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octaneink · 12 days ago

Text

October Rain

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary: Will forgets his two-year anniversary with the Reader Warnings: Sad then cheesy as FUCK Notes: Based on this ask! I got carried away on this one...Kinda has more angst than fluff I think, but I hope the end was fluffy enough. Reader is described to be wearing makeup and have hair that has their orignal roots peeking through (beiefly)

You spend an hour picking out the dress.

It’s ridiculous, really—the closet yawns like a wound afterward, half your wardrobe strewn across the bed. Too formal, you’d hissed at the emerald gown. Too casual, you’d spat at the sundress, though summer died weeks ago. The silk slip you settle on is the colour of champagne, the one Will once said made you look like “a sunrise with legs”. You spin in front of the mirror, fabric swirling, and pretend the heat in your cheeks is from the hairdryer.

The bathroom sink becomes a warzone. Eyeliner wings sharp enough to draw blood. Blush blended to that “just-fucked” glow he’d teased you about last anniversary. You spritz the vanilla perfume he buys you every Christmas—‘So I can find you in a crowd,’ he’d said. Your phone buzzes on the counter.

A text from Will:

Will (7:43 PM): Emergency reshoot. Might be 20 mins late. Don’t eat my breadsticks, thief

You roll your eyes, smiling. Typical Will. You text back:

You (7:43 PM): If you’re late, I’m ordering TWO desserts. And I’ll tell the waiter you stood me up

You leave a note on the fridge in your loopy script—“Gone to claim my free pity cake. Catch up, slowpoke.” — And double-checked the contents of your clutch. Inside rests a small box with a silver ring, its band etched with tiny stars circling a moonstone—a mirror of the one you wear on your right hand. Under the stone was an engraving of the date of your first kiss hidden in tiny numerals.

Rain whispers against the windows as you step outside, but you don’t mind. You imagine his face when he opens the box, the way he’ll fumble trying to slide it onto his finger mid-sentence, his laugh warm and sheepish as he says, ‘Should’ve known you’d out-romance me.’

The cab driver eyes you in the rearview. “Big date?”

“The biggest,” you say, thumb rubbing the moonstone. Two years. Two years of his chaotic schedules and your terrible puns, of long sleepless nights and his hands steadying yours when you cried during sad movies.

The hostess leads you to the corner table, its surface gleaming under a halo of candlelight. Rain ticks softly against the windows, a muted rhythm beneath the murmur of violins and clinking crystal. You smooth your dress as you sit, the silk whispering against your thighs, and immediately reach to straighten the centrepiece—a single tulip, its petals curled at the edges like parchment. Wilted, you note, but it feels fitting. Romantic, in a vintage way.

You tug the tablecloth taut erasing imaginary wrinkles. The waiter materialises, his voice a velvet hum. “A drink to start while you wait?”

“A glass of Maker’s Mark and a Cabernet, please,” you say, fingertips drumming the menu. The waiter’s gaze flicks to the empty chair, then back to you. He nods, vanishing into the amber-lit haze of the restaurant.

When he returns, the whisky glows like molten gold in its glass, the Cabernet a deep ruby beside it. You take a sip of wine, the tannins bitter-sweet, and blurt, “Could we also start with the breadsticks? And—do you have any recommendations for the main course? We’re… celebrating.”

The waiter’s smile softens. “Anniversary?”

You nod, thumb brushing the moonstone on your ring. “Two years.”

“Congratulations,” he says, and you swear his tone dips. “The duck confit is exceptional. Crisp skin, pomegranate glaze. A favourite for… special occasions.”

“Perfect,” you say, voice bright as the candle flame. “And the breadsticks, please.”

They arrive warm, dusted with rosemary and sea salt. You pluck one, the crust crackling under your touch, and set it on Will’s bread plate. His ritual: stealing bites before the meal, grinning with a mouthful of carbs. The butter dish sits unopened—he’d argue it’s “sacrilege” to ruin good bread.

The waiter lingers. “Shall I wait to bring the duck?”

“Please wait a bit more.” You clear your throat. “He’ll be here any minute.”

He nods and walks off.

The couple beside you leans into a kiss, their shadows merging on the wall. You look away, smiling. That’ll be us in ten minutes, you think, adjusting the tulip one more time.

8:03 PM.

The ice cubes crackle in his untouched drink. You text him:

You (8:03 PM): Breadsticks are going quick. Hurry!

Outside, the rain thickens.

The restaurant’s candlelight pools like liquid gold on the tablecloth, but it can’t warm the chill creeping up your spine. Rain blurs the world beyond the glass into a smudge of greys and blues, and you fixate on it to avoid staring at the empty chair. Will’s whisky glints amber under the flickering flame, ice long melted, the glass sweating like your palms.

8:17 PM.

Your phone screen dims again. You tap it awake, thumb hovering over the latest text—sent seven minutes ago, still unanswered. The waiter glides over, his voice a gentle ripple in the silence. “Can I bring you anything else while you wait?”

You force a smile, brittle as the sugar crust on the crème brûlée at the next table. “Just the duck confit, please. And another Cabernet.” The please cracks, but he nods, retreating with a discretion that feels like mercy.

The duck arrives, its pomegranate glaze glistening. You slice into it with surgical precision, the knife barely whispering against the plate. Last year, Will stole a bite off your fork, grinning as juice dripped down his chin. Now, you chew slowly, each swallow a battle. The couple beside you clinks champagne flutes, their laughter a bright, foreign language. You glance at Will’s whisky, then slide it toward yourself, the glass leaving a damp ring on the linen. The first sip burns; the second tastes like regret.

9:03 PM.

The candle drowns in wax, its flame shrinking to a pitiful flame. A tulip petal drifts onto Will’s unused bread plate. You pluck it gently, its edges browning like a forgotten letter, and tuck it into your clutch beside the velvet box. The moonstone ring on your finger feels heavier now.

The waiter hesitates, his polished shoes shifting slightly against the hardwood floor. His fingers, long and graceful from years of balancing trays, hover near the table’s edge as if unsure whether to reach out or retreat. His gaze lingers on the empty glass of whisky.

“Dessert, perhaps?” He offers again, voice low, careful. “The chocolate torte is—”

You press your lips together, forcing a small, polite smile. “No, thank you,” you murmur, softer than you intended. Your fingers, stiff from clutching the sweating wine glass, fumble for your wallet. “Could I just have the receipt, please?”

He hesitates, then nods, pulling the leather folio from his apron. You pretend not to notice the way his brow furrows—the unspoken Are you sure? in the slight tilt of his head.

You open the bill, scanning the numbers without really seeing them. The candlelight flickers, casting wavering shadows over the ink. Duck confit. Cabernet Sauvignon. Breadsticks (2 orders). A bitter laugh threatens to rise in your throat—two orders, because you’d been so sure Will would devour them the second he arrived.

He watches, silent, as you count out the bills. Your hands don’t shake—not visibly, at least—but the edges of the notes crumple slightly under your grip. When you slide them across the table, he takes them with a practised nod, but then hesitates, thumbing through the stack.

“This is too much,” he says gently, extracting a few bills to return.

You shake your head, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder, where the candlelight catches the rain-streaked window. “Keep it. For the… the trouble.” The last word splinters, but you don’t let it crack further.

His mouth opens—maybe to protest, maybe to offer some other kindness—but you’re already standing, smoothing the ruined silk of your dress like it still matters.

At the door, the hostess—her delicate silver name tag glinting, Sophie—catches your arm with a touch so light it’s almost imperceptible. The warmth of her fingers is startling against your chilled skin.

“The rain’s gotten worse,” she says, her voice threaded with something that isn’t pity, but close. “Let me call you a cab.”

You turn your face just enough to meet her eyes, another practiced smile in place. “I’m alright, thank you.” Your voice is steady and pleasant, the same tone you’d use to decline an extra napkin. “Have a good night.”

You don’t wait for her reply. The door swings open, and the storm greets you like an old enemy—immediate, unrelenting. The silk dress, already ruined, clings to your skin as the rain seeps deeper, turning the fabric into a second, heavier skin. The cold is sharp, but you don’t shudder. You walk. One step, then another.

Behind you, the restaurant glows—golden, warm, a world still spinning without you in it. The violins hum on, the clink of glasses muffled by the downpour. Somewhere inside, the waiter is clearing the table, folding the unused napkin, and wiping away the water ring left by what should have been Will’s drink.

You walk faster.

The rain tastes like salt.

The tube station swallows you whole, its fluorescent lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. Rain cascades down the steps, turning the floor into a mirrored maze. Your heels—strappy, delicate, stupid—stab into the tile with every step, blisters gnawing at your skin. The silk dress clings to your legs, its champagne hue now muddied to dishwater grey. You don’t flinch. Let the pain root you. Let it be real.

A digital board flickers: CIRCLE LINE DELAYED – 22 MINUTES. Commuters sigh, their breath fogging the air. You sink onto a cold metal bench, mascara bleeding down your cheeks in charcoal streaks. The moonstone ring on your finger feels like a lie. You twist it off, the silver band catching the light one last time before you bury it in your clutch beside the velvet box.

An old man lowers himself beside you, his trench coat smelling of mothballs and Earl Grey. His face is a map of wrinkles, eyes milky at the edges but kind. His hands, speckled with age spots, grip a weathered umbrella. “Nasty night,” he rasps, nodding at the storm outside.

You nod back, silent.

He thrusts a weathered umbrella toward you, its handle carved with faded floral patterns. “Take it, lass. You’ll catch your death.”

“I’m alright, thank you,” you say, voice fraying at the edges. Polite. Always polite.

He hesitates, squinting at your trembling hands. “Sure?”

“Yes.” The word cracks. You turn away, staring at the tracks until his shuffling footsteps fade.

The train arrives fifty minutes late, its doors wheezing open. You board, heels slipping on the grimy floor. A toddler points at your drowned-rat elegance, giggling. Rain drips from your hem, forming a puddle at your feet.

At your stop, you limp up the stairs. The storm hasn’t relented—it thrives, needling your skin, soaking through the clutch pressed to your chest. Let the rain scald. Let it strip you raw. Your heels click defiantly, blisters splitting open, blood mingling with rainwater. You don’t slow. The pain is an anchor. The pain is true.

Let it drown out the memory of Will’s empty chair.

The automatic doors shudder open with a sound like a dying breath, spilling you into the lobby’s arctic chill. Air conditioning razors down your rain-raw skin, and your dress—once liquid silk, now a translucent shroud—clings to every curve, the fabric plastered to your thighs like wet tissue paper. Water sluices from your hem, squelching against polished marble as you walk.

Dave, the night guard, freezes mid-yawn. His eyes dart from your bare shoulders to the puddle spreading at your feet, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if swallowing a scream. “Ev-evening, miss,” he stammers, fingers spasming over his keyboard like he’s forgotten how to type.

You smile. Polished. Automatic. The kind you’d give a stranger. “Evening, Dave.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “Enjoy your shift.”

Mascara bleeds down your cheeks in Rorschach trails, each swipe of your hand hours ago having smeared it into abstract art. Your hair, once sleek, hangs in Medusa tendrils, rainwater still glazing the strands. Your right hand drifts to your ring finger, bare now, the moonstone’s absence a phantom itch.

The elevator dings. You step in, shoulders grazing cold steel. Your reflection splinters across the mirrored walls—a dozen shattered versions of yourself, each more unrecognisable than the last. One version trembles. Another sneers. A third presses a fist to her mouth, stifling something raw.

You fixate on the numbers lighting up: 4… 5… 6… Each floor hums, the sound vibrating in your molars. The doors open to your hallway, its geometric carpet clashing violently with your waterlogged heels. You fumble the key, metal scraping the lock until it gives, your trembling hands betraying you.

When the door finally gives, the flat smells of vanilla and Thai food. Light spills from the kitchen, where Will’s voice rings out, bright and buoyant over the clatter of dishes.

“Welcome home! You’ll never believe the day I—”

You step inside, rainwater pattering onto the entryway tiles.

“—had to reshoot the entire bridge sequence because the damn drone malfunctioned. Nearly brained James when he suggested cutting the tracking shot, but then—”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. You place your clutch on the coffee table, a dark stain spreading beneath it. The sound of his voice - usually so comforting - feels like radio static now, all meaningless noise.

