanted her so much. She was right there, right between his fingertips. And he was giving it up.

But it wasn’t just her looks. It was the way she tilted her head when she was listening, really listening, as if she were cataloguing every word. The way her laugh was quiet but rich, like she’d saved it just for you. The way she’d said his name once—just that once—but it had stuck in his head, echoing like a melody he couldn’t shake.

And he’d been stupid enough to think he had a chance.

A few nights ago, when he’d seen her at that party—looking like something out of a painting—he’d let the tequila and the nerves and whatever else was eating at him take over. He’d said too much. Blurted out things he wasn’t ready to say, things he wasn’t sure he even meant. He’d asked her out. Asked her like an idiot.

And now? Nothing.

No follow-up. No calls. Not even a passing glance in the quad. She probably thought he was a joke. Some cocky jock who got drunk and decided to shoot his shot. She wouldn’t be wrong.

Cregan sighed, rubbing his temples. He shouldn’t care. There were a million reasons to let it go. She was too much—too beautiful, too untouchable, too tied to the life he was running from. And the guys? They’d eat him alive if they knew. The whispers were already bad enough.

“Velaryon’s not his type, huh?”

“Stark’s all talk. Like she’d look at him twice.”

“Bet he’s just trying to cash in.”

“Can you blame him? That’s a golden ticket right there. He’s probably already planning his next career move.”

Their voices still rattled around his head, half-joking but sharp enough to cut. The butt of the joke. It didn’t matter that they didn’t know the first thing about him—or about her. The perception was everything. He knew that better than anyone. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the way she’d stood in the lamplight that night, her smile soft but guarded. The way she’d looked at him—not like a rumour, or a player, or someone to laugh off—but like he was... real.

Maybe that’s what scared him most.

Because the more he let himself think about her, the harder it became to ignore the ache in his chest. The pull. The quiet, desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—she felt it too.

But hope wasn’t enough. Not here. Not for someone like him.

Cregan shut the notebook, pushing it aside. The books didn’t matter. None of it did. Not tonight.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted—but he knew exactly what he couldn’t have. And Claere Velaryon was at the top of that list.

Cregan barely registered Jace’s approach until he heard his voice.

“Hey.”

Startled, he glanced up to find Jace standing there, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, his expression somewhere between amused and inquisitive. Without waiting for an invitation, Jace dropped into the chair across from him, swivelling it slightly as if testing its stability.

“You look like you’re about to solve world hunger—or self-destruct,” Jace quipped, propping his chin on his folded arms. “What’s going on, man?”

Cregan straightened, quickly masking the storm churning inside him. “Nothing. Just... studying.” He gestured vaguely at the closed notebook in front of him.

Jace snorted, unimpressed. “Yeah, right.”

Cregan sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, fuck off.”

Jace gave him a long, exaggerated stare before shrugging. “Fine, keep your secrets. But you might want to let Claere know you’re alive. She’s been walking around like someone stole her favourite pair of shoes.”

Cregan froze, his chest tightening. “What?”

“You heard me.” Jace leaned closer, his tone turning more serious. “She’s been off. Distracted. And considering the way you’ve been dodging her lately, I’m guessing it’s not a coincidence.”

Cregan stiffened, his jaw tightening. “You're just a shit-stirrer, Jace.”

Jace tilted his head, giving him a look that screamed really? “Sure. And I’m not trying to get you two to stop acting like idiots.”

“I’m not—” Cregan started, but Jace cut him off with a raised hand.

“Relax, I’m not here to lecture you,” Jace said, his tone light but purposeful. “I’m just saying—if you’re into her, maybe stop overthinking everything and do something about it.”

Cregan blinked, caught off guard by how direct Jace was being. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

Jace sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. “It’s not that complicated either, man. You like her, she likes you—yes, she does, don’t even try denying it—and the only thing standing in the way is you.”

Cregan looked away, his fingers gripping his pen tightly. He didn’t know how to explain it—the fear, the doubt, the nagging voice in his head that told him he wasn’t good enough for someone like Claere.

Jace leaned forward, his voice softening. “Look, I get it. You’re scared. Maybe you think you’ll mess it up, or maybe you’re overthinking what people will say. But here’s the thing—Claere doesn’t care about all that. And she deserves someone willing to take a chance on her.”

