A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your amazing support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Every skill needs honing.
Word Count: 4,2k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, medieval era expectations and viewpoints on marriage and gender. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Being the lady of the castle was no easy task even under normal circumstances, and these two weeks had been nothing but chaos.
But in your opinion, you were getting much better at it.
You and Robb made quite a successful team in Lord and Lady Stark’s absence. Everything in Winterfell was being handled quite effectively; the lady guests were welcomed and entertained while the lords held meetings with Robb. Preparations for the coming winter continued in the background not only for the bannermen and their families, but also for the small folk in Wintertown and all over the north. While most northerners still saw you as an outsider, you were beginning to prove yourself, and you were certain that Silas and your father would’ve been very proud if they could see you now; you had already sent both of them ravens to tell them all about it.
And in happier news, Bran had woken up last week. Though Maester Luwin said he could never walk again, you were thankful to the gods that he was alive, everything else could be sorted out.
Needless to say, Bran didn’t see it that way.
“Have you two seen Rickon?”
Both Jon and Theon stopped eating their breakfast and looked up at you at the same time.
“Wasn’t he with you and Robb?” Jon asked and you shook your head.
“Robb went to visit Bran in his room, I figured they would want to talk alone. The last time I talked to him, he wasn’t really…” you trailed off and shrugged. “Which is expected.”
“Aye, he wasn’t really interested in talking to me either.”
“He just needs time,” Theon said. “That’s it—oh, there’s Rickon.”
You turned your head to find Rickon absolutely covered in mud, making you gasp. The little boy didn’t seem like he minded the mud on his clothes at all, judging by the toothless smile he gave you when he reached the table.
“Hello!”
“What’s happened?!” you asked, covering your mouth with your hands and he looked down at himself.
“I was playing with Shaggy.”
“In the mud?”
“Aye!”
You seemed to be the only one who was shocked at the state of him, because instead of reacting in any way, Jon just ruffled his little brother’s hair while Theon let out a laugh. Rickon grabbed a piece of cheese from Theon’s plate without even wiping his hands, then darted through the hall before you could stop him, almost crashing into Robb’s legs on his way out. Robb looked over his shoulder to check where his little brother was rushing off to, then approached you and pressed a kiss on your temple.
“Here you are,” he said and touched the small of your back before he sat down, so you took the seat next to Jon’s. “Where’s he going?”
“To the yard, I’d say,” Jon answered while you stared at the entrance, your mouth half agape.
“He’s covered in mud,” you managed to say, “and he ate food without cleaning his hands.”
“He does that.”
Your eyes widened. “But that’s not healthy!”
“He has never fallen ill his entire life,” Jon said and Robb nodded.
“Besides, it’s Rickon,” he stated as if that was enough of an explanation, and reached out to steal a piece of bread from Jon’s plate, but Jon swatted his hand away.
“Go get your own plate!”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Then keep your hands off my food!”
“So you’re saying you won’t share your bread with me? Your brother? Your blood?”
“Aye, that’s what I’m saying—”
“Did someone at least tell Rickon that it’s not good manners to walk around covered in mud?”
“Multiple septas did.” Robb filled himself a drink and offered you, but you shook your head. “He doesn’t listen.”
“Besides, he’s northern,” Theon said. “He’s not gonna grow to be one of those flowery Reach knights with their southern manners and poems—”
“What is it with your animosity toward poetry, Greyjoy?” you asked with a frown. “Is it because you can’t read?”
“Your brother asked me the same thing—I can read!”
“Allegedly,” you pointed out, and Robb and Jon exchanged glances, both biting back identical grins. “I’ve heard Ironborn look down on literacy to the point of accusing people who can read as sorcerers.”
“Well, seeing the raids on the Reach, we’re still better fighters than—”
“None of that,” Robb interrupted him while you glared at Theon, and Jon heaved a sigh.
“How’s Bran?”
“As expected,” Robb muttered. “I don’t think staying in that room is going to make him feel better. I’ll get him out to the yard the moment Maester Luwin says we can.”
“That should help.”
“I hope so.”
“Has father written back yet?”
“No ravens arrived,” Robb said while Jorelle made her way to you. “Should be any day now, though.”
“My lady, you wanted me to remind you about your meeting with Lady Sabitha,” she said. “She’s waiting for you.”
Theon nodded at Jorelle with a smirk.
“Lady Jorelle,” he greeted her. “Hello.”
Robb and Jon both looked from Theon to Jorelle with the exact same expression of boyish wonder on their faces, and Jorelle raised her brows, eyed him up and down, then chortled.
“Absolutely not, Greyjoy.”
Robb stifled a laugh and kicked Jon under the table while Jon pressed his fist on his lips to hide his smile. Theon sat up straighter, clearly not discouraged as he puffed his chest.
“But I’m…”
“Greyjoy, I understand that you lack subtlety so I’m going to be as direct as my manners allow me,” you told him and stood up from your seat. “If you ever bother my ladies-in-waiting, I’ll make sure you can never speak a word to them or anyone else ever again. I’m sure the whole castle will thank me for it.”
There was a proud grin on Robb’s face as you pecked him on the cheek, then you threw an arm over Jorelle’s shoulder and you both walked away from the table, giggling.
After your small meeting with Lady Sabitha, the rest of your day was considerably idle. You visited Bran, you spent some time with Rickon, and now you and your ladies-in-waiting had nothing to do but remain in your room and gossip until dinner time. You laid in your bed, with Jorelle by your side and Wylla laid on her stomach at the foot of the bed, reading a book. Alys was braiding Lyra’s hair and Barbrey was embroidering something for her new gown on the sofa across the hearth, occasionally holding it up for Alys and Lyra’s opinion.
It reminded you of the Reach, back when you and Margaery and your friends would spend time together before the jousts.
“Jo?”
Jorelle turned her head to see you better. “Hm?”
“What kind of husband do you want?”
The question gathered everyone’s attention in the room. Alys stopped braiding Lyra’s hair, Lyra’s head snapped around and Barbrey looked up from her embroidery, her eyes widening. Wylla pursed her lips without pulling her gaze off the page, but you could tell her ears perked up with the way she stopped following the lines. Jorelle craned her head to see you better.
“What brought this on?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” you said. “You know, when Greyjoy tried to talk to you earlier today—”
“Gods no!”
“No, obviously not him!” you said in a rush. “None of you will wed him, are you jesting? I hate him, he’s vile.”
“He’s your lord husband’s best friend,” Wylla pointed out and you shrugged.
“I still hate him, Robb knows it,” you said. “But it made me think, it’s clear you have admirers, all of you.” You motioned around the room. “Silas fixed my betrothal, and it took him such a long time to make a decision. And you’re my ladies-in-waiting, it’s my responsibility to find you good suitors. I’m determined to find you the best men in the realm, but I can only do that if I know what kind of husbands you want.”
Alys thought for a second. “Perhaps we should make a list.”
“Good idea!” You jumped from the bed and rushed to the desk to grab the inkpot and the quill, and parchments. You dipped the quill into the inkpot, then wrote all their names on different parchments and pointed at Lyra with your quill.
“Lyra, are you certain—”
“I won’t wed, I’m certain,” Lyra cut you off. “Men can be so annoying.”
“She’s not wrong on that one,” Jorelle muttered and Lyra gave her a grin.
“I can also fight Greyjoy if he bothers you.”
“Not needed at this point, but thank you Lyra.”
“Me next!” Barbrey said, sitting up straighter. “I want a southron husband.”
“Where in the south?” you asked and Barbrey frowned as if the thought hadn’t hit her before.
“Um, the Reach?”
“The men of the Reach are full of audacity, I’ve found,” Jorelle grumbled and you shot her a smirk.
“I think you mean the men of Dorne.”
Jorelle bit back a laugh and held up her hands. “All the same to me.”
“And I want him to be a knight,” Barbrey added, her nose stuck in the air. “Like…like that knight you danced with on your wedding.”
You blinked a couple of times. “Loras?”
“Yes, The Knight of Flowers!” Barbrey said. “Oh he was so handsome!”
“Barbrey.” You tried to control your expression. “You would not want Loras as a husband.”
“Why did you not?” Alys asked and shifted her weight. “I mean I know Lord Robb is the love of your life, but before that? The Knight of Flowers is your best friend’s brother, and you two looked like the perfect southron lady and the knight when you danced.”
Well, there were many reasons; the main one being that your brother was Loras’ type and not you, regardless of how you two looked while you were dancing.