"Anyway, I've got this banger idea for the next main channel vid—"

A cabinet slams. Silverware jingles. He’s pouring wine, you realize—the clink of two glasses meeting.

“Hungry? I grabbed that Thai place you like on the way back. The Penang curry’s still…”

He trails off as he rounds the corner, two glasses of Malbec in hand, hair messy and shirtsleeves rolled up. His grin fades when he sees you—a drowned spectre in ruined silk, mascara bleeding down your cheeks.

“Jesus, why’re you soaked?” He sets the glasses down too hard, crimson sloshing onto the counter. “Didn’t you check the weather? I texted you about the storm before I left this morning—”

Your voice cuts through his, quiet and lethally calm. “What’s today’s date, Will?”

“What?”

“The. Date.”

His eyes dart reflexively to the fridge—to the takeout calendar stuck beneath a Star Wars magnet, October 12th circled in your lavender gel pen. A Post-it note hangs half-peeled beneath it: “Dress fancy. 7:00. Il Girasole. Don’t be late!!! ”

The blood drains from his face. “Fuck. The shoot ran late, and then the producer ambushed me with notes, and I—”

“Two years.” Your whisper fractures. “You forgot two years.”

A beat. Rain lashes the window above the sink.

He reaches for you, wine-stained fingers trembling. “Let me fix this. I’ll call the restaurant—we can go now, I’ll—”

You sidestep his touch, the motion sending water droplets arcing onto the plush rug. The bathroom door slams shut behind you.

The bathroom tiles bite into your soles as you peel the dress from your skin. The silk clings, resisting until it finally slaps wetly against the floor. You ball it up, shove it into the rubbish bin beside the toilet. The champagne fabric wilts over the near empty bin.

The shower handle creaks as you crank it. Water hammers your hand before the heater catches up, icy needles sharpening to a scalding sheet. You step in, skin flushing red. Steam clots your lungs.

For a beat you stand there, staring blankly at the showerhead.

Then your breath hitches—sharp, shallow gulps that shudder through your ribs. You clamp a hand over your mouth, teeth sinking into the meat of your palm to stifle the sob climbing your throat. It works, but only briefly. A high, keening noise escapes through your nose, and you press your face into the crook of your elbow, smothering the sound against wet skin.

Tears come in silent, relentless waves. Your shoulders jerk forward with each suppressed gasp, muscles coiled so tight your back aches. Water streams down your face, mingling with snot and salt, but you keep your eyes screwed shut. When another sob threatens, you bite down harder on your hand, the pressure dull and grounding, but not enough to break skin.

Your free hand braces against the shower wall, fingers splayed white-knuckled on the tile. The urge to scream pulses in your throat, but you choke it back, swallowing until it burns. Your body rebels anyway: chest heaving, knees trembling, a strangled whimper slipping free. You slump against the wall, forehead pressed to cold ceramic, and let the water hammer the nape of your neck.

It’s messy. Uncontrolled. Snot drips onto your collarbone; tears pool in the divot of your pressed lips. You swipe at your face with a trembling fist, smearing rather than wiping, and suck in a ragged breath that catches like a hook in your windpipe. For a moment, you’re silent—then a fractured cry escapes, sharp as glass. You muffle it with both hands this time, breath hot and trapped against your palms, until the worst of the wave passes.

By the time the water runs cold, you’re hollowed out. Your breaths still hitch, but softer now—wet, exhausted sighs. You swipe your nose with the back of your wrist, eyes swollen to slits, and lean heavily on the wall to stand. Every muscle feels wrung-out, tender.

You reach for the soap with trembling hands. The bar slips twice before you manage to grip it, lathering mechanically between your palms. You scrub your arms again—not violently now, but with the dull precision of someone completing a chore. Bubbles slide over goose-bumped skin, your movements slow and leaden, like your bones are filled with wet sand.

Shampoo this time—squeezed directly onto your crown without measuring. You work it in with limp fingers, nails grazing your scalp without intent. Suds slither down your temples, stinging the corners of your bloodshot eyes. You don’t flinch. Just tilt your head back, let the spray rinse it away, your throat working silently as you swallow the last vestiges of tears.

A conditioner bottle clicks open. You apply too much, the excess dripping down your calves in pearlescent streaks. The scent—coconut, his favourite—makes your jaw clench. You rinse until the water runs clear, until your fingers prune and your skin feels scraped raw by nothing but time.

Beyond the door, Will’s breath hitches. He presses a palm to the wood, then balls up his hand, knuckles whitening, but doesn’t knock. “Fuck,” he mouths silently, raking a hand through his hair.

He counts each shuddering breath you take, his own syncing unevenly with yours. When the shower shuts off with a metallic squeal, he staggers back, suddenly aware he’s been holding his breath.

Silence.

Will hesitates, arm half-raised as if to knock. Then the rasp of a towel against skin sends him retreating down the hall, socked feet silent on hardwood. By the time you crack the door, he’s slumped on the living room sofa, staring blankly at his abandoned wine glass.

You dress in the sweatpants and shirt he left on the hook—his sweatpants, the ones he’d draped there this morning while whistling off-key, already late, already forgetting—and don’t look at the bin where your dress lies balled in the dark.

You crack open the door and step out, spotting Will with his back to the door, staring at something on the coffee table. You swallow and shuffle to the spare bedroom, closing the door softly and curling under the warm duvet, curling up and stare at the wall.

Rain ticks its fingernails against the windowpane. The hoodie you claimed for yourself from Will at the start of your relationship drowns you in its fabric, the cuffs frayed from his restless worrying and your attempted messy repairs at stitching them back together. The elbows are thin from wear. It smells like him still—

The door creaks.

A sliver of hallway light fractures the darkness, then vanishes as Will slips inside. He’s haloed in the dim glow of your alarm clock, shadows pooling beneath bloodshot eyes. His socked feet whisper across the floorboards until he kneels beside the bed, a supplicant at an altar.

“You once said…” His voice splinters, raw as the blisters on your heels. He tries again, softer. “‘We should’t go to bed if we’re angry at each other’ Even if it’s 2 AM. And you’re rightfully angry at me.”

You curl tighter, hoodie fabric muffling your reply. “You remembered that?”

A beat. His exhale unravels, frayed and uneven, as if the truth weighs more than his lungs can hold. “I remember everything.” The mattress groans as he leans closer, his knuckle catching a damp strand of hair from your cheek—the touch featherlight, like he’s handling glass. “How you take your coffee. Your weird fear of pigeons.” His thumb skims your jaw, lingering where your pulse thrums. "The way your smile lingered after our first kiss, like you were still tasting it when I walked you to your door." A ragged inhale. "I remember us. Every moment. Just...not the date on the calendar.”

Your breath hitches, betrayal and hope warring in your ribs. But then his palm cups your cheek, calluses catching on tear-salted skin, and you feel it—the tremor in his touch, the way his gaze maps your face like he’s memorising it anew. This is the man who once spent an hour untangling your necklace with a paperclip, who still flushes peony-pink when you mimic the way he murmurs your name between snores—lips parted, brow smooth, utterly, infuriatingly beautiful.

The fist around your lungs unclenches finger by finger—air flooding in, sweet and sharp as the first gasp after drowning.

He removes his hand from your face and unlocks his phone, the screen’s blue glare sharpening the hollows of his face, and hands it to you. A reservation confirmation glows: Il Girasole. Tomorrow, 7:00 PM. Table for two. “They’re holding the same corner booth. The duck’s still on the menu. And—” His throat bobs. “—I’ll eat every fucking breadstick this time. Even if they’re cold.”

A teary laugh escapes you, brittle but real. “Your memory’s awful.”

“But yours isn’t. I may be pants at dates, but I remember the proper things.” He swipes open his notes' app, revealing a list titled THINGS TO NEVER FORGET (OR ELSE) in all caps. And in bullet points:

Hates cilantro

Hates roses (cliché)

Hums when she cooks (buy a home speaker)

Secretly loves my terrible puns (look up more)

Saves fortune cookie slips (Saves it in a cute box, give her yours too)

Order at the dodgy kebab shop near the station: lamb, extra garlic sauce, no onions (but she’ll steal sone of mine anyway, so get a large)

Loves the centre of sandwiches (make sure to offer it to her before you finish it all)

Keeps the foil from chocolate bars (folds them into tiny stars when she’s stressed, found 17 in her coat pocket last winter)

Her ring size (6.25)

You sit up, moonlight catching the tear tracks on your face. “You made a list?” Your thumb keeps swiping, the entries endless—tiny, obsessive details you hadn’t even realised he’d noticed.

Your breath hitches. “How long…?”

“Since our first date.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “You told me you hated cilantro. I wrote it down so I’d never put it in your food. Then… it sort of grew.”

His phone screen flickers—a photo of you, mid-laugh at a pub, tucked between reminders: Buy more of her weird sour cherry tea and She bites her lip when concentrating (don’t distract her, no matter how cute it is).

"I updated it at the studio during the reshoot." His smile flickers, vulnerable at the edges. "James caught me and said I'm 'whipped.'" He huffs a laugh, thumb brushing your knuckles. "Told him he's just jealous because his girlfriend's never looked at him the way you look at me when I'm half-asleep and making coffee in my pants."

The tension unravels like a frayed knot, leaving only the quiet pulse of rain against glass. You reach for him, and he surges forward—foreheads colliding, noses brushing, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile. His thumbs sweep beneath your eyes, smudging tears into the salt-stained hollows of your cheeks.

“I’ll set alarms,” he rasps, lips skating your temple. His breath hitches, warm and uneven. “A thousand of them. Buy a calendar that takes up the whole fucking kitchen wall. Tattoo the date—”

“Don’t.” You press two fingers to his mouth, trembling.

He kisses them anyway, teeth grazing your knuckles. “—on my ribs,” he finishes, voice rough. “I’ll hire a skywriter. Carve it into every birthday cake we ever eat. Make our future kids recite it before—”

“Will.”

“—school. Every. Morning.” He’s grinning now, wild and desperate, eyes glittering in the dark. “I’ll be the embarrassing dad with anniversary-themed socks. The one who—”

You kiss him quiet. He tastes of mint toothpaste, of apologies swallowed too late. When you pull back, his smile has softened—not a promise, but a plea.

“Just,” you breathed in, “be here,” ending in a whisper.

His forehead drops to yours. “Always.”

You hook two fingers into the waist of his joggers—a gesture from your early days, when you’d drag him into dive bar bathrooms for reckless, laughing kisses. He follows without resistance, knees bumping the mattress as you fall back onto sheets still smelling of rain and your abandoned perfume.

He folds around you like a prayer, all trembling hands and murmured sorrys into your hair. His stubble scrapes your temple as he nuzzles closer, one arm banded tight around your ribs, the other cradling the nape of your neck—possessive, penitent.

“Still stealing my hoodies,” he rasps, thumb brushing the frayed cuff around your wrist.

“Still leaving them where I can find them,” you counter, voice muffled against his collarbone.

His laugh rumbles through you, warm and wounded. You map the familiar landscape of his face-the faint constellation of freckles on his cheekbone, the delicate lines that etch the corners of his eyes and his eyes—god, his eyes—blue flecked with moss-green, his iris fractured by a sliver of grey hold yours like a vow.

The rain softens to a hushed patter as Will shifts, his chest becoming a pillow beneath your cheek. You trace the hem of his shirt where it rides up, fingertips skating over the warm plane of his stomach. He shivers, not from cold, but from the featherlight drag of your nails.

“Still ticklish?” you murmur, pressing a smile into his collarbone.

He huffs a laugh, catching your wandering hand. “Still a menace.” But he laces his fingers through yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. His breath ghosts over them—a silent apology, a promise—before he kisses each ridge of bone.

You lift your head, finding his gaze. Moonlight spills through the blinds, striping his face in silver. His eyes are raw, red-rimmed, but soft as he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Your roots are growing in,” he whispers, thumb brushing the faint line at your temple. “Like autumn creeping into summer.”

Your breath hitches. He notices. He always notices.

“I was going to dye it tomorrow,” you admit, voice still thick from tears.