Cregan’s chest tightened, his pulse thudding in his ears.

“And honestly?” Jace added, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’d be an idiot to let her slip away. So, do yourself a favour—text her, call her, do something. Because trust me, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Cregan hesitated, his thoughts warring with each other.

“C’mon,” Jace said, leaning back with a grin. “You’re Cregan fuckin' Stark. You can handle a puck flying at your face at ninety miles an hour, but you can’t handle texting one girl? Weak.”

Despite himself, Cregan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a pain in my ass, Velaryon.”

“It’s my greatest strength,” Jace said with a wink. He stood, clapping Cregan on the shoulder. “Seriously, though. Don't be a little bitch.”

The words hung in the air, the consequences ploughing against him with every step. He couldn’t help but wonder—was Jace right? Or was he just another fool caught in something he couldn’t handle?

X

Claere stared at her phone, pulse racing. She cared a lot. Should she check now? Would that make her seem too needy? Should she check later? Then, would it make her seem dismissive? Slowly, she flipped it over, trying to temper the ridiculous flutter in her chest, bracing herself for something dismissive—or worse, nothing at all. The screen lit up with a message from him.

Only weird if I start asking how you got my number. So - hi, Claere.

She couldn’t help it—the grin spread across her face before she could stop it. He was being cheeky. Her kind of cheeky. A laugh bubbled out of her as she fell back onto the bed, her phone clutched to her chest.

But just as quickly, her smile faded. Stop it. Why was she letting herself feel like this? Like he mattered. Like this mattered. She let her phone slip from her hands, flopping dramatically against the mattress.

“Nothing. Who cares? I don’t care,” she muttered to herself.

The phone buzzed again. Her eyes slid to her phone screen.

Unless you’re here to talk ice hockey. Then I’ll have to charge you a fee.

Claere snorted. Her fingers moved before she could overthink it.

Hard pass. You’re good, though. For a beginner.

Ouch. Right in the ego. Guess I’ll stick to what I know.

Clare chewed on a hangnail on her thumb, typing out a few responses, deleting the words and typing again. He sooner replied.

So... what're you up to right now?

The next buzz made her sit up, her stomach doing a little flip.

Because I was thinking, since I'm a shitty texter... wanna meet up?

Her eyes darted to the clock on her bedside table. Ten p.m. Late, but not too late. She bit her lip, the tug of a smile teasing her mouth. Her thumbs danced over the screen as she typed:

Bold of you to assume I’m not already in bed.

Bold of you to assume that is something I'm opposed to.

Her cheeks warmed as she bit back a laugh, typing a response.

Twenty minutes. Don’t make me regret this.

The three little dots appeared immediately.

I’ll be outside.

Claere tossed her phone aside, covering her face with her hands as she fought back the ridiculous giddiness rising in her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this nervous—this alive. The feeling was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, bubbling up in a way she couldn’t quite contain.

With a deep breath, she adjusted the hem of her dress for what felt like the tenth time, smoothing it over her thighs as she stepped out toward the tall iron gates. The sprawling house loomed behind her, its gardens stretching into the quiet evening, their stillness a stark contrast to the whirlwind inside her. Her sandals scuffed lightly against the pavement as she shifted her weight, clutching her phone in both hands like it was an anchor.

Her reflection in the screen stared back at her. A loose, floral dress (not at all her style) that she’d thrown on at the last second, kohl under her eyes, lip tint, undone braids she’d hurried through, and her usual sandals. Presentable enough, she hoped. Not overdressed, not underdressed. Just right.

The low rumble of an engine seized her attention. A familiar truck rolled down the quiet street, its headlights softening the dim evening haze. Claere’s breath hitched as it slowed to a stop right in front of her.

This was ridiculous. What was she doing? She should go back. Her fingers tightened around her phone, and she briefly considered turning around, walking back through the gates, and pretending this never happened. Without anyone knowing—without Jace knowing—she was about to meet a boy.

The thought hit her hard. Jace would lose it. The image of his incredulous glare surfaced in her mind, his hypothetical voice dripping with mockery: “You’re dating my teammate?” Wait, was this a date? She bit the inside of her cheek. What even counted as one? Was it when he showed up outside your house? When he texted you or when you texted him? When he said he wanted to hang out? Or did it have to be something more official?