“Loras is like a brother to me,” you said. “We could never see each other like that. How about you, Alys? What kind of husband do you want?”
“I don’t want a southron,” Alys said. “I don’t want to be so far away from my family. I want a brave northern fighter, but he must be handsome, and my age.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
Her cheeks got pink and she averted her glances.
“…No.”
You arched a brow. “Alys.”
“I don’t have anyone in mind, I just—”
“She admires the heir of House Ryswell,” Wylla sang without looking up from her book, making Alys gasp.
“I do not!”
“You danced with him at the wedding and you were flustered afterwards.”
“Wylla!”
“How else are you going to get the husband you want if you keep it a secret?”
“What kind of reading is that?” Jorelle asked her, gesturing at the book in front of Wylla. “You keep chiming in.”
“Yes well, while you are all listing your requirements for suitors…” Wylla wiggled her brows and turned the page before she held it up so that all could see the vulgar illustration. “I’m learning how to keep my future husband under my spell.”
The room exploded into chaos in a second. Alys jumped from her seat at the same time with Barbrey, who nearly face planted on Lyra in her haste to rush to Wylla. Jorelle sat up in bed and snatched the book from Wylla’s hands, holding it out of her reach while she all but wrestled her to get it back.
“Jo!”
“Where did you find this?”
“Let me see! Let me see!”
“What does it say?”
“Oh it says everything.”
“Barbrey, stop pushing!”
“You won’t even wed, Lyra, no need for you to see!”
The title of the book was familiar to you; it was very famous all over the south. Of course all the septas and the maesters forbid it, saying that it was not appropriate for ladies, but that had never stopped you or any of your friends. All it required was a couple gold dragons given to the right maid, and a ball thrown in someone’s honor so that you and your friends could gather in one of your bedchambers while the rest of the household was busy with the guests.
Though, you were rather surprised to see it was famous enough to be found in the north as well.
“That’s disgusting!” Barbrey let out a squeal as she leaned in to grimace at the drawing. “So very disgusting!”
“Then stop looking?”
“I cannot!”
You pressed your fist on your mouth so that you could hide your smile, leaning back to the table while they all gathered around the bed and turned the page.
“But I don’t—but—” Alys stammered. “My lady mother said, on my wedding night, I’m to just lay there.”
“So did mine! My husband will know what to do, she said.”
Gods, the north really was different than the south, this was yet another proof of it. All your ladies-in-waiting were the same age as you, women grown, and yet they were clueless when it came to certain things because the north was incredibly strict on such matters.
Jorelle turned the page again and yelped in surprise, a scowl twisting her beautiful face. “Seven hells, I’m not doing that!”
“Let me see—”
“I’m a lady,” Barbrey insisted. “I care not what the book says, I’m not putting my mouth anywhere near…that thing.”
“Do all men know about this?”
“I’d say so.”
“Do you suppose there’s a book for them as well?”
“A book?” Wylla asked with a scoff. “They have no need to read about it. What do you think they do in brothels, hold hands?”
“Lady wives don’t do such things,” Alys insisted while Jorelle lifted her head as if she just remembered your presence in the room. “I’m sure of it.”
“I still don’t understand the—the physics of this?”
“You know what Lyra, you were right. If this is what will be expected of me, I’m not going to wed either.”
“My personal feelings aside, it does sound very uncomfortable, I’m not going to lie.”
“Is it?” Jorelle asked you, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Is it very uncomfortable?”
Stunned silence fell upon the room as all the girls turned their heads to stare at you while you bit back your grin.
“Hm?”
“Oh but she doesn’t do that!” Alys said in a haste. “She’s the most graceful lady of the south, Jo.”
“And she’s been quiet since the beginning of this conversation,” Lyra pointed out, narrowing her eyes at you. “Too quiet.”
Barbrey held up the book and pointed at the illustration on the page. “Did you do this?”
Wylla elbowed her. “Barbrey!”
“What? Lord Robb is mesmerized by her, everyone knows it!”
“Because she is beautiful, you idiot, not because she does such tricks!”
You dragged the tip of your tongue on your lip, then heaved a dramatic sigh.
“You see, I would tell you,” you said. “But since such conversations are unladylike, you’d have to swear—”
“I swear it! I swear on my honor!”
“Me too!”
“So do I, on my honor and house!”
“Aye, on my house too!”
“I will never breathe a word, I swear it.”
“…That it doesn’t leave this room,” you finished your sentence with a laugh. “Very well then.”
They all plopped down on your huge bed, their attention fully on you as you jumped to sit on the desk.
“Lady Olenna, my best friend’s grandmother always said the marital bed is the way to keep one’s husband mesmerized,” you said. “It matters even more than how you look, how much wealth your family has, or what your house is; that right there is the key, she would say.”
“So you knew about all these things?”
“I did,” you said airily. “The south isn’t as strict as the north, and though I lacked practice, I didn’t lack knowledge.”
“Yes well,” Alys grumbled. “In the north we lack both for some reason.”
Barbrey raised the book again, pointing at the page without a word and you nodded, making all of them gasp.
“You did that?!”
Well, they didn’t need to know how you did exactly that in Robb’s solar the other day.
“I reacted similarly when I first heard about it,” you admitted, “It sounded intimidating, the idea of doing that with some faceless husband in the future that I couldn’t even imagine. And unlike what everyone keeps telling women, you shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to. I wouldn’t, if I didn’t want to. However, Robb is…” You tried to find the right words. “I desire him so much that sometimes I feel like I can’t even think or breathe. I don’t speak for all married women obviously, but for me it wasn’t uncomfortable.”
“I’d be so embarrassed to do that though,” Wylla muttered and you cleared your throat.
“At first I was too, but then—” You fixed your skirts just so that you could do something with your hands. “He’s never made me feel uncomfortable, no matter what we’re doing. That’s why I find the marital bed so much fun.”
“Fun!?”
“Of course,” you said. “It can be very pleasurable you know? For women as well, not just men.”
“I heard it’s terrible for women.”
“It’s not terrible.” Your laugh echoed in the room. “Not even close. When you wed someone who loves you, they simply want you to be happy. Not only outside, but also in your bedchambers.”
Barbrey pointed at the next page, making you hiss in a breath.
“Um, no.” You grimaced and shook your head. “Not that, I would not.”
Jorelle leaned over to peek at what it was before Barbrey showed you another illustration.
“How about this?”
“Oh.” Your face grew hotter. “He does that. A lot.”
Jorelle’s jaw dropped. “You’re jesting, surely!”
“I thought at first his beard would be a problem, but as it turns out—”
“Your lord husband kisses you there?”
“Yes.”
“Why? That doesn’t lead to an heir.”
“Well.” You pressed your palms on your cheeks to soothe the fire. “Not everything is about siring heirs.”
“But how come no one said it’d be fun?” Wylla asked to the room. “All I kept hearing was the importance of heirs, why was I not told it could be fun?”
“I think unfortunately many women don’t know,” you said. “But thankfully I know, because I wed the love of my life, and so will all of you. I’ll make sure of it.” You winked at Lyra. “As long as you want to wed, of course. There’s always the option not to.”
“I’ll take that option,” Lyra stated. “I’m uninterested.”
“I’m interested,” Barbrey pointed out and shuffled the pages before she held up the book again. “Not the other thing, but I want to try this.”
You leaned in with the rest of the girls to see the illustration better. Jorelle narrowed her eyes while Wylla tilted her head, Lyra’s lips curled downwards and Alys put a hand on her hip, letting out a hum.
“Oh I haven’t tried that one yet either,” you said after a beat and held out your hand to motion at the book. “But as my best friend would say, every skill needs honing. May I?”
An hour before dinner, you had already changed your gown and had your maid do your hair while your ladies-in-waiting went to their own bedchambers to get ready. You had dismissed your maid to read some more in secret, so engrossed in the book that you had lost the track of time, hence why you didn’t even hear Robb’s approaching footsteps until the door opened. Your head whipped up and you jolted in bed as if someone pricked you with a needle, a gasp catching in your throat.
“My love!” you squealed, closing the book and pushing it under the bed in haste. “You’re back!”
“I am.” He came closer to peck you on the lips before he flung himself on the bed, and tilted his head. “Why are you out of breath?”
Seven hells.
“I was reading poetry,” you said after a pause, waving a hand in the air. “It always evokes feelings in me, I get very emotional.”
Confusion pinched his brows and you took a deep breath to calm yourself, then pushed yourself from the bed to make your way to the big table, earning a groan of displeasure from him.
