#modern!cregan stark x fem!oc

[damneddamsy]

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

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

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

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

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

This was it.

Final period. Tie game.

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

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

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

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

And Cregan was under his microscope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The goal was in sight.

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

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

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

The arena erupted.

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

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

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

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

And maybe, just maybe, to himself.

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“H-E-L-P.”

“Ah, what ironic last words.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

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

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

And there she was. Claere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you said low-key!”

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

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

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

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

Yeah, he was a goner. Completely and utterly.

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

X

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

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

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

And then it happened. The door at the base of the lecture theatre burst open, and all the simmering thoughts in his head vanished.

Claere Velaryon rushed in like a summer storm. The clicking of her sandals echoed off the walls as heads turned, the low hum of the room snapping into silence. Her long, thin brown dress clung to her frame as if she'd run halfway across campus, the loose sleeves slipping scandalously down her shoulders. She was red-faced, her silver hair a wild, untamed halo around her, strands sticking to her flushed skin. She clutched a tote bag like it might tumble out of her hands at any moment, panting as if she'd just completed a marathon.

Cregan straightened in his seat, pen forgotten in his palm.

Gods, she was a mess. A beautiful, heart-wrenching, completely irresistible mess.

The whispers started immediately. Of course, they did. This was Claere. She could walk into a room and turn every head, for better or worse. Cregan could already hear the vicious murmurs—the snide comments about her tardiness, her flushed cheeks, her dishevelled hair. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to glare at everyone around him.

“Miss Velaryon,” the professor’s voice cut through the tension, dry and unimpressed. “Late as usual. Do I even bother to ask for—”

“I’m sorry,” Claere gasped, her voice trembling but polite as ever. She clutched her tote tighter, her eyes darting to the professor. “I—I lost track of time.”

The professor sighed heavily, clearly debating whether to continue chastising her. Thankfully, he waved her off with an irritated gesture. “Sit down. I've got much to cover.”

Cregan watched as she nodded quickly, eyes wide, before hurrying up the steps. She climbed the rows with an elegance no one seemed to notice, her dress swaying with each step. Their eyes met for a fleeting second—just a heartbeat—but it was enough to send a jolt through him. Then she slipped into an empty seat a few rows ahead of him, pulling out her laptop in a flurry of quiet, frantic movements.

He fished out his phone from his pocket, sliding it under the desk deftly. His fingers flew across the screen.

Good morning, sunshine. That dress is tempting fate with me. Feeling okay?

She didn’t look at her phone, too busy digging through her bag. He frowned and texted again.

Hey. Overworked already?

Still nothing. Her computer whirred to life, and she tapped furiously at the keys. Cregan’s fingers hovered over his phone, his frustration bubbling over.

Baby.

Right behind you.

Answer me.

CLAERE.

The fourth ding caught her attention—and the professor’s.

“Miss Velaryon,” the man snapped, his irritation palpable. “I trust you can figure out how to silence your phone without further disrupting the class?”

“Sorry.” Claere’s cheeks burned as she scrambled to mute it, shooting a disconcerted glance around the room. The whispers flared up again, though most students had their eyes glued to the professor.

Cregan smothered a laugh, setting his phone face down on his desk. He stared at the back of her head, watching how her hair cascaded past her elbows, still slightly mussed from her rush. He wanted to close the distance, to sit beside her, to hold her hand, give her a sip from his water bottle, and dab away her sweat.

But he stayed put, grinding his teeth, the itch to be near her gnawing at him.

The lecture dragged on, and Cregan’s focus was entirely on her. It wasn’t fair, he thought, the way her presence could pull him out of his own head so completely. He couldn’t stop watching her—the delicate tilt of her head, the way her fingers flew over her keyboard, the little sigh she let out when she finally settled. He wanted to reach out, touch her, reassure her. He wanted—

A spark of mischief lit in his chest. He slid his phone back into his hand, shielding the screen between his chest.

Turn around if you love me.

He hit send, his smirk growing as he propped his elbow on the desk, feigning disinterest. He ran a hand over his face, trying to rub away the grin threatening to split his face.

Claere glanced at her phone, lips parting in alarm. She barely turned, eyes peeking through the curtain of her hair, shooting him a look that was equal parts caution and exasperation.

Cregan met her gaze with an unabashed wink, biting back a laugh. Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened on the edge of her laptop, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she whipped her head back around and refocused on the presentation slides ahead.

Up ahead, Claere’s phone buzzed once, then again. She glanced at it, her lips parting in alarm as her shoulders stiffened. Her fingers twitched on the keyboard, clearly debating whether to check it. She gave in, the faint glow of the screen illuminating her frown.

Cregan had already sent a follow-up.

Panting into class like that. What’d you do, chase another mouse?

She rolled her eyes, typing a quick response.

Good morning, Cregan. I dropped Viserys off at school because he wanted to ride the scooter with me instead of the car. Now, please focus on class.

Undeterred, he sent another.

Oh, so, your little brother gets a free ticket, but I'm considered too big. Where's the justice?

When she didn't bother to respond, he scowled at her head and typed again.

You didn’t even look at me before. I love you so much that I shampooed my hair, especially for you.

Her phone buzzed audibly, and her head shot up, violet eyes darting around the room. When no one seemed to notice, she let out a small breath and typed furiously.

I will throw this phone at you, Cregan. Stop distracting me.

Cregan grinned at her threat.

With your aim, you might just get the professor instead.

He saw her shake her head, obviously masking a smile. Gods, how he wished he could see it. He leaned forward and typed.

Turn around before I come down there.

That one must have hit a nerve, because her shoulders straightened, and her fingers paused mid-hover over her keyboard. Slowly, she turned her head just enough to shoot him a glare that could've melted steel, her silver hair framing her face like a storm cloud.

He touched his chest, impersonating a broken heart. You're killing me, baby, he wanted to say. A side of her twitched up before it smoothed back into the same glare.

He tipped his chin to his phone, gesturing at her to text. She rolled her eyes and retrieved her phone, beginning to type again.

I love you very much. Could you shut up?

Time stopped. The grip on his phone tightened, heart racing. He looked both ways, seeing if someone caught sight of the irredeemably giant smile on his face. He typed through trembling fingers.

That's more like it. You chose a dress for tomorrow? May I kindly suggest red? Very short? Easy access and all. Also, stockings.

He saw her pause before she began typing again.

I'm not coming. Let's not risk it.

He nearly stood off his seat in irritation. Instead, he typed so hard, that he feared denting the screen.

We aren't risking shit. You're coming, Claere. I will throw you over my shoulder and lug you there if I have to.

When she didn't type back, he sighed and then followed up calmly. This had to work.

Please come, baby? For me? Please.

She turned around, sneaking a look at him again, thinking for a long moment. She gave him an infinitesimal nod before shifting away. He controlled every urge that made him want to punch the air in victory.

He puckered his lips, blowing a small kiss to the back of her head, thoroughly pleased with himself, but the professor’s sharp voice cut through the moment.

“Stark.”

Cregan straightened in his seat, leisurely lifting his gaze to the dais in the front of the room. The professor’s eyes were fixed on him, brows raised in expectation.

“Perhaps you’d like to share with the class what's so interesting on your phone or how Plato’s Allegory of the Cave applies to modern societal hierarchies?”

A ripple of amused murmurs spread through the lecture hall. Claere’s shoulders went rigid, and she sank lower in her seat, clearly praying she could disappear into the floor.

Cregan, however, leaned back with an air of calm confidence, resting one arm along the back of his chair. He could handle a little heat.

“I'll take option two,” he drawled, his tone smooth, “it’s about perception versus reality, isn’t it? How people are trapped by their limited perspectives, thinking shadows are the truth when there’s a whole world they’re not seeing.” He let the words hang for a moment, then added with a lazy grin, “Kind of like how people in this class assume they know everything about others when they really don’t have a single clue.”

The murmurs turned into a few low laughs, though the professor’s unimpressed glare remained.

“That’s… a creative interpretation,” the professor replied, his tone clipped. “Perhaps next time, you could demonstrate your engagement by listening, rather than texting.”

The class chuckled again, and Cregan shrugged nonchalantly.

“Noted,” he said, flashing a quick, disarming smile.

The professor sighed and returned to the lecture, but Cregan could feel Claere’s mortified glare burning between his head. He glanced down at his phone, considering sending her another message, but thought better of it.

Instead, he settled back in his seat, smug and unbothered, stealing one last glance at the silver hair a few rows ahead of him. Definitely pushing his luck.

The low hum of the lecture was interrupted by a series of sporadic buzzes and chimes from phones around the room. At first, Cregan ignored them, tapping his pen idly against his notebook, his mind wandering back to Claere. But when the faint murmurs started—those hushed, vindictive whispers that only grew louder—his focus sharpened.

Furrowing his brows, he slipped his phone from the desk, angling it over his thigh. One notification stood out in bold:

Breaking: Rhaenyra Targaryen Sparks Debate as "Unfit Parent" in These Latest Photos.

His stomach dropped. He clicked on it, and there it was—Claere.

The image was grainy, clearly taken from across the street, invasive but unmistakable: Claere leaning down to kiss little Viserys on the cheek from her scooter, waving as he ran toward the school doors. The headline was grotesque, spinning the scene into some damning evidence against her mother.

Cregan clenched his jaw, swiping at the screen to close the article. The pit in his stomach wasn’t just anger; it was fear. This—this circus—was what waited for Claere at every corner. They didn’t care about her life, her compassion, her unfailing talent. All they saw was scandal, drama, and an easy target. And if their relationship ever got out?

His chest tightened. He could take the scrutiny. They could call him a joke, a flash-in-the-pan athlete, whatever they wanted. But Claere? They’d shred her apart, drag her name through the mud, and no matter how much she pretended she didn’t care, he knew it would crush her.

He glanced up at her. She sat a few rows ahead, her back stiff, head bowed low, silver hair falling in curtains around her face. One hand was curled around the edge of her desk, the other fidgeting at her neck, rubbing the skin like she was trying to soothe herself.

Cregan’s fingers hovered over his phone for a second before he typed out a quick text.

Ignore them. It's not worth your time.

Her phone buzzed on her desk, and he saw her shoulders tense. She glanced at it briefly but didn’t respond. He frowned, tapping out another.

You're incredible, Claere. Viserys is lucky to have you.

Still nothing. She didn’t even look this time, just kept her head down, pretending to take notes.

Cregan sighed, setting his phone face down on his desk. His frustration wasn’t with her—it never was. It was with the world they lived in, the world that refused to leave her alone.

He glanced at her again, biting the inside of his cheek. She looked so small, so... tired. He couldn’t fix this, couldn’t shield her from all of it, but maybe he could remind her of one thing: she wasn’t alone.

He picked up his phone again, typing deliberately.

Rink tonight ;) After practice? I love you.

The response came quickly this time.

Okay.

He allowed himself a small smile, relief flooding his chest. His fingers itched to send something else—something cheeky, playful—but he stopped himself. For now, that one word was enough. Cregan leaned back in his seat, ignoring the professor’s droning voice, ignoring the whispers still circulating the room. His eyes lingered on the silver head a few rows ahead of him.

She'll be okay. He'll make sure of it.

X

The ice rink was silent now, save for the scrape of Cregan’s skates and the dull thwack of his stick against the puck. The overhead lights cast an icy glow on the smooth, untouched surface, the air was crisp and faintly metallic. One by one, the last of his teammates had filtered out, offering casual goodbyes that he barely registered, too focused on the rhythm of his movements.

He practised shooting goals, each slap of the puck echoing in the empty space. One. Two. Three. Each strike was sharp and precise, but his focus wavered as the minutes ticked by. He glanced at the clock mounted on the far wall. Twenty minutes late. Was she even coming?

He tried not to let the disappointment settle in. She’d been off all day—he’d noticed it in the way she fidgeted, her avoidance of his texts during class, and the weariness in her posture. Maybe she needed space. Or maybe…

No. He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

Just as he bent down to retrieve the puck again, the sound of the swinging doors creaking open cut through the silence. He straightened, his breath catching as he turned toward the sound.

There she was. Of course, she'd never disappoint him.

Through the plexiglass, he caught sight of Claere, her silhouette bright and out of place against the stark white of the rink. Her bag hung lazily over her shoulder, bracelets and sandals jangling as she made her way to him. She moved with an easy grace, that grin he loved lighting up her face as she spotted him. She leapt over the players' bench with a playful bounce, landing softly and leaning casually against the barricade.

“You finally made it,” he called, skating toward her, his voice teasing. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Her grin widened, and she propped her chin on her hand, her violet eyes sparkling. “You can hunt me down if I ever do. I was caught up in labwork.”

He laughed, pulling out his mouthguard and letting it dangle from his fingers. “You're never that hard to find.”

She tilted her head toward the doors, thumbing the direction. “What’s Jace doing out there? Don't you usually lock the front door?”

Cregan shrugged, smirking as he glided closer to the plexiglass, wishing it wasn’t in the way. “Your shitty brother owed me.”

Claere’s giggle was like a bell, light and melodic. “So he’s chaperoning us now?”

“Standing guard,” he corrected, his grin sharp. “Until I say we’re done. Son a bitch deserves it.”

She threw her head back in a full laugh, the kind that made her whole body move. “Our personal bouncer, huh?”

Cregan had threatened to dump estrogen into his daily intake of protein shakes one way or another following his lousy uptake to make him come to the gala. He was getting his revenge and this was the perfect out. Cut to Jacaerys, sitting on the curb outside the rink, grateful it wasn't the winter time. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air. He flicked ash onto the pavement and leaned back, whistling at a couple of students who wandered too close.

“Oi! It’s closed, lads!” he called, waving them off with farfetched authority. “Run along, nothing to see here!”

One of them raised a brow but turned around with a shrug, clearly not in the mood to argue. Jace smirked, taking another drag.

“What a racket,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Little asshole.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the rink doors, his whistle turning into a lazy hum. The things he did for his little sister and her lovesick puppy.

Inside the enclosure, Cregan skated off the rink with a dexterity that came with years of practice, his blades cutting a sharp curve across the ice as he made his way to where Claere leaned against the barrier. Her arms were crossed, her nose red from the cold, but she still managed to look every bit like the faerie she was, completely out of place and somehow owning it anyway.

“Your turn,” he said, tugging her bag from her shoulder and setting it down. He pulled out a pair of skates from under the bench, holding them up like an offering.

She groaned, already shaking her head. “No way. It’s freezing, and I’m not wearing pants.”

He crouched in front of her, tapping the skates against the ice. “Freezing? You live in cardigans, baby. Come on, the ice is lonely without you. Lace up.”

Her protest was half-hearted, and within minutes, he’d coaxed her into the skates, inching them up her feet himself. She sat on the bench, her dress pooling around her knees, muttering complaints, pushing at his shoulders as she tied the laces.

“Do you always bully girls into skating?” she asked, huffing.

“Only you,” he replied, grinning. He stood and held out a hand, steadying her as she wobbled on the thin blades. “Let's go, chief. Just skate it all off.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips as she stepped onto the rink. It took a few hesitant glides before she found her balance, her movements rusty yet elegant.

Cregan hung back, leaning lazily against the barrier, his weight on one skate as he watched her begin to move more freely across the ice. Her arms swung naturally at her sides, the fabric of her skirt flaring with each gliding step. She spun slowly, deliberately, as though caught in the rhythm of some invisible melody, her hair catching the rink’s cool light like strands of molten silver.

She'd always found a way to draw him in, mesmerize him. Cregan felt his chest swell, warmth spreading despite the rink’s chill. There was something magnetic about the way she moved—not perfect, not trained, but alive and so unmistakably her. It was like she carried her own song wherever she went, a tune only she could hear.

Then she waved, breaking his trance. He blinked, startled, caught like a deer in headlights.

“You coming, or are you just going to stare all night?” she called, her voice carrying a teasing lilt.

He chuckled, pushing off the wall with ease, his movements smooth and rehearsed. He skated toward her, the faint sound of his blades slicing through the ice contrasting with her lighter, more playful strides. She stood waiting for him, hands on her hips, her smirk laced with challenges.

“Can I help you practice?” she asked, tilting her head, her hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder.