Her thoughts scattered as the truck’s passenger door clicked open.

Cregan leaned over from the driver’s seat, one arm reaching across to push the door wide for her. “Hey,” he greeted, his voice low, but there was eagerness in how his gaze lingered on her.

“Hi,” she mumbled.

She hesitated for half a second, smoothing the hem of her dress again, before stepping forward. With quite a bit of effort and grunting, her breath hitched as she climbed in.

He was… well, wow.

His hair was damp, darker at the ends where it stuck just slightly to his ears and temples like he’d rushed out of the shower. She caught a faint whiff of soap, something warm and earthy, and it shouldn’t have smelled as good as it did. Her chest tightened, completely against her will.

His shirt—a button-up that clearly hadn’t seen the business end of an iron—was only half-fastened, hanging loose enough to tease a glimpse of tanned skin and the sharp edges of his collarbone. Why did that look so good? Her eyes trailed down to his jersey shorts, and her brain helpfully supplied an unprompted, unnecessary observation: oh, those were made for sex. Strong, muscular, and relaxed in a way that made it clear he didn’t overthink a single thing about this.

And then there were his arms. For the love of all the gods, the arms. Broad, resting casually on the steering wheel like they had no business stealing anyone’s attention. The compression bandages on his left didn’t ruin the effect at all; in fact, they added to it somehow, like a reminder that this was the arm of someone who did things—vigorous, sporty things. When he shifted gears, his forearm tensed, the muscles flexing in a way that felt so unreasonably intentional she almost wanted to laugh at herself.

He’s literally just driving, she calmed herself, but her gaze had already flicked back up to his face. And, well, that didn’t help either.

Even in the dim light, he was stupidly, unfairly attractive. Sharp features that somehow didn’t look harsh, a jawline that belonged in one of those broody cologne ads, and an expression so at ease it bordered on maddening. How was it possible for someone to just exist like that? Did he escape a runway recently? Meanwhile, she was sitting there, clutching her phone like it was some kind of emotional lifeline, praying she didn’t trip over her own words. Was this normal? Did people just… look like this?

Her gaze darted away quickly before he could notice her staring, her cheeks burning as she focused very hard on her phone in her lap. Or tried to. What was she even doing here?

“All okay?” His voice broke through her thoughts, low and calm, but his brow furrowed slightly as he glanced her way, catching the tension she hadn’t realized was so obvious.

“Yeah, yeah. All okay,” she said quickly, too quickly, her voice a little higher than she’d meant. Heat rushed to her face as she tried to sound casual, but the slight curve of his lips told her she’d failed.

He followed her gaze as it dipped to his bandaged arm, and then he laughed—a short, self-conscious sound as he rolled his shoulder oh-so-sexily. “Hard drills today,” he said like it was nothing.

Her frown deepened. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

He shrugged, the movement making him wince despite himself. His free hand reached up to knead the edge of his shoulder, a small grimace flashing across his face before he smoothed it away. “‘S’all good,” he said, trying for nonchalance, but the stiffness in his movements told a different story.

“Cregan,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper, but the concern laced through it made his eyes flick back to her.

His lips quirked up in a lopsided grin, almost sheepish. “I’m fine, really. Part of the package. Just need to stretch it out.”

She wasn’t convinced, not in the slightest, but what could she say? He didn’t seem the type to take being fussed over well. Instead, her gaze betrayed her again, dipping to the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, to the faint curl in his damp hair, to the easy confidence in every part of him.

Calm down. He’s just a guy. Ordinary dude. Pedestrian. A stupidly attractive guy who probably doesn’t even—no, stop. Just stop.

“Buckle up,” he said, his tone light, but his attention flicked meaningfully to her seatbelt.

“Oh, yes,” she mumbled, fumbling for the strap with clumsy fingers. The fabric caught awkwardly, and her nerves made her struggle to untangle it.

Cregan chuckled, a quiet sound that sent her already heightened awareness into overdrive. She glanced up sharply. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head with a grin that was far too amused for her liking. He turned back to the road, but the smile lingered, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Her heart hammered unsteadily, her thoughts a chaotic mess of self-reproach and stubborn fascination. She folded her hands in her lap once the seatbelt was secure, trying to force herself to focus on anything else.