“Come back.”
You let out a giggle and held up a cup, but he shook his head, so you only filled one cup with wine before you returned to bed. After taking a sip, you put the cup on your bedside table and let him pull you back in the bed so that you could straddle him while he wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling to your bosom.
“Gods, you smell so good,” he murmured and you stifled a laugh.
“How was your day?” you asked, playing with the auburn curls at the nape of his neck, and he hummed.
“Busy. Yours?”
“Not as busy,” you said. “What’s happened?”
“There’s some unrest between two families up in the mountains,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin. “Norreys and Burleys. Both too stubborn to speak to each other without drawing swords.”
“Oh my poor love,” you cooed, a smile curling your lips when his shoulders relaxed. “And you must be the peacemaker?”
He nodded. “In person, probably.”
The simple sentence was more than enough to wipe your smile off your face, your body tensing up. The memory of what had happened the last time he was away flashed before your eyes, your stomach doing a painful flip as you gulped. You knew that he had no idea, you had made sure that he would have no idea, but it didn’t mean you were ready for him to leave once again, this time for more than just one week—probably for a moon, with how far the mountains were from Winterfell.
But what were you supposed to say?
I don’t feel safe here when you’re away?
That was out of the question. Lady Olenna would’ve reprimanded you if she heard you even consider saying such a thing; a lady didn’t demand or plead, she made people think they wanted what she wanted all along.
In the subtlest manner, of course.
“Oh my,” you said. “Well, I’m quite excited to meet them then. Do you suppose their wives will come with as well? When you invite those lords here?”
He pulled back to give you a fond smile.
“You misunderstand me, sweeting—”
“I suppose they will, considering the distance,” you cut him off. “And I understand why, if you went off to the mountains to settle such dispute, it’d take what? Almost a moon for you to come back? Gods, it’d break my heart so terribly.” You curled your fingers over the back of his hand so that you could press his palm on the soft swell of your chest where he could feel your heartbeat. “To be away from you for that long. I’d miss you so, so much.”
Robb’s eyes darkened with desire as they lingered on your cleavage, then snapped up to your lips again. “Would you?”
You knew you were supposed to come up with a seductive remark as an answer, this was the perfect moment; and yet what you ended up saying was more of a heartfelt confession rather than some southern wordplay.
“I know the whole north says it’s just because we’re newlyweds, but…” You lowered your glances, your heart skipping a beat at the heat of his gaze alone. “Robb, I don’t believe anyone understands how much I crave you, all the time. It’s intimidating sometimes.”
He swallowed thickly, his other hand sliding up to cradle your cheek, tracing the line of your bottom lip with his thumb as he tilted your head up.
“And why is it intimidating, my beautiful wife?” he asked, the deep rumble of his voice sending a pleasant shiver through you before he pressed open-mouthed kisses on your chest while tugging at the front laces of your gown. “My heart is at your command forever, you know this.”
You had to try really, really hard to focus and pull yourself together through the haze of want, especially with the way you could feel the proof of his desire under you.
“I thought, for—” A curt laugh escaped you. “I feared for a moment just now, that you would go to them and not the other way around. But you would not, surely?”
He paused for a second, then he lifted his head to look at you; his eyes heavy-lidded like he was as intoxicated with your presence as you were with his.
“Of course not.”
You nodded, batting your lashes. “They’ll come here instead?”
“Aye,” he murmured. “They’ll come here instead.”
You couldn’t stop the proud smile lighting up your face before he grabbed your waist and flipped you under him, making you squeal.
“Robb! My love, we have guests for dinner—”
“They’ll wait,” he growled as he trailed his lips down your neck, untying the laces of your gown. “The whole castle, the whole north, the whole realm. If my wife craves me, they’re all going to wait.”
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your amazing support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Even the most chaotic days can have relaxing moments.
Word Count: 5,1k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, mentions of blood, periods, medieval era viewpoints on marriage and gender. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Seven hells, he had missed his wife.
When Robb passed through the gates on his horse, with Jon and Theon following him close behind, it was nearly midnight. They had been on the road for nearly three days, and though his visit to Castle Hornwood had been necessary, he was not planning on leaving Winterfell for a while if he could help it; being away from her this past week had been nothing but torment. Judging by the harsh wind for the last two hours, there was going to be a storm soon, so he wasted no time to bid Jon and Theon good night once he dismounted his horse, then made his way into the Inner Keep with Grey Wind following him.
The whole castle was asleep, to no surprise. He climbed the stairs and went down the hallway; the torches his only source of light since the moon was hiding behind the clouds tonight. He walked past his door to approach his wife’s bedchambers but when he peeked his head in, a frown pinched his brows. Not only did the room look completely different than what he remembered—no doubt per her orders to redesign it in his absence—but she was also nowhere to be found.
Where was his lady?
It seemed that he was mistaken to assume she would’ve taken to her own bed like she had the last time he left the castle. Grey Wind curled up at the door when Robb reached his room and opened the door, the sweet flowery scent swirling around him like some sort of invisible magic, warmth caressing his face. His lady, who was perched on the window seat and watching the stormy sky turned her head like she snapped out of a haze, a gasp leaving her.
“You’re back!”
He didn’t even notice the smile pulling at his lips.
“And you’re awake.” He closed the door behind him as she darted across the room and flung herself into his arms, coaxing a chuckle out of him. He lifted her, earning a surprised yelp before he carried her to bed, both of them falling on the mattress with him on top of her.
Her giggle echoed in the room, sweeter than any melody he had ever heard. He couldn’t help but dip his head to kiss her, a sigh leaving her lips when he pulled back to feast his eyes on the sight of her beautiful face.
“Good evening, my lady wife.”
“Good evening, my lord husband,” she played along, tracing the direwolf clasp of his cloak. “I thought you’d be back earlier.”
“So did I,” Robb admitted. “Why are you awake at this hour?”
She pouted. “Sleep evades me.”
“Nightmares?”
“I had a nightmare, but it’s gone now,” she said after a beat while he absentmindedly played with her hair. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“I’m glad to be back,” he murmured, stealing a kiss from her before his lips trailed down her neck, her sweet scent luring him but she held her breath.
“Robb, we—um, we cannot, I got my moon blood.”
He grinned against the soft skin of her neck.
“A man who’s afraid of getting his sword bloody is no man at all—” he was cut off when she smacked his shoulder with a gasp, laughter rumbling deep in his chest.
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s an old northern proverb.”
“It is not an old northern proverb!” she whined, pushing at his shoulder again when he lifted his head to smirk down at her.
“Aye, it is.”
“It’s not.” She scrunched up at her nose in the most adorable manner. “Proverbs are supposed to be wise.”
“It is very wise,” he argued. “It’s applicable to every moon. What is that if not wise?”
She looked like she was trying her hardest to fight back her laughter, yet a giggle escaped her before she took a deep breath.
“It’s rather uncomfortable,” she admitted, her voice quiet as her smile faded. “The cramps.”
That was enough to make Robb snap out of it.
“You’re in pain?” he asked, his gaze darting over her face. “Did you take any remedy? I can wake Maester Luwin—”
“No,” she cut him off, her hand cradling his cheek as he turned his head to kiss her palm. “No need for that, my love.”
“But are you certain?”
“I am.”
“Is that normal?”
“Very much so, I’m afraid,” she said and swallowed thickly. “Will you just…will you just hold me?”
Robb could swear his heart melted inside his chest. He stared at her for a brief moment, warmth filling his veins before he gave her a chaste kiss on the lips.
“I’ll hold you until the end of time if you wish it so,” he told her as he got off of her to take off his cloak. “Just let me change first.”
It didn’t take him long to change into loose breeches, deciding to forego his nightshirt as usual due to the heat of the room. It was rather hot if he had to admit, yet his lady was not used to the cold of the north, and she liked it that way. Raindrops started pattering on the window, wind outside getting stronger as he slipped into bed, pulling his lady close to him so that she could curl into his side to rest her head on his chest. He nuzzled into her hair, her scent the only remedy that could soothe the ache of being apart from her for days.
“I missed you,” she whispered into the silent room and Robb pressed his lips on top of her head.
“I missed you too,” he muttered. “How was it? Here?”
“Um—” She cleared her throat. “Nothing of importance took place.”
“Bran is still…?”
“Asleep,” she finished his sentence for him. “But Maester Luwin says he will wake up, we just don’t know when.”
He heaved a sigh, exhaustion creeping up on him slowly. “And Rickon?”