He shook his head, smirking. “What might you do for me, Claere?”

She tapped her chin, feigning deep thought. “Hmm... I can throw the puck?”

“Oh, excellent,” he replied, biting back a laugh. “What do you think I do on this rink besides 'throwing the puck'?”

She ticked off her fingers, her expression deadpan. “Elbow poor guys. Score goals. Make pretty girls flash you.”

Cregan snorted. “Not wrong,” he admitted, grinning wide.

Not moments later, a tenacious Claere stood at the net, a pair of oversized goalie gloves engulfing her hands and a spare hockey stick. She looked absolutely foolish—and yet, she carried herself with all the determination of someone about to win a championship. And gods, did she look fucking hot.

“I’m ready,” she declared, crouching low.

“You sure about this?” Cregan called a few metres across from her, his puck resting against the blade of his stick.

“Bring it on, Stark,” she challenged, knocking her gloved hands together like a boxer.

He smirked, took a few strides back, and lined up his shot. The puck zipped toward the net with a controlled flick of his wrist. Claere lunged—if you could call it that—sprawling onto the ice in a dramatic heap, her hockey stick missing the puck by a mile as it hit the post.

“Damn it,” she groused under her breath, shuffling awkwardly on all fours to retrieve the puck. “Go again.”

Cregan was bent over laughing, barely able to stay upright on his skates. “Baby, you didn’t even come close!”

She scowled at him, but there was no hiding the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re supposed to be coaching me, not laughing at me!”

He skated over, crouching beside her to help her up onto her feet. She skidded a little, and he caught her waist to steady her. “You’re hopeless,” he teased, brushing the dusting of snow off her skirt. “But sure, let’s try again.”

Many a failed tries, many bruises and complaints later, Cregan rested his stick between his knees, barely breaking a sweat, grinning down at Claere as she shuffled awkwardly back into position at the net, her oversized gloves flopping like the paws of some defeated cartoon character. The sight of her, sweating, sleeves slumping, so determined despite her absolute lack of technique, had him smiling ear to ear.

“You really think you’ve got this, don’t you? You don't even have knee pads,” he teased, his voice rich with amusement.

Claere narrowed her eyes, her lips pulling into a stubborn pout. “I know I’ve got this,” she shot back, her tone defiant despite the fact she’d barely managed to touch the puck all night.

He cocked his head, an idea forming, his grin sharpening with mischief. “Alright, let’s make this interesting,” he said, skating a slow circle around her. His voice dipped low, teasing. “You block one goal, just one, and you can sit out the gala.”

Her eyes widened, and her head snapped up, following him as he circled her. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he replied, stopping in front of her and leaning on his stick like it was a crutch. “One clean block. No cheating.”

Claere’s brows furrowed in thought before her smirk returned, victorious before the battle even began. “Deal,” she said, pointing a glove at him. “If you lose, I can use this as my trump card and say that I'm better than you at this.”

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” he said, his voice low, deliberately playful. “I'm never going to let that happen. But if you lose...” He skated closer, so close their breath mingled in the cold air. “You’re coming back home with me after the gala, and you better be wearing red.”

Her smirk faltered, just barely, and Cregan caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. But she straightened, squaring her shoulders like she was heading into a war. “Fine. You’re going to rue this day.”

He chuckled, skating backwards and giving her space. “We’ll see about that.”

After that, it was game time. He let the first few shots skim past her, fast but not too fast, watching her dive, stretch, groan, whine and lunge in increasingly absurd ways, forgetting she even had a stick to block it. He didn't have to try, she was terrible at this. The puck hit the back of the net every time, but her determination was relentless, her lips pressed tight as she shuffled back into place after every failure.

On the fourth attempt, she swiped too early, sprawling onto her back with a dramatic groan. Cregan skated over, crouching beside her and offering her a hand. “You okay down there, champ?”

“Shut up,” she muttered, glaring up at him as she took his hand. But her cheeks were pink, and not just from the cold.

He pulled her to her feet effortlessly, his hands sliding to her waist to steady her. She pushed the hair out of her face, blowing a breath into the curls over her forehead.

“You’re making it too easy for me,” he said, his voice dropping into a low murmur.

Her breath hitched, just for a second, her hands landing on his chest to balance herself. “Maybe I’m lulling you into a false sense of security,” she quipped, her voice softer now.

“Mm, is that it?” He let his fingers linger, brushing against the fabric of her dress before he finally stepped back, grinning. “Alright, let’s see your dumb strategy in action.”

Honestly, he should've given up trying to smack the puck and just hit it with his foot. By the sixth attempt, Claere was all but crawling across the ice, clumsily batting at the puck as it glided lazily toward the goal. She managed to stop it—barely—her triumphant shout ringing out as she waved her arms in victory.

“Oh, I did it! I caught it!” she celebrated, her grin splitting her face.

Cregan skated over, stopping just short of her, shaking his head in mock disbelief. He clucked his tongue in disapproval.

“That doesn’t count,” he said. “You didn’t stop it clean.”

“It does count,” she argued, more in desperation than anger, jabbing her glove at his chest.

“Nope,” he said, popping his lips. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “But I’ll give you one more shot. One last chance. Otherwise, I win.”

She swallowed hard, her breath hitching again as his hand found her waist, steadying her. “Fine,” she whispered, her bravado cracking just a little.

He let her go, giving her space as he lined up his final shot. He skated forward, slow and deliberate, the puck gliding along with him. Her focus was unwavering, her determination fierce. He sent the puck toward the net—not too fast, not too slow.

Claere lunged, stick outstretched—and miraculously, it stopped just short of the line.

Her triumphant laugh filled the rink as she scrambled to her feet, throwing her gloves into the air like confetti.

“I did it!” she squealed, spinning in place. “Ha, ha! I’m free!”

Cregan skated over, catching her by the waist mid-spin and lifting her off the ice. “You’re still coming tomorrow,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

“Deal’s a deal,” she laughed, leaning into him.

“Unfortunately for you, I don't give a shit,” he said, his voice low and soft.

Claere leaned into him, her laughter softening into something gentler. “I know you let me win,” she accused, her violet eyes narrowing as she looked up at him.

“Maybe,” he admitted, his grin turning sly. “But only because I’m nice like that.”

Her response was a roll of her eyes, but the playful tilt of her lips betrayed her. “Nice doesn't involve having your girlfriend pant after you like that.”

“I like you panting.” He winked.

Before she could retort, he moved. A sudden shift of his weight sent them tumbling onto the ice, Cregan's hand protectively going around her head and back, Claere yelping as he pinned her beneath him, careful to keep his skates and hers positioned safely.

“Victory tackle?” he declared, smug, straddling her as she wriggled beneath him.

“Cregan!” she hissed, her cheeks flushed from the cold—or maybe from being caught so off guard. “Get off me! It's freezing!”

“Here, I'll keep you warm,” he said, his grin softening as he leaned in. His lips grazed her cheek, then the tip of her nose, lingering as though the moment might slip away if he let it.

Claere stilled beneath him, her breaths coming slow and even, her gaze locked on his. Her hands lifted, her cold fingers finding the nape of his neck, slipping into his hair. The chill of her touch made him shiver, but it wasn’t unwelcome. It was his anchor.

He exhaled, letting his forehead rest against hers, closing his eyes briefly as her fingers tangled deeper into his hair. God, this was everything—she was everything. He didn't care that his arm was going numb from bearing his weight up and the freezing ice. His lips found hers, urging them apart, vying for more, too starved, a little too much until his head spun and his breaths came up in pants. A heady daze had him sneak his fingers under her skirt, feeling the softness of her thigh, fingers leaving impressions on her skin. He'd done this too many times to know, especially when her hips lifted up to his, his hand sliding onto her ass.

Her voice broke the quiet, coming out as a gasp. “You’re too big.”

He laughed softly, pressing one last kiss to her temple. “That's never been a problem for you.”

“That was before you tackled me,” Claere shot back, though her fingers threading lazily through his hair betrayed her amusement, her contentment. Her laugh was soft, breathless, and it warmed the cold air around them, sinking into him like the best kind of ache.

Cregan opened his mouth to tease the soft skin on her neck, maybe even pull her closer—but the sharp crash of the rink doors cut through the quiet, echoing across the ice. The sound shattered the little world they’d built for themselves, the fragile intimacy dissolving in an instant.

Neither of them moved at first, too wrapped in each other to care—until a familiar voice broke through.

“Guys, I'm getting bored. Seriously?” Jace’s tone carried across the rink, equal parts incredulous and exasperated. “Claere—what the fuck! Not on the fucking ice! Get off my sister!”

Cregan groaned loudly, burying his face into the curve of Claere’s neck like a child avoiding a scolding. “C’mon,” he muttered against her skin, voice muffled, his shoulders slumping dramatically.

Claere tilted her head, her laugh soft against his ear. “Should we let him think this was all spontaneous?”

“Let’s not,” Cregan grumbled, his lips brushing her collarbone as he spoke. “He’s already halfway to murdering me.”

Jace’s footsteps echoed closer, leaching with frustration. “I mean it, Stark!” he barked. “Get off her!”

Reluctantly, Cregan lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting Claere’s. There was something unspoken between them—a shared defiance, a quiet kind of rebellion. Still, he eased off her, careful and deliberate, and offered his hand to help her stand. She accepted it without hesitation, and when he caught her waist to steady her, he took his time guiding her to a slow glide toward the rink’s edge.

“You ruin everything, Jace,” Claere called over her shoulder.

Jace stood at the edge of the rink, arms crossed and expression thunderous. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, the smoke curling upward into the dim light. “I ruin everything?” he repeated, incredulous. “You’re lucky I’m not scraping either of you off the ice right now. What were you even thinking, Claere?”

Claere shrugged, leaning casually against the barricade. “That I’m twenty-one and don’t need a babysitter?”

“You’re not twenty-one in my book,” Jace shot back, stabbing the air with his cigarette for emphasis. “And you—” He turned his glare on Cregan. “What’s your excuse, Stark?”

Cregan raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk utterly unapologetic. “I'm a sucker for your sister, I guess.”

“You shameless fuckin' bastard,” Jace bit out, his voice rising.

“Jace,” Claere cut in sharply, her tone enough to make her brother pause. Her gaze was steady, unwavering. “Take it easy.”

Jace hesitated, his shoulders tense as he looked between them. Finally, he threw his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. But if you two keep pulling shit like this, don’t expect me to cover for you.” He turned toward the exit, muttering under his breath, “Goddamn idiots…”

As the doors slammed shut behind him, the rink fell quiet again. Claere turned to Cregan, her smirk gentling to a sincere smile.

“So,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “thank you for tonight, Captain. Consider it a success. Spirits lifted, smiles wide.”

Cregan stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, his touch lingering. He grinned as he leaned in, kissing her cheek, long and deep. “I am at your fingertips, my lady.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, everything else faded. But just as he was about to kiss her again, the sound of distant voices drifted into the rink, the faint shuffle of footsteps approaching.

Cregan glanced toward the doors, his jaw tightening. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, his voice firm but tinged with urgency.

Claere arched a brow. “What’s the rush?”

He gave her a crooked grin, skating backwards toward the exit as he held out his hand to her. “Call it a hunch. Trust me. Besides, I ought to warm you up with some cocoa this time.”

She hesitated, then took his hand, her grin matching his. As they left the rink, neither of them noticed the shadow lingering near the edge—a figure stepping into the dim light, watching them laugh and discard their skates with sharp, calculating eyes.

X

The chandelier above glimmered like a constellation, casting warm golden light over the Targaryen mansion’s sprawling, opulent hall. Every detail of the place spoke to its ancient grandeur—the polished marble floors, towering arches, and gilded frames enclosing weathered tapestries that told forgotten stories. Yet despite the atmosphere of high elegance, the purpose of the evening felt hollow, as if the mansion’s walls echoed with feigned cheer instead of sincerity.

Cregan Stark leaned against a polished column near the edge of the room, a champagne flute balanced in his fingers. He didn’t even like champagne. He hated this kind of thing—his kind of people didn’t belong in gilded halls. But Jace, Luke, and Joffrey made tolerating the event slightly easier.

“Tell me why we need an ‘art restoration fund’ when every artist they’d actually pay is on the brink of starvation,” Jace mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“Oh, Jace, for fuck's sake.” Joffrey snorted, brushing imaginary lint off his lapel. “It’s not about the art. This is just networking in a shiny costume. Daemon calls it charity, but really, it’s just a more expensive way to sell lies.”

Luke smirked, raising his glass lazily toward the crowd. “Take a good look, boys. Every handshake tonight equals at least three new yachts and an unspoken promise to backstab someone in six months.”

Cregan chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re all so cynical for a family raking in the benefits of this circus.”

“Yeah, well.” Jace grinned at him. “We grew up knowing exactly what it is. Don’t act like your world doesn’t have its share of political games.”

“True,” Cregan admitted. “But at least I don’t pretend it’s for charity. I just fight it out on the ice.”

They all laughed at that, and for a moment, Cregan allowed himself to relax, but his attention kept darting across the gilded room, scanning for the one person who mattered. The air felt heavy, too hot, the collar of his tailored suit suddenly too tight. He tugged at it with one hand, the other gripping his glass as though it might shatter.

Until his gaze strayed to the far end of the hall.

The glint of velvet red at the far end of the hall pulled Cregan’s attention like a shot of adrenaline straight to his chest. His breath caught, his pulse quickening before his brain had fully registered what—or rather, who—he was looking at.

Claere.

Her dress was every bit as bold as he’d imagined when he’d teasingly suggested she wear red, and yet it managed to surpass his wildest expectations. The fabric hugged her body in all the right ways, short enough to make his stomach tighten and billow around her legs like the petals of a rose flower. The neckline dipped just low enough to be tantalizing, thin sleeves baring her shoulders, and her silver hair, swept into a loose updo, left her neck exposed—a detail he was entirely too aware of.

She was on Daemon’s arm, the man laughing with the effortless arrogance of someone who knew he held the room in his grip. Cregan barely noticed. His focus was consumed by her, by the way her gaze flicked through the crowd. Searching. Until her eyes found his. And then she fucking smiled.

It wasn’t a coy smile or a subtle one. It was full and toothy, innocent in a way that made his blood burn hotter. She knew. She had to know. That smile unravelled him like a spool of thread tossed down a flight of stairs.

Cregan’s hand brushed over his lip, his thoughts growing dark and unreasonably wicked. She must’ve sensed it—her gaze dropped to the floor, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, and she looked shy. Shy. As if she wasn’t fully aware she had just upended his entire sense of self-control.

He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to break the spell before it completely destroyed him. His gaze snapped to Jace, who was busy swiping hors d’oeuvres off a passing tray with all the subtlety of a thief in broad daylight.

“Come on,” Cregan muttered, grabbing Jace by the arm and shoving him forward.

“Hey! Easy, Cap,” Jace grumbled around a mouthful of croquettes, stumbling into step. “What’s the rush—oh. Oh, no. Are we seriously—”

“Yes,” Cregan bit out. “We are.”

Claere’s back went visibly stiff as the two of them approached. She must’ve seen him coming, but she didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him. Not yet. Her posture was perfectly poised, her smile serene as Daemon continued to regale someone with his booming charm.

When Jace cleared his throat, Daemon turned, his sharp eyes sweeping over the two newcomers with an appraising gleam. Cregan felt that gaze like a predator sizing up a potential threat.

“Ah, Jacaerys, my boy,” Daemon said, his voice cutting through the din of the room with an authority that demanded attention. His smile was cordial but didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’ve brought a friend.”

Jace, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat. “Daemon, this is Cregan Stark. You’ve probably seen him on the ice. Our captain. He’s one of the best defensemen we’ve got.”

Daemon’s attention shifted fully to Cregan, undeniably calculating. “Cregan,” he repeated, rolling the name over his tongue like he was testing it. “Perhaps you've seen my daughter around campus? I don’t suppose you have. Claere’s rather modest.”

“Daemon,” she mumbled up at him.

“Yes, I've seen her around,” Cregan drawled out.

Cregan felt Claere’s gaze flick toward him, a subtle shift he doubted anyone else caught. She was playing along, just as she always did, her face the picture of passive disinterest. Meanwhile, every inch of his body was hyper-aware of her presence, her scent, and the way her fingers tightened on Daemon’s arm.