“Don’t.” His palm cradles your jaw, calluses catching on salt-dried skin. “I want to watch the seasons change.”

You swallow, throat tight. He leans in, so close his lashes brush your cheek, and for a heartbeat, you think he’ll kiss you. Instead, he noses along your hairline, inhaling deeply.

“Vanilla,” he murmurs, lips grazing your earlobe. “And that shampoo you pretend to hate.”

You snort, swatting his shoulder. “It dries my scalp.”

“Liar. You keep buying it.” His smile curves against your neck. “Just like you ‘hate’ my puns, but laughed at the one about the scared pasta.”

“It was shell-shocked.” You groan, even as laughter bubbles up, bright and healing. “That’s not even a pun, it’s a crime—”

His lips meet yours not as an ending, but a beginning—slow, syrup-sweet, a confession pressed into flesh. The first brush is tentative, a question mark curved against your mouth. His thumb finds the frantic pulse at your wrist, a callused pad circling gently, as if polishing a relic. I’m here, it whispers. I’m not leaving.

You sigh into him, and the kiss deepens—no longer an apology, but a promise. His free hand cradles the nape of your neck, fingers threading through damp hair still chilled from the storm. His touch is summer-warm, grounding you as he tilts your head, lips parting yours with a reverence that makes your ribs ache. There’s a hitch in his breath when your teeth graze his bottom lip, a stuttered oh swallowed by your mouth as he pulls you closer. When you whimper, he gentles, tongue sweeping soft as a paintbrush over the seam of your lips. Let me in, it pleads. Let me fix this.

You open, and he moans low in his throat—a sound that vibrates through your sternum. His hands skate down your spine, bunching the stolen hoodie at your waist, kneading the tender hollows above your hips. You arch into him, fingers fisting in his shirt as he nips your jaw, then soothes the sting with a flick of his tongue.

His lips linger against yours, breath mingling in the scant centimetres between you. When he finally pulls back, it’s just far enough to let his thumb brush the fringe of your lashes. His own eyes are glassy, the joke hovering on his tongue not yet ready to land—not until he’s sure you’re both still here, still real.

You feel it—the tremor in his hands where they cradle your face, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your palm. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your knuckles, before managing a shaky grin.

“Still got it,” he whispers, voice frayed at the edges. His attempt at levity cracks mid-syllable, revealing the raw fear beneath—the terror that this might’ve broken you.

You huff a damp laugh into the hollow of his throat. “Got what?”

He nuzzles your temple, stubble catching on tender skin. “The magic touch.” A pause. His nose traces your temple, breath warm and uneven. “Made you laugh, didn’t I?”

It’s not the joke that undoes you, but the desperation in it—the way his arms tighten around your ribs like he’s clinging to driftwood. You press closer, lips brushing the frantic thrum at his jugular.

“Terrible puns aren’t a ‘magic touch,’” you mutter, teeth grazing his collarbone in reprimand.

He shivers, fingers skating up your spine. “Admit it.” His palm splays between your shoulder blades, pressing you flush against him until there’s no space for doubt, for anger, for anything but his next whispered plea: “You married a comedic genius.”

“We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

The word hangs, delicate as the cobwebs glinting in the window’s moonlit corners. Your heartbeat thrums against his, syncing as his hands slide beneath the stolen hoodie, palms searing trails up your spine.

“Will—”

“Not asking,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Just… storing the idea. Somewhere between your sandwich centres and chocolate foil stars.”

You fist your hands in his shirt, anchoring yourself as he shifts, rolling until you’re cocooned beneath him. His weight is a comfort, familiar as your own breath.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “The quiet version. The one you only show at 3 AM.”

So you do—lips brushing his throat as you confess the ache of waiting, the terror of feeling forgotten. He listens, fingers combing through your hair, until your whispers dissolve into yawns.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, tugging the duvet over your tangled legs. “I’ll be here when you wake, I promise. Even if morning you is a sight.”

You snort, but curl closer, nose buried in the hollow of his throat. His heartbeat drums a lullaby against your lips—steady, alive, yours.

I hope this was okay! It took longer than expected, so sorry about that! And I hope you don't mind that I made it a female reader. Also, I'm thinking of possibly making a part two where they go on the date that Will booked...thoughts?

#willne #willne x fem!reader #will lenney #will lenney x fem!reader #willne oneshot #willne angst + fluff

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lilacgaby · 7 months ago

Note

Yay request open oh oh if youre in Gumi era just having idea can I have more of his domestic fluff like planning on their future life any kind of domestic will do (๑•́ω•̀) 💗💗

title: my heart is yours eternally

pairing: boyfriend-> husband!megumi x girlfriend->wife!reader

summary: megumi thought this life he planned was only one in fairytales, but as he looked at the life he built with you, he knew it was real.

note: i love megumi pls pls pls request him more ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

"i want a small wedding." he said out of the blue as you two laid in his bed, holding your hand in his and he looked over you. "one that's intimate, i don't mind you choosing the theme or anything."

as you nodded thoughtfully, you entangled your fingers together. "mhm. just for us. and i want you to have a pretty ring too, i think you'd look nice with one in silver."

"you think?" he replied, eyebrow raised.

"i know so. and we can have a huge wedding cake-"

"vanilla."

"yes vanilla, with ice cream too. just for us."

he seemed content with that, smiling softly. until a thought crossed over his mind and he looked down at you with a look in his eye.

"i'll get you a nice ring, i promise. you just need to wait." he said, determined.

"i'll wait for you 'til the end of time, 'gumi."

he flushed and squeezed your hand tighter, he had to get the best for you. he couldn't sleep right if he didn't.

"you want any kids 'gumi?" you asked absentmindedly, not noticing the way he choked on air at the thought. images of you pregnant ran through his mind, his mind spiraling as he failed to find the words.

"megumi?"

"oh, uh.. a brother and a sister. that's all we need."

"sounds good, i wouldn't want our baby to get lonely when we're gone after all."

he felt his mind sputter at the thought of your baby, with features from you and him.

the topic of conversation eventually changed to something different, a show you were watching. as he listened to you recount how happy you were that the characters you hated died, his mind still kept going back to the conversation you had earlier.

he fell asleep holding your hand, images of the life you'd have together running through vividly, like he could almost touch it.

since then, he was determined to make that a reality for the two of you.

he proposed to you on your anniversary, taking every possible note he could about the types of rings you liked before choosing one. as he held you hand in his and slid on the ring, kissing you with only the sunset behind you as witness, he felt truly loved.

the months spent planning your wedding weren't as stressful as you handled it together. finding the perfect venue, small like you both wanted.

going on dates to sample cakes, laughing at megumi's face of disgust. choosing the topper for the cake, opting for two loving bunnies at the top since none of them could get megumi's hair right.

choosing who to invite, megumi 'begrudgingly' inviting his old friends from jujutsu high, and you yours.

him going out with gojo and yuuji to pick the perfect suit, you choosing your dress with your most trusted friends.

walking down the aisle, megumi felt emotional since you were just so gorgeous, he never felt as luck as he did when you were announced husband and wife.

well actually, that's a lie.

when you gifted him a box, full of baby clothes and a stick with two life changing lines on it, he knew you were his good luck charm.

as he promised, he loved you through even your sickness. a lot of foods made you nauseous, so he'd started to learn how to cook because it was exhausting for you.

your bump was bigger than average, not like he'd say it to your face, but it was confirmed when you went to get your ultrasound. twins.

you squinted your eyes at him and jokingly hit him on his shoulder lightly, saying, "this is your fault!"

he only laughed. at your gender reveal, just a small thing between you two, you held hands and cut a cake slice out of the cake. to your surprise, it was blue and pink.

your stomach got huge, at 9 months you just wanted your kids out. megumi would take you out on walks everyday, well just strolls around your house technically, but it was a lot for you.

on day number 3, your water broke. you thought you'd finally feel relieved, but good thing megumi was there because you panicked. he was too but mentally.

as you delivered your babies, the son first, you squeezed his hand for dear life.

when you went home with 2 kids a couple days later, you sleeping as megumi held the two in the rocking chair he'd picked out, he felt like it was a dream.

when you awoke, and he'd matched the features of your son who took after you and your daughter after him, his heart fluttered as he felt his body soar.

this is what love is, and this is what he dreamt of.

#oops this is kinda long #I LOVE MEGUMI #lilac asks❤︎︎#megumi drabble #megumi fluff #megumi x you #jujutsu megumi #megumi x reader #jujutsu kaisen megumi #jjk megumi #megumi fushiguro #megumi x y/n #megumi fushiguro x reader

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acrosstheujiverse · 9 months ago

Text

Through the Years

【📂】 summary: it’s you and your husband's silver wedding anniversary. it's been 25 years since you've married kim mingyu and you’re filled with nostalgia as you reminisce back on how life has been in your sleep. 【🖇️】 pairing: husband!mingyu x wife!reader. 【💿】 genre: nostalgia and heartwarming. 【🧺】 tags: established relationship; memories; pregnancy; mentions of religion; one mention of "cheater"; married life. 【📦】 word count: 2.5k+

📬 — author’s note！this is inspired by a real story.

thank you for the overwhelmingly positive response to my headcannon post, dynamics of an introverted couple !! (check it out if you haven't).

i dedicate this to those who are raising children—we appreciate you. some of us (children) may be too afraid/shy/embarrassed to say this… but i’ll say it on behalf of them. from the bottom of my heart, thank you for all your effort, support, love, and sacrifices.

*i’ve included some easter eggs! ^^

(it was my birthday 2 days ago so i was motivated to give you a gift in the form of this story hehe~ happy reading! ٩( ᐛ )و*)

p.s. please pardon any grammatical error.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

after spending the evening at a restaurant downtown, you and your husband, mingyu, walk hand-in-hand into your dimly lit house.

“huh… i guess the kids must be in their rooms right now.” you said to your husband.

all of a sudden you both hear muffled sounds in your guys’ living room.

you and mingyu exchanged knowing looks at each other. “let’s not make them wait any longer, hon. let’s go.” mingyu whispered to you.

chuckling quietly, you nodded in agreement. “let’s go, my dear lord mingyu.”

he cheekily smiled, “right after you, lady (y/n).”

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

“shhh! be quiet--i hear them!”

“hurry up, aji!”

“okay... in 3-2-1—!”

“SURPRISE!!!”

both you and mingyu feigned shock and surprise.

your three kids stood in the middle of the living room beaming with joy, feeling satisfied with their surprise celebration. ,. one was holding a cake, another was holding a handmade banner, with ‘you’re the best mom and dad ever!’ written on it, and the other one setting off a confetti wand.

“HAPPY 25TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY MOM AND DAD!!!”

you cooed at the sweet gesture from your kids.

“aww! thank you, my babies. your dad and i appreciate your efforts.”

mingyu initiated a family group hug. “thank you kids.”

giggling, all three of your kids said in unison, “you’re welcome mom and dad!”

you gave mingyu a side hug after everyone dispersed themselves. the two of you held a warm gaze into each other’s eyes. a sweet and loving smile never leaving both of your faces.

“happy anniversary again, love~”

“happy anniversary again, hon~”

you exchanged kisses.

both of you chuckled at the déjà vu of it all.

but you and mingyu don’t mind celebrating your wedding anniversary again because this time it’s with your whole family.

it was, indeed, a mirthful celebration.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

“goodnight, gyu.”

“goodnight, (y/n).”

as you lay in your shared bedroom, you begin to reminisce about the beginnings of you and mingyu’s relationship. you softly smiled as you slowly slipped into your dreams.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

“mom… (y/n) and i are going to be parents. (y/n)’s pregnant.”

you were both not ready to be parents. you were 23 and mingyu was 20.

you were in your last year of college, while he was in his second year.

you both were filled with limitless opportunities, but in the eyes of both your parents... it was a different story.

“KIM. MINGYU. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS??!”

mingyu’s mother was a religious woman, a devout believer of god, and an avid churchgoer.

born and raised in the countryside where everyone knew each other, both you and mingyu knew that you were going to be the talk of the town for… a while.