“He loves taking care of Frost, you should see him. Every morning we bring her breakfast, he finds it hilarious.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“Better than nightmares, I suppose,” he said. “What was yours about, by the way?”
“Oh, I…” she trailed off. “I don’t remember exactly, but it was painful.”
He let out a hum, his arm tightening around her waist as he kissed her forehead.
“I’m here,” he murmured. “I would never let anything bad happen to you, I swear it.”
Her whole body tensed up, and she went quiet before she pulled away from his grip so that she could sit up in the bed. The room was rather dark; his lady must’ve blown out the candles before, and since the flames in the hearth were the only source of light, he could only see the glimmer in her eyes, rather than her whole expression.
Her voice was calm when she spoke: “Robb?”
“Hm?”
“Would you kill someone for me if I asked you to?”
The lightning flashed outside, illuminating her beautiful face for a brief moment before the darkness claimed the room again, followed by a loud boom. Despite the exhaustion, Robb felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, how did she not know?
The whole north knew at this point.
“Of course.” He frowned when the thought hit him. “Has someone offended you in my absence?”
“No,” she was quick to assure him. “Not at all. I was just thinking about the nightmare, if someone hurt me—”
“That’d be the last thing they ever did before I sent them to the gods, old or new.”
“No matter who?”
“No matter who,” he swore as he reached out to drag his knuckles over her arm before he grinned. “Except your moon blood; that I cannot kill. I can put it to sleep for nine moons though.”
It took him a mere second to understand she was in no mood for a jest, even before she let out a shaky breath like she was on the verge of tears. Robb cussed at himself under his breath and sat up while she sniffled so that he could pull her into his arms. She buried her face to the crook of his neck as he cradled her head with one hand, the other rubbing her back.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered to her temple. “I’m sorry, my love. Was the nightmare that bad?”
She nodded and sniffled again.
“Someone—” She gulped. “Someone hurt me. And I bled out. Alone.”
“That will never happen,” he cooed at her. “I’d never let that happen, lamb. Just a nightmare, it’s not real.”
A curt laugh escaped her and she took a deep breath.
“No,” she murmured after a beat. “No, it’s not real. Just a nightmare, nothing more.”
Though it had taken his lady a while to go to sleep, the next day she woke up in better spirits. The storm continued outside, and Robb’s morning wasn’t so busy for once, so he was able to convince her to stay in bed and have breakfast there. It was rather cozy; the sound of the wind and rain locked away outside while the hearth warmed up the room, Grey Wind taking a nap at the foot of the bed. His lady was wrapped up all snug in his robe while Robb rested his head in her lap, holding one of the ledgers that she had asked him to check above his face, but he could barely focus with the way she was absentmindedly playing with his hair.
It felt so peaceful that Robb wanted to stay like this forever.
“So what do you think?” she urged him and he tried to focus on the numbers on the page.
“I think it looks great.”
She gave him a bright smile, and—much to his displeasure—stopped playing with his hair so that she could grab the pair of earrings that he had forgotten to give her last night off her nightstand.
“They’re so pretty,” she chirped. “I cannot wait to wear them tonight to dinner!”
He blindly reached up to put her hand back in his hair, coaxing a laugh out of her before she buried her hand into his curls and ran her nails over his scalp, making him close his eyes with a sigh.
“Lord Mollen doesn’t like my idea,” she told him, causing him to open his eyes again to look up at her. “Lady Lynara told me as much. Neither of them think it wise.”
“What they think isn’t of importance.” Robb turned the page. “It’s for a good cause, and you want it done, so it will be.”
She shifted her weight as if she was too excited to sit still.
“Thank you!” she said. “I’ll imply it in a polite way tonight if she asks again, let’s see how she will react.”
He stole a glance at her. “Are you sure you can attend dinner tonight? We can eat here if you’re still in pain.”
“No, it’s better now,” she said. “It’s bearable.”
Robb frowned. “Is it ever unbearable?”
“Sometimes, but this is not an appropriate topic for a lord and lady to speak of, you do realize that?”
“We’re man and wife now, we can talk about such things,” he said. “For example, is it as painful as—”
“I’m going to stop you right there because I think you’re going to compare it to something men go through during sparring,” she said. “Yes. It’s more painful than that. Any of that.”
“Any of that, really?”
She puffed up her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling like she was straining her mind for the right words.
“Imagine somebody sets a sword on fire.” She held up a fist, mimicking holding a sword before she slammed the imaginary sword into the mattress. “Then drives it down your spine!”
Robb blinked up at her.
“…I don’t want to imagine that.”
“And while you’re trying to breathe, someone else shoots an arrow through your stomach.”
“That’s—”
“And then they twist both the sword and the arrow, and then yank them both out.”
“Why do I feel like you’re enjoying this very vivid description?”
“And there’s blood everywhere but it matters not, because you’re still expected to attend feasts and jousts and such,” she mused. “And dance and make small talk and smile and entertain people.”
He made a face. “How do women not walk around screaming?”
“Not from a lack of desire to do so, I’ll tell you that much,” she said airily as if they were talking of the weather. “My septa used to say—”
“M’lady?” Her maid knocked on the door. “A raven from Dorne has arrived.”
“Come in Kyra!” she called out and the maid opened the door, then came over to the bed to hand her the scroll, then scurried out of the room while Robb turned his attention to the ledger. His lady broke the unfamiliar seal—it probably belonged to her mother’s house in Dorne—then skimmed the lines.
“Silas?” he asked and she shook her head.
“Perce,” she muttered. “Silas wrote to me the moment he set foot in Dorne.”
“How was their trip?”
“Well, Cliff is an excellent sailor so it—oh he has to be jesting!”
That was enough to pull Robb’s attention away from the ledger.
“What’s happened?”
She threw her head back in exasperation, then frowned down at the scroll.
“Perce wants me to ask Silas about his new lady on my next letter.”
“Hold on.” Robb sat up with a smirk. “Silas has a lady?”
“Mm hm.”
“Already?” he asked. “They’ve been there for what, two weeks?”
“Three.” She pursed her lips. “A young widow, whose husband died under…questionable circumstances.”
“Did they check for a dagger in his chest or was that too questionable?”
“Perce says Silas goes to her castle each night.”
He let out a laugh. “So she’s his mistress?”
“It sounds to me that Silas is her mistress, to be completely honest,” she muttered, her eyes darting over the lines. “Unbelievable.”
“Is it though?” he wondered aloud, earning a slight shove at his arm. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised, Silas is very fond of ladies.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but there was another knock on the door. Robb pushed himself off the bed to make his way there, assuming that it was either Jon or Theon, but instead, it was his youngest brother. Rickon’s eyes widened when he saw him.
“Robb, you’re back!”
“I am,” he said with a small chuckle as Rickon clutched at his leg in an attempt to hug him. “Missed me?”
“A little, but it was only for a week.”
“It was.” Robb ruffled his wild curls. “Are you hiding from Maester Luwin?”
“No.”
“Rickon, if you stuffed a dead crow in your septa’s pillow again just because she hit your knuckles—”
“I did not!”
“Then did you need me for something?”
“Um, not you.” The little boy walked past him to step inside, making Robb look over his shoulder. “Good morrow!”
Robb tilted his head in confusion.
“Good morrow to you too my sweet!” His lady crossed the room, then crouched down to Rickon’s eye level. “How did you sleep?”
“I had a dream with—with me and Shaggy, and we were on a mountain, and then Shaggy was going after another wolf, but then it wasn’t a wolf, because it turned into a bird!”
His lady gasped. “That sounds like a very interesting dream! What sort of bird?”
“A blue one—can we give Frost breakfast, please and thank you?”
“I was away for a week and he says please and thank you now?” Robb asked, getting a reprimanding glare from his lady while Rickon nodded.
“We say please and thank you to ladies,” he pointed out in a very proud manner, and Robb stifled a laugh.
“Do you know what those words mean?”
“I do!”
“Of course he does,” his lady said. “And we can give Frost breakfast after I get ready, thank you for asking so nicely.”
“Wait,” Robb said, the smile wiping off his face in a second. “Now?”
“It’s her breakfast time,” Rickon told him and Robb shook his head.
“You’re nearly a man grown, you can feed her by yourself.”
“But we do it together!” Rickon argued. “We go to the kitchens and get carrots and apples and go to the barn to feed Frost first, and then Silk.”
“Rickon my sweet, can Robb join us today?”
Rickon looked up at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh while Robb frowned at him.
“What, you have to think?”
“He can,” Rickon muttered. “I guess.”