He cleared his throat, carefully schooling his expression into something neutral. “We've not officially met. Cregan,” he said, extending his hand. “Your brother’s teammate.”

Jace coughed suspiciously beside him, earning a sharp, sidelong glare from Cregan.

Daemon took his hand instead, his grip too firm, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if he could sense something unspoken hanging in the air. Claere let her waiting hand move to her hair, twirling a curl behind her ear.

“Teammate, huh?” he said, releasing Cregan’s hand and giving him another once-over. “Well, I imagine you’ve got plenty of stories about Jace. Unlike his sister, Jace could talk the hind legs off a donkey.”

“Agreed,” Cregan said dryly, casting Jace a sideways glance.

Claere’s lips twitched, just barely, but her gaze remained fixed ahead. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

“Yes, we're all proud of me. Anyways,” Jace sang out, clapping a hand on Cregan’s shoulder with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. “My buddy's also here to discuss some team business. You know, funding and stuff.”

Daemon’s attention shifted back to Cregan, his expression hardening ever so slightly. “The politics of sport,” he said smoothly. “I assume this means you’re here to make a pitch?”

Cregan nodded, forcing himself to focus on the moment, on the task. “That’s right. But I’d also like a word with... Claere. If you don’t mind. Later.”

Daemon’s brow arched, his gaze flicking between the two of them for a fraction of a second too long. Claere sucked in a soft breath. Then he smiled—a thin, knowing smile.

“I believe Claere has a bit more introductions to make around the room before that. Her mother expects her to keep up with appearances before the gala starts. She's quite adamant about it.”

The most cavalier and haughty a father could say to keep Cregan away. He needed no other hints. Cregan only shifted his cuffs, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Daemon nodded at him. “Business first, Stark. Let’s see if you’ve got the skills to convince me.”

Cregan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded at him, his gaze darting to Claere one last time. She still wasn’t looking at him, but he caught the faintest twitch of her fingers at her side. A silent message. Wait.

“I'll see you at the table,” Claere said to Daemon, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. She smacked Jace's chest and took him away from them. Before she left, her shoulder vaguely brushed against Cregan's forearm, and he swore that the whole portion caught on fire. It took everything in him to not glance at her back as she left.

Cregan accepted the champagne glass Daemon offered him, only to set it down on the table nearby, shaking his head.

“Sorry. I’m driving tonight.”

Daemon smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip. “Call a cab then,” he said, his tone light but edged with challenge. “Break some rules, Captain. The youth aren’t entirely fucked yet.”

Cregan forced a smile, keeping his words and tone professional. “Some of us prefer to stay on the right side of the line.”

Daemon chuckled, leaning back slightly, his sharp gaze never quite leaving Cregan’s face. “So, what is it you wanted to discuss? Something about funding, wasn’t it?”

Cregan seized the opportunity and maintained it, measured but precise. He tucked his loose hands into his pockets. “Yessir. The playoffs are coming up, and our team’s resources are... stretched thin. We’ve been looking for sponsors who can—”

Daemon raised a hand while taking a sip, cutting him off. He wasn’t brusque about it, but his disinterest was palpable. “Mm, first off,” he murmured, tipping his glass toward a man across the room. “Do you know who that is?”

Cregan followed his line of sight to a golden-haired, middle-aged man in a sharp suit, standing at the centre of a small group that seemed to hang on his every word.

Cregan shook his head. “No, sir. Someone in your trade?”

Daemon smirked, as though amused by the guess. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. That is Tyland Lannister. One of the richest men on the continent.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed, unsure where this tangent was going, but he remained polite. “Impressive.”

Daemon continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “My wife—Rhaenyra. You’ve heard of her, of course. She holds the title. She's got queen's blood in her veins.” He gestured vaguely toward the man as if Tyland were nothing more than a mildly entertaining threat.

Cregan inclined his head slightly, not wanting to show his confusion. “Of course.”

Daemon finally turned his gaze back to him, sharp and assessing. “I can’t have anyone coming for my wife’s crown, you see. Not Tyland Lannister. Not the fucking Martells. Not anyone.”

Cregan nodded, though his mind churned, trying to parse Daemon’s meaning. “Understandable.”

Then, abruptly, Daemon’s smirk deepened. “Claere.”

Cregan’s nod faltered, his jaw hardening just enough to give himself away.

Daemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You see, Claere would martyr me if she found out what I had in mind for her. She’s got this... aggressive sense of autonomy, my soft little girl. She knows what she wants, very much like her mother.”

He took another sip of champagne, savouring it. “But here’s the thing—Tyland Lannister’s been circling. Do you know what Claere would say if I suggested she spend some time with him this weekend?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond, sensing the trap.

Daemon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “She’d say not to whore her out, that he’s twice her age, smells like barrel whiskey, and probably has a harem tucked away somewhere. And you know what? She’d not be wrong.”

Cregan’s gaze darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. He didn’t trust himself to speak yet, and Daemon noticed, his smirk widening.

“But you,” Daemon said smoothly, neatening an invisible crease on Cregan's jacket. “You’re an honourable one, aren’t you? Loyal. Dependable. Steady as they come. Stark in name and spirit,” He held the back of his hand to his lips as if speaking libel, “moneyed, too.”

Cregan’s voice came out firm, collected. “I do my best.”

“Mm,” Daemon hummed, clearly entertained. “So tell me, Cregan. Where do you stand when it comes to my daughter? Hypothetically, of course.”

Cregan’s lips pressed into a thin line. Oh, he was fucked. He thought of Claere—her soft smile, the brush of her shoulder against his arm, the unspoken connection that hummed between them like a live wire. But this wasn’t about him, or even her. It was a test, a game Daemon was playing, and Cregan wouldn’t fall into the trap. If he wanted a reaction, he would very much like this one.

“We've never really talked, sir. That being said I stand where she needs me to stand,” he said simply, holding Daemon’s gaze. “With respect.”

Daemon’s smile turned sharp, a predator recognizing another who refused to back down. “Great answer.”

Cregan took a careful breath, steering the conversation back on course. “About the team funding, sir,” he said, his tone firm but respectful. “I believe investing in us isn’t just about hockey—it’s about legacy. The team represents something bigger than just a game. Community. Resilience. And with your support, we’d be unstoppable.”

Daemon’s expression didn’t betray much, but the amusement lingered. He swirled his glass again, considering. “Legacy, you say.”

“Yes,” Cregan said, meeting his gaze head-on. “Something worth standing for.”

After a moment’s pause, Daemon’s tone shifted, quieter but no less intentional. “I knew your parents.”

Cregan froze, the words hitting him like a sudden gust of wind, but he didn’t drop Daemon’s gaze.

“They were good people. Devoted to legacy, just like you,” Daemon continued, his voice carrying a surprising sincerity. “It’s a shame what happened. Truly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Cregan hesitated, his chest tightening at Daemon’s words. He hadn’t expected that shift—the quiet acknowledgement of his loss. He nodded once, his voice steady. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”

Daemon studied him for a moment, a glint of something inscrutable in his sharp eyes. “Yes. Loneliness can be quite suffocating. Something I find myself... thankfully lacking.”

His gaze drifted across the room, settling on Claere. She stood near her brothers, radiant, unconcerned as ever, quietly laughing at something Joff had said. She had an ease about her, but her fingers still played idly with the hors d’oeuvre stick, twirling it in an anxious rhythm only he could tell. Cregan’s breaths constricted further, watching her. She was magnetic, utterly herself, and it was impossible not to be drawn to her.

Daemon’s voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. “She’s beautiful, is she not?”

Cregan exhaled slowly, his composure slipping just enough to betray the impact of the question. “She is.”

Daemon chuckled softly, as though he’d expected the response. He swirled the champagne in his glass before taking a conscious sip, his gaze returning to Cregan.

“A thing like her is a blessing—and a curse. It draws attention. Finds flaws. Makes her untouchable. Spins lies. Envenoms the mind. Fools lads to think they’re worthy of even standing beside her.”

Cregan’s fists clenched at his sides, but he kept his expression neutral. “I'm sure she's smart enough to tell between worth and lack.”

“Oh, I’m sure she does,” Daemon said, a note of pride threading through his voice. “But even the strongest need someone to stand with them, don’t they? And the world has plenty of Tyland Lannisters to offer up.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened. “Then you've certainly not prospected the world as well as you have, sir.”

Daemon tilted his head, his smirk returning. “Hm. You’ve given me a lot to think about, Stark. Not just about funding your team, but... other things.” His eyes flicked toward Claere again, then back to Cregan, his meaning unmistakable.

Cregan’s heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm, to keep his tone level. “I’ll leave you to your deliberations.”

Daemon chuckled again, a low, knowing sound, and extended his hand.

“Good luck, Captain. You’ll need it.”

Cregan clasped his hand firmly, their gazes locking for a brief, loaded moment. This wasn’t just a handshake—it was a battlefield. And as Daemon’s gaze flicked once more to Claere, Cregan realized that this wasn’t just about funding or hockey. It was about something far more personal.

His heart thudded with a rhythm that refused to calm as he ascended the staircase on the far side, each step graver than the last. He grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing tray, adjusting his cuffs with snaps. The drink fizzed against his tongue, but it did little to quiet the storm brewing in his chest.

Daemon suspects something. He knows.

The thought circled like a vulture, preying on his moment of vulnerability. For all his control, all his precision, Daemon had chipped away at his armour with a few pointed words and a too-sharp smile. Now, Cregan felt raw, exposed, like a pawn being manoeuvred on a board he wasn’t fully prepared for.

When he reached the landing, he paused, leaning on the railing. The champagne flute was cold in his hand, a poor contrast to the heat in his chest. He tilted his head back, rolling his shoulders in a futile attempt to release the tension coiled within him.

Then he heard it—the faint, feverish clack of heels against the marble staircase. His gaze flicked down to the source, and his breath hitched.

Claere moved through the crowd with the kind of grace that seemed almost involuntary, her red dress clinging to her like it had been painted on. She was excusing herself from someone, her smile polite but distant, and the sight of her—all of her—made Cregan’s pulse quicken.

When her gaze lifted and met his, it hit him like a freight train. Her eyes softened: a silent question lingering in them.

He tilted his head toward the corridor at the top of the stairs—a subtle invitation.

She didn’t hesitate, her pace quickening as she made her way to him.

The sound of her heels followed him as he slipped into the corridor, each step echoing like a countdown. He didn’t turn, didn’t dare to look back, even as his senses flared with her presence drawing closer. By the time her hand caught his, warm and grounding, he felt like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“Hi,” she whispered, with a touch of her fingers on his wrist.

Cregan exhaled, allowing himself the smallest smile as she gently tugged him further down the corridor. They stopped in front of a gilded white door, its handle gleaming like polished gold and she unlocked it with a soft click.

The room was as extravagant as he’d expected. It was hard to imagine Claere growing up like this. Marble floors gleamed under the warm light of an ornate chandelier, and every piece of furniture seemed designed for display rather than comfort. A heavy desk stood at the centre, flanked by bookshelves filled with untouched tomes, their gilded spines catching the light.

Claere shut the door behind them, the lock clicking softly into place. The world outside faded, leaving just the two of them.

Cregan shrugged off his jacket like it had been a harness, draping it over a chair as he loosened his tie with a sharp tug. He ran both hands over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes like he could erase the exhaustion clawing at him.

“I like your suit,” she remarked. “You look so handsome. And smart.”

He mumbled a quiet, “Thanks,” from behind his fingers.

“Do you like my dress?” Claere’s voice was soft, tentative. She stepped closer, her hands brushing his chest as she settled them there, her warmth seeping into him. “I hate it, really. It's too tight. I wore it for you. I much prefer your jerseys.”

He peeked through his fingers, groaning softly at the sight of her. She was standing so close, her lips painted with that damned red lipstick, her hair tumbling in soft strands from its updo. Her hips swayed slightly as she shifted, the dress clinging to her curves in a way that made it impossible to think straight.

“Terrible timing for you to be acting cute,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Really, really terrible timing. I suppose that runs in the family.”

Her smile faltered, concern flickering in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed, his hands sliding into his hair, fisting it tightly. “I don’t know. It feels like Daemon suspects us.”

Claere tilted her head, a soft laugh escaping her. “Why would he—” She stopped abruptly, realization dawning. “Unless you said something. Please tell me you didn't.”

“I had to say something, Claere,” he shot back, his frustration slipping through. “I spoke up for you. He was practically making a case for whoremongering.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said, but her voice was laced with affection. She cupped his cheek, her palm warm against his skin. “And so sweet.”

Cregan closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into her touch. Everything about her—her perfume, warmth, the peace she offered—was an anchor. She felt like a reprieve, the only thing in his chaotic world that made sense, even as she drove him to the edge of his restraint.

After a moment, she tilted her head, studying him. “Are you going to take me to your place now?”

His eyes flickered open, amusement curving his lips. He cocked a brow. “Oh?”

She nodded eagerly, her excitement bubbling just under the surface. “I miss your place. It’s cushy. Not like this.” She motioned to the gilded office, a faint wrinkle of distaste creasing her brow.

Cregan couldn’t help the laugh that rumbled from his chest. “Cushy, huh?”

He slid his hands to her waist, the fabric of her dress soft under his palms. Slowly, deliberately, he let them drift lower, settling at her backside. He gave a firm but teasing push, drawing her body flush against him, her stomach pressed to his hip. Heat flared between them, sparking in her widening eyes.

“If I said, come away for the whole weekend, what would you say?” His voice was low, almost a growl, his forehead brushing hers.

Her grin was instant, lighting up her face. “I'd say yes,” she breathed, her hands sliding against his chest.

He dipped his head, the tip of his nose grazing hers in a gentle, intimate caress. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his lips just a whisper away from hers.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared—the marble floors, the gilded edges, Daemon’s shadow looming somewhere outside.

X

The party faded behind them, the hum of the gala replaced by the buzz of their escape. Cregan walked a pace ahead, his hand clenched into a fist at his side as they turned the corner. Claere followed, her soft laugh bubbling under her breath as she swiped at her phone. Her one-day worth of supplies hung in a poofy bag off her shoulder, and she hadn't even changed out of that gorgeous dress. Good, he wanted some fun with it.

“Jace says he’s got it covered,” she murmured, slipping her phone back into her purse. She glanced up at Cregan, her silver hair glinting under the fountain lights. “Something about you ‘owing him again.’”

Cregan snorted but didn’t slow his stride. “Remind me to get him a six-pack. Or an actual job, so he stops eating off trays.”

Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced at it. “Oh, a follow-up: ‘Be safe. Use protection.’”

“And also to strangle him.”

Claere giggled, quickening her pace to catch up. “He cares, in his own way.”

“I care, in my own way,” Cregan replied, waving his hand toward the street corner where two cabs idled. “Like making sure we don’t end up as tabloid fodder. Separate rides, Claere.”

Her nose scrunched, that playful wrinkle that never failed to tug at something deep in his chest. She sighed, clearly unimpressed with his plan, but without protest, she slid into the first cab. Her dress glinted in the dim light as the door shut, and Cregan let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He climbed into his own cab, shutting the door with more force than necessary. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, realization flashing, but Cregan ignored it, staring out at the blur of city lights. His knee bounced involuntarily, a jittery rhythm to match the thundering in his chest.

He hated this. Not her—never her. It was the situation, the secrecy, the creeping unease that came with living half in shadows. She deserved better than that, better than slinking into a cab alone because he was too afraid of what people would say, of how her family would look at her if they knew. His fingers drummed against his thigh, restless. What if someone did see? What if Jace slipped up? What if this—whatever this was—crumbled under the weight of all his fears?

But then the cab pulled up in front of his building, and there she was, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes gleaming, a soft smirk playing on her lips. All the noise in his head went quiet.

“I thought you'd forgotten me,” she said as he approached. There was a glint of good mischief in her eyes.

“You can hunt me down if I do,” he replied with a grin, his voice quieter than he intended.

She smiled back, the kind of smile that made his chest ache, and he led her into the building.