And yet, one thought pressed at her relentlessly, no matter how much she tried to shove it aside.

What am I doing here?

He was too much. Too effortless, too magnetic, too… perfect. The kind of guy who should’ve been with someone who matched him, someone equally flawless. Not Claere, with her name already a whispered scandal and a lingering sense of not quite belonging.

But when he glanced at her again, offering her that easy, lopsided grin, she couldn’t help but feel it—quiet and dangerous, like stepping off the edge of something she couldn’t yet see. She swallowed hard, trying to push the ridiculous thoughts down, but it didn’t help much. This was already overwhelming. And he wasn’t even trying.

He began to ask her, “Have you had dinner? There's this great new place that—”

“I can’t step out without my parents knowing.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, sharper than she intended. She turned toward him, a little embarrassed, but the confusion on his face made her heart pinch. “I'm sorry,” she added quickly. “It’s just… if I go anywhere, someone’s bound to see. I don't have security on me. It’ll be all over the papers by morning. And probably you will be, too.”

He blinked at her, clearly trying to process this. “The papers?”

She nodded, her cheeks heating. “My mom’s very particular. If they find out…” She trailed off, pressing her lips together. “It’ll be really, really bad. Sorry.”

His brow furrowed, but there wasn’t any judgment in his expression—just quiet understanding. “Oh. No worries.”

For a moment, the air between them felt too quiet, too heavy.

“Are you hungry?” she asked softly, breaking the silence, and trying to redirect the conversation.

“Well, I—”

“You know what,” she interrupted, rubbing her eyes as frustration bubbled to the surface, “maybe you should just drop me back home. This was a bad idea.”

Cregan shifted in his seat, his gaze steady on her. “Hey-ey. It’s alright,” he said gently. “We can figure something out. Non-public.”

She hesitated, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. It wasn’t pity or dismissal—it was just calm, easy reassurance. She exhaled, both relief and guilt tugging at her chest.

The truck began to move, but instead of turning back toward her house, he pulled into the parking lot of a small convenience store. Claere frowned, watching him climb out without another word. What was he doing?

“Be right back,” he called before breaking out into a jog.

Claere sat stiffly in her seat, her hands clasped over her phone, staring straight ahead at the glowing sign of the convenience store. She tried to focus on her breathing and tried not to think too much about the sheer absurdity of what she was doing. Meeting a boy. Spontaneously. Alone. Without anyone knowing. Daemon would be livid if he found out. Her mother, less so. She would make a lecture out of it. Be protective. Screw over Cregan's whole life. Yet here she was.

The sound of the driver’s door opening made her jump. She glanced over as Cregan slid into his seat, dropping a crinkling plastic bag onto the centre armrest. He didn’t say anything at first, just started pulling things out, unpacking it all.

A bag of chips. A pack of candy bars. Two bottles of iced tea. Two small containers of sliced fruit. An inexplicable, single can of olives.

“What… is all this?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

He leaned back, flashing her a leisurely grin that made her chest do a weird little flip. “Dinner,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He popped open the bag of chips and nudged it toward her. “Go on. You like sour cream and onion, right?”

She blinked at him. “You didn’t even ask.”

“Didn’t need to.” He winked. “Everyone likes sour cream and onion.”

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, and she shook her head, taking a chip despite herself. She wanted to call it silly or absurd, but really she loved that he'd put in effort to make her stay.

“Hey, you said no going out,” he replied, leaning an elbow on the centre console as he opened the container of fruit. “So, I improvised.” He plucked a grape from the mix and popped it into his mouth, shrugging as if this was a completely normal way to spend a night.

“Look, we stay in the car. Nobody sees anything. It’s not a five-star meal, but it works. And,” he added, picking up the can of olives with a wink, “it’s classy. See? Gourmet.”

She couldn’t hold back the laugh this time, a quiet sound that surprised even her. “Really? Do you even eat olives?”

“Not really,” he admitted, shaking the can. “But you never know. Felt like the right move.”

“Did it?”

“Absolutely.” He tossed the can onto the armrest like it sealed the deal, then leaned back, relaxed and entirely at ease in his seat. “I mean, they’re expensive. Ten bucks a bottle. Fancy schmancy. Impressive?”