(with hindsight, it was only years later that you realized how your mother-in-law took the brunt of most of the gossip.)

although mingyu’s mother was strongly opposed to the pregnancy at first, she knew she could do nothing to change the fact that you were pregnant. you were relieved that she wasn’t like those cruel stepmothers portrayed in disney movies—definitely, not. she eventually warmed up to the situation at hand and guided the both of you during your pregnancy.

you and mingyu were set to be married a month before your first child's due date. yes, it was an outdated belief that both your families held back in the day, but it was what was considered acceptable at that time. you married early because of the pregnancy, but you had already decided long before you got pregnant that he was the one. mingyu was the one that's meant to be standing beside you at the altar and the one that you were going to grow old with.

the moment that truly changed mingyu’s mother’s heart was when aji was born. the moment she first laid eyes on your first born baby girl, her eyes were filled with love.

(she later told you that it was as if she was a first-time mother again.)

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

to say that raising a child was hard would be a huge understatement.

you were blessed with three children.

the first born, aji, was the hardest to take care of because you both didn’t know what you were supposed to do. (both of your parents were there to guide you for the most part, but the rest of the work had to come from you and mingyu.) with aji, the both of you were overly protective.

the second child, chi, was less hard to take care of because now both of you had experience but it wasn’t easy. learning from all the mistakes and lessons from your first child, you and mingyu applied all the knowledge you had with chi, and for the most part all of your tactics worked. chi was a very sickly baby when she was born, and so you and your husband worked tirelessly to provide all the necessary medication that your baby needed. with chi, the both of you were protective.

the youngest, bo, was easier to take care of because you both learned valuable things from the last two. however… the skills and tricks you had learned from raising aji and chi wasn’t really working well with bo because… he was the only boy. so it was like being back to square one again. with bo, the both of you learned to be a little bit carefree.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

your husband was a man of many admirable qualities.

kim mingyu had a strong work ethic.

in the beginning of your guys’ marriage, he would work odd jobs, anything that would pay him. anything that would sustain your growing family.

when you were pregnant with your youngest, it was an unexpected pregnancy (it was déjà vu). you noticed the signs of pregnancy early and confirmed it with a test kit.

mingyu had a plan, you were skeptical at first but you eventually caved in. he would apply to work abroad and get a permanent residency. the work and money in your guys’ small town did not pay enough for a family of five, so mingyu looked for work outside of your country since they pay much more.

fortunately, he was there when you gave birth to bo and when he took his first steps.

it was only when bo was about two years old that mingyu left to go abroad.

you had worked on a video call schedule with him so that you and the children would have communication with him. he’d send a few pictures and videos of his life abroad… but it didn’t fill the feeling of longingness for him in your heart. you missed him so much.

raising all three of your children without your husband by your side took a toll on your mental and physical wellbeing. the first year without mingyu was the hardest for you, but you eventually got back on your feet thanks to the support you had from your friends, and his and your family. you knew you had to be strong not only for your husband and children, but also for yourself.

and you maintained your unwavering commitment to being a great mother to your children in the five years that mingyu was gone.

it was only until bo was seven years old that he met his father again. aji was about 15, and chi was 9 years old.

his five years abroad was the longest you two have ever been apart, but it proved to be an incredible testament to the lengths you both would endure just to provide your children with a comfortable life. a life that used to only exist in the movies and dramas that you two would watch before but has now been made possible because of the hard work and sacrifices you and mingyu made.

kim mingyu was chivalrous.

it was the simplest gesture of his that you would take notice of: he would hold open doors for you and your children. it was an automatic response from him–you didn’t need to ask him to–he just simply did it. as a father, his gentlemanly actions set the standards and expectations of your children. they especially influence the actions of your youngest son, bo.

mingyu was someone that’s attentive to the needs of others. an altruistic person.

he’d say to your children, “if you can help, then help.”

your husband isn’t an overly kind person. he knows his boundaries… sometimes. in your viewpoint, at times, he gets a bit into helping others to the point that he fails to recognize that they were only using him for their own selfish reasons. you were his voice of reason and helped him put a limit to his kindness.

kim mingyu was a homemaker.

from cooking, driving the kids, vacuuming, mopping, cleaning dishes, folding clothes, mowing, cutting and dyeing the kids’ hair (and your hair)—mingyu was an absolute all rounder around the house. but it’s not like you don’t do your fair share of house chores–you do. the two of you alternate chores every week. it’s a routinized system that the two of you made.

your relationship with your husband isn’t at all perfect, but you know you’re both going to get through it together. in times where you don’t see eye to eye, or say things in the heat of the moment… both of you will silently apologize through actions.

it’s not like you both can’t verbally apologize to one another… it’s just that the both of you are not used to expressing your emotions. you two didn’t grow up in an environment where emotions were talked about.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

once, mingyu shared a personal story with you.

it was about his father.

he shared how he was distant with his father. mingyu, as a child, hated the way his father would always leave and make his mother cry. his mother always hid away in the bathroom or their "shared" bedroom to shed her tears, away from mingyu, but he heard them. he heard her painful cries every single night. there was never a day where his mother didn't cry herself to sleep.

his father was someone who couldn’t keep his zipper up—a cheater.

his father was what made kim mingyu the man that he is now.

he hated his father. he didn't want to be like him when he grew up. so he made a silent promise to himself that he would never treat the woman that he loved and married like how his father did to his mother.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

the past 25 years of your married life and family life had its ups and downs, of course no relationships are ever picture-perfect, but you try to embrace each other's shortcomings.

after 25 years of being married, you can proudly say that 23 year old you and 20 year old mingyu would be glad to see 48 year old you and 45 year old mingyu still standing strong together. that no matter what life has thrown your way, you've both gotten through those battles and came out victorious at the end. (some battles may have taken some time to resolve but you both remained by each other's side.)

you and mingyu may not see eye to eye on some things, but you always try to make things work. you try to make compromises with each other.

your marriage may have started because of unexpected circumstances... but it has led you both to an unpredictably beautiful future.

a future with your three children. a future with you and him. a future with a loving family that you both only wished of when you were younger.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

tears continuously pour down your face as you remember your trip down memory lane last night. you try to quietly wipe your tears and lower your weeping but your repeated attempts at silencing yourself only stirs your husband awake.

he's shifting his body beside you to try and face you. "hon..? are you—"

but before mingyu could see your tear stained face, you quickly buried your face into his bare chest.

"woah. (y/n)—honey—are you okay?" he slightly chuckled in his morning voice.

"m jst gld yr he," your muffled voice softly answered.

"what? i didn't understand what you said. could you repeat it while looking at me... please?"

he knew just how to get you to open up to him.

darn you, kim mingyu!

you gave in to his request.

“i’m just glad you’re here…”

you looked up at him and when you met each other’s eyes, his slowly started going wide with worry. "aww, (y/n)... did you have a bad dream?" he gently brushed your tear stained eyes and cheeks.

you shook your head. "no... it was actually the opposite."

giving him a small smile, you rest your head against his warm toned chest as you begin to share the contents of your dreams.

“i dreamt about us last night. how everything started to how everything is now. it opened my mind to how much we’ve been through all these years. it made me feel more grateful to have you as my life partner and husband.”

tears started to welled up in mingyu’s eyes. his heart overflowing with even more love for you.

"thank you for fighting for us, love. thank you for fighting for me–for fighting for our family. i know many were opposed to us because of the sanctity of our marriage but we proved them wrong by staying true to our vows. i’m so thankful that i have the best husband, partner, and father (to our children)–it’s more than i could ever ask for. i love you.”

with that, mingyu embraced you ever so delicately with his muscular arms, it was as if a gentle giant holding a porcelain vase, afraid you were going to break if he applied too much pressure.

“all the promises that i’ve made to you, on our wedding day and after we were married, will never be in vain (y/n)... i can assure you that. we’ve already been through so much together; we’ve witnessed each other's worst pains and great joys. we work great as a team and i wouldn’t want to experience the rest of my life without you. i want to keep making more great memories with you. i want us to keep being by each other's side. thank you for loving me, even though i’m not perfect.”

“i’m not perfect either gyu. we both are imperfect—but it’s that imperfection of ours that i love so much. we’re not perfect but we are perfectly imperfect for each other to love. we complement each other’s weaknesses with our strengths.”

his hold on you tightened slightly, as if he was afraid you would suddenly disappear. you couldn’t see it, but a single tear rolled down mingyu’s cheek. he wore a bittersweet smile on his face.

your sentimental words have your husband feeling bashful and so warm inside.

feeling that his throat was closing up soon, he could only muster up the courage to utter one last endearment to you.

“i love you (y/n)… more than you could ever know… thank you for loving this imperfect me.”

- fin.

#acrosstheujiverse #one shots #seventeen #svt #svt x reader #seventeen fluff #au #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu seventeen #mingyu fluff #mingyu imagines #kim mingyu #established relationship #married life #Spotify #thank you

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amywritesthings · 4 months ago

Text

happy birthday, levi. / part one.

pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) word count: 2.7k summary: It's your first Christmas with the whole Underground gang -- but you didn't realize the date shares significance to someone's birthday.

rated teen // pre-aot, the underground gang are teens, explicit language, baking, eating food, unresolved romantic tension, lots of yearning, fluffy found family vibes for the holiday

note: set in the universe silver underground during flashback two credit: dividers by @/saradika-graphics; thank you to @nube55 for sending me this prompt for the SU anniversary! part of: #leviweek24 / @levievent (day one: birthday)

part two coming soon.

Christmas Eve.

Although you have never celebrated the holidays before, it isn’t as if you’ve never wanted to celebrate them. Mother had no interest in spending her booze money on her adoptive children, and most of the people residing in the Underground don’t have the coin in general for the festivities they partake in on the surface.

Lost in your own thoughts, it takes a few seconds for you to realize you have company: Furlan and Isabel slide up to your scrubbing station at the kitchen sink sporting twin smirks, one on either side.

(You swear they operate on the same unearthly wavelength.)

“Whatever it is you’re planning,” you start with a pointed look to Furlan, “Levi is going to say no.”

“What makes you so sure we’re going to tell him?” chimes Isabel, catching your interest.

When your turn your attention to her, the ginger-haired girl grins proud and wide.

You’re not convinced.

“So you two want to double your chores?”

“Why would he double them?” Furlan snorts, taking a finished plate from your hands to towel-dry it off.

“If I feign innocence to whatever plot you’re hatching, then he’ll give both of you—” You use a clean fork to gesture it between the conspiring friends. “—not only his duties, but mine.”

Isabel deflates a fraction of an inch.

“Damn, she’s right.”

“Still,” Furlan presses on, “you should hear us out, because there’s something you don’t know about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Your brow furrows. “You mean Christmas? I know what Christmas is, Church.”

“No!” Furlan groans, head bent back to the ceiling. “Ugh, c’mon, James. We all know Christmas is tomorrow—”

“—but so is a certain someone’s birthday,” interrupts Isabel.

Wait.

Low and conspiratorial, you voice the point they’ve been hinting at since they double-teamed this conversation at the kitchen sink:

“...Levi’s birthday is on Christmas?”

“A-yup.” Isabel crosses her arms, leaning against the counter. “And he doesn’t ever tell anyone about it, so this is a biggie.”

“Then how’d you know?”

“Because Furlan told me.”

“But we didn’t celebrate it last year,” you argue. “Before we found Isa, I mean.”

(How has it already been a year since you’ve been living with the boys, and six months since Isabel Magnolia joined the crew?)

“Well, technically I only found out this year because Levi kinda mumbled in his sleep once, and I put two and two together,” Furlan quickly explains, palms held up in surrender, “but he never mentioned it any of the other years before when I met ‘em.”

Granted, you barely remember your own birthday sometimes, but the idea of a holiday overshadowing Levi’s birthday feels… sad.

There is already so little in the Underground to celebrate, but Levi is an exception; always has, always will be for you.

Giving the newly-clean fork to Furlan to towel off, you take a step back to view them both.

“I’m in.”

“Huh?”

“Really?!”

Isabel catches what you’re saying well before Furlan does — unsurprisingly. Although the young girl shares a bond with Furlan, the two of you have your own secret language.

(A found sister you’d always wanted.)