“I appreciate the sacrifice, Rickon.”
“But you cannot leave the castle in this attire,” his lady told his little brother, motioning at his clothes. “You need a cloak, there’s a storm outside. How about Robb takes you to your room so that you can get your cloak, and then we’ll go to the kitchens?”
“Okay!” Rickon rushed to his side. “Let’s go.”
“He knows where—” Robb started, but gave Rickon a little shove when he sunk his teeth into Robb’s hand, tugging at his sleeve. His lady gasped.
“Robb, don’t push him like that!” she chastised him and Rickon gave him a big grin.
“Aye, don’t push me like that!”
“You’re fine,” Robb deadpanned. “You’re more wolf than child.”
His lady shook her head and pointed at the door. “Out.”
“You heard her, Rickon.”
“I’m talking to you!” she insisted. “Go make sure he has a cloak on, and I’ll meet you in the kitchens.”
“Fine, fine…” Robb muttered and grabbed his own cloak to put it on. “You can stay, Grey Wind.”
The direwolf only plopped on his back when his lady approached as if he was asking for belly rubs, and Robb closed the door with a sigh.
“Come on.” He gently pushed Rickon, who wasted no time to jump and grab his arm to hang from it, his cackle echoing in the hallway.
“Onward!”
“See what I meant?” Robb grumbled as he made his way down the hallway, swinging his arm while Rickon cheered. “More wolf than child.”
Much to his displeasure, he barely had any time to see his lady after their little visit to the barn. He went to Bran’s room, but he was soon pulled away from there when Maester Luwin reminded him that there were many scrolls that he had to reply to; a lot of ravens had arrived in Winterfell in his absence from different parts of the north. At least the storm had passed, so once he managed to find some free time, he joined Jon and Theon in the yard to spar with them while his lady attended to her own duties.
But there was something off.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something off.
Perhaps it was because of people’s criticism of her new plan while he was away, or the nightmares keeping her up last night, but judging by how curt her smile was while she was talking to others when he caught a sight of her on his way to the rookery, Robb could swear she wasn’t her happy self in the crowd of ladies surrounding her.
After an hour of sparring, he decided to catch his breath and grab some water while Theon stretched, and Jon sat down beside him on the bench to sharpen his sword.
“I’m so glad to be back,” Theon said. “I don’t like Castle Hornwood.”
“Why not?”
“Everyone is so quiet there.”
“It was a nice change,” Jon said with a grin and Robb scoffed.
“Nah, I missed home too.”
“You missed your lady,” Theon corrected. “More than you missed home. You kept sulking.”
“Aye, you did.”
“I was right to do so, because apparently she—” Robb paused when he saw Lady Jorelle crossing the yard. “Give me a moment. Lady Jorelle?”
She spun around on her heels as he made his way to her.
“Hello.”
“Hello, my lord,” she said. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I uh…this is going to sound rather strange, but is my lady wife alright?”
She blinked a couple of times, then raised her brows. “Hm?”
“Has something happened while I was away?”
She frowned and looked up as if she was trying to remember, then shook her head.
“Nothing happened,” she said, her voice calm. “Why?”
“She seems rather distressed,” he said. “And she mentioned some people disagreeing with her about her plans for mothers and children for the winter. Has someone disrespected her in my absence? Because she refuses to tell me, but I’d like to put an end to it if such a thing took place.”
“And admirable thought,” she said. “But nothing took place, I assure you. If anything, it was a rather dull week.”
Robb bit inside his cheek, then gave her a curt smile and nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better leave you to it then. I appreciate your help.”
“Of course,” Jorelle said and curtsied, then went into the keep while Robb returned to the corner Jon and Theon were watching him from.
“What was that about?” Theon asked and Robb ran a hand through his hair.
“My lady is distressed, and I do not know why.”
“Well, her family is away,” Jon pointed out. “And then you went away. Can’t be easy, being alone in a new place.”
That could explain the nightmare, now that he thought about it.
“But Silas will visit often, he said so himself,” Theon said. “A couple moons after the honeymoon, he said.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robb said with a shrug. “Silas is rather busy in Dorne with a lady.”
Jon’s head shot up from his sword. “Silas has a lady?”
“Aye, a mistress.” Robb grinned. “A young widow who killed her husband, apparently.”
Theon let out a laugh, and Jon stared at Robb in silence for a couple of seconds, then took a deep breath.
“He—how do you know this?”
“Perceon sent a raven to my lady.” Robb gulped down his water, then put the flask to the side. “Are you ready?”
Jon swallowed thickly, then feigned a cough.
“You go ahead, I’ll uh…” He motioned in the direction of the Godswood. “I’ll find Ghost.”
“Now?” Robb asked but Jon ignored him, making his way through the yard to go into the Godswood. Robb turned to Theon to see whether he knew what was happening, but Theon held up his palms with a shake of his head.
“You two know direwolves better than I.”
Robb looked over his shoulder, then heaved a sigh and grabbed his sword.
“Very well then,” he said. “Come on. I haven’t sparred in days, I must catch up.”
Eventually, he had to go back to his solar to hold audience with some of his vassals, but once Lord Poole left and someone knocked on the door, it wasn’t yet another vassal but his lady wife who peeked her head in.
“Am I interrupting anything?”
“Never,” Robb said, a smile pulling at his lips as he stood up. “Come in!”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I know you’ve been busy, but I sent the ledgers with Kyra, and I wanted to ask—”
“They’re over here,” Robb pointed at the top of the pile. “I’ll be done with them by the dinner time, is that alright?”
“More than alright!” She beamed while he rounded the desk to lean back to it, then grabbed her hand to pull her closer. A giggle climbed her throat and she stepped into his embrace, heaving a sigh when he cradled her cheek in his palm and brushed his lips against hers.
“Do you have much to do?” she asked, playing with the laces of his shirt and he nodded.
“A little,” he admitted. “But stay.”
“Gladly,” she said. “I miss you during the day.”
“I miss you too,” he said, caressing her cheekbone. “And are you feeling better? Last night…”
“Oh.” She paused, looking down at the floor before she raised her gaze to his again. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t,” he said in a haste. “Don’t apologize for it. I just want to make sure you’re alright, that’s all.”
“I’m alright,” she assured him. “It was just a nightmare, nothing more.”
“And is…” Robb trailed off. “Is someone driving a burning sword down your spine and shooting arrows into your stomach?”
That coaxed a laugh out of her, the pleasant sound echoing in the room.
“No.”
“No urge to walk around screaming at people?”
“Aside from very specific people, no,” she said. “But ask me again after dinner. I have a feeling the urge will be back then.”
“We can take our dinner in our bedchambers.”
“You just came back,” she reminded him. “We cannot do that I’m afraid. Your vassals want to see you.”
“And I want to see my wife.”
“I’m right here.”
“Aye, but you’re dressed.”
Her jaw dropped and she pushed at his arm. “Robb!”
“What?” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Would you rather if I were dishonest?”
“I would rather if you weren’t so—” she started, but was cut off when someone knocked on the door.
“Lord Mollen, m’lord,” the footman at the door announced and his lady rolled her eyes at the name.
Ah.
The infamous Lord Mollen who did not approve or like her plans.
When the footman opened the door to let him in, his lady made an attempt to step away no doubt to leave the room, but Robb was quick to grab her wrist to tug her back to his side, making her head shoot up.
“You’ll stay,” he muttered and turned to the man. “Lord Mollen. Good afternoon.”
Lord Mollen lingered in his spot, his eyes darting between him and his lady before he bowed his head.
“My lord,” he said. “If you’re busy, I can come at another time.”
“We’re not busy.”
“But the lady—”
“My lady wife will remain here.”
She looked like she was fighting off a smug smile but managed to school her expression into composure.
“Hello Lord Mollen,” she said. “How wonderful to see you. I’ve had the chance to talk to Lady Lynara the other day.”
“She mentioned it, my lady,” Lord Mollen said. “That was actually what I wanted to talk to you about, my lord. This…carpenter business.”
Robb gave a short nod. “I’m listening.”
Lord Mollen cleared his throat.
“It’s clear that your lady wife has a soft heart for children,” he started, “And may the gods grant you both many.”
A shadow crossed his lady’s face, but it was gone as quick as it came.
“However,” the man continued. “Expecting the carpenters to teach the craft to absolute strangers on top of their usual work has caused some unrest between them, at least in my castle. Most of them teach their own children their craft.”