Claere snorted, shaking her head. “I’m pretty sure that’s the least impressive thing you’ve done tonight.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his chest, feigning injury. “Here I am, going out of my way to craft the perfect car date, and you’re out here throwing shade.”

Date. The word landed between them, soft but deliberate, making her stomach flip. Was that what this was? A date? She couldn’t tell if he’d meant to say it or if it just slipped out, but the way he casually tossed it in made her pulse quicken. Claere glanced out the window, needing a moment to collect herself. Her hands rested on her lap, fidgeting with the corner of a napkin. He wasn’t trying too hard, wasn’t pushing for anything beyond this odd, makeshift moment. It felt easy—easier than she’d expected.

She glanced back at him. He leaned comfortably against the driver’s seat, the soft light highlighted the curve of his jaw and the faint smile playing on his lips—like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. It struck her again how different he was now from the nervous, slightly reckless guy she’d been introduced to weeks ago. That version of him had been a little too cocky and chaotic, and a little too rough around the edges to fit their carefully curated image of what her life should look like. But this—this version of him was steady, charming.

He cleared his throat, shuffling awkwardly in the seat. “Look, before I say anything else—I owe you an apology.”

Claere blinked, caught off guard by his sceptical tone. She stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I know I’ve been… distant.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flickering between hers and the floor. “I didn’t mean to avoid you. I just—” He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I was really ashamed. About what I did that night. About everything.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion and something gentler. “Why embarrassed?”

Cregan let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. “To state the obvious. Because I was drunk off my ass, made a fool of myself, and dragged you into it. God, the flowerpot… the singing…” He groaned, burying his face briefly in his hands. “And then crashing in your bed like some—”

“It's okay,” she interrupted, her voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to apologize for that.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “You didn’t do anything wrong. People get drunk and, do and say unfortunate things.”

He looked at her then, a little more vulnerable now. “Still. I didn’t handle things right after. I shouldn’t have just—avoided you. That was a dick move.”

Claere’s lips parted slightly, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when he finally approached her, but this wasn’t it.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” He met her gaze fully now, his voice quieter, more sincere. “I’m sorry, Claere. For being an ass. For avoiding you. And for making things weird when you were just—” He paused, swallowing. “When you were just being nice to me.”

Her chest ached at the honesty in his words. She wasn’t used to this—people owning up to their mistakes, much less in such a raw, unpolished way.

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” she said after a beat, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “But… thank you for saying it.”

He nodded, relief flickering across his face, though his hands still fidgeted with a candy bar wrapper. “I don’t exactly remember what I said at that party,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “I hope I didn’t cross a line or—”

“No.” She cut him off, her voice soft but sure. “No, you were actually very sweet. And observant.”

“Observant,” he repeated slowly, raising a brow as if he didn’t trust where this was going.

“You pointed out my weird pattern for how I wear my clothes. Like how I like brown or wear my twisted braids on Wednesdays.”

His face fell, and he groaned, shutting his eyes in clear mortification. “God, I did say that, didn’t I? I am so sorry. So creepy of me.”

She laughed, the sound light and unguarded. “Nothing to be sorry about. I thought it was cute. And... kind of impressive.”

He opened one eye, peeking at her like a cautious kid checking if the coast was clear. “Really? That was all it took to impress you? Not my rugged handsomeness or the fact that I bought you a bottle of olives?”

She laughed with a shrug. “People don’t notice that little things.”

His lips twitched into a small, sheepish smile, but he didn’t say anything. The silence between them was comfortable, humming with something unsaid but not unwelcome.

Claere glanced at him again, studying his profile—the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. He wasn’t trying to break the quiet or fill it with meaningless chatter. He wasn’t pressuring her to leave the car or convincing her to let her guard down for his sake. He was just... here. With her.

“I just...” She hesitated, then pushed on. “Uh, this is nice. Most guys would’ve tried to force me out of the car by now. Insist we go somewhere just because, you know, it’d look better or something.”

At that, his posture shifted ever so slightly, and his head tilted toward her, his tone dipping into a playful drawl. “Most guys?” he asked, his voice tinged with obvious jealousy. “How many guys are we talking about here?”