Inside the elevator, the air between them felt charged, electric. Cregan pressed the button for his floor and stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets. He tried to keep his distance, to focus on the dim numbers counting upward, counting down the seconds. But then she moved, just the smallest shift, and her perfume wrapped around him like a thread, pulling tight.

He broke.

In an instant, he was on her, his hands finding the curve of her waist and drawing her close. His lips found her neck, the warmth of her skin sparking something wild in him.

“Cregan, no. We're almost there,” she moaned, her voice high and startled, though it melted quickly into a laugh. Her hands pressed against his chest in a half-hearted attempt to push him away.

“Almost isn’t here,” he murmured, the words low and gravelly against her skin. He nipped lightly at her jaw, grinning when she groaned in mock exasperation.

“Control,” she managed between giggles, but her arms were winding around his shoulders, holding him close even as she protested.

The elevator chimed, and he pulled back reluctantly, his breath unsteady as he smoothed his shirt. She was grinning up at him, cheeks flushed, and he could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

“For now,” he muttered, his voice rough.

The doors slid open, and they stepped out together, the tension between them buzzing like static. As they approached his door, he stole a glance at her, taking in the way she skipped forward, that gentle spirit always seemed to undo him. She glanced up at him, catching his gaze, and her lips curved into an excited, knowing smile.

She reached for the keypad, keyed in the code and welcomed herself inside.

“Home sweet home,” she sang out, violet eyes glowing in the track lighting overhead. She kicked her heels off and let them clatter untidily. “You know, you should get a dog. To greet you at the door. A teeny little Maltese. No, wait—a Saint Bernard. Something drooly and... where's that mat I put down here? See, I...”

Cregan shut the door and followed her inside, letting her voice fill the space. He liked the sound of it here, the way it softened the edges of his stark, contemporary apartment.

The place was quintessentially him: sleek black and white, all sharp angles and clean lines. The walls were bare except for a few geometric art pieces, and the furniture was minimalist and masculine, with steel and leather dominating the furnishings. The only bursts of colour or life in the entire apartment were hers, scattered like breadcrumbs from her many visits.

The dried flower petals in the shallow glass bowl on the coffee table—lavender and pale pink, her handiwork. The stitching art that hung above his dining table, a whimsical, colourful thing she had given him as a joke but insisted he put up. The row of herb pots lining the kitchen windowsill, the faint scent of rosemary and basil lingering even now. And her favourite plants—towering palms and fiddle-leaf figs—clustered by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the glistening city.

“Oh, no!” She gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. “What did you do! Cregan, you completely destroyed them!”

Cregan raised a brow as she hurried over to the plants, her expression one of pure heartbreak. “They’re still alive. I’d know—I waste fifty bucks a week on that girl to take care of them.”

Claere crouched by the nearest pot, inspecting a browning leaf with despair. “Poor babies,” she mumbled, stroking one of the stems as though it could sense her concern. “Oh, it's okay. I'm going to make this better.”

Cregan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with a faint smile tugging at his lips. Her outrage over the plants was genuine—he could see it in the little furrow of her brow and the way she pouted at the wilted leaves—but it was endearing, too. There was something deeply comforting about seeing her here, in his space, moving through it as if she belonged. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone or hide behind politeness. She simply was.

The thought settled in his chest, warm and steady: this was his future. The sight of her scolding him over plants she’d insisted on, her voice filling the silence of his apartment, wasn’t just familiar—it felt right, like the missing piece to something he hadn’t realized was incomplete.

With an amused shake of her head, he let her be and turned for his room.

Cregan loosened his tie as he stepped into his bedroom, the tension of the night finally starting to unravel from his shoulders. His room was a sea of muted blacks—dark wood furniture, a sleek grey comforter on the bed, and soft lighting that made the space feel calm and uncluttered. A large window dominated one wall, the city lights glittering beyond it, while a shelf in the corner held a surprising touch of life: books Claere had picked out for him, a framed photo of his late parents, and a small succulent she’d insisted he wouldn’t kill. It was thriving. Barely.

He tugged the tie free and draped it over a chair, then rolled back his sleeves, popping the cufflinks off. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he unbuttoned his shirt, and he pulled it out, unlocking it with one hand. Jace had texted him.

Told Mom that Claere's staying with Helaena for the weekend. Ask her to run with it when she calls.

Cregan smirked, his thumb tapping out a quick reply.

So I shouldn’t do my best Helaena impression this time?

The response was instant.

Only if you want to get skinned alive by Daemon.

Cregan’s grin widened.

Thanks, Jace. I owe you.

He vanished for a moment before he responded.

Six-pack Bud Light and Milk Duds, and we’re even.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Typical Jace.

The familiar jangle of bracelets caught his attention, and he glanced toward the door. Claere stood there, leaning against the frame with one hand, her other clutching the edge of the door as though debating whether to come in. Her silver hair spilt over her shoulders, slightly mussed from the cab ride, and the warm golden light from the bedside lamp kissed her skin, underscoring the faint pink that crept up her neck as her eyes raked over him.

He knew that look. That wide-eyed, half-bitten-lip, soft-breathing look. She didn’t even try to hide it.

His shirt hung open, exposing the expanse of his chest, and he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, feigning obliviousness to the way her gaze lingered. His lips quirked in a lazy, teasing smile as he leaned against the edge of the dresser.

His gaze sharpened on her. He crooked a finger toward her, the gesture commanding yet playful.

“C’mere,” he murmured, low and rough.

For a second, she hesitated, and then, like a puppy being summoned—she crossed the room with small, slothful steps, her feet barely making a sound on the plush rug. Her velveteen red glowed with her every movement, the billowing skirt teasing just enough leg to make his head spin. By the time she stood before him, looking up with those wide, expectant eyes, Cregan was holding onto his composure by a thread.

Gods, he’d been dreaming of this moment all night. Dreaming of her in that dress, torturing him with how devastating she looked. And now here she was, close enough to touch, her scent wrapping around him like a spell.

“You remember,” he said, his voice a husky drawl, “how you asked me if I liked your dress?”

Her grin bloomed instantly, nodding. “Yeah?”

He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, towering over her now. His lips twitched into something wicked as he tilted his head. “I love it so fucking much... I'm actually starting to hate it.”

Her smile faltered, confusion flashing in her eyes. “You do?”

“I do.” He made a face, feigning distaste as he let his gaze sweep over her again, slower this time, savouring the way she shifted under the intensity of it. “It makes me want to rip it right off you.”

Her breath hitched, a faint gasp trembling out of her as her cheeks turned an even darker shade of pink. She bit her lip, the beginnings of a shy, flustered smile twisting at the corners.

“Oh,” she managed softly.

Cregan’s smirk deepened. “Yeah. Oh.”

Without another word, he reached out and took her by the waist, guiding her backwards until the backs of her legs hit the edge of the bed. Gently, he eased her to sit, her dress pooling around her like liquid fire. He sank to his knees before her, the movement fluid, reverent.

For a moment, he just looked at her. All flushed and breathless, her chest rising and falling with anticipation. His hands settled on her knees, his thumbs brushing back the fabric of her dress, tracing lazy circles as he fought the urge to give in too quickly. She was his, yes—but this moment felt sacred, and he wanted to make it last.

“I’ve been dreaming of this all night,” he confessed, his voice low and almost raw. “You. In this damn dress. Driving me insane. And now...” He let his hands slide up her thighs, slow and careful, his calloused palms grazing her soft skin where the rippling skirt of her dress exposed her. “Now you’re here, looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her gaze locked on his.

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing to me.” He leaned forward, his forehead brushing against hers for a moment before his lips found her cheek, his stubble scraping lightly against her skin. “Like you're enjoying this.”

Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers digging into his bare skin where his shirt hung open. “I am,” she whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I like seeing you like this.”

He laughed softly, kissing a trail down her neck, whispering, “Good. Because I’m not letting you go tonight, Claere. Not until you understand exactly how much I hate this dress.”

Her breath hitched as his lips brushed against her collarbone, lingering like a promise. The warmth of his mouth sent shivers rippling through her, tender and insistent. She felt the tension in his hands as they tightened on her thighs, stopping her in place as though he feared she might drift away.

Cregan’s kisses moved lower, intent dark, his stubble grazing her skin in a way that left her tingling. She gasped softly, her fingers slipping from his shoulders into his hair, tangling in the thick, dark strands.

“Cregan, please,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need, each syllable a plea she barely recognized as her own.

He paused just long enough to murmur against her skin, his voice rough and heady, “Beg all you want, Claere. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as his hands slid upward, skimming the silky fabric of her dress with an unbearable slowness that made her tremble. His thumbs brushed her bare skin, igniting sparks that danced along her nerves, and with one smooth, practised motion, he lifted her legs over his shoulders. The shift brought her even closer to him, and when his eyes met hers, the intensity in his gaze sent a chill up her spine.

“You ready?” he murmured, his voice a quiet confession that made her breath catch.

Her lips parted to respond, but the words dissolved as he pressed his lips to the inside of her knee. The kiss was soft, almost reverent, but it sent heat rushing through her veins. He moved slowly, teasingly, his lips trailing higher with each kiss, each touch deliberate and unhurried.

“Dreamy girl,” he whispered again, his breath hot against her skin, the nickname carrying a kind of reverence that left her lightheaded. His hands held her firm, his grip strong but careful, as if he was both claiming and protecting her.

When he finally ducked his head beneath the fluttering fabric of her dress, her gasp was immediate, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the edge of the bed for support. His lips found her where she needed him most, warm and insistent, and her head tipped back as her body arched into him, the tension in her muscles snapping like a taut wire.

Cregan moved with precision, a man starved but savouring every moment, his mouth pressing kisses that felt like vows against her most sensitive skin. The graze of his teeth, the willful flick of his tongue—it all worked in tandem, unravelling her in ways she couldn’t control.

She bit her lip hard, desperate to stifle the sound rising in her throat, but he wasn’t making it easy. He hummed against her, a low, resonant sound that sent shockwaves through her body.

“Cregan—” she whimpered, her voice breaking, her hand tightening in his hair.

He glanced up, his lips glistening, his pupils dark and wide with hunger. The look on his face—possessive, devoted, and utterly captivated—made her throat go dry. He looked at her as though she was a gift he’d spent his whole life waiting to unwrap.

“Everything okay up there?” he teased, his voice low and gravelly, but the smirk tugging at his lips couldn’t mask the affection in his eyes.

She could barely nod, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. He chuckled, his thumb brushing a soothing circle against that needy space of hers, a small gesture of care amidst the chaos he was creating.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his tone softening as he kissed her thigh. “Because I’m not even close to done with you.”

And then he bent his head again, this time undoing the zip and bow at the back of her dress, his hands sliding up to carefully lay her down, his focus entirely on her. The rest of the world faded away as he pulled her deeper into his orbit, leaving her no room for anything else but him.

X

Claere stretched languidly, her limbs reaching toward the edges of the bed before she rolled onto her stomach, her hair a tangled mess. Cregan let his head tilt toward her, unable to keep his eyes from tracing every curve of her body as she moved. She was entirely bare, her skin kissed by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and for a moment, he couldn’t believe she was real. That she was his.

Without a word, she slipped off the bed and padded toward his closet, effortless and confident. It had taken her some time to be so bold and bare-skinned before him. Cregan propped himself up on his elbows, his grin softening as he watched her braid her hair back loosely. She pulled open the closet doors, running her fingers over the rows of neatly hung clothes before plucking out a jersey—his name and number proudly emblazoned on the back.

She turned toward him, slipping it on over her head, the fabric swallowing her frame and skimming the tops of her thighs. Bare legs. His jersey. Gods. He ran a hand down his face, dragging out a groan. He didn’t stand a chance against her.

Claere twirled once, holding her arms out with a grin that could have powered a city. “Huh?”

“A billion bucks, Claere,” he said, his voice low, his gaze darkening as he took her in.

“Make that one-hundred-and-thirty,” she teased, hugging herself and letting out a dramatic sigh. “Finally comfy.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Fuckin' hell. Why can’t you sponsor my team instead?”

“What can I say? I’m a trust fund baby.” She climbed back onto the bed, all elegance and mischief, the hem of the jersey riding up to reveal the curve of her hips as she sprawled beside him. She flashed him a wicked smile from the pillow’s edge, her chin propped on her crossed arms.

“You’d get all of it if you married me.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Like I care.”

“I’ll sponsor your team if you marry me?”

“No, thanks.”

“Please marry me?”

He snickered. “Wait for me to ask.”

Claere’s smile faltered slightly, softening into something more thoughtful as she studied his face. “When’s your next game?”

“Friday,” he answered, leaning back against the headboard. “Last one before the season starts. Coach has already pulled out all the stops.”

Her brows knitted slightly, though she tried to keep her tone casual. “So this might be the last time I’m coming over for a while.”

The words hit him harder than he wanted to admit, his chest tightening. She wasn’t wrong. Once the season started, it was a relentless grind—early mornings at the rink, punishing hours of practice, travel, classes, and social obligations he couldn’t ignore. And as much as he hated it, fitting her in would become a challenge. It always did. But the thought of her not being here, of nights without her easy laughter, her sly remarks, or just the quiet comfort of her presence—it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t quite name.

He forced a smile, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “We’ve still got Sundays.”

She barely nodded. “Yeah. Sundays.”

But even as he said it, the words felt thin, like they couldn’t hold up against his growing unease. What if Sundays weren’t enough? What if the distance stretched too far, the gaps between their moments together becoming too wide to bridge?

His mind ran ahead of him, racing through possibilities he didn’t want to entertain. This was their rhythm every season—he disappeared into hockey, and she stayed back, quietly supporting him from the sidelines. But what if this time was different? What if she got tired of waiting? What if the secrecy, the stolen moments, became too much?

He glanced at her, trying to gauge her expression, but Claere only shifted closer to him. She didn’t look upset—just thoughtful, her gaze distant as she toyed with the hem of his jersey.

He wanted to reach for her, to hold her, to ask her to stay. To promise her that he’d make time, that they wouldn’t drift, that this—they—would still be okay. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled with his pride and the knowledge that he couldn’t keep her tethered to him, not when she deserved more.

Claere seemed to sense his turmoil because she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered there for a moment, warm and reassuring, brushing his hair, before she pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“I can wait,” she said gently, her voice calm in a way that made his chest ache. “It’s just a few more months. What’s that compared to everything else?”

He stared at her, the knot in his chest loosening just enough to let him breathe. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, hating how uncertain he sounded.

Her smile returned, small but unwavering. “It’s your last season in college, right? We just have to keep this private a little longer. And then…” She trailed off, her gaze mellowing as she stroked his jaw. “Then it’ll be easier. It'll be date nights, dinner at schmancy restaurants, weekend jet to St. Kitts.”

He nodded, her words sinking in like a balm, though the lingering doubt in the back of his mind refused to quiet completely.

Claere shifted again, resting her head against his shoulder, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his arm. “You’re worth it, you know,” she murmured, almost to herself.

His throat tightened, and he tilted his head to rest against hers, the faint scent of her shampoo quirking a smile on his lips. “I don’t deserve you,” he admitted, his voice rough.

She laughed softly. “Probably not. But you’ve got me anyway.”

Cregan closed his eyes, letting Claere’s words settle into the cracks of his uncertainty. She was right—what were a few months? They’d made it this far. They could make it further. And yet, that lingering fear, the whisper in the back of his mind that someday even her patience might run out, refused to fade entirely.

He exhaled deeply, shifting to press a lingering kiss to the top of her head. “You deserve a big breakfast, baby,” he murmured against her hair. “Fit for a queen.”

Claere hummed, the sound soft and content as she leaned into him. “Aw,” she teased. “Please don’t. I don’t have the number for poison control saved.”

He tossed the covers over her head, muffling her delighted giggles. “Smartass,” he said as he fumbled for his pants over the bed. Dragging them on, he hefted himself off the bed and stretched. “I’m going to make it for you anyway.”

“Poison control's toll-free!” she called after him, the smile evident in her voice.

Cregan shook his head, grinning as he padded into the hallway. The apartment was still, the faint hum of the city outside the only sound. He rolled his shoulders, the warmth of Claere’s words lingering in his chest. Gods, he loved her. Even with the challenges, even with the secrecy, she made everything feel worth it.