“We have plenty of time to make a small cake before he comes home,” you add, rounding them to begin looking around the shelves to take inventory.

Although ingredients for baking in the Underground are scarce and few, the score from last week’s heist can be your solution to a few deals with some of the surface-dwellers lurking with luxury goods.

“Fur, mind running to the market? You can use some of my earnings if flour costs extra this year.”

“No need, sis, we got ya,” Isabel chirps as she bounces over to the door, saluting you.

Furlan meets your gaze and nods once, saluting as a joke to match Isabel, before disappearing.

The small apartment is silent once more, leaving you to stir in this newfound information about Levi Ackerman.

There’s so much you still don’t know about the teen, his personal life locked tight with an impossible key.

If Furlan’s wrong, then it’ll be one hell of an awkward surprise.

If he’s right?

Your attention trails to your shared bedroom with Isabel, mindful of the bag of tea you’d stolen in last week’s heist. There hasn’t been a time or place to tell Levi that you swiped goods from somebody on the surface, risking your own neck for something as precious as leaves.

(But they mattered to him, so you didn’t think twice.)

With a sharp inhale, you place your hands on your hips and nod to yourself.

“A birthday cake,” you say to no one, hyping yourself up for the challenge. “It’s a damn cake, how hard can it possibly be?”

The answer appears to be incredibly hard.

“You’re not doing it right.”

“What?”

“I said you’re not doing it right, bro!”

“I know how to sift flour, Isabel!”

“Not well, apparently!”

“Children,” you call to your helpers at the old dining room table, “I know they say baking is a science, but I need you to be less critical and more — y’know, efficient, before he gets home.”

“Aye, aye, captain!” Furlan calls, holding out a bowl to you. “Flour, salts, and all the whatever stuff is ready for you.”

You take it off of his hands and add the mixture, trying to eyeball the mix.

Granted, you’re no baker yourself — you’re barely a cook on your regular days, left only to observe and learn by what Levi’s taught you since moving into his apartment — but you’re trying your damnedest anyway.

Once the rectangular pan is in the oven, you drop the mittens onto the counter and wipe the sweat off of your brow.

Is it the most amazing cake?

Probably not.

Should it have taken three people to make?

Definitely not.

Yet the three of you worked hard to produce it.

“When is he supposed to come home?” Isabel adds, flopping down on the couch with a grunt.

“He said by nightfall,” you tell them both, remembering your brief conversation from this morning’s spar. “So we have some time.”

Furlan hangs his apron (see: Levi’s) against the back of a wooden chair and drops down to the couch beside Isabel, his head lying back.

“How come he always tells you where he’s going, but not me?”

You don’t have an answer.

Furlan is right: Levi always leaves his plans in the palm of your hands, his whereabouts unknown to the rest of the world, but you aren’t sure why.

In hindsight he should be trusting the person he’s known the longest, and yet—

Just because Levi endorsed you.

The words that Furlan spoke when he first revealed the ODM gear to you, though it was dropped before you could ever get clarification.

Levi wanted you here, after all these years.

He trusted your word, your opinion, your view.

And you still don’t know why.

(You would be a liar if you said you didn’t feel the same magnetic pull, unspoken and unmatched.)

“Watch the cake, will you?” you ask the two as you disappear into the bedroom, closing the door to a crack behind you.

You move to the tiny nightstand by your bedside, rummaging through the bottom drawer to find it: the loose tea leaves hidden away, smelling delightfully fresh.

Gingerly you hold it in the palm of your hands, wondering—

Will he be angry if he finds out you swiped this?

Would it supersede the fact that you stole them just for him?

(A cake baked by three idiots is already a stretch for someone who doesn’t tell people about their birthday, but will a personal gift cross the line?)

Your hand curls around the bag to gently conceal it in the pocket of your worn jacket, making a decision.

It’s almost Christmas.

You’ll take your chances.

The second the raven-haired boy steps into the apartment, you can tell he’s on high alert.

Maybe it’s the way Isabel looks as if she’s about to burst at the seams, overtly excited for the surprise hiding behind her back.

Maybe it’s the way Furlan bends at the hip, awkwardly pressing a hand on the chair behind Isabel’s back to complete the human shield hiding your amateur birthday cake on the table.

Regardless, his eyes flicker to them directly to yours, asking wordlessly:

What’s going on?

You shake your head, albeit lightly.

It’s fine.

The furrow in his brow only decreases by a centimeter before his stern gaze returns to the wonder twins all but bursting at the seams with their giggles and snickers.

“What shit did I walk into?” he bluntly asks them.

Furlan takes the lead, playing the much-too-cool cop in this situation.

“Well, ya know — it’s Christmas Eve and all—”

“Obviously,” Levi flatly interrupts.

“—and you have been busting your ass and stuff on this next job of ours—”

“This feels like a very poor proposal,” he interrupts again.

“—and because of—”

Isabel, unable to help herself, bursts out with her arms high over her head:

“Happy birthday, bro!”

Silence.

Pure.

Agonizing.

Silence.

Levi’s eyes find yours once more, brows raised with intrigue. There are multiple questions in his eyes, some you aren’t quite catching, but you know he’s biting his tongue.

Mad, maybe not, but uncomfortable? Yeah.

You tilt your head as if to apologize, unable to provide much solace, only to walk to the table for the big reveal.

Picking up the little chocolate cake from behind Isabel and Furlan, you carefully hold the tray as you walk across the apartment right to him at the door.

“Technically Furlan told us it was tomorrow,” you start as if you’re trying not to scare a feral cat, “but we wanted to make sure you could celebrate it.”

“And you wouldn’t be out of the house tomorrow,” Furlan chimes in, and you can’t help but roll your eyes when you’re out of his line of sight.

That gets an imperceptible smile to twitch at the corner of Levi’s lips.

“That, too,” you concede.

Holding up the cake with the singular burning candle, your eyes search his for his thoughts, feelings, emotions — if he hates it, if he’s angry at the three of you for conspiring, if —

“I didn’t know Furlan knew my birthday,” is all he responds, staring at the cake.

Even if he’s subtle about it, the flicker of the flame before him illuminates a different story.

He’s… shocked.

Stuck staring at the flame, the dark-haired teen seems to be committing the sight to memory.

So are you.

“You’re supposed to make a wish and blow the candle out,” you murmur, catching his attention. ”I don’t make the rules.”

His stormy eyes glance up at you, taking a pause.

(A moment, it seems, for the two of you.)

“Any?” the sixteen year-old asks under his breath.

You nod.

He nods back, eyes still on you, before reaching for the cake. He pinches the flame between his thumb and index finger, snuffing out the flame instantly.

Your eyes shoot wide. “Levi—”

“Blowing on it is fucking disgusting,” he chimes, before craning his neck so he can look at Furlan and Isabel waiting behind you. “You mouth breathers didn’t get any of your germs on this thing, right?”

Isabel cackles while Furlan makes short, choked noises of indignance.

“Hey, I didn’t get my damn germs on it!”

“Just checking,” he replies casually, but a ghost of a smile passes over his lips. His head tilts quickly to the right, signalling the two of you should join them.

(The tea leaves feel heavy in your jacket pocket.)

Walking the cake back to the table, Isabel jumps at the ready to cut up slices, all too eager to serve the birthday boy and talk his ear off about the many adventures they’d taken as a trio to pull this off. You give her the floor, too busy watching Levi in the moment.

Was this really his first cake?

Granted, you’ve never had a cake yourself, much less a birthday present, but…

The concept of celebrating something — anything — among the four of you hits your in the belly, hard.

You want to celebrate. You want to take the perceived little things and make them grandiose, with the time that’s been gifted to you.

You’re only sixteen, but you know.

Time is precious.

(And so is he.)

Observing the group as they dive into their slices of chocolate cake — thank the heavens they’re not only edible, but delicious — you wait for clean-up duty to begin in order to tap Levi’s billowing white sleeve draped across the empty chair beside him.

The raven-haired boy looks up at you, his full attention solely on you.

“You alright?”

You nod, even if your palms are sweating.

“I noticed you baked the damn thing but didn’t have a slice,” he adds simply. “Allergic to chocolate cake or something?”

“I’ll have some later,” you promise, shifting from one foot to another. “Could we… talk?”

Immediately his brow furrows.

Concern.

You wave it off. “It’s nothing bad. Swear.”

“Is it a second cake?” he tries to joke, deadpan in its delivery, but he stands nonetheless.

You snort, stepping away to walk him to your bedroom for privacy.

Isabel and Furlan are too busy fighting over who cleans and who dries.

This is your window.

Levi follows, his forearm resting on the doorframe for a second as he looks you over, trying to understand where this is going. His eyes narrow, contemplating, before walking in after you.

“It isn’t like you to be cagey.”

“Yeah, well, this is something just from me.”

The words cause your body to scorch with embarrassment. Sentiment isn’t in your vocabulary. You’ve known him for over a year now, closer to two years, yet—

This feels strangely intimate.

Especially now that his narrowed gaze smooths and softens, understanding.

Before he can say anything more, you shove your hand into your pocket to fish out the bag and hold it out to him, jaw clenched.

You should say happy birthday, but you can’t.

Hell, you can’t say much of anything as you wait.

Levi drops his chin, pausing, before he nears. “Is that…”

“They’re fresh,” you interrupt in a blurt.

“James.”

Shit.

He sounds upset.

“I know, but I was discreet,” you attempt to explain. “It was in someone’s pocket during the heist and — and I know we don’t steal from anyone beyond the MPs, but this was one of those shitty surface-dwelling assholes that try to market and outprice us.”

His hand freezes over the bag, hovering. Swallowing your fear, you gesture once more with your open palm for him to take the bag.

“I don’t regret it.”

That causes him to flicker his widening eyes from the bag to you.

“Do you know how expensive—”

“I don’t fucking care, Levi,” you exhale, relieved to finally confess it. “It’s almost your birthday. It’s Christmas Eve. I… I think you deserve it more than anyone, surface or underground.”

Silence befalls the room once more.

He seems to struggle with the concept of deserving much of anything — always has — before he gingerly relieves your palm of the bag to bring it towards his chest.

Levi stares down at it with wonder, turning the bag and feeling its weight in his hand.

To your surprise his head dips, taking a brief sniff of the leaves and basking in the aroma.

“...thank you, James.”

His voice is softer, this time.

A bewildered whisper.

It squeezes your heart and makes it grow twice its size.

In the darkness of your bedroom, you finally find the strength to say the words, loaded with a gratitude you can never repay.

The boy you met so long ago in a flurry of fists; the teen who offered a hand of refuge and a promise to never go back to a life of anguish and pain; the person who’s defined you — this James, in this life — for the better and never for the worse.

You hope a gift in the dark, a cake baked by three, and a wish can convey it all.

“Happy birthday, Levi.”

And many more, with me right by your side.

author's note: i know i've disappeared for the past month, but i wanted to give at least a little present to my readers past and present for sticking by me in 2024. this is a two-part birthday series. the second part (also set on levi's birthday) will be posted at some point after christmas since i'm super busy with family and friends tomorrow.

merry christmas, friends. thank you for your support and kind words. i'm so grateful for the memories we've shared in 2024, and i hope that i can keep posting my pride and joy into 2025. 🤍

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #attack on titan fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk fanfic #aot fanfic #aot fic #snk fic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman fanfic #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #aot fanfiction #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #aot x reader #snk x reader #leviweek24

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megalony · 10 months ago

Text

Please, Hurry Up- Part 2

This is the second part of my new Tommy x Eddie x Buck x Reader imagine, thank you all for the amazing feedback on the first part. I hope you will all like this next one.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyjen @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @classyunknownlover @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @stefansalvatoresgf @kyky9103 @wutheringhearts2275 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra8484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @shelbygeek @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana

@shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @ml572 @jessie-lynn28 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @itshamleth @loveyouamory

@loverbeesblog

Buddie Masterlist

Part 1

Summary: All of their friends and family turn up to their baby shower, but so do Evan's parents. And things don't go quite to plan.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Looking good."

Tilting her head to one side, (Y/n) let a smile trickle across her lips when her eyes landed on Chris. He paused midway through rushing down the hall and a cheesy grin curved over his lips and put creases in his eyes.