“Orphans don’t have fathers who can teach them anything, Lord Mollen,” she said. “And those carpenters will be compensated for their work. Surely adding one more apprentice cannot hurt. Or do they fear competition?”
Lord Mollen turned his glances to Robb as if he expected him to step in, but Robb stayed quiet for a deliberate couple of seconds before he pushed himself off the desk.
“The question was directed to you, my lord.” He went back to take his seat behind the desk, so that Lord Mollen would have to address his lady while Robb was still present and could glare at him without her noticing. “Not to me.”
“No,” Lord Mollen answered in a rush. “Not competition, but they find it rather trivial. All that work for toys for children, who will mostly come from mountain clans. We have our own people to worry about for the winter, and while I’m sure it’s normal to give such instructions back in the south, in the north—”
“Lord Mollen, there must’ve been a misunderstanding in my absence,” Robb cut him off. “Which is expected, seeing that this is rather new for everyone. But from now on, you can safely assume that whatever instructions my lady wife gives, as polite as she makes them sound, come from me.” He crossed his arms over the desk and leaned forward, his jaw clenched. “And I do not give trivial commands.”
Since his lady was still leaning back to the desk, he couldn’t see her face, but Lord Mollen’s discontent was clear as day. Silence fell upon the room, and Robb let the veiled threat linger in the air without another word while Lord Mollen gulped, then took a deep breath.
“A misunderstanding indeed,” he said, and bowed his head. “I’ll make sure they follow your command, my lord. My lady.”
“Have a nice day, Lord Mollen!” his lady chirped while she walked him to the door, then closed it behind him once he left. Robb threw his head back.
“That prick…” he grumbled while his lady stood there for a moment, her hand still on the handle.
“Do you have some free time?” she asked after a beat, leaning back to the door. Robb ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m supposed to hold meetings with four more people until dinner.”
She let out a hum like she was lost in her own thoughts before she shrugged and bolted the door.
“They’ll wait.”
“What’re you—?” Robb was cut off when she flung herself into his arms for a kiss, letting him pull her into his lap with a squeal. He grabbed the side of her neck to tilt her head, the feeling of her melting under his touch intoxicating as ever when he deepened the kiss, the fire of desire coming to life with a stir.
Gods, it had been so long…
His lips trailed down the column of her throat down to her bosom, her lovely scent filling his lungs, her skin softer than the silk of her pretty gown. Her fingers buried into his curls with a gasp to tug at the roots, drawing a moan out of him as she shifted in his lap, the mere friction against his hardness enough to drive him mad. He blindly reached down to push her skirt up, but she grabbed his hands to entwine their fingers, trying to catch her breath, her lips swollen with his kiss.
“Robb, we cannot do that—”
The sound that left him sounded awfully like a whine. “But…”
“Not that.”
“Does my wife mean to torment me, then?”
A giggle climbed up her throat and she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, looked over her shoulder at the door, then turned to him again.
“No,” she said, “my husband misunderstands me.”
He could’ve come up with a retort if all the blood in his body hadn’t gone south, but any hope of even half a thought disappeared from his mind when she easily slid off his lap to kneel before him, the realization knocking the breath out of his lungs.
“I said we couldn’t do that,” she said, eyes gleaming with mischief as she looked up at him. “I never said we couldn’t do something else.”
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your amazing support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Even the most chaotic days can have relaxing moments.
Word Count: 5,1k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, mentions of blood, periods, medieval era viewpoints on marriage and gender. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Seven hells, he had missed his wife.
When Robb passed through the gates on his horse, with Jon and Theon following him close behind, it was nearly midnight. They had been on the road for nearly three days, and though his visit to Castle Hornwood had been necessary, he was not planning on leaving Winterfell for a while if he could help it; being away from her this past week had been nothing but torment. Judging by the harsh wind for the last two hours, there was going to be a storm soon, so he wasted no time to bid Jon and Theon good night once he dismounted his horse, then made his way into the Inner Keep with Grey Wind following him.
The whole castle was asleep, to no surprise. He climbed the stairs and went down the hallway; the torches his only source of light since the moon was hiding behind the clouds tonight. He walked past his door to approach his wife’s bedchambers but when he peeked his head in, a frown pinched his brows. Not only did the room look completely different than what he remembered—no doubt per her orders to redesign it in his absence—but she was also nowhere to be found.
Where was his lady?
It seemed that he was mistaken to assume she would’ve taken to her own bed like she had the last time he left the castle. Grey Wind curled up at the door when Robb reached his room and opened the door, the sweet flowery scent swirling around him like some sort of invisible magic, warmth caressing his face. His lady, who was perched on the window seat and watching the stormy sky turned her head like she snapped out of a haze, a gasp leaving her.
“You’re back!”
He didn’t even notice the smile pulling at his lips.
“And you’re awake.” He closed the door behind him as she darted across the room and flung herself into his arms, coaxing a chuckle out of him. He lifted her, earning a surprised yelp before he carried her to bed, both of them falling on the mattress with him on top of her.
Her giggle echoed in the room, sweeter than any melody he had ever heard. He couldn’t help but dip his head to kiss her, a sigh leaving her lips when he pulled back to feast his eyes on the sight of her beautiful face.
“Good evening, my lady wife.”
“Good evening, my lord husband,” she played along, tracing the direwolf clasp of his cloak. “I thought you’d be back earlier.”
“So did I,” Robb admitted. “Why are you awake at this hour?”
She pouted. “Sleep evades me.”
“Nightmares?”
“I had a nightmare, but it’s gone now,” she said after a beat while he absentmindedly played with her hair. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“I’m glad to be back,” he murmured, stealing a kiss from her before his lips trailed down her neck, her sweet scent luring him but she held her breath.
“Robb, we—um, we cannot, I got my moon blood.”
He grinned against the soft skin of her neck.
“A man who’s afraid of getting his sword bloody is no man at all—” he was cut off when she smacked his shoulder with a gasp, laughter rumbling deep in his chest.
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s an old northern proverb.”
“It is not an old northern proverb!” she whined, pushing at his shoulder again when he lifted his head to smirk down at her.
“Aye, it is.”
“It’s not.” She scrunched up at her nose in the most adorable manner. “Proverbs are supposed to be wise.”
“It is very wise,” he argued. “It’s applicable to every moon. What is that if not wise?”
She looked like she was trying her hardest to fight back her laughter, yet a giggle escaped her before she took a deep breath.
“It’s rather uncomfortable,” she admitted, her voice quiet as her smile faded. “The cramps.”
That was enough to make Robb snap out of it.
“You’re in pain?” he asked, his gaze darting over her face. “Did you take any remedy? I can wake Maester Luwin—”
“No,” she cut him off, her hand cradling his cheek as he turned his head to kiss her palm. “No need for that, my love.”
“But are you certain?”
“I am.”
“Is that normal?”
“Very much so, I’m afraid,” she said and swallowed thickly. “Will you just…will you just hold me?”
Robb could swear his heart melted inside his chest. He stared at her for a brief moment, warmth filling his veins before he gave her a chaste kiss on the lips.
“I’ll hold you until the end of time if you wish it so,” he told her as he got off of her to take off his cloak. “Just let me change first.”
It didn’t take him long to change into loose breeches, deciding to forego his nightshirt as usual due to the heat of the room. It was rather hot if he had to admit, yet his lady was not used to the cold of the north, and she liked it that way. Raindrops started pattering on the window, wind outside getting stronger as he slipped into bed, pulling his lady close to him so that she could curl into his side to rest her head on his chest. He nuzzled into her hair, her scent the only remedy that could soothe the ache of being apart from her for days.
“I missed you,” she whispered into the silent room and Robb pressed his lips on top of her head.
“I missed you too,” he muttered. “How was it? Here?”
“Um—” She cleared her throat. “Nothing of importance took place.”
“Bran is still…?”
“Asleep,” she finished his sentence for him. “But Maester Luwin says he will wake up, we just don’t know when.”
He heaved a sigh, exhaustion creeping up on him slowly. “And Rickon?”
“He loves taking care of Frost, you should see him. Every morning we bring her breakfast, he finds it hilarious.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“Better than nightmares, I suppose,” he said. “What was yours about, by the way?”
“Oh, I…” she trailed off. “I don’t remember exactly, but it was painful.”
He let out a hum, his arm tightening around her waist as he kissed her forehead.
“I’m here,” he murmured. “I would never let anything bad happen to you, I swear it.”
Her whole body tensed up, and she went quiet before she pulled away from his grip so that she could sit up in the bed. The room was rather dark; his lady must’ve blown out the candles before, and since the flames in the hearth were the only source of light, he could only see the glimmer in her eyes, rather than her whole expression.