She shook her head, laughing softly. “A few. And most of them were purely for business relations. My parents’ idea, not mine. Not exactly fun.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes softened. “Yeah, sounds like a blast,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It wasn’t,” she said simply, leaning her head back against the seat. Her gaze flicked to him again, and her smile softened. “But this? It’s the most audacious I’ve been in a while.”

His grin returned, slow and wide, as he reached for another chip from the bag between them. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her lips curving up softly. “I like this. I really do.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering in a way that made her feel exposed but not uncomfortable. It wasn’t like the way most people looked at her—curious, judgmental, or critical. And maybe that’s why what he said next hit her like a freight train.

“I'm not going to play for time. I'll say it: I’ve liked you for a while now,” he admitted, his voice quieter, tinged with a vulnerability she wasn’t expecting.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, all she could do was blink at him. “Oh,” she said, barely managing the single syllable. It sounded stupid, but her brain felt like it had short-circuited.

He gave a small laugh, but it wasn’t mocking. “Yeah, that’s pretty much how I feel too. Everyday.”

“What... what do you mean by a while?” she asked, her voice steadier now, though her heart was still pounding.

Cregan hesitated, running a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping to the steering wheel like he needed something to ground himself. “Since the start of the year? Before that, maybe?” He looked back at her with a half-smile. “It’s a blur. But then you texted me, and... I’ll be honest, I almost crashed my car.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“I mean it,” he said, laughing now. “I was pulling out of practice, checked my phone—stupid, I know—and your name, just sitting on my screen. I swerved so hard, that I almost got rear-ended. The guy behind me rolled down his window and called me a fuckface.”

Claere burst out laughing, the image too ridiculous not to. She could picture it perfectly: Cregan, bold and unbothered on the ice, suddenly reduced to a flustered mess at the sight of her name.

“I’m serious,” he said, laughing along with her. “I had to pull over. I don’t even know why. It was just a text. But you...” He trailed off, his grin fading slightly as his voice softened. “You get to me, Claere. You did. You do.”

Her laughter faded, leaving the quiet between them thick and charged. Something in her chest tightened—a subtle ache she hadn’t expected. His words were so simple, so direct, yet they carried a weight she wasn’t used to.

No one ever spoke to her like this. Not the tabloids, who reduced her to a headline, not her family, who crafted her image like she was part of their empire, and certainly not boys. Boys always wanted something from her—a photo, a name to drop, a chance to prove they could handle someone like her. But Cregan…he just sat there, watching her like she was someone worth looking at. Really looking at.

She didn’t know what to say. Her lips parted, then closed again as her thoughts tangled. Words felt too clumsy for what was twisting inside her. Instead, she just looked at him, her fingers twisting the edge of her sweater as if anchoring herself to the moment.

“I like you, Claere,” he said, and his voice cut through her overthinking like a steady hand on her shoulder. There was no teasing lilt, no hesitation, just earnestness that caught her completely off guard. “And I’d love to get to know you. Really get to know you. Spend time with you. No people, no gossip. Just you.”

Something shifted inside her, like a thread she hadn’t noticed was pulled taut had finally gone slack. Her chest ached with something warm and unfamiliar. Maybe it was relief, or maybe it was fear—fear of how much she wanted to believe him. To trust that he meant it.

Without thinking, without planning, she leaned forward. It wasn’t calculated or bold; it was instinct, a soft, quiet urge she couldn’t ignore. Her lips brushed against his cheek, feather-light, and she lingered for just a moment before pulling back.

When she did, her breath caught. She expected him to be startled, maybe even confused. She braced herself for an awkward laugh or some offhand joke to ease the tension. But instead, he was grinning. Slow and lazy, like she’d just confirmed something he’d already known for a long time.

“Gods-fucking-damnit, thought I'd be a gentleman tonight,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, roughened at the edges in a way that made her stomach flip.

She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. Her thoughts were spinning too fast, caught between the way he was looking at her and the way her heart felt like it was about to hammer out of her chest.

And then he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t some dramatic movie moment. It was careful and conscious like he was giving her all the time in the world to stop him, even though she never would have. When his lips met hers, it was soft at first, like a question he didn’t want to push too hard.