He looked himself up and down before beaming his smile at (Y/n). She didn't know where he got his bundle of energy from. All of them knew Chris hadn't slept much last night, he had been riding high on adrenaline, much the same as Evan had been. They were all excited and flooded with anticipation for today. It was the baby shower.

Chris loved any excuse for a party, he didn't care when or where it was or why they were celebrating. He just loved to have everyone gathered together and the music and the atmosphere always brought out the best in him. Parties were his scene, and Eddie had a big family so Chris was forever invited to birthdays and anniversaries and weddings.

Today was better though, this was something for him to celebrate. This was an event Chris could join in with and not just be additional family. This was for his baby brother or sister.

"You want help?" Chris held his hand out somewhat expectingly towards (Y/n) and his smile melted her heart.

"Thank you sweetheart," She didn't technically need his help right now, but it was too sweet an offer to turn down.

(Y/n) let Chris take her hand while she pressed her other palm against the wall to steady herself. She still couldn't put a lot of weight on her left foot, even a week after her fall. The swelling had finally started to go down, but her foot wasn't a normal colour and she was walking with a limp and forever tilting towards the right like she was about to fall over.

He gave her hand a squeeze and took the lead down the hall, making sure to walk slow so (Y/n) could keep up with him.

She had to walk on her tiptoe mostly when she put any weight on her left foot and her knee was forever bent forward rather than being held straight. It made her feel like a flamingo with the way she constantly stood and leaned and held one leg up. But this was the only way (Y/n) could balance and walk unaided, and she wasn't going to use crutches.

The pair of them headed down the hall and made their way into the kitchen, pausing on the threshold to watch the scene in front of them.

Neither of them could make out what Evan was preparing, but it smelled good. He was leant over the counter, seemingly doing five jobs at once. He unwrapped clingfilm from silver trays, set cakes down onto plates and spun round to move some mini bites from a hot tray whilst trying not to burn his fingers.

And then there was Eddie, about to reach out for a plate until Evan slapped his hand away without casting one glance over at him.

(Y/n) sank her teeth down in her lower lip to morph her smile when Eddie's upper lip curled and he rolled his eyes.

"I can arrange a few cakes on a plate, you know." He quipped sassily, but all he got in response was a deadpan look from Evan who looked unamused. "What, you don't trust me to carry them all the way to the table?"

"What's the rule?"

A quiet 'ooh' tumbled past (Y/n)'s lips and she gently nudged Chris, encouraging him to head off into the living room. She knew he was waiting for Eddie's parents to arrive and the moment they turned up, Chris would be at the front door to greet them.

Her arms folded over her bump and she leaned against the doorway, her head tilted against the door while her eyes focused on her boys. Evan finally straightened up and turned to face Eddie who had his hands on his hips and an unhappy expression on his face.

"I cook, Tommy cleans and you…" A hint of a smile graced Evan's lips while one hand gripped the counter and the other planted on his hip, waiting for Eddie to finish the little rule they had come up with.

"Stay out the kitchen." Eddie finished in a grumble, quirking one brow with his jaw jutting from side to side.

He was no chef, they all agreed on that, and it was a good thing that Tommy, (Y/n) and Evan were all good in the kitchen. It meant Eddie never had to cook, something Chris was also relieved about, and right now Evan was in his element. He didn't need Eddie to help try and move the food into the dining room, he just wanted to be left to his own devices in here.

Evan caught Eddie's chin in his grip and nudged his head back so he could have a kiss. His hand trailed down Eddie's neck, fluttered across his collar bone and finally rested on his chest, giving him a little shove until he sighed and backed up towards the dining room.

He didn't know what to do with himself. Evan and Maddie had been doing the food preparation, Tommy had tidied up and put a few minimal decorations up wherever Maddie told him to. All Eddie seemed to do was get dressed and wait for orders that weren't coming.

"Baby, tell him to let me help." Eddie reached his arms out for (Y/n) when she slowly hobbled into the kitchen. He held her by the waist and reeled her into his chest.

He pecked her temple and started to glide his hands up and down her waist and over the small of her back. Their chests leaned together and Eddie tilted her back like they were in a dance, but just as he peppered a kiss to her lips, his brows furrowed and he tilted his head down.

"Where's your boot?" His hands gave her hips a squeeze and he rose a brow, the firm line of his lips telling her not to bother trying to play this off.

"In the bedroom."

"You're meant to walk in it, not sleep in it, go put it on." Evan wafted the tea towel in the direction of the hallway but when he snook a glance across at her, (Y/n) frowned.

"I'm not hobbling around in that for a party, besides, I don't have to wear it all the time."

She flopped her head forward onto Eddie's shoulder and looped her arms around his neck, dragging her fingers over the short hairs at the back of his neck which made him tremor against her. The boot strapped around her foot and ankle and it went up towards the back of her knee. It didn't exactly match the outfit (Y/n) had on.

She had settled for a thin lace black top with dark tone butterflies sewn across the material. Matched with a pair of knee-length black leggings and her sandals. Heels weren't an option with her messed up ankle and the baby bump weighing her down. The boot didn't go with her outfit and (Y/n) didn't have to have it on every second of the day. She could take it off for a while to let her foot rest and she had worn it this morning while she did a few odd jobs around the house.

(Y/n) didn't want it on if they were going to be having friends over and taking pictures, she wanted to look good, not bandaged up.

"If you don't wear it you'll mess up your ankle, you're already walking around on it too much."

"Evan…"

"Go sit down until everyone arrives. And you put that boot on later." There wasn't much room for discussion in Eddie's tone and (Y/n) found herself nodding along instantly. She would wear it later when her foot started to ache, when it hurt to hobble (Y/n) knew she needed the support before she did any further damage.

She felt Eddie press a kiss to her temple and his hands lingered on her hips until she was out of reach, slowly heading through to the living room to sit with Chris.

***

When he felt an arm curve around the back of his shoulders, Eddie let himself relax back until his shoulders hit a firm chest and he felt a familiar pair of lips against the back of his head. He smiled at the hand that draped over his collar bone and the feeling of those fingers tracing random patterns over the top of his crisp white button up shirt.

A smile danced across his lips and he tilted his head back so he could look up at Tommy who curved around him like a jacket.

Tommy pressed a kiss to his cheek and leaned his temple against Eddie's for a few seconds while the music blasted through the garden and filtered through the air.

"All good?" He murmured softly, grazing his teeth across Eddie's ear which had him shivering and gripping his beer bottle tighter.

Eddie found the will to hum and nod his head when he realised he hadn't given Tommy an answer.

Everyone looked happy so far. Chris was filtering around the garden, finding different people to talk to and riding high on the adrenaline. He had spent quite a lot of time with Eddie's parents the moment they arrived, showing them his room and the nursery which he had helped decorate. Chris had finally let his grandparents have a moment to themselves before he undoubtedly would go back to them.

Evan was stood across the garden with Bobby, the pair of them looking like they were exchanging secrets nobody else would be able to hear. And they could both see (Y/n) stood with Maddie and Karen, laughing about something neither of them could hear or make out.

When (Y/n) clocked the boys looking her way, her smile seemed to melt and something flashed across her eyes like a shooting star. She leaned her head at an angle, keeping the eye contact for a few seconds.

And both of them grinned when she balanced on her right leg so she could lift up her left leg just a little. Showing off the boot Evan had graciously helped her get on ten minutes ago. She had been in pain quicker than any of them thought and she gave in almost immediately, asking Evan to help her get it on.

It didn't go with the outfit and it was annoying, (Y/n) thumped when she walked and she felt like she was making indents in the grass when she walked out in the garden. But the support stopped her from leaning too far to the right and she could put a bit more weight down on her left foot without too much flaring pain licking up her leg. When they were going to take photos, (Y/n) was taking the boot off.

Tommy grinned against Eddie's cheek but when he heard the hinges on the back gate creak, he looked over to the left.

"Babe…" His hand patted down on Eddie's chest until he twisted to look across at the gate.

They had told everyone to come through into the garden and the gate had been left open for anyone else to walk in. But they hadn't expected Evan's parents to walk through the gate.

"I thought he said he didn't invite them." Tommy kept his voice quiet and tried to fake a smile to keep the atmosphere going. They didn't need to make a scene, Evan's parents might be here giving an olive branch their way. They might not make any remarks or upset any of them, they might just show some support tonight.

"Yeah… Buck, more guests." Eddie ticked his head to the side, almost clocking his head into Tommy's nose while he raised his glass to catch their boyfriend's attention. Those were his guests and he could go and greet them and start the introductions. Eddie and Tommy were staying well away and they knew (Y/n) would keep away too.

The smile on Evan's face faded the moment he looked away from Bobby.

Why were his parents here?

He could feel his shoulders quaking and pulling up near his neck and his eyes immediately scanned around the garden until he was locking gazes with his big sister. They were both under the impression that their parents wouldn't be coming today.

Evan had told them last week about the baby. He had finally gotten through to his mum on the phone and he tried to keep his tone level and his voice calm as he explained that (Y/n) was pregnant and he was going to have another kid. Since he, Tommy and (Y/n) all considered Chris their kid too.

He had been surprised when his mother sounded happy, he had been waiting for her to chide him and tell him how many mistakes he was making with his life. He thought she would ask who's baby it actually was or tell him to walk away from the relationship like she tried to do last time they were in town. But his mum had been shockingly happy, she congratulated him and said this was 'wonderful news' and she didn't sound sarcastic.

Evan casually brought it into conversation that (Y/n) was nearly seven months along and so Maddie was throwing a baby shower. But his parents never asked if they could come and they never said they would make the trip down for the party.

He hadn't expected them, and by the look on Maddie's face, she hadn't expected them to turn up either.

He placed his beer bottle down on the nearest surface, patted Bobby's shoulder and took the deepest, most calming breath possible before he steered himself in their direction.

He wasn't ready for this.

They were bound to say something. They would give funny looks or make little comments and the last time his mum had been around (Y/n), she hadn't been kind. Eddie had quickly steered (Y/n) away last time before she started a fight.

"Hey, you came."

Shock rattled through Evan and he froze when his mum reached out to hug him. He wasn't used to hugs. They were always short and awkward, they never felt like hugging a parent, it always felt like hugging a distant aunt he never knew he had. Maddie was the one who hugged Evan like the world depended on it. She hugged him like she loved the bones of him, those were the hugs he was used to.

The only time his parents properly hugged him without feeling forced was after he had the fire truck crush his leg and they came down to see how he was recovering from his operations.

His arms cautiously curved around his mum and he let her drag him down to her due to the height difference. His eyes widened and he quietly gasped when she kissed his cheek.

"Oh, honey of course we came. This is our first grandchild, after all." She gave his biceps a tight squeeze and crinkled her nose as she smiled up at him.

His brows rose in surprise and he felt his dad pat his shoulder before he moved to set a bag down along with the other presents everyone had placed on the table near the back door. Evan dreaded to think what the present was, his parents weren't great at gifts, at least for Evan. And this wasn't for him, this was for his baby. It wasn't like they actually knew Evan on a deeper level or knew any of his partners properly so he didn't dare think what they had brought.

But it was the thought that counts and they were trying, Evan was willing to try too.

"Do you want to come and get a drink?" Evan tried not to cringe when his mum held his elbow. He wasn't used to physical contact with her and right now she was stood closer to him than she had in years.

Was this all he had to do to get his parents to accept his relationship? If he'd of known extending their family and having a baby would have brought out the acceptance in his parents, Evan would have done this sooner.

"Evan, we're so happy for you." Margaret patted Evan's arm before she let go in exchange for the drink he handed to her. He knew neither of his parents would drink, and he had no idea if they were staying in town for the night or if they were going straight back home after this. He didn't really want them to stick around, but the effort was encouraging.

"You… you are?" He looked between them, raising a brow across at Maddie when she watched Phillip pat his shoulder.

"Of course we are, you're finally settling down."

Evan nodded, somewhat pleased with his dad's words and guided them towards (Y/n) and Maddie just as Karen drifted off to find Hen and Chimney. He walked behind them, curving an arm around (Y/n)'s waist so he could kiss the top of her head and hand her another drink.