His smile was still tugging at his lips as he stepped into the living room—until he saw her. He froze the second his gaze landed on the figure in his living room.

Rhaenyra.

She sat on the edge of his sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her gown from the gala still immaculate like she’d stepped out of some high society painting and decided to grace his apartment with her presence. Her intricate braid was sleek and perfect, not a strand out of place, and the faint glint of a diamond bracelet caught the dim morning light as she reached for her purse on the coffee table.

She looked at him; calm, composed, unreadable. It was the kind of look that commanded attention and gave away nothing in return.

Cregan stood rooted in place, his heart thundering in his chest as his mind scrambled for answers. How did she get in? How did she find out? His panic clawed at him, wild and unrelenting. Fucking Daemon. Fucking Jace. But despite the storm raging inside him, he couldn’t move—Rhaenyra’s unflinching gaze pinned him like a predator locking onto its prey. She didn’t even need to speak. Her silence was louder than any confrontation.

Soft, cheerful footfalls approached from behind, jolting him like a slap to the back of his head.

Completely unaware of the brewing disaster, Claere leapt up, hanging off his shoulder, laughing. She nipped at his ear, her voice playful. “I’ll make us breakfast, okay? Peanut butter sandwich. No? How about eggs? Preferably not fertilized.”

Cregan’s heart sank to his stomach. Gods-fucking-damnit. He shut his eyes for a long, steadying breath, hoping against hope she would take notice—and she did. He felt her freeze against him as her gaze followed his, landing on the figure sitting serenely in the living room.

“Mom!” she squeaked, her voice a pitch higher than usual, betraying her shock.

Claere slowly dropped, her bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. Her hands smoothed down the oversized jersey she wore—the jersey with his fucking name in white letters—as if it could somehow erase the evidence of everything.

Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly. Placid, regal. “Claere,” she replied as though this were nothing more than a routine check-in rather than the powder keg it clearly was.

“What are you—?” Claere’s words tumbled out in a rush, her hands flitting nervously as she glanced at Cregan, then back to her mother. “We were just—I mean, I—”

“Put on some pants, darling,” Rhaenyra said with a faint wave toward Claere's jersey. “Then we can talk. I’ll make us some coffee, hm?”

Cregan blinked, his mouth opening to say something, but nothing came out. His throat was dry, his thoughts a chaotic mess. All he could do was stand there, shirtless, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar—except this time, the stakes were infinitely higher. He chanced a glance at Claere.

Her face was flushed, her lips parted like she was trying to catch up with what was happening. “Right,” she mumbled, tugging at the hem of the jersey as if it might magically grow longer. “I’ll… just go. Um, change.”

She darted out of the room, not a single glance in his direction, her footsteps hurried, leaving Cregan standing alone in the eye of the storm. His gaze flicked back to Rhaenyra, who had already risen from the couch. She adjusted the bracelet on her wrist, her expression still maddeningly composed, giving away nothing.

Cregan swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. He felt like a deer staring down a wolf, but there was no running from this.

“I—uh—” he started, but the words died in his throat.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, her lips curving faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. “Sit down, Cregan,” she said, her tone even. “We’ll talk when Claere’s ready.”

She turned, walking toward the kitchen without so much as a glance back.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. How in the fuck was he going to survive this?

X

Cregan sat stiffly on the stool, his hands clasped on the island counter as though he might steady himself against the tension in the air. Claere was beside him, separated by a single stool, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing her way. His stomach churned at how comfortable she looked, perched there in teeny shorts and a camisole, her hair pulled back lazily. She might as well have been at her own apartment, not sitting across from her mother, who looked as though she was deciding whether to disown her on the spot.

He wanted to slam his head against the table. Why, Claere? Of all the things to wear, why this? As if that drawer full of her clothes was going to make anything better. She could've just put on a pair of pants and he could've salvaged the situation as an unrepeatable situation. Her bare legs swung idly, her toes occasionally brushing his shin under the counter, oblivious to the silent chaos in his head.

Across from them, Rhaenyra stirred her spoon in the mug in front of her. The ceramic was decorated with Claere’s initials and a dainty painting of peonies. Cregan hadn’t even noticed her bring it over, which somehow made it worse. She moved with a terrifyingly calm authority like she was the only one in control of this room, of him.

"Two years," Rhaenyra said suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip. She didn’t look up from her mug, as if she’d simply plucked the number from his mind.

Cregan gritted his teeth, but before he could respond, she tilted her head, her brow furrowing in mock deliberation.

"Four?" she guessed. Her eyes finally lifted to meet theirs, sharp and unyielding. "Five? Longer? Are my grandchildren in preschool?"

Cregan flinched.

"Three," Claere muttered, her voice barely audible.

"Three years." Rhaenyra’s lips twisted into a humourless laugh, and she shook her head. "Amazing. You looked me in the eye for three years, darling, and strung me along. I must say, that's got to be some sort of record." Her voice was light, almost conversational, but there was a razor-sharp edge to it that made Cregan’s palms sweat.

Cregan cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak. "It's not her fault," he said quickly, his voice steady but tense. "I was the one who wanted to keep it hush—"

"I don’t care," Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone icy as she pointed at Claere. "I am your mother, Claere. I am responsible for you, even if you're well into being an adult. Believe me, I want to end this here and tear you two apart right now, but you've already taken every liberty."

"Mom, I'm—" Claere began, her voice trembling, but Rhaenyra cut her off with a sharp gesture.

"Don’t apologize, don't you dare," Rhaenyra snapped, her eyes narrowing as she turned her mug slowly in her hands. She let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. For the first time, she looked genuinely tired, as if this immense confrontation had finally caught up to her.

"Let me ask you something," she said softly, fixing them both with a piercing stare. "Are you pregnant? Is that something I need to—"

"No!"

The denial burst from both of them in unison, their voices overlapping in their panic.

Cregan’s heart pounded so loudly it was a miracle he could still hear the conversation. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his body screamed at him to move, to stand or pace or anything to break the suffocating stillness of the moment. But he remained rooted in place as if Rhaenyra’s unflinching gaze had nailed him to the stool.

He glanced at Claere, hoping to ground himself, but the sight of her only made his chest tighten. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands twisting in her lap as though she were trying to wring the tension out of them. It made his stomach churn to see her like this, and the urge to shield her from her mother’s scrutiny was nearly unbearable. But what could he do against her?

Rhaenyra leaned back in her seat, finally breaking the tension as she took a sip from her mug. "Good." She set the mug down with a soft clink, her eyes darting between them. "That simplifies things."

Claere hesitated, her voice trembling slightly when she finally spoke. “Who told you?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted to her daughter, her expression betraying nothing. "Why?"

Cregan could see where this was heading, and his instincts flared. He nudged Claere’s ankle under the table—a quiet warning to tread carefully—but Claere either didn’t notice or chose to ignore him.

"Was it Daemon?" she pressed, her voice stronger now, though it wavered at the edges. "How did he know?"

Rhaenyra set her spoon down. "Daemon has known for some time now. As have I. Tonight simply confirmed our suspicions." Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a scoff. "I took a little drive down to Helaena's myself and when I didn't find you there... that's when I decided I had had enough."

Cregan’s stomach twisted further. Helaena. Of course. Always so sweet, so guileless. He could almost picture her accidental slip, the quiet unravelling of a lie they’d spent years perfecting. He forced himself to sit straighter, trying to shake the knot in his gut, but Rhaenyra’s eyes pinned him again, sharp and unyielding.

“Then why didn’t you just ask me?” he said eventually, his voice firmer than he expected. He locked eyes with her, refusing to look away. “You knew. Why wait until now?”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, studying him as if he were a particularly perplexing puzzle. “Oh, I wanted to,” she admitted, her tone as cool and cutting as ever. “Believe me, I wanted to drag Claere home and ship her off to the Arctic if it meant getting her away from you.” She let out a soft sigh, the first crack in her carefully composed demeanour. “But Daemon convinced me…” She turned her gaze back to Claere, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Of some things.”

The intensity of her stare made Claere visibly shrink, her shoulders curling inward as though she could physically shield herself. The red flush on her cheeks deepened, and she looked down at her hands as if they might offer her some kind of escape.

Cregan’s chest burned with equal parts frustration and guilt. He could feel the unspoken accusations hanging in the air, the disappointment Rhaenyra didn’t need to voice. This was his idea—keeping things quiet, hiding their relationship from her family, from everything that mattered to her world. She didn’t deserve this.

“I pushed for this,” he said, his voice steady but low, like a dam holding back a flood. “She didn’t. I wanted to keep it quiet because… because I didn’t want people saying I wasn’t here on my own merit.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked back to him, sharp and scrutinizing, as though she were weighing his every word. “So, this wasn’t about protecting her from the world. It was about protecting yourself. Your career. Your reputation. Tell me, Cregan, was that your plan all along? To make a mess out of my daughter's life?”

Her question struck like a blow, but he refused to back down. “There was no plan. I saw her, we talked, I fell. We just—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over. “We just fell in love. I didn't want to lose it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous edge creeping into her tone as she shifted her gaze back to Cregan. "You’re good at this, aren’t you? Taking the blame, making it seem noble. But let’s be honest here. The real reason you kept this hush isn’t about you, is it?”

Cregan was caught off guard by the accusation. “That’s not true.”

“No?” Rhaenyra tilted her head, her voice was as sharp as a blade. “You thought they’d see you as the boy who rode her coattails. The hockey player who only got his shot because he’s tied to the girl from the headlines. No. You kept it quiet because you didn’t want to be seen with her. Because my daughter—this beautiful, extraordinary girl—is also the woman the tabloids love to shred to pieces. Because her family is a circus, and my name is a spectacle.”

“Mom—” Claere tried to interject, but her voice wavered.

“Hush, darling,” Rhaenyra dismissed, not even glancing at her daughter. Her focus remained locked on Cregan. “You can sit there and tell me this was all about protecting her, about keeping her out of the spotlight, but the truth is, you didn’t want the world to see you with her. Did you?”

“That’s not fair,” Cregan shot back, his voice rising despite his effort to stay calm. “I worked my ass off to get to where I am. And I’ve never once been ashamed of her.”

“Then why the secrecy?” Rhaenyra countered, her voice growing colder. “Why hide her if you’re so proud? You’ve been out with your friends, your teammates, your fans—but Claere? She’s been stuck in the shadows.”

“I am not about to—”

“Stop,” Claere’s voice cut through, trembling but loud enough to silence them both. She looked between them, her cheeks flushed, her hands gripping the edge of the counter as if to stabilize herself. “Just stop.”

Her wide, tear-brimmed eyes turned to Cregan, and he felt his chest tighten. “Is that true?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is that why you wanted to keep us quiet? Because you were embarrassed to be with me?”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, desperation lacing his tone. “I love you, Claere. I’ve always loved you. This was never about hiding you. It was about keeping what we have safe.”

“Safe?” Rhaenyra’s voice sliced through the moment, cool and unforgiving. “Or convenient? Let’s call this what it is: fear. You’ve let your fear and insecurity of how the world sees you dictate how you treat my daughter.”

“That’s enough!” Cregan snapped, slamming his hand on the counter. He turned to Claere, his face softening even as his voice stayed resolute. “I was afraid of what they’d think of us,” he said, his voice tight. “Afraid they’d turn something real into just another news article. I didn’t want to risk people saying I didn’t deserve what I worked for, or that you were some kind of shortcut. I didn’t want them tearing us apart before we even had a chance.”

Claere’s lip quivered, her eyes searching his face for truth. “I thought we were in this together,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “All of it. Not just the good parts.”

“Baby,” he tried.

Cregan reached for her hand, but she pulled away, shaking her head. His stomach sank, the ache in his ribs almost unbearable. He looked back at Rhaenyra, whose face remained impassive, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or vindication.

“This isn’t about how we started,” Cregan told Rhaenyra, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “It’s about where we are. I love her. I’m not perfect, but I’m here, and I’m willing to fight for her. Can you say the same for anyone else who’s ever come into her life?”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his outburst, but she didn’t respond immediately. She leaned back, crossing her arms as she studied him.

“Prove it to me. Step out of the shadows, Cregan. If you love her as much as you say, stop hiding. Own it.”

The challenge hung in the air, heavy and impossible to ignore. Cregan looked at Claere again, her expression still hurt but softening as his words sank in. He nodded slowly, a decision settling over him like a weight he was finally ready to carry.

“I will,” he said, his voice steady. “If she’ll have me, I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it.”

Cregan reached for her hand, desperate, and this time, Claere’s fingers slipped into his, anchoring him, and she looked up at her mother, meeting her piercing gaze with surprising steel.

“Mom,” she began, her voice calm but unyielding, “I’m sorry I lied to you. I should have told you sooner, and I regret the secrecy, but I don’t regret falling in love with him. Not for a second.”

Rhaenyra’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened, flicking to their intertwined hands before returning to her daughter’s face. “You can say that now,” she said evenly, “but what about when this—” she gestured to the space between Claere and Cregan, “—inevitably complicates everything? The headlines? The scrutiny? Do you really think you can keep his world and ours from colliding forever?”

Claere squared her shoulders, the flicker of doubt in her eyes extinguished by a quiet, steady resolve. “We’re not trying to live in two separate worlds, Mom. We’re building one of our own. We knew this wouldn’t be easy—we’ve known that from the start—but we’re... handling it.”

Cregan felt a little lighter, her words a balm to the storm of emotions raging inside him.

“And if it becomes too much? If his career takes him somewhere you can’t follow, or if the media turns on you?” Rhaenyra pressed, her tone deceptively soft. “Are you prepared for that kind of fallout?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Claere said firmly, her voice rising with conviction. “We’ve already figured out so much, and I trust myself. And him. Whatever comes our way, we can handle it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, her features still impassive, but there was a flicker of something—approval?—beneath the surface. “And what about me, Claere? Do you trust me?”

Claere hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. “I always do. I know you’re trying to protect me, and I love you for it. But I’m not a child anymore, Mom. I can do this on my own.”

Rhaenyra leaned back, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “Strong words,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, after a long moment of silence, she sighed, setting down her mug with deliberate care.

“Very well,” she said finally, her voice measured. “You’ve made your choice, my love. And it seems you’re determined to see it through.” Her gaze shifted to Cregan, sharp as a blade. “But make no mistake, Stark. If you break her—if you make me regret giving you this chance—you won’t have to worry about the press. You’ll answer to me.”

Cregan swallowed hard, but he didn’t flinch. “Understood.”

Rhaenyra exhaled deeply, her gaze resting on Claere with a quiet intensity that seemed to fill the room. She straightened, smoothing her dress with a deliberate gesture before speaking, her voice low but unyielding.

“Get your things, darling,” she decided. “I’m taking you back home.”

Claere sighed, her breath catching as her mother’s words settled over her. She opened her mouth as if to argue, but Rhaenyra’s firm tone silenced her before she could begin.

“Now, please,” Rhaenyra added, her voice softening slightly but still brooking no resistance. “Don’t fight me on this. Say your goodbyes. You can talk to him later.”

Cregan felt the air leave his lungs, his chest tightening as the meaning of her words sank in. He glanced at Claere, whose wide eyes darted to him in silent pleading. She looked torn, her hands fidgeting at her sides as if searching for something to hold onto.

For a moment, the urge to speak rose in him—to push back, to argue, to demand—but as his eyes locked with Rhaenyra’s unrelenting gaze, he stopped himself. He could see it there: not malice, but a mother’s determination, a fierce desire to protect her child. As much as it pained him, he understood.

He turned to Claere and gave her a small nod despite the ache beneath it. The message was clear. It’s fine. I understand. Go with her.

Claere’s lips trembled, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she searched his face. Her shoulders sagged slightly, but she nodded back, acknowledging his silent reassurance.

Rhaenyra stepped back, her company filling the space between them as she waited. Claere hesitated, then reached for her overnight bag on the counter. She moved with reluctance, and when she turned back to Cregan, her eyes were full of longing. She did not want to leave. Not like this.

Cregan forced a small smile, hoping it would be enough to hold them together for now. “Go,” he murmured, the word more breath than sound, though he knew she understood.