But the second her hand moved—gripping the front of his shirt like she needed something to hold on to—it deepened. His other hand came up, cradling her cheek, stroking down the length of her throat, tongue spearing between her lips, in a way that sent a shiver through her. The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was a little messy, a little uncoordinated, too heated, silly, and breathy, but it was warm and real, and her chest felt like it might burst with the intensity of it all.

Her senses were on overdrive. The faint scent of his soap, the slight scratch of his stubble against her skin, the quiet hitch of his breath when her hand slid up to his shoulder—all of it sank into her like she was trying to memorize every second of this.

When he finally pulled back, her eyes fluttered open, her cheeks flushed and lips tingling. His forehead rested against hers, his breath fanning across her skin as they both tried to catch up with themselves. His hands found a home against her waist, rubbing and squeezing, feeling the lunes of her spine and hips.

“Was that okay?” he asked, his voice so soft it almost broke something inside her.

She nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Better than okay. Really nice.”

His quiet laugh warmed the space between them. “Good,” he said, his thumb still tracing gentle, absent-minded circles on her waist.

She couldn’t look away from him. The way his stormy grey eyes searched hers, like he was trying to memorize every flicker of emotion on her face. Like he was waiting for her to pull away, to tell him this was a mistake. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

His hand, warm and steady, lingered against her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin in a touch so tender it made her heart ache. And in that moment, with the soft hum of the engine filling the space around them, she felt something she hadn’t let herself feel in years.

Safe. Seen. Wanted.

“Can we keep this to ourselves for a bit?” he asked softly, his voice laced with hesitation, as though he wasn’t sure how the words would land.

Her brows knit together slightly, her head tilting just enough to catch his gaze. “Why’s that?” she asked, not accusing, just curious. Her voice was soft, a gentle thread pulling the question closer between them.

He let out a breath, his hand falling from her cheek to rest against the console between them. It left a hollow ache where his touch had been, but she didn’t move. “It’s not that I don’t want people to know,” he started, his tone quiet but steady, each word weighed with meaning. “Trust me, I want everyone to know.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, earnest and steady. “I just… I don’t want anyone ruining this. Not yet. Not before we even figure out what this is.”

She blinked, his words wrapping around her like a fragile cocoon. The flicker of vulnerability in his expression—a barely-there crack in the armor he wore so well—hit her with the force of something unspoken but deeply felt. He wasn’t ashamed of her. He wasn’t hiding her. This wasn’t about fear or hesitation.

He was protecting this. Protecting them.

From the noise. From the outside world that had taken her life and painted it in hues that weren’t hers to begin with.

“That makes sense,” she said softly, her voice gentler than she meant it to be. But it felt right. It felt true.

“Yeah?” he asked, his gaze lifting to meet hers again, as if searching for the faintest shadow of doubt.

She smiled faintly, the curve of her lips soft and sure. “I think… we could use the quiet for a while.”

The relief that spread across his face was almost tangible. His shoulders eased, the edges of his features softening as if a weight he’d carried for too long had finally slipped away. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice so full of sincerity it nearly undid her.

She leaned back in her seat, her body slowly releasing the tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding. The silence between them felt warm, companionable, like an unspoken promise.

“You know,” she said, tilting her head slightly to look at him again, her tone lighter now, “for someone who’s usually so daring, you’re really nervous about this.”

He glanced at her, his lips curving into a crooked, self-deprecating smile. His fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel. “You’re the one who does that to me,” he admitted, his voice low, steady, and entirely too vulnerable. “I’m not used to it.”

Her laugh came without warning, bubbling up light and genuine, and it caught him so off guard that his smile widened, bright and boyish.

“That’s nice,” she teased, nudging his arm with hers. “Maybe that means you’ll behave.”

His brows lifted, his grin turning mischievous. “Behave?” He looked at her like the word itself was an insult. “Is that what you want? A well-behaved guy?”

She tilted her head as if in deep thought, though the playful glint in her eyes betrayed her. “Hmm,” she hummed, drawing it out, “I don’t know. Depends on the day, I guess. Some days I might prefer a misbehaving one.”

His laughter filled the space between them, rich and warm, a sound that made her feel like the entire world had shrunk down to just this car, just this moment. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

Her lips twitched, her smile turning coy as she leaned back. “Oh, I’ve been told.”

X

[and there you have it - sort of... I've planned another part, possibly the last one, so stay tuned!]

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