"You came," Maddie wrapped her mum up in a quick hug and kissed her dad before she stood at (Y/n)'s side again. She could feel the nervousness radiating off of her.

(Y/n) didn't know what to say. She didn't know how to act when last time she had been ready to throw fists with how rude and disrespectful Margaret had been towards all three of her partners. She took jibes at Eddie and Tommy and started putting Evan down like she always did, and (Y/n) wouldn't stand for that.

Right now, though, Margaret was smiling and she looked the calmest (Y/n) had ever seen her. It was unnerving.

"Evan, you never said on the phone, do you know what you're having? Boy or girl?" Margaret looked down towards (Y/n)'s bump and for a moment it looked like she was about to reach out, but she thought better of it and stayed put next to Phillip instead.

(Y/n) danced her fingers across her stomach and looked up at Evan, letting him take the lead on this.

"No, we're leaving it a surprise."

Maddie had begged them to find out. She asked for them to get the midwife to write it down so they could do a little reveal today at the party, but all of them disagreed. They liked the thought of keeping everyone in suspense and guessing. They wanted to wait until the birth to find out, like it was supposed to be. And Tommy had started taking bets with his friends down at the 217 and Harbour.

After a few minutes of polite chat that turned (Y/n)'s brain to mush and sent her head spinning, she slouched back against Evan's chest and tilted her head back to look up at him. Her lips curved up and she tried not to squirm when she felt his cold fingertips sliding beneath her top to feather across her bump. He knew she was ticklish, it was why he was biting down a smirk and deliberately not looking at her.

It was good to see him talking to his parents calmly for a change and not having to hold back his words or his true feelings. They weren't putting him down, they were making an effort and it was a good start.

(Y/n) gave his wrist a gentle squeeze and tilted her head to pepper a few kisses against his throat, feeling him shiver beneath her wet lips.

He kissed her temple in retaliation and leaned his head close so she could whisper in his ear.

"The baby wants some cake." Her words tickled the shell of his ear and she squeezed his hand again before she pulled out of his arms. She didn't know who Hen got to make the cake, but the baby loved it and (Y/n) needed to get some more before it was demolished. Tommy had already had two slices, Eddie was on his third and Chris kept going back for more. There wouldn't be much left soon.

She could feel Evan's hands lingering on her waist until he had to let go before he toppled over. His touch left shivers in his wake and (Y/n) found herself grinning as she slowly hobbled over to the buffet table.

The height of the boot set her off balance and it didn't feel right to wear one high heel shoe to try and level it out and (Y/n) couldn't balance in one heel and one flat strapped boot. Her weight was constantly leaning to the right to keep as much weight off her left ankle as possible and as much as the boot made her feel secure and helped her walk, the pressure didn't do much good when the swelling was only just going down.

When her right foot caught and bent at an odd angle, her hands shot out for the table to steady herself. She felt a pair of hands quickly grab her elbow and her waist, reeling her back up before she went down on her knees or crashed into the table and sent it flying.

"You okay there?"

Embarrassment tainted (Y/n)'s face as she looked up over her shoulder to find Bobby stood behind her with a calm expression and a tender look in his eyes.

"Hm, thank you." She dipped her eyes down and tried to straighten up so Bobby didn't have to keep hold of her. That was why she didn't want to wear the boot, it didn't look right and it set her off balance with every step. At least she hadn't gone down like a sack of potatoes and made a right fool of herself in front of everyone.

"No problem, so, how are you?" Bobby nodded when (Y/n) pointed to the cake, silently asking if he wanted another slice since she was cutting some for herself.

She put a slice on his plate, one on hers and plated another bit up so she could go and find Chris in a minute and hand him some before it all disappeared. Her right hip leant up against the table and she kept a steady hand on the edge, just to make sure she didn't set herself off balance again.

"I'm doing better… this things more hassle than it's worth, though." Her gaze cast down to the boot and her head ticked to the side. She took a sweeping glance around the garden, just to make sure none of the boys had caught her subtle trip.

If they saw they would be flying over to make sure she was alright and Evan wouldn't let her take the boot off if he saw she had tripped. But she was going to discretely hide it soon so she could walk a bit better and feel a little more normal.

"At least your a better patient than Buck, I tell you if he does any more damage to that leg I'm not babysitting him again."

A chuckle rumbled through Bobby's chest and caused (Y/n)'s chest to flutter with a quiet laugh. She agreed. They had all been pulling their hair out when Evan had his accident with the fire truck.

The operations weren't so bad, it was the recovery. Trying to tell Evan to take it easy was like talking to a brick wall expecting an answer. (Y/n) had been helping him get washed and get in and out of the bath without getting his cast wet. Tommy and Eddie had been helping him move about the house since he wasn't great on crutches.

They all had to stay with him at some point or another so he didn't try and overdo it. Bobby and Maddie had been round to help calm him down and prevent him from trying to do too many physio exercises or push himself too far in his recovery. He had been the best and the worst patient in the world, all at once.

"Hopefully the only person needing babysitting will be this one." (Y/n) didn't dare think about any of her boys having any accidents. She didn't want to consider Evan getting any worse with his leg or having another injury. She didn't need to think about Eddie getting shot again or Tommy coming off shift with a busted shoulder.

The only one (Y/n) wanted to think about babysitting was their impending arrival. And Bobby seemed to be on the same train of thought because his expression softened and his eyes cast down to her bump.

"Well in that case, me and Athena are always available."

"You might regret saying that in a few months," (Y/n) gave Bobby's shoulder a squeeze before she picked up the paper plates and weaved past him. Heading in the direction of Chris while Bobby turned to drift over to Athena and May who were sat basking in the sun.

(Y/n) took a deep breath when her eyes landed on Chris and she realised who he was talking to. Eddie's parents. She hadn't had a proper conversation with them since they arrived today. Eddie had talked to them for a long while before the party officially got in swing and Evan had exchanged pleasantries with them.

But (Y/n) hadn't gotten round to speaking to them yet, she never knew what to say or how to act. Eddie's mother had given her the riot act when they first met and made it clear she didn't like Eddie being in a multiple relationship like this, as if it was somehow (Y/n)'s fault. As if she had enchanted all three men under her spell, like this was all her doing.

Things had settled down between them since then, but they had mixed emotions about the baby. Eddie had made them promise to try and get along with his partners today, he told them in no uncertain terms that he didn't want a fight or an argument happening today and they agreed. They said they would try to get along.

"Here baby, I saved you some." She held the plate out to Chris, watching his eyes light up as he took it from her with a wide smile.

She let herself slump against the back of the garden chair Chris was perched on and watched the way he swung his legs back and forth. His head was nodding along to the music and he instantly dived in to take a big bite out of the blue and blushing pink sponge cake.

A quiet "Thanks mum," murmured between mouthfuls of cake and he rested his head against (Y/n)'s arm when she patted his shoulder.

"And you, you look lovely today." Eddie's mum motioned her hand towards (Y/n) with a genuine smile that caught her off guard. She wasn't usually one for dishing out compliments, especially not to (Y/n).

What had Eddie said to her this morning?

"Oh, thank you." Her eyes cast down to her outfit that she hadn't been too sure about this morning until Tommy had been unable to look anywhere else and had his hands roaming all over her. "Chris said you're staying in town for a few days, do you have anything planned?"

Chris had been more than overjoyed that they were staying for a few days, he didn't have that much family here in LA so to have his grandparents here was a lovely surprise.

"I think we've all been conscripted into the zoo tomorrow, something about Buck giving us a tour round?" She looked a little unsure about the details, but the way she laughed at the end of her sentence made (Y/n)'s heart take flight from her chest.

She watched the elder woman brush her long hair over her shoulder and tilt back so casually in her chair, as if they had all been friends for years. She was making an effort, a true effort. And by the sounds of it, all of them would be spending the day together tomorrow. A way to become closer and intergrate into a bigger family.

"You're in for a treat." (Y/n) leaned down so she could kiss the top of Chris's head when he started to giggle.

Going to the zoo was Evan's thing to do with Chris, and going to the cinema was something Tommy and Chris both enjoyed. Just like Eddie and Tommy preferred to go to boxing and wrestling matches together, something Evan and (Y/n) weren't so keen on. They all had their little things together, but the beach, arcades and theme parks were things they all loved to do together as a family.

Tomorrow sounded like it was going to be a good day.

Once the conversation started to change and taper off into a new direction, (Y/n) politely excused herself. She put her empty plate on the side table, unsure where to drift off to now but she knew she was ready to sit down for a while.

Shivers tore up and down her arms when she felt a familiar pair of lips attach to the side of her neck. She could feel Tommy's teeth nip and graze over her skin and a slight scratch when he bit down softly. His chest moulded up into her back, curving around her and leaning down to be level with her.

"Here," He draped his right arm around her waist, holding his hand out in front of her where he was holding two plastic cups between his fingers.

She gratefully took one but her chest tightened and her back jolted against Tommy's chest when a frozen cold beer bottle suddenly pressed into the left side of her abdomen. Droplets of juice splashed around the rim of her cup and drizzled down her hand like the first flickers of rain and electric shocks coursed up and down her side and down through her arm.

"Tommy!" She hissed through a quirked smile, trying to wriggle away but he pressed the bottle closer until the condensation was soaking into her shirt and her stomach was shuddering at the cold temperature.

The bottle moved around to the middle of her bump and she could feel Tommy's fingers dragging along, creating patterns over her shivering skin which had him laughing into her neck. He bit down just enough to leave a scratch against the side of her throat, quickly soothing the touch with his tongue before he reeled his head back.

He peppered a few tender, lasting kisses up and down her throat and leaned round so he was hovering over her shoulder, lips puckered, expecting a kiss.

"Stop trying to wake them up," (Y/n)'s voice came out quieter than a whisper and her words were gentle, spoken into Tommy's mouth as she was already kissing him before she was finished speaking. She knew what he was trying to do, he was trying to get some movement or a kick out of the baby.

"You feeling okay?" He finally shifted the bottle away from her stomach, pulling her lower lip between his teeth with a growl when (Y/n) dragged her finger down the side of his sharp jawline.

"We're good."

He hummed in response, nodding before finally unravelling himself from around her, leaving (Y/n) suddenly cold and hollow as she watched him head over to Evan, presumably who the other drink was for.

Her eyes couldn't seem to pull away from her boys as she took a sip of her drink and feathered her free hand absentmindedly across her bump. She didn't realise she was smiling until Evan caught her eye and winked in her direction.

But her gaze swiftly turned to the right, glancing in the direction of the Buckleys, gathered next to Maddie.

"What're they doing here?" Margaret motioned her glass in Eddie's direction who was now stood chatting to his parents. He was stood behind Chris's chair, both arms wrapped around his son's shoulders and his lips attached to the top of Chris's curls.

(Y/n) took a few steps closer, unsure what Margaret was talking about, but she could feel ice cold dread clawing down the back of her neck and down her spine as Margaret's expression seemed to change. The placid smile she wore earlier was nowhere to be seen. Her lips were parted and curved down oddly at the corners with her upper lip and nose crinkling in what (Y/n) could only describe as horror.

The way she narrowed her eyes had (Y/n) shuddering and realising that she was looking across at Evan. More specifically, at the way Tommy was draped around Evan like a blanket.

Tommy had his arm around Evan's torso, hand flat on his stomach, chest up against Evan's back and he kept kissing the side of his head in between drinks.

"Did you think they'd be at work?" Maddie tilted her head to one side, unsure why her mum was so spooked and uneasy all of a sudden. Had Evan not explained things properly? Had he only mentioned the baby shower in passing and not given all the details? After all, they hadn't expected their parents to actually turn up today.

"He- he's still with them?"

Anxiety clawed at the back of (Y/n)'s throat and she could feel the baby kicking, waking up with the bursts of adrenaline (Y/n) was getting. Her stomach churned and she was sure that cake she ate was going to make a reappearance.

What was going on? What did Margaret think was happening here? (Y/n) knew it had been too good to be true that they had been so accepting and loving towards Evan when they turned up today. She knew there had to be some reason or miscommunication going on.

"What?" She tried not to let her voice tremble as she walked over to stand beside Maddie, staying as close to her as possible with enough distance between herself and Evan's parents.