Her voice was calm when she spoke: “Robb?”
“Hm?”
“Would you kill someone for me if I asked you to?”
The lightning flashed outside, illuminating her beautiful face for a brief moment before the darkness claimed the room again, followed by a loud boom. Despite the exhaustion, Robb felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, how did she not know?
The whole north knew at this point.
“Of course.” He frowned when the thought hit him. “Has someone offended you in my absence?”
“No,” she was quick to assure him. “Not at all. I was just thinking about the nightmare, if someone hurt me—”
“That’d be the last thing they ever did before I sent them to the gods, old or new.”
“No matter who?”
“No matter who,” he swore as he reached out to drag his knuckles over her arm before he grinned. “Except your moon blood; that I cannot kill. I can put it to sleep for nine moons though.”
It took him a mere second to understand she was in no mood for a jest, even before she let out a shaky breath like she was on the verge of tears. Robb cussed at himself under his breath and sat up while she sniffled so that he could pull her into his arms. She buried her face to the crook of his neck as he cradled her head with one hand, the other rubbing her back.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered to her temple. “I’m sorry, my love. Was the nightmare that bad?”
She nodded and sniffled again.
“Someone—” She gulped. “Someone hurt me. And I bled out. Alone.”
“That will never happen,” he cooed at her. “I’d never let that happen, lamb. Just a nightmare, it’s not real.”
A curt laugh escaped her and she took a deep breath.
“No,” she murmured after a beat. “No, it’s not real. Just a nightmare, nothing more.”
Though it had taken his lady a while to go to sleep, the next day she woke up in better spirits. The storm continued outside, and Robb’s morning wasn’t so busy for once, so he was able to convince her to stay in bed and have breakfast there. It was rather cozy; the sound of the wind and rain locked away outside while the hearth warmed up the room, Grey Wind taking a nap at the foot of the bed. His lady was wrapped up all snug in his robe while Robb rested his head in her lap, holding one of the ledgers that she had asked him to check above his face, but he could barely focus with the way she was absentmindedly playing with his hair.
It felt so peaceful that Robb wanted to stay like this forever.
“So what do you think?” she urged him and he tried to focus on the numbers on the page.
“I think it looks great.”
She gave him a bright smile, and—much to his displeasure—stopped playing with his hair so that she could grab the pair of earrings that he had forgotten to give her last night off her nightstand.
“They’re so pretty,” she chirped. “I cannot wait to wear them tonight to dinner!”
He blindly reached up to put her hand back in his hair, coaxing a laugh out of her before she buried her hand into his curls and ran her nails over his scalp, making him close his eyes with a sigh.
“Lord Mollen doesn’t like my idea,” she told him, causing him to open his eyes again to look up at her. “Lady Lynara told me as much. Neither of them think it wise.”
“What they think isn’t of importance.” Robb turned the page. “It’s for a good cause, and you want it done, so it will be.”
She shifted her weight as if she was too excited to sit still.
“Thank you!” she said. “I’ll imply it in a polite way tonight if she asks again, let’s see how she will react.”
He stole a glance at her. “Are you sure you can attend dinner tonight? We can eat here if you’re still in pain.”
“No, it’s better now,” she said. “It’s bearable.”
Robb frowned. “Is it ever unbearable?”
“Sometimes, but this is not an appropriate topic for a lord and lady to speak of, you do realize that?”
“We’re man and wife now, we can talk about such things,” he said. “For example, is it as painful as—”
“I’m going to stop you right there because I think you’re going to compare it to something men go through during sparring,” she said. “Yes. It’s more painful than that. Any of that.”
“Any of that, really?”
She puffed up her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling like she was straining her mind for the right words.
“Imagine somebody sets a sword on fire.” She held up a fist, mimicking holding a sword before she slammed the imaginary sword into the mattress. “Then drives it down your spine!”
Robb blinked up at her.
“…I don’t want to imagine that.”
“And while you’re trying to breathe, someone else shoots an arrow through your stomach.”
“That’s—”
“And then they twist both the sword and the arrow, and then yank them both out.”
“Why do I feel like you’re enjoying this very vivid description?”
“And there’s blood everywhere but it matters not, because you’re still expected to attend feasts and jousts and such,” she mused. “And dance and make small talk and smile and entertain people.”
He made a face. “How do women not walk around screaming?”
“Not from a lack of desire to do so, I’ll tell you that much,” she said airily as if they were talking of the weather. “My septa used to say—”
“M’lady?” Her maid knocked on the door. “A raven from Dorne has arrived.”
“Come in Kyra!” she called out and the maid opened the door, then came over to the bed to hand her the scroll, then scurried out of the room while Robb turned his attention to the ledger. His lady broke the unfamiliar seal—it probably belonged to her mother’s house in Dorne—then skimmed the lines.
“Silas?” he asked and she shook her head.
“Perce,” she muttered. “Silas wrote to me the moment he set foot in Dorne.”
“How was their trip?”
“Well, Cliff is an excellent sailor so it—oh he has to be jesting!”
That was enough to pull Robb’s attention away from the ledger.
“What’s happened?”
She threw her head back in exasperation, then frowned down at the scroll.
“Perce wants me to ask Silas about his new lady on my next letter.”
“Hold on.” Robb sat up with a smirk. “Silas has a lady?”
“Mm hm.”
“Already?” he asked. “They’ve been there for what, two weeks?”
“Three.” She pursed her lips. “A young widow, whose husband died under…questionable circumstances.”
“Did they check for a dagger in his chest or was that too questionable?”
“Perce says Silas goes to her castle each night.”
He let out a laugh. “So she’s his mistress?”
“It sounds to me that Silas is her mistress, to be completely honest,” she muttered, her eyes darting over the lines. “Unbelievable.”
“Is it though?” he wondered aloud, earning a slight shove at his arm. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised, Silas is very fond of ladies.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but there was another knock on the door. Robb pushed himself off the bed to make his way there, assuming that it was either Jon or Theon, but instead, it was his youngest brother. Rickon’s eyes widened when he saw him.
“Robb, you’re back!”
“I am,” he said with a small chuckle as Rickon clutched at his leg in an attempt to hug him. “Missed me?”
“A little, but it was only for a week.”
“It was.” Robb ruffled his wild curls. “Are you hiding from Maester Luwin?”
“No.”
“Rickon, if you stuffed a dead crow in your septa’s pillow again just because she hit your knuckles—”
“I did not!”
“Then did you need me for something?”
“Um, not you.” The little boy walked past him to step inside, making Robb look over his shoulder. “Good morrow!”
Robb tilted his head in confusion.
“Good morrow to you too my sweet!” His lady crossed the room, then crouched down to Rickon’s eye level. “How did you sleep?”
“I had a dream with—with me and Shaggy, and we were on a mountain, and then Shaggy was going after another wolf, but then it wasn’t a wolf, because it turned into a bird!”
His lady gasped. “That sounds like a very interesting dream! What sort of bird?”
“A blue one—can we give Frost breakfast, please and thank you?”
“I was away for a week and he says please and thank you now?” Robb asked, getting a reprimanding glare from his lady while Rickon nodded.
“We say please and thank you to ladies,” he pointed out in a very proud manner, and Robb stifled a laugh.
“Do you know what those words mean?”
“I do!”
“Of course he does,” his lady said. “And we can give Frost breakfast after I get ready, thank you for asking so nicely.”
“Wait,” Robb said, the smile wiping off his face in a second. “Now?”
“It’s her breakfast time,” Rickon told him and Robb shook his head.
“You’re nearly a man grown, you can feed her by yourself.”
“But we do it together!” Rickon argued. “We go to the kitchens and get carrots and apples and go to the barn to feed Frost first, and then Silk.”
“Rickon my sweet, can Robb join us today?”
Rickon looked up at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh while Robb frowned at him.
“What, you have to think?”
“He can,” Rickon muttered. “I guess.”
“I appreciate the sacrifice, Rickon.”
“But you cannot leave the castle in this attire,” his lady told his little brother, motioning at his clothes. “You need a cloak, there’s a storm outside. How about Robb takes you to your room so that you can get your cloak, and then we’ll go to the kitchens?”
“Okay!” Rickon rushed to his side. “Let’s go.”
“He knows where—” Robb started, but gave Rickon a little shove when he sunk his teeth into Robb’s hand, tugging at his sleeve. His lady gasped.