As Claere followed her mother out of the room, the sound of the door closing behind them left an aching silence. Cregan stood frozen for a moment, his eyes fixed on the spot where Claere had been. The pang in his chest surged until it was unbearable.

Rage and despair blinded him to control, and he grabbed the nearest object—his water bottle—and hurled it against the fridge. The loud clang echoed through the kitchen, reverberating off the walls and doing little to ease the frustration coursing through him.

Cregan braced his hands on the counter, his head hanging low as he tried to steady his breathing. The fight with Rhaenyra replayed in his mind, her sharp words, Claere’s indefinite voice, the way her hand slipped from his without hesitation. Every detail twisted in his gut.

He wanted to scream, to chase after them, to promise Claere he’d fix this. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

This isn’t over, he thought fiercely, his jaw tightening. Not by a long shot.

X

The days without Claere passed like months. Cregan had tried to push through it, burying himself in practice, but it was like skating on dead ice. Every empty glance at his phone added fuel to the frustration simmering under his skin. Practice was a disaster—his passes were off, and his shots lacked precision. His coach had barked at him twice during drills, and even his teammates—guys who usually let him brood in peace—started asking if he was okay. He wasn’t. Not even close.

The worst part wasn’t even the uncertainty; it was the silence. No texts, no calls. He’d tried reaching out to Claere and Jace both, but his messages hung in limbo, unanswered. Every attempt ended in static like they’d been wiped off the map. The hollow ring of her number before the dreaded voicemail beep made his stomach twist every time.

He hated not knowing. Was this it? Was she done with him? Or worse—had her family made the decision for her?

By Thursday, he was running on fumes. His body ached from overworking himself on the ice, and his mind was a mess. The Targaryen mansion wasn’t far from his practice rink, and he’d driven past it so many times that the guards were starting to eye him like he was some kind of stalker.

Four days. Four days without a word from her, and he was losing it.

Then Friday came, game day, and it hit him like a slap. He didn’t have time for this. If he didn’t get his head in the game, he’d tank the team. But just as he was about to haul himself to the locker room, he saw someone jogging toward him near the player’s bench like some divine intervention. Cregan, mid-drill, tossed his stick aside, and practically stormed to meet him, relief and frustration competing for dominance.

“About fucking time!” he said, his voice incredulous. Cregan muttered, half-tempted to hug the guy and half-tempted to shove him, “Where the hell have you been?”

Jace, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie, stopped short, hands on his hips as he caught his breath. “Man, I am so sorry. Look, I really tried. I stalled her as much as I could that night, but you know my mom. And Daemon was her accomplice—”

“Not your fault,” Cregan interrupted quickly, shaking his head. “You tried. Thanks for coming.”

Jace gave a sheepish grin. “It wasn’t just me. Daemon went full dictator. Took all our phones, and said we needed a ‘digital cleanse.’ Packed us off to fuckin' Croatia. Ancestral home or some shit. Total lockdown. No phones, no Wi-Fi, just… swimming, food, and lectures about how we’ve all failed our parents somehow and forgotten our history.”

Cregan exhaled sharply. That explained a lot. “So, you’re just getting back now?”

“This morning,” Jace confirmed. He shifted awkwardly, as if unsure of what to say next, before finally adding, “Claere’s still at home. She’s okay, though. She was miserable the first day, but… y’know. We made her come around and have fun.”

Hearing her name felt like both a balm and a wound. Cregan let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “That sounds about right.”

“Yeah,” Jace agreed. He hesitated, studying Cregan for a moment. “Mom and Daemon? Still pissed. Claere… I don’t think she gives two shits.”

Cregan’s lips twitched into a weak smile. That was Claere all right. “When’s she coming back to class? Or… anything?” His voice trailed off, unsure how much more he could ask.

Jace shrugged. “Don’t know. She’s kind of in this holding pattern right now. Guess she’s waiting for something.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Thanks, Jace. Really.”

“Look, man…” Jace scratched the back of his neck, his usual easy demeanour clouded with worry. “She’ll come around. Just… give her time.”

Cregan gave a tight nod, though the frustration bubbling inside him was threatening to boil over. Time. He’d already spent four days in limbo, and he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.

Later, after practice, he called her again. The line rang twice before going straight to voicemail. That greeting looped in his mind like a cruel joke.

“Hi, it’s Claere! I can’t come to the phone right now, probably because I’m doing something infinitely more interesting. Leave a message! Or not. Up to you.”

He clenched his jaw at the teasing tone in her pre-recorded message, so familiar yet so distant. The beep sounded, and he hesitated before speaking, his voice gruff with tension.

“Baby, it’s me. Look, I—” He stopped, dragging a hand down his face. What could he even say? “I miss you. I don’t know what you're feeling, what you're thinking, or if you’re just… done, but I need to talk to you. Please. I'm losing my mind. Call me back. Or find me on campus. Just—please, Claere... I love you. So much.”

He hung up, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. It felt futile. Every unanswered call, every unreturned message, chipped away at the hope he’d been clinging to.

What was he supposed to do? Wait? Move on? Fight harder? He didn’t even know if she wanted him to. All he knew was that every day without her was stretching him thinner, and he didn’t know how much more he could take.

His teammates had practically dragged him to the coffeeshop on campus grounds after the brutal loss that afternoon, insisting he “needed to get out of his head.” He appreciated the effort, even if their chatter washed over him like static. This whole place was crowded and loud, a stark contrast to Cregan’s own hollow mood. He gave them a smile or two and answered a few vague questions, but his responses always had a way of circling back to her.

“Man, this chick must’ve really done a number on you,” one of the guys joked, nudging him.

Cregan huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

It wasn’t just her. It was everything—what she represented, what he felt for her, and how much he’d probably screwed up everything, right from the start. He missed her more than he could explain, more than he was even comfortable admitting to himself. And now? He didn’t even know where they stood.

He was nursing his coffee, trying to shake off the tension pressing on his chest, when the door jingled. Normally, he wouldn’t have noticed, but the sudden shift in the room's energy was unmistakable. Conversations dimmed, and heads turned.

Cregan looked up—and the air left his lungs.

Had it been weeks? No, just one. Claere stepped inside, her sun-tanned skin glowing against the blue eyelet blouse and shorts she wore, sandals clicking softly on the tile floor. Silvern hair was in a loose braid, a few strands framing her face, and a scattering of thin silver rings glinted on her fingers as she adjusted the strap of her sling bag. She looked like she’d walked straight out of some sun-drenched dream.

And all he could do was sit there. Frozen. Thinking. She hadn't bothered to call him. Was she angry? Was she done with him? Didn't he deserve an explanation? Had her parents changed her mind?

His stomach twisted with longing, with a desperation that felt almost painful. She was the one thing he wanted most, and yet here he was—rooted to a chair, surrounded by people who had no idea what she meant to him. She glanced around the room, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. When her eyes met him, there was not a muscle in his body that did not clench.

She hesitated, just for a moment. He could see it in her face—the effort it took to act like she didn’t know him. Like she hadn’t been his everything all these years. He felt it too, that same instinct to pretend, to keep up the lie, even as it killed him inside.

Her gaze flicked to the guys at his table, then back to the door. His heart sank, thinking she might leave, but instead, she turned and walked to the counter. Ordered something—juice, by the sound of it—and then settled at a corner table by herself.

Cregan couldn’t help it. His eyes followed her, drawn to her like gravity. He'd been conditioned to be aware of her, near or far. Even when she pulled out a book and rolled a few pencils onto the table, so calm and indifferent, he knew her too well. There was tension in her posture, a stiffness in the way she held herself. She wasn’t as unaffected as she seemed.

“Hot damn,” one of his teammates said, cutting into his thoughts. “You saw that fine ass? Those shorts just—oomph.”

“I want a piece of that,” another chimed in, smirking. “Last week's news? That little red dress at the gala? Fuuuuckable.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his coffee forgotten in his hand.

“And a whole lot of crazy bitch,” the first one added, laughing, and something in Cregan snapped. His grip on the cup tightened, but he forced himself to stay still. He wanted to put their heads through the nearest wall.

“Crazy bitch is my speciality,” the other said, clearly feeling lucky today.

One of them leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing some great secret. “She's still screwed in the head, bro. Last semester, someone saw her—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Cregan said sharply, his tone cutting through the noise.

The guys turned to him, surprised. “Hey, what’s your problem?”

“Just drop it, okay?”

But they shrugged him off with a burst of laughter. One of them, clearly feeling bold, got up and crossed the room toward Claere, sharing an encouraging fist bump and shoulder slap. Cregan’s pulse spiked as he watched the guy tap her on the shoulder. She looked up, calm and polite as always, even when she shouldn’t have to be. Pulling out her earphones, she flashed a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Yeah?" she said, her voice as sweet as it was distant.

The guy’s grin widened as he pulled the chair out, his audacity a palpable stink in the air. “Claere, right? Mind if I join you? Name's Wil.”

For a fleeting moment, she looked at Cregan. It wasn’t just a glance—it was sharp, pointed, expectant. It wasn’t a plea for help—it was a challenge. Are you going to sit there and let some dickhead hit on your girlfriend?

But Cregan stayed rigid. His hand gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his jaw locked. He wanted to move, to stop this, but something held him back—his frustration, his guilt, his need to keep up with appearances.

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, and when he didn’t act, she let out a soft, bitter breath and turned back to Wil.

“Sure,” she said lightly, gesturing to the seat.

Cregan’s stomach churned. He dropped his gaze, staring at the scratched surface of the table, as if ignoring it would make it stop.

Wil slid into the seat across from her like he owned the place, leaning forward on his elbows. “So, what’s it like being you?” he started, his tone dripping with fake charm. “Must be hectic. Fancy trips, photographers hounding you everywhere, that kind of thing.”

Claere raised an eyebrow, somewhat bored. “It’s not all that exhilarating, I suppose.”

“Really? Come on, you don’t have to be modest with me.” His eyes swept over her, lingering just long enough to make Cregan’s stomach tighten further. “I mean, someone like you? Hot, famous, loaded—what’s not to love?”

“Hmm.” Her response was flat and dismissive, but Wil wasn’t taking the hint.

“You know, I’ve always wondered...” he started, his voice dipping conspiratorially. “What’s it like growing up with a mom like Rhaenyra Targaryen? Must’ve been wild. All those scandals, all those headlines. Does she, like, give you tips? On how to work the cameras, pose just right? Or is that all-natural?”

Her grip on her glass cup tightened, but her face remained composed. “Are you always this curious about other people’s families?”

“I’m just trying to get to know you better.” He leaned back, smirking. “I mean, everyone’s already seen so much of you, right? All those little ‘oops’ moments with the paparazzi? Those dresses, those photos—”

Cregan tensed like a coiled spring. Wil, oblivious, kept going. “Honestly, it’s impressive. Takes guts to pull off some of those pretty skirts. Or lack of them.”

The small, tense smile on Claere’s face vanished, replaced by a cold, hard stare.

“But hey,” he said, his voice dropping, as if her silence was encouraging, “if you ever wanted to, I don’t know, lean into that a little more... I’ve got a camera. Real discreet. No one even has to know.”

The table went silent. Cregan’s head snapped up, his blood boiling. The words didn’t fully register—he didn’t want them to. His chair screeched against the floor as he shifted, his vision narrowing on Wil's smug face.

Claere beat him to it. The slap echoed through the coffee shop like a gunshot. Conversations halted. Heads turned. Even the barista at the counter stopped mid-pour.

Wil stared at her, stunned, his cheek flaming red. Claere’s hand trembled as she dropped it to her side, her chest heaving. Tears gathered in her eyes, but her voice was steady, cutting. “I hope you get run over by a car and go brain-dead, you pervert.”

She grabbed her bag with sharp, jerky movements, her poise splintering as she shoved her things inside. “Can't believe this,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone, her voice thick with anger and humiliation. Without another glance at Wil—or at Cregan—she stormed out, shoving the door open so hard the bell jingled violently behind her.

Cregan moved before he could think, his chair tipping as he stood and grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt. He saw red for a moment, teeth grounding to dust.

“What the hell, Cap?” Wil sputtered, raising his hands.

Cregan shoved him back against the wall, hard enough to rattle the shelves and cups nearby. Wil's grin had vanished, replaced by wide, panicked eyes.

“You think that was funny?” Cregan hissed, his voice low and shaking with rage.

“I—it was just a joke—”

“Here’s the zinger,” Cregan snapped, leaning in close. “You’re benched. Next game, next practice, next season. I don’t care. You’re done. You so much as look at her again, and you’ll be picking your fucking teeth off the floor.”

He shoved the guy back against the wall one more time for good measure before letting go, his chest heaving.

Cregan didn’t wait to see the reaction. Grabbing his gear, he strode out of the coffee shop, his heart racing, his mind spinning. The quad was alive with students, but Cregan didn’t care about any of them. His focus locked onto Claere, halfway across the lawn, her head down and her steps hurried. He sprinted to catch up, but she moved too quick, as if she could escape the humiliation still clinging to the air around her.

“Cregan! That was sick, man!” A friend clapped him on the back as he passed, but the praise barely registered. Another student waved, calling his name, grinning like the drama was just a show for their entertainment. Cregan brushed past them, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Not now. Not now. Just get to her.

But then he stopped dead in his tracks. Claere had turned to look at him, her face pale except for the flush high on her cheeks. Her red-rimmed eyes locked onto his, and the sight gutted him. She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her wrist, her hand trembling, almost frantic.

The breeze carried the faint sound of a sob, and he saw the way she glanced around her, the way her gaze caught on the groups of students whispering, watching. He knew what they were saying. He could feel their eyes on her, hear the speculative laughter just out of earshot. The exasperation on her face made his breaths falter, her helplessness a mirror to his own.

He took a step forward, but her head snapped to the side, and she spun on her heel, heading toward the scooter parked by the curb.

He wanted to call out to her, to tell her to wait, but his throat felt like it had closed up. He watched her as she fumbled with her keys, all jerky and rushed.

Say something, his mind screamed but held too still. The whispers around him grew louder, and he could feel the eyes of the crowd shifting from her to him. Rumours hinted at, fingers pointing. For once, he just wanted to let it happen.

Her head lifted briefly, and their eyes met again—just for a heartbeat. In that glance, he saw everything. The pain, the frustration, the feeling that she was completely, utterly alone. The tears, the tremor in her shoulders, the way her chin tilted up defiantly—it was all too much.

She climbed onto her scooter, the engine sputtered to life, and she didn’t look back as she pulled out onto the campus path.

X

The gravel crunched under Cregan’s tires as his truck rolled to a stop in front of the towering iron gates. For a moment, he just stared. The Targaryen estate loomed ahead, its opulence stark against the dusk-painted sky. The tree-lined path that curved out of sight behind the gates was shadowed by towering oaks, their branches interlocking above like a cathedral ceiling.

He lowered his window, leaning out to nod at the guard.

The man stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “You again? I told you, kid, unless you’ve got an invite—”

Cregan sighed, gripping the wheel tighter. “Just let me talk to her. Please. I'm dying out here, pal.”

The guard studied him for a beat longer before letting out a reluctant huff. “Fine. Don’t make me regret this.” He pressed a button, and the gates creaked open slowly.

“Legend,” Cregan muttered, easing the truck forward.

The path was even more imposing than it looked from the outside, even for the second time he was here. The oaks stretched endlessly ahead, casting long shadows that danced across his windshield. The air felt cooler here, quieter, the outside world muffled by the wealth and history that clung to this place.

When the house finally came into view, it hit him like a punch to the chest. The mansion was massive, every detail of its gleaming white facade a testament to money and power. Towering pillars lined the entrance, their bases flanked by intricately carved dragons. The sheer scale of it made him feel small, like a kid crashing a royal ball. Focus, Stark.

He parked near the grand staircase and climbed out, his boots feeling too loud on the polished gravel. The enormous doors loomed ahead, but before he could even knock, one swung open. A man in a crisp black suit appeared, giving him a sharp, disapproving glance.

Cregan stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. He grabbed the man’s arm fiercely. “Claere?”

The man looked at him like he’d just insulted his ancestors. “You can’t just—”

“Where is she?” His voice cracked slightly, and the man froze, clearly taken aback. With a shake of his head, the man yanked his arm free and scurried off.