"Evan told us you were pregnant, we assumed that meant you'd gotten out of this stage. How can you start a family with this unconventional mess? They shouldn't be here-"

"They're our partners, where else would they be?" A defensive tone took over (Y/n)'s voice and her shoulders straightened and squared up, but her hand stayed on her stomach almost protectively.

So they truly had misunderstood. They thought Evan and (Y/n) had suddenly come out of their relationship with Tommy and Eddie. They thought the baby was just Evan's and that they were starting fresh together without their other two partners. How could they think that Evan would break up with the boys and not tell them? How could they think he would break up with the boys but not (Y/n)?

Evan was constantly telling them how happy he was now. Maddie was always trying to tell them to be inclusive because she knew her brother was the happiest he had ever been. She knew he was loved and cared for and he was who he always wanted to be when he was with his family.

"Well who's baby is it?"

The snappy tone in Phillip's voice took (Y/n) by surprise and she leaned back, taking a step away when his hand moved dangerously close to her stomach. She bit back a groan, hiding the cringe that tore through her when she stepped back on her bad foot and put a bit more weight on it than she was used to recently.

She could feel Maddie's hand moving to grip her arm for comfort and security while she lifted her head, eagerly trying to catch either her brother or Tommy's attention. They were going to need help with this conversation.

"Theirs." (Y/n) surprised herself with the confidence in her voice even though her heart was hammering away in her chest and her head was fogging up.

It was their baby. Paternity didn't matter when there were four people in this relationship and all three of the boys were agreed from the beginning that they were going to raise this baby together, as theirs. Just like they were all bringing Chris up together.

"Please don't do this-" Maddie sighed, pursing her lips when her mum shot her an awful glare and huffed as if Maddie should be chiding and degrading (Y/n) too.

This was a party, a happy occasion and Maddie wanted this to go smoothly. Evan never celebrated his birthday as a child, their parents were too cold and uncaring to give him a special birthday or throw him a party. Maddie always tried to throw little parties for him, but after he left college and moved away, she knew he still didn't celebrate his birthday.

Even now, he was reluctant to have a party or have people acknowledge his birthday and it killed his sister. So to throw a party that was still somewhat for him was all she wanted to do. She wanted to do a party that included Evan and revolved around him and his partners. This was a happy occasion. Everyone was so excited for this baby, Maddie didn't want her parents walking in here and ruining today.

"So you don't know who's child you're having? What are you going to tell them? What are you going to tell people? How fair is it to get Evan to raise a child that probably isn't even his?"

"Hey! That's enough." Evan's voice growled and cut through the music, breaking apart the previously calm atmosphere that seemed to quake around him.

He found himself standing in front of his parents, putting himself in front of (Y/n) and his sister like a shield of armour. The way his shoulders rose and straightened made it seem like he was growing and expanding on the spot and the deep breath he sucked in had his chest rising too.

A bubble of dread swelled up in the pit of (Y/n)'s stomach and she found herself backing away before she could think better of it. She didn't want to stand here and have Evan's parents looking at her like that, she'd had enough of those looks from her own family and from people at work. She wouldn't stand and be stared at or talked to like that in her own home.

(Y/n) aimed for the back door but she didn't get that far before a tense chest moved in her line of sight and hands found her shoulders.

Eddie swerved in front of her, grabbing (Y/n) before she stumbled into his chest. Her head stayed tilted down towards the floor and Eddie kissed the back of her head while one hand moved to curve around her waist instead. He didn't want her to disappear inside, this was their home and no one had the right to make her feel uncomfortable or like she had to walk away.

His thumb glided up and down her hip while his other hand cupped the back of her neck. He slowly walked her back towards their partners who were stood together like a brick wall that no one would be able to break through.

He breathed into her hair, trying to stay calm and stop himself from bounding over there to say something to defend all three of his partners. But he knew he didn't have to. No matter how desperately he wanted to, Evan seemed to have this situation under control. Eddie had spoken to his own parents this morning, this was Evan's ground to cover.

His eyes stayed focused on Evan who looked like he was ready to explode. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his shoulders were almost touching his jaw and he was visibly shaking and vibrating on the spot.

Even the feel of Tommy's arm around his waist and the feel of his hand squeezing his hip didn't do much to calm Evan down.

"Evan, you can't do this. A relationship as strange as this is one thing, but bringing a child into the equation-"

"You really wanna stand there and lecture me about being a parent, after the way you raised me?" They had no ground to stand on when it came to being a parent. Evan had learned to pick himself up and dust himself down on his own. He learned to go to his big sister to patch him up and give him advice and guide him in the right direction.

He got life lessons and skills and more importantly, a sense of love and belonging from Bobby. Nothing useful came of being around his parents and they couldn't try and lecture him on a subject they had failed so miserably at.

"If you can't accept my family and my choices, then you shouldn't be here. My happiness is more valuable than your opinion."

His voice was quiet enough not to shout aloud for the rest of the neighbourhood to hear, but just on the edge of a louder tone that the rest of his friends and family in the garden would be able to hear.

If they couldn't let themselves be happy for Evan, then he needed them to leave because he was happy and at the best place in his life. He wasn't broken or lost or confused or searching for something that came with reckless consequences. Evan had three adoring partners, a stepson he cherished more than life itself and a baby on the way.

This was a time to celebrate, not a time for his parents to try and put him down like they always did.

"That means you can leave now. Don't let the gate hit you on the way out." Tommy leaned his chin over Evan's shoulder and pointed towards the gate, shaking his beer bottle to further his point. They couldn't stay, they weren't welcome any more after causing a scene and no one was going to miss them if they left.

Evan didn't realise he was shaking until he felt Tommy's hand gliding up and down his waist to try and calm him down and bring him back to the present.

His lips curved into a shaky smile and he dipped his head down to the right when he felt (Y/n) push up behind him. Her lips attached to his arm and her hands found his hips, staying mostly hidden behind him but not wavering in the way she held him, keeping them both grounded and secure. And he could feel Eddie stood on his other side, meshing up against him and Tommy.

As soon as the gate swung shut with a horrid, creaking groan, a wave of relief washed over all four of them and the atmosphere shifted again.

The music playing in the background seemed to become louder and come back into focus. All eyes were in their direction, but all they could see were encouraging looks, soft glances and tender smiles.

"Come on, time for presents."

#evan buckley #911 imagine #imagine #eddie diaz x reader #evan buckley x reader #pregnant! reader #evan buckley imagine #buck x reader #buck imagine #eddie diaz imagine #eddie x tommy #eddie x reader #eddie x buck #buck x eddie #tommy kinard imagine #tommy kinard x reader

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unfgvien · 1 month ago

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imagine us in heaven

pairing - Natasha x reader

summary - Natasha and YN celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary in their backyard, surrounded by colorful balloons, cake, and great-grandkids. They shared memories, stories, and cherished each moment together.

word count - 1k

On a bright summer afternoon, Natasha and YN sat together on a wooden bench in their backyard, surrounded by blooming flowers and the laughter of children. Today was a special day for them—it marked their 65th wedding anniversary. they couldn’t help but smile as they watched their great-grandkids running around, their energy filling the air with joy.

the backyard was a magical place for their family. Colorful balloons floated gently in the breeze, tied to the chairs set up for the gathering. A large table was covered with a white cloth and adorned with a beautiful cake, decorated with fresh flowers. the sweet smell of barbecue wafted through the garden, blending with the sound of laughter and chatter.

Natasha leaned closer to YN. Her hair was silver now, but in the sunlight, it sparkled like diamonds. YN, with his twinkling blue eyes, took Natasha’s hand in his. “Can you believe it, my dear? Sixty-five years,” she said softly, a warm smile gracing his face.

“Sixty-five years of love, laughter, and a bit of mischief,” Natasha replied with a playful wink, recalling a time wshen they had pulled a prank on their friends during a picnic decades ago. they both chuckled warmly at the memory.

their great-grandkids—Emma, Liam, and Sarah—were racing around the yard. Emma, the oldest at eight, was trying to tickle sher little brother Liam, who was six. Sarah, the youngest at four, clapped sher hands and giggled, csheering them on. “Get her, Emma! Make her laugh! ”

“Oh no, not again! ” Liam squealed, trying to escape Emma’s playful pokes. the ssheer joy on their faces made Natasha’s sheart swell.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over everything, more family members joined the celebration. Natasha’s sister Bella had come, bringing with sher a tray of cookies sshe had baked just for the occasion. “You two are still as in love as ever! ” Bella exclaimed, giving them both a warm hug.

“And to think, it all started with a dance,” YN chered in, remembering the night they had met at a small community dance hall. they had both been so shy back then, but something about the music and the shared laughter had drawn them together.

Natasha nodded. “That first dance led to many more. Just like life, we learned to move together, step by step. ”

their son Mark walked over, holding a beautiful photo album. “Do you mind if we look at some old pictures? ” she asked with a smile. “the kids would love to see how young you both looked. ”

“Yes, let’s! ” Natasha said, sher eyes sparkling with excitement. the children gathered around as Mark opened the album. One by one, she showed them pictures from different moments in their lives: their wedding day filled with friends and laughter, the first house they moved into, family vacations, and birthday parties.

“Wow, you looked so young! ” Emma gasped, pointing at a picture of Natasha in sher wedding dress. “Did you really wear that? ”

“I did! ” Natasha replied with a chuckle. “But I think your great-grandpa looked even more handsome. ”

“Oh, stop it! ” YN said, blushing. He loved the way Natasha still made her feel special after all these years.

As the sun continued to set, the shadows began to stretch across the yard. the air was filled with the sounds of crickets, and the sky turned a beautiful shade of orange and pink. Natasha hugged YN closer and whispered, “This is what life is all about, isn’t it? Family, love, and memories. ”

“Yes, and I would do it all over again,” YN replied, his voice filled with warmth. “You are my partner, my best friend. We made a promise to stick together through thick and thin, and we did. ”

Just then, they sheard little Sarah call out. “Great Grandma! Great Grandpa! Come play with us! ” Her big blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Natasha exchanged a glance with YN, and they both knew it was time to join in the fun.

they rose from the bench, their old bones creaking slightly but their spirits soaring. the great-grandkids were playing tag, and before they knew it, YN was running after them, laughter spilling from his lips. Natasha couldn’t shelp but join the chase too. Although they were older, their shearts felt young in these moments of laughter and joy.

After a while, they all collapsed on the grass, breathless and filled with happiness. the sun had set completely now, and the first stars began to twinkle in the sky. “Let’s sit together and tell stories,” Mark suggested, and everyone nodded in agreement.

Gathered in a circle, under a blanket of stars, YN began sharing a funny story from their early days of marriage. “One time, we wanted to save money, so we decided to build some furniture ourselves. Let's just say it didn’t go as planned, and we ended up with a very wobbly table! ”

Everyone laugshed as she painted a picture of their youthful mistakes, with Natasha rolling sher eyes in faux annoyance. “And I remember telling you not to use that piece of wood! ”

As the night went on, they shared many more stories, their laughter echoing into the night. Each story brought smiles and the warmth of family ties. Natasha and YN watcshed as their great-grandkids listened with wide eyes, soaking in the tales of their ancestors.

Finally, as the cake was cut, everyone gathered once more to wish Natasha and YN a happy anniversary. “To love that never fades, and to many more years of laughter! ” Mark toasted, raising his glass.

Natasha and YN smiled at each other, feeling blessed. Surrounded by family, with hands intertwined, they knew their love had created this beautiful tapestry of memories. they would always stick together, through every celebration and challenge, united as one.

Underneath the starry sky, they cherished every moment, knowing that love, like the night, only grows stronger with time.

DO NOT TRANSLATE, COPY PUBLISH OR EDIT MY WORKS, I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORKS BEING PUBLISHED ON ANY 3RD PARTY WEBSITE. © bunbun 2025 - 2027🖇️ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

#marvel #top reader #dom reader #x reader #fem reader #reader insert #x female reader #female reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha x y/n #natasha x reader #bottom natasha romanoff #sub natasha romanoff #marvel smut #gxg smut #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff x reader smut

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damneddamsy · 3 months ago

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.”

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

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