“Robb, don’t push him like that!” she chastised him and Rickon gave him a big grin.
“Aye, don’t push me like that!”
“You’re fine,” Robb deadpanned. “You’re more wolf than child.”
His lady shook her head and pointed at the door. “Out.”
“You heard her, Rickon.”
“I’m talking to you!” she insisted. “Go make sure he has a cloak on, and I’ll meet you in the kitchens.”
“Fine, fine…” Robb muttered and grabbed his own cloak to put it on. “You can stay, Grey Wind.”
The direwolf only plopped on his back when his lady approached as if he was asking for belly rubs, and Robb closed the door with a sigh.
“Come on.” He gently pushed Rickon, who wasted no time to jump and grab his arm to hang from it, his cackle echoing in the hallway.
“Onward!”
“See what I meant?” Robb grumbled as he made his way down the hallway, swinging his arm while Rickon cheered. “More wolf than child.”
Much to his displeasure, he barely had any time to see his lady after their little visit to the barn. He went to Bran’s room, but he was soon pulled away from there when Maester Luwin reminded him that there were many scrolls that he had to reply to; a lot of ravens had arrived in Winterfell in his absence from different parts of the north. At least the storm had passed, so once he managed to find some free time, he joined Jon and Theon in the yard to spar with them while his lady attended to her own duties.
But there was something off.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something off.
Perhaps it was because of people’s criticism of her new plan while he was away, or the nightmares keeping her up last night, but judging by how curt her smile was while she was talking to others when he caught a sight of her on his way to the rookery, Robb could swear she wasn’t her happy self in the crowd of ladies surrounding her.
After an hour of sparring, he decided to catch his breath and grab some water while Theon stretched, and Jon sat down beside him on the bench to sharpen his sword.
“I’m so glad to be back,” Theon said. “I don’t like Castle Hornwood.”
“Why not?”
“Everyone is so quiet there.”
“It was a nice change,” Jon said with a grin and Robb scoffed.
“Nah, I missed home too.”
“You missed your lady,” Theon corrected. “More than you missed home. You kept sulking.”
“Aye, you did.”
“I was right to do so, because apparently she—” Robb paused when he saw Lady Jorelle crossing the yard. “Give me a moment. Lady Jorelle?”
She spun around on her heels as he made his way to her.
“Hello.”
“Hello, my lord,” she said. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I uh…this is going to sound rather strange, but is my lady wife alright?”
She blinked a couple of times, then raised her brows. “Hm?”
“Has something happened while I was away?”
She frowned and looked up as if she was trying to remember, then shook her head.
“Nothing happened,” she said, her voice calm. “Why?”
“She seems rather distressed,” he said. “And she mentioned some people disagreeing with her about her plans for mothers and children for the winter. Has someone disrespected her in my absence? Because she refuses to tell me, but I’d like to put an end to it if such a thing took place.”
“And admirable thought,” she said. “But nothing took place, I assure you. If anything, it was a rather dull week.”
Robb bit inside his cheek, then gave her a curt smile and nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better leave you to it then. I appreciate your help.”
“Of course,” Jorelle said and curtsied, then went into the keep while Robb returned to the corner Jon and Theon were watching him from.
“What was that about?” Theon asked and Robb ran a hand through his hair.
“My lady is distressed, and I do not know why.”
“Well, her family is away,” Jon pointed out. “And then you went away. Can’t be easy, being alone in a new place.”
That could explain the nightmare, now that he thought about it.
“But Silas will visit often, he said so himself,” Theon said. “A couple moons after the honeymoon, he said.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robb said with a shrug. “Silas is rather busy in Dorne with a lady.”
Jon’s head shot up from his sword. “Silas has a lady?”
“Aye, a mistress.” Robb grinned. “A young widow who killed her husband, apparently.”
Theon let out a laugh, and Jon stared at Robb in silence for a couple of seconds, then took a deep breath.
“He—how do you know this?”
“Perceon sent a raven to my lady.” Robb gulped down his water, then put the flask to the side. “Are you ready?”
Jon swallowed thickly, then feigned a cough.
“You go ahead, I’ll uh…” He motioned in the direction of the Godswood. “I’ll find Ghost.”
“Now?” Robb asked but Jon ignored him, making his way through the yard to go into the Godswood. Robb turned to Theon to see whether he knew what was happening, but Theon held up his palms with a shake of his head.
“You two know direwolves better than I.”
Robb looked over his shoulder, then heaved a sigh and grabbed his sword.
“Very well then,” he said. “Come on. I haven’t sparred in days, I must catch up.”
Eventually, he had to go back to his solar to hold audience with some of his vassals, but once Lord Poole left and someone knocked on the door, it wasn’t yet another vassal but his lady wife who peeked her head in.
“Am I interrupting anything?”
“Never,” Robb said, a smile pulling at his lips as he stood up. “Come in!”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I know you’ve been busy, but I sent the ledgers with Kyra, and I wanted to ask—”
“They’re over here,” Robb pointed at the top of the pile. “I’ll be done with them by the dinner time, is that alright?”
“More than alright!” She beamed while he rounded the desk to lean back to it, then grabbed her hand to pull her closer. A giggle climbed her throat and she stepped into his embrace, heaving a sigh when he cradled her cheek in his palm and brushed his lips against hers.
“Do you have much to do?” she asked, playing with the laces of his shirt and he nodded.
“A little,” he admitted. “But stay.”
“Gladly,” she said. “I miss you during the day.”
“I miss you too,” he said, caressing her cheekbone. “And are you feeling better? Last night…”
“Oh.” She paused, looking down at the floor before she raised her gaze to his again. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t,” he said in a haste. “Don’t apologize for it. I just want to make sure you’re alright, that’s all.”
“I’m alright,” she assured him. “It was just a nightmare, nothing more.”
“And is…” Robb trailed off. “Is someone driving a burning sword down your spine and shooting arrows into your stomach?”
That coaxed a laugh out of her, the pleasant sound echoing in the room.
“No.”
“No urge to walk around screaming at people?”
“Aside from very specific people, no,” she said. “But ask me again after dinner. I have a feeling the urge will be back then.”
“We can take our dinner in our bedchambers.”
“You just came back,” she reminded him. “We cannot do that I’m afraid. Your vassals want to see you.”
“And I want to see my wife.”
“I’m right here.”
“Aye, but you’re dressed.”
Her jaw dropped and she pushed at his arm. “Robb!”
“What?” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Would you rather if I were dishonest?”
“I would rather if you weren’t so—” she started, but was cut off when someone knocked on the door.
“Lord Mollen, m’lord,” the footman at the door announced and his lady rolled her eyes at the name.
Ah.
The infamous Lord Mollen who did not approve or like her plans.
When the footman opened the door to let him in, his lady made an attempt to step away no doubt to leave the room, but Robb was quick to grab her wrist to tug her back to his side, making her head shoot up.
“You’ll stay,” he muttered and turned to the man. “Lord Mollen. Good afternoon.”
Lord Mollen lingered in his spot, his eyes darting between him and his lady before he bowed his head.
“My lord,” he said. “If you’re busy, I can come at another time.”
“We’re not busy.”
“But the lady—”
“My lady wife will remain here.”
She looked like she was fighting off a smug smile but managed to school her expression into composure.
“Hello Lord Mollen,” she said. “How wonderful to see you. I’ve had the chance to talk to Lady Lynara the other day.”
“She mentioned it, my lady,” Lord Mollen said. “That was actually what I wanted to talk to you about, my lord. This…carpenter business.”
Robb gave a short nod. “I’m listening.”
Lord Mollen cleared his throat.
“It’s clear that your lady wife has a soft heart for children,” he started, “And may the gods grant you both many.”
A shadow crossed his lady’s face, but it was gone as quick as it came.
“However,” the man continued. “Expecting the carpenters to teach the craft to absolute strangers on top of their usual work has caused some unrest between them, at least in my castle. Most of them teach their own children their craft.”
“Orphans don’t have fathers who can teach them anything, Lord Mollen,” she said. “And those carpenters will be compensated for their work. Surely adding one more apprentice cannot hurt. Or do they fear competition?”
Lord Mollen turned his glances to Robb as if he expected him to step in, but Robb stayed quiet for a deliberate couple of seconds before he pushed himself off the desk.
“The question was directed to you, my lord.” He went back to take his seat behind the desk, so that Lord Mollen would have to address his lady while Robb was still present and could glare at him without her noticing. “Not to me.”
“No,” Lord Mollen answered in a rush. “Not competition, but