“The fu—” Before Cregan could follow, a small, clear voice echoed from above.

“Captain Stark!”

Cregan looked up to see Viserys poking his head through the railing of the first landing, his pale silver hair gleaming in the chandelier light nearby. The boy grinned, his face lighting up.

“Jace went out to see a girl,” Viserys sang out.

“Hey, little man,” Cregan called back, managing a strained smile. “Nah, not Jace. You seen your sister around?”

Viserys twisted his arms around the railing, tilting his head in thought. “Mhmm. Claerie’s in... oh, the back! She's with Auntie Hel. They're talking about big girl stuff.”

“Thanks, superstar!” Cregan called, already heading toward the back of the house as directed.

As he stepped outside, the evening air wrapped around him, cool and fragrant with the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming jasmine. The gardens stretched endlessly, but his eyes locked onto the little pagoda near the edge of the reflective pond. Its white pillars gleamed faintly under the fading light, and beneath its domed roof, from a distance, he spotted them—Claere and her aunt Helaena.

They hadn’t noticed him yet. Claere sat on the bench, her head bent over something in her lap. She was working with a needle and thread, stitching a button onto a shirt that looked about two sizes too big for her. Beside her, Helaena was lounging with the lazy grace of someone who never seemed hurried, one leg tucked beneath her as she picked at a flower on the vine

“Boys are idiots,” Helaena said lazily, flicking a petal away. “Especially Stark. That guy couldn’t comfort his way out of a paper bag.”

Claere’s fingers stilled for a moment on the button she was sewing onto Jace's shirt, the needle poised mid-air. She didn’t look up, but her lips pressed into a thin line. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?” Helaena sat up straighter, arching a sceptical brow. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like he panicked and left you hanging. Again.”

The words struck deep, even though Claere tried not to let it show. She didn’t respond, instead knotting the thread with quick, precise movements.

From his vantage point just outside the pagoda, Cregan heard every word. He’d been rooted there for the last minute, unable to bring himself to interrupt, even as Helaena’s words sank into him like daggers. His fists clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.

“Hel, please,” Claere said softly, tying off the thread and setting the shirt aside. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Helaena snorted. “Of course you don’t. Because you’re too nice to admit he’s a hurtful jerk.” She leaned forward, her gaze narrowing. “Do you know how many guys would’ve killed to defend you in that café? To put that pervert in his place and walk out with you? But no, you had to fall for the one guy who can’t figure out how to use his own damn spine.”

Cregan felt his breath hitch, a sharp pang hitting him square in the chest. He wanted to storm in, to defend himself, to tell her she was wrong—that he had tried to defend Claere in his own way, even if it hadn’t been enough. But the truth was, Helaena was right. He’d left Claere when she needed him most. He’d failed her.

Claere shook her head, her voice quiet but firm. “It's unfortunate circumstances. That does not make Cregan a bad person. Or a jerk.”

“No, just a scared one,” Helaena countered, her tone biting. “And scared people hurt others because they’re too caught up in their own head to think about what anyone else needs.”

That was it. Cregan couldn’t take another second of listening. He stepped into the pagoda, the gravel crunching under his boots loud enough to draw their attention.

Helaena’s sharp eyes snapped to him immediately. Her pale brows shot up, and she leaned back with an amused smirk. “Well, well. Speak of the devil. Loverboy’s here,” she announced, loud enough to pull Claere’s attention from the shirt in her lap.

“Breaking my heart, Hel,” Cregan remarked.

Claere’s head whipped around, her eyes widening as they met his. Her lips parted, but no words came out, and she looked as though she wasn’t sure whether to be angry, relieved, or both.

He stepped forward, trying to look more confident than he felt. “I just need five minutes with her,” he said quickly, his voice steady but low, almost pleading.

Helaena tilted her head, studying him like he was some curious artefact. Then, with her signature mischievous grin, she said, “You can get five hours, Cap. Do you think you can talk with your shirt off?”

Cregan made an impressed face, some of the tension easing from his chest. “I can be persuaded.”

Helaena turned to Claere, deadpan. “I’m down.” He glanced back at Cregan's abdomen, biting her lip. “Look at him—you've got to reap your benefits. Is it a six-pack or eight, big guy?”

“Wanna count together?” Cregan suggested with a wry smile.

Claere shook her head as she muttered, “Really, Hel.”

Helaena stood, brushing her hands on her skirt. “Alright, alright. No fun. I’ll leave you two to… whatever this is. Five minutes.” She passed by Cregan, leaning in just enough to whisper, “When in doubt, take your shirt off. Don’t mess it up.”

And then she was gone, leaving Cregan and Claere alone in the pagoda.

He stepped closer, his gaze locked on Claere as she sat, her expression caught somewhere between guarded and curious. Her hands were still clutching the shirt, the needle and thread dangling loosely between her fingers.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Cregan didn’t trust himself to, not with the way she was looking at him. He took in every detail—the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her braid curled at the ends, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

When he finally broke the silence, his voice was rough, unsteady. “Gods, I missed you.”

Before she could react, he was moving. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing the delicate planes of her cheekbones as he pulled her close. Her body stiffened for half a heartbeat before melting into his, as if unable to help herself. He cradled her head against his chest with one hand, the other pressing into the small of her back. His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the length of her spine, grounding him in the reality that she was here, that she was real.

He kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her hair, his lips moving as if to memorize her all over again. His hands slid down to her back, pressing into the curve of her spine as he held her. The scent of her shampoo—floral and sweet—was almost overwhelming.

“Before you kick me, punch me, or ask me to fuck off to the world’s end,” he murmured against her hair, “I just needed to do that.”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh against his chest. “I think I stabbed you.”

Cregan blinked, pulling back slightly to look down at his chest.

She gestured to the needle, which had pricked his side at some point during the hug. He glanced down, lifting his shirt just enough to see the faintest dot of blood beading up near his abdomen. How had he not noticed?

“Fuck. Ow.” He laughed, shaking his head as he tugged the hem back down. “You trying to finish me off, baby?”

Her lips twitched, but her brows furrowed as she reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against his side. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as being without you,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Her hand stilled, and for a moment, she just looked at him. Her eyes searched his face, her lips pressing into a thin line as though she was weighing what to say next. She stepped back and turned away, pushing her fingers into her hair.

“Cregan...” she sighed. “Don’t make this harder.”

Her words hit him like a slap, and his stomach twisted into a knot. Harder? Harder than what? He took a step toward her, his brows knitting together in confusion and a flicker of hurt.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his tone sharp with a desperation he couldn’t hide. “So, what… we're over? Is that it? I'm not allowed a clean break after three fucking years of being yours?”

She hesitated, her back still to him, her shoulders rising and falling with each measured breath. He could see the tension in her posture, the way she held herself so rigidly as if bracing for something.

“I guess…” she started, then stopped, lips thinning to a straight line. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter, and it nearly crushed him. “I guess Mom finding out about us was a wake-up call.”

“From what, Claere?” he shot back, the anger bubbling beneath the surface, anger born of confusion, guilt, and the unbearable ache of losing her. “She’s fine with us. All this is excessive. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

Claere turned to face him then, and the look in her eyes stopped him cold. It wasn’t anger, not entirely—it was something deeper, rawer, an exhaustion that made his chest tighten.

“Not the part where you treat me like some dirty secret,” she said, each word cutting like glass. Her voice was steady, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Trust me, today made me realize that. And also, you're only mine when it's reasonable for you.”

Cregan staggered back a step as if the force of her words had physically struck him.

“I wiped the floor with that fucker's ass for you!”

“I don't care,” she sighed.

“So fucking unfair,” he snapped, his voice hoarse. “You knew what this was from the start. From day one, you agreed—we agreed—it wouldn’t be public. You knew what I had to lose. My whole credibility.”

Her brows shot up, her mouth parting in disbelief before she laughed, bitter and sharp. “Oh, is that right? What you had to lose?” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “What about me? Do you have any idea what it’s like to only be worth something to you in the shadows?”

“You don’t think I’ve sacrificed?” he growled, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m trying to balance all of this—the team, the pressure, the press and us. It’s not that simple.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “It is simple, Cregan! You care more about what everyone else thinks than what I feel. You make me feel so difficult. Like I'm this vexed question. And for so long, I convinced myself that was okay. That we were okay. But it’s not. It’s not okay anymore.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Cregan’s anger faltered, replaced by a wave of guilt so heavy it nearly knocked him over. She was right, wasn’t she? He’d asked her to carry their secrecy for him, put her in this tight corner because of him, and he hadn’t even realized how much it had crushed her.

“Claere,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I never wanted to hurt you. I thought—” He stopped, his hands falling uselessly to his sides. “I thought we were alright. I didn’t know.”

“Because you didn’t care to see it,” she said, her tone quieter now, but no less sharp. “You thought that I’d keep accepting scraps, keep lying low because I…” She trailed off, looking away, her arms crossing over her chest. “Because I love you.”

His heart clenched. “I love you too,” he said quickly, taking a step toward her. “I love you so much, it hurts. You know I do.”

She shook her head, letting out a shaky breath. “Sometimes love isn’t enough, Cregan.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Then, as if he couldn’t bear the distance any longer, he stepped forward and reached for her. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and before she could push him away, he buried his head into the curve of her neck. Her scent, that faint floral sweetness, flooded his senses, grounding him even as the world seemed to tilt beneath his feet.

“I brought you something,” he murmured, his voice thick.

She stiffened slightly, her confusion clear, but he stepped back and reached into his jacket. Pulling out the jersey, he unfurled it carefully, holding it out to her. His name was stitched on the back in bold, unmistakable letters. STARK 01.

“Come to my game,” he whispered, his voice breaking under the strain of hope and fear. “Please.”

Claere’s eyes flicked to the jersey, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he thought—hoped—that maybe she would take it, that this small gesture could bridge the impossible distance between them. But then she shook her head, slowly, deliberately.

“I think we should meet after you’re done with…” she gestured toward the jersey, her voice faltering for the first time, “everything. Give us both some time to figure things out.”

The rejection hit like a fist to the gut. Cregan’s jaw tightened as his shoulders stiffened, his fingers curling tightly around the fabric.

“That’s months,” he burst out, his voice tinged with desperation.

“Good,” she replied, her tone clipped and firm. “Then this will all be over, and we can talk.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other like they were on opposite sides of a battlefield. Then Cregan let out a hollow laugh, the bitterness spilling out before he could stop it. He tossed the jersey aside.

“Fuck you, Claere.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing. “Well, fuck you too, you pathetic jerk!” she shouted back, her voice trembling with both anger and something far more fragile. She shoved at his chest, her palms pushing against him hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “Get out. Get the fuck out of my house!”

“No!” he snapped, his voice low and rough, filled with all the things he couldn’t seem to say. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here. I’m trying to fix this—”

“Yeah? You want to?” Her voice cracked as she stepped closer, her body trembling with the force of her emotions. “You want to?” She shoved him again, her hands pressing against his chest, her voice rising with every word. “You want to fix this? Then kiss me, and—”

He didn’t let her finish. He didn’t let himself think. He surged forward, ducking his head, his hands finding her waist and pulling her close as his lips crashed into hers. The kiss was fierce, raw, filled with everything he didn’t know how to say—his frustration, his fear, his longing, and the overwhelming need to not lose her.

She gasped against him, fingers clawing at his shoulders as though she didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer. He pressed forward, guiding her back until she hit the pillar behind her, her body arching against his. One of her legs hooked instinctively around his waist, and he gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her hips as though he were afraid she might disappear.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against hers, they were both gasping for air. Her lips were swollen, violet eyes wide and shining, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

“You…” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I’m trying,” he hissed. His hands trembled as they slid up her sides, searching. “I’m trying, baby. Just… don’t make me leave. Don’t—”

She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, silencing him. “Then stop running,” she whispered. “Prove it, Cregan. Prove you’re here. Prove this is real.”

Cregan’s breath came ragged, his body still pressed against hers, his heart hammering like a drum in his chest. He stared down at Claere, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. She was breathtaking, defiant and vulnerable all at once, and her whispered challenge—Prove it—rang in his ears like a dare he couldn’t refuse.

Her hand on his cheek was warm, grounding him. The fire in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks—she was everything at once: defiant, vulnerable, and heartbreakingly beautiful. And she was right. He had spent too long running, avoiding, second-guessing. It was time to stop.

His breath hitched as he cupped her face gently, his thumb grazing her temple. The rush of emotion—fear, love, determination—swept over him, but this time, he didn’t let it drown him. He let it anchor him.

“Fine,” he said, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. “Come to the game next week.”

Her brows knitted in confusion, her lips parting to speak, but he pressed on.

“Just come.”

The words were a promise, and they felt like a leap off a cliff. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His gaze stayed locked on hers, searching for something—doubt, hope, anything—that could guide him.

Her silence stretched between them, and he wasn’t sure if it was acceptance or uncertainty, but it didn’t matter. He had made his choice.

Slowly, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, lingering just long enough to feel her inhale sharply. It wasn’t desperation or passion—it was quiet, a gesture of faith. When he pulled back, he gave her hand a firm squeeze, his fingers brushing against hers like an unspoken vow.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said softly, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. Then he let go, stepping back, his hand slipping away from hers reluctantly.

X

The rink was electric, the roar of the crowd pulsing through the air like a living thing. The energy was infectious—chants, clapping, the rhythmic pounding of drumbeats echoing through the arena. The smell of ice and the distinct tang of adrenaline filled the air, and Cregan stood at the edge of the player’s bench, helmet tucked under his arm, a storm of exhilaration coursing through his veins.

This was it. Game season was here. And for all the noise and excitement around him, his focus was entirely on one thing—or rather, one person. Players milled around the bench, adjusting pads, stretching, and hyping each other up. Cregan, though, was glued to the boards, scanning the stands with the intensity of a hawk.

"Is she coming?" he asked, his voice low but insistent as he nudged Jace, who was lacing up his skates beside him. "You’re sure she’s coming?"

Jace groaned, yanking his laces tight. "Dude, chill the fuck out. She’ll be here."

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he scanned the stands again. It was stupid, how his chest felt like it might crack open if he didn’t see her soon. “I just need to know, Jace.”

Jace slapped his shoulder, grinning despite the tension in Cregan’s voice. "You’ll know, Cap. Now quit looking like a lovesick puppy and get your head in the game."

Cregan muttered something under his breath and turned his attention back to the stands, his stomach doing flips. She wouldn't sit too far, would she? What if she was too late? What if she changed her mind? All this would be a big dud.

Then, like the universe finally decided to cut him a break, he saw her.

Claere stood just behind the barrier, like another face in the crowd, a figure of calm amidst the chaos, her silver hair braided in two, the faintest smile gracing her lips as their eyes met. She wasn’t wearing just any jersey. She was wearing his—his name, his number proudly displayed on her back. And for a moment, everything else fell away: the noise, the crowd, the game ahead. It was just her, and the unshakable certainty he felt when he looked at her.

“Stark, get your ass on the ice!” the coach yelled, but Cregan didn't find it in himself to look away. Couldn’t.

He caught Jace’s smirk out of the corner of his eye. “Toldja,” Jace muttered, nudging him again. "Now quit gawking and do something about it."

And that’s exactly what Cregan intended to do.

The tension in his chest, the coil of uncertainty and hope that had wound tighter and tighter all week, snapped into motion. Without thinking, without hesitation, he closed the distance. His gloves hit the bench with a soft thud as he reached over the boards, his hands finding her waist like they belonged there.

“What,” she mouthed to him, amazed.

“Proof,” he mouthed back with a grin.

Her eyes widened, startled, as he pulled her closer, the warmth of her body against his enough to set his pulse racing. For a moment, he thought she might push him away, and the doubt—the fear of rejection—flared hot in his chest. But then her expression softened, and all the noise around him dulled to a hum.

He bent his head, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was everything he felt and more. It was slow and hurried, soft and desperate, deep and tender. It was everything he hadn’t said but needed her to know: that he was here, that she mattered, that he couldn’t stop thinking about her no matter how hard he’d tried.

For a second, time seemed to freeze. The roar of the crowd became a distant echo as Claere responded, her hands sliding up to cup his cheeks. Then, as her fingers tangled in his hair, the tension in his chest unraveled entirely. She was here. She wasn’t pushing him away. She was real.

The arena erupted. Cheers, whistles, and applause surged like a tidal wave, crashing into him with the force of a thousand voices. His teammates banged their sticks against the boards, shouting and hollering. The noise was deafening, but for once, he didn’t care. This moment was his—and hers. The world around them could burn for all he cared.

When they broke apart, her cheeks were flushed, her violet eyes bright and alive. She looked at him like he was the only person in the room, and his chest tightened with something dangerously close to gratitude. She didn’t shy away from the commotion or the hundreds of eyes on them. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Go get ’em, Stark.”

Her words lit something fierce in him. He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice low but steady. “Always do, baby.”

He pulled back reluctantly and winked at her, squeezing her hand once before letting go. As he turned back to the bench, the adrenaline coursing through him had nothing to do with the game ahead. His blood was pumping, his heart pounding, but it wasn’t nerves—it was her. The knowledge that she was there, that she’d chosen to be there, wearing his name and looking at him like that.

The crowd’s energy was his, the ice was his stage, and the world now knew she was his.

As he slid his helmet on, the chants and shouts of his teammates met him with even more fervour than before. Cregan Stark stepped onto the ice, the rush of the competition pulling him forward.

It's game time.

X

wooo!! LONGEST, TRYING ONESHOT EVER! @justdazzling this one's for you, my love! Thank you such a wonderful idea, and I couldn't get it out of my head, so here it is! I hope you love it, caught the little references, the banter, the love and just them as a whole :)

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

[jacaeryssworld]

masterlist ೃ⁀➷

this is the masterlist for this blog! it will contain x oc works & x reader works! i will make sure to label which is which to make it easier <3

request guidelines!

♡ = fluff | ☹︎ = angst / no comfort | ✧ = comfort | ♢ = suggestive content | ♠︎ = other | ❦ = requested | ❀ = popular

JACAERYS VELARYON

( x oc works! )

Of Flame and Flesh ➡︎ Published, In Progress ♡ | ☹︎ | ♢ | ♠︎

jacaerys velaryon x elaenya targaryen

trope(s): childhood friends to strangers to lovers, arranged marriage, he fell first & she fell harder, misunderstanding

warning(s): typical targaryen incest (nephew x aunt dynamic), main character(s) death, angst, family drama, blood & violence mentions, mentions of teen pregnancy

Heavy is the Head ➡︎ Draft ♡ | ☹︎ | ♢ | ♠︎ | ✧

jacaerys velaryon x viserra targaryen

trope(s): childhood friends to lovers, arranged marriage, extroverted boy x introverted girl, he fell first & harder, jace won’t have a good day unless viserra smiles at him, angst, tooth rooting fluff

warning(s): typical targaryen incest (nephew x aunt dynamic), main character(s) death, violence & blood mentions, mentions of teen pregnancy

( x reader works! )

As If!

jacaerys strong x fem!reader, modern au!

under construction…

CREGAN STARK

( x oc works! )

Skyfall ➡︎ Published, In Progress ♡ | ☹︎ | ♢ | ♠︎ | ✧

cregan stark x alysanne ii targaryen

trope(s): arranged marriage, they both fell first, love at first sight, “enemies” to lovers, happily ever after (of sorts), golden retriever in disguise x openly orange tabby, one step forward & two steps back

warning(s): otto hightower being a scumbag & a little bitch, bennard stark, angst, alicent is a bit obsessed with aly, violence & blood mentions, mentions of pregnancy

( x reader works! )

Sea Salt and Snow ➡︎ ♡

cregan stark x fem!manderly!reader

trope(s): childhood friends-to-lovers, arranged marriage

warning(s): short but sweet!

AEMOND TARGARYEN

( x oc works! )

Spool of Flame, Spool of Sea ➡︎ Published, In Progress ♡ | ☹︎ | ♢ | ♠︎

aemond targaryen x saera velaryon

trope(s): childhood friends to enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, caged bird

warning(s): typical targaryen incest (uncle x niece dynamic), aemond is very ooc in this, very angsty, blood & violence mentions

( x reader works! )

Rosey Eyed

aemond targaryen x fem!tyrell!reader

under construction…

BENJICOT BLACKWOOD / DAVOS BLACKWOOD

( x oc works! )

None yet!

( x reader works! )

Friends Don’t Look At Each Other Like That

benjicot blackwood x fem!reader, modern au!

under construction…

Fic Recommendations! <3

— None yet!

[icarusignite]

Master Post

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Hey, Ace here, hope you have a good time on my page!

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ (she/her), Ravenclaw, INTJ, fanfic writer of many fandoms, self-taught artist, kpop/anime enthusiast, feminist, procrastinator extraordinaire.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Tiktok/wattpad/AO3/instagram: ace_asterisk

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ AO3 | Wattpad | Carrd

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Join the taglist

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Fandoms I write for

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ All completed series and longer stories are uploaded fully on wp/ao3. Oneshots are Tumblr/AO3 exclusive.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ for writing updates: @icarusignite-fics

(all fics are reblogged onto there)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ DMs and asks are always open! Drop by and chat <3

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Requests: OPEN

House of the Dragon

Series

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ An Eye for an Eye Masterlist (Aemond Targaryen x OC)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Before the Sky Falls Masterlist (Aemond Targaryen x OC)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ For Whom the Bell Tolls | HOTD World War 2 AU

(Soldier! Aemond Targaryen x Nurse! Reader)

Oneshots

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ I hate you I love you (Cregan Stark x Fem! Reader)

The five times you told Cregan Stark you hated him, and the one time you actually meant it.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ I want to fly with you on dragonback (and eat only cake) (Alicent x Rhaenyra)

Basically the title. Rhaenyra finally gets to take Alicent on that dragon ride and eat cake....and maybe kiss the girl she loves.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Like an old melody, my heart resumes (Daeron x Fem! Reader)

Parts: 1 / 2  / 3

After years apart and with several misunderstandings between them, you meet Prince Daeron at what is meant to be his betrothal feast. When secrets and unspoken desires come to light, you and Daeron are faced with a choice: to let go of the past and embrace a love that has always burned between them or allow your tumultuous history to keep you apart.

The Last Kingdom

Oneshots

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ The only heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you

(King Alfred x POC! Fem! Reader)

Parts: 1 / 2

You are a prominent scholar from Baghdad, visiting Wessex to learn more about English culture and try to help its ailing monarch with your medical expertise. However, conflict arises when you find yourself falling for the Catholic king, knowing he cannot give you what you deserve.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Valhalla Bound  (Finan x GN! Reader)

During the ransacking of Rumcofa, you save Osferth thus exchanging his fate for yours. aka you die and Finan's reaction to that

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Night Terrors (Sihtric x GN! Reader) 

Sihtric has a nightmare, and he accidentally snaps at you. What comes after is the most awkward confession of his life and you are oblivious af.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Praying's just a poor man's way of begging 

(Sihtric x Fem! Reader) 

You are Earl Ragnar's youngest daughter and the boy you've spent many pleasant afternoons with as a child was none other than Sihtric Kjartansson. Reunited after years apart, will the two of you be able to face the truth of your feelings or will it all end in heartache?

In this labyrinth of time, our souls entwined

(Modern AU Finan x Fem! Reader)

Finan and his friends witness a bar fight during their night out and Finan feels a magnetic connection to the hero of the fight. This can be read on its own but it can also be seen as a continuation of my earlier fic Valhalla Bound where you died and now your reincarnation meets Finan's in another world and that's why you seem so familiar.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Go ahead and cry, little girl (Aethelstan x Fem! Reader)

You are Sihtric’s daughter from his first wife. Your mother dies after he leaves her for his current wife and you blame him for his death. Aethelstan is yoiur dearest childhood friend.

Ateez

Series

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Danse Macabre Masterlist (Jeong Yunho x OC)

Oneshots

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Pirate Ateez Masterlist

Percy Jackson & the Olympians

Oneshots

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ I don't want your sympathy (i just want myself back)

(Luke Castellan x GN! Child of Hypnos Reader)

Terribly injured after returning from his quest to the Garden of Hesperides, Luke Castellan turns to the only person who can help him sleep.

Criminal Minds

Oneshots

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Steady Your Heart in Mine (Spencer Reid x GN! Reader)

Exam season brings you a lot of stress and Spencer Reid is there to walk you through it. Established relationship, descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks.

Lockwood & Co.

Oneshots

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ I thought I dreamed her (Lucy x Lockkwood)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ I love you forever, I'm not a dreamer (Lucy x Lockwood)

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes:

Series

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ These Violent Delights Masterlist

[spacelatinoluvr]

MY MASTERLIST

hi! welcome to my masterlist! thank you so much for reading what I write. requests are open! mdni! I write for a bunch of different fandoms so I am truly open to anything. I’m currently a sophomore in college so my schedule is kind of wacky right now but I try my best to get things out asap. but besides that, comments are what really keep my going so I very much appreciate feedback! - kenny

fandoms

a song of ice and fire

ongoing

aemond targaryen x stark!oc -> the burden of a bleeding heart (under construction/being rewritten)

summary: to dance with dragons is to play with wolves. after surviving her own assassination attempt, alarra stark endured a large scar across her face, slicing her face in half. for years after alarra was now known as "alarra the fierce" due to her ferocity at the young age, defending herself valiantly at merely thirteen-years-old. after then, she spent years training with her older brother, cregan stark, so that one day she could avoid the pain and suffering of anyone in her family; including herself. but, after those years spent training with men much larger than her, she is sent away and betrothed to joffrey velaryon for alliance towards the rightful heir to the iron throne: rhaenyra targaryen. accompanying the family to kingslanding, alarra realized maybe marrying the young velaryon boy wasn't so awful. but that was until she met a peculiar "one-eyed" prince.

marvel

finished

modern!logan x fem!reader -> neighbor across the hall (part 1) & apartment 315 (part 2)

summary: newly divorced, you move into an apartment complex, living alone for the first time in years. while you're still adapting and making friends you find that the single father and his daughter across the hall find you very fascinating.

the last of us

upcoming

joel miller x fem!reader -> forever is the sweetest con

summary: you're a us army veteran that served with tommy miller during the desert storm. after serving in the military, you move to boston, wanting a change of scenery. the world ends and you join a group of survivors, finding tommy. you and tommy help create a better place for the world, called jackson. it’s peaceful and everything you ever wanted. but then joel miller shows up into your life, shaking your mind and soul.

officer!ellie x fugitive!reader -> taste of your own medicine

summary: running away from your problems has been something youve always done. that was until it got you caught, and the blue officers had found you, locking you away. In your mind, all policemen were bad; all enforcement was evil. but ellie williams was truly the walking epitome of your nightmares- or dreams?

detroit: become human

upcoming

connor (rk800) x detective!reader -> heart in a headlock

summary: after being in the hospital for months on recovery, you’re sent back from suspension to your job as a detective for the detroit police. you return to find that there’s a new detective in the office, and he’s not human.

arcane: league of legends

upcoming

achilles!jayce x patroclus!viktor -> bleed myself dry

[damneddamsy]

DAMS masterlist 🌨️

renegade (aemond targaryen) x (fem!oc) part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, part viii, part ix, part x, bonus

second sight (cregan stark) x (fem!oc) - completed part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, part viii, part ix, part x , bonus i, bonus ii, bonus iii

second sight (modern!cregan stark) x (fem!oc) now, before, later

falling (joel miller) x (fem!oc) coming soon!

[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!

[damneddamsy]

b have you seen tom taylor's new tiktok...

Thought of you IMMEDIATELY

He's a PLANT DAD it was written in the stars for Cregan Stark to be with Claere modern or HOTD era

It starts with one plant for his birthday on a whim

then he starts getting obsessed, getting plants for HIMSELF and the general house and being more attentive than even miss plant mother herself

Speaking to them, getting anxious when away from home, etc

had to come here asap 😭😭

okay so I FLEW TO TIKTOK after seeing this and he is such a PLANT DAD! and lemme tell you something: THIS is the Cregan I imagine when I'm writing those modern!cregan fics, because it just makes more sense! He's so cute and awkward, and he looks so macho but he's just a mess on the inside... like please? help? me? 🥺🥺 and I'm so honoured you thought of me? UM ME? LIL' OL ME

[icarusignite]

Master Post

ace_asterisk on wp/ao3/tiktok

author of An Eye for an Eye (Aemond Targaryen x OC)

My tags:

#icarus ignite fic recs (my fav recs, all fandoms)

#icarus ignite asks

Requests are open!

AO3    |    Wattpad |

CHECK AO3/WP for completed series

ATEEZ

- Pirate Ateez Masterlist

- Danse Macabre (Jeong Yunho Series Masterlist)

THE LAST KINGDOM

Oneshot Masterlist:

- The only heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you: 1 / 2

(King Alfred x POC! Fem! Reader)

You are a prominent scholar from Baghdad, visiting Wessex to learn more about English culture and try to help its ailing monarch with your medical expertise. However, conflict arises when you find yourself falling for the Catholic king, knowing he cannot give you what you deserve.

- Valhalla Bound  (Finan x GN! Reader)

During the ransacking of Rumcofa, you save Osferth thus exchanging his fate for yours. aka you die and Finan's reaction to that

- Night Terrors (Sihtric x GN! Reader) 

Sihtric has a nightmare, and he accidentally snaps at you. What comes after is the most awkward confession of his life and you are oblivious af.

- Praying's just a poor man's way of begging (Sihtric x Fem! Reader) 

You are Earl Ragnar's youngest daughter and the boy you've spent many pleasant afternoons with as a child was none other than Sihtric Kjartansson. Reunited after years apart, will the two of you be able to face the truth of your feelings or will it all end in heartache?

- In this labyrinth of time, our souls entwined (Modern AU Finan x Fem! Reader)

Finan and his friends witness a bar fight during their night out and Finan feels a magnetic connection to the hero of the fight. This can be read on its own but it can also be seen as a continuation of my earlier fic Valhalla Bound where you died and now your reincarnation meets Finan's in another world and that's why you seem so familiar.

- Go ahead and cry, little girl (Aethelstan x Fem! Reader)

You are Sihtric’s daughter from his first wife. Your mother dies after he leaves her for his current wife and you blame him for his death. Aethelstan is yoiur dearest childhood friend.

Series:

- Union of the Gods Masterlist (Sihtric x OC)

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

Oneshots:

- I hate you I love you (Cregan Stark x fem! reader)

The five times you told Cregan Stark you hated him, and the one time you actually meant it.

- I want to fly with you on dragonback (and eat only cake) (Alicent x Rhaenyra)

Basically the title. Rhaenyra finally gets to take Alicent on that dragon ride and eat cake....and maybe kiss the girl she loves.

-  Like an old melody, my heart resumes 1 / 2  / 3 (Daeron x Fem! Reader)

After years apart and with several misunderstandings between them, you meet Prince Daeron at what is meant to be his betrothal feast. When secrets and unspoken desires come to light, you and Daeron are faced with a choice: to let go of the past and embrace a love that has always burned between them or allow your tumultuous history to keep you apart.

Series: (not uploading here anymore, check out my ao3/wp for it)

- An Eye for an Eye (rewrite): MASTERLIST

- Before the Sky Falls Masterlist (Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon OC) (complete)

- An Eye for an Eye Masterlist (Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!OC) (Old Version)

In which Daenys Velaryon, the oldest child of Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon, must come to terms with the fact that the man she loves has committed an unforgivable crime.

Percy Jackson and the Olympians

- I don't want your sympathy (i just want myself back) - Luke Castellan x GN! Child of Hypnos Reader

CRIMINAL MINDS

Oneshots:

-   Steady Your Heart in Mine (Spencer Reid x GN! Reader)

Exam season brings you a lot of stress and Spencer Reid is there to walk you through it. Established relationship, descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks.

Series:

- The Darkest Hour Before Dawn Masterlist (Spencer Reid x OC)

LOCKWOOD & CO.

Oneshots:

- I thought I dreamed her (Lucy x Lockkwood)

- I love you forever, I'm not a dreamer (Lucy x Lockwood)

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes:

Series:

These Violent Delights Masterlist

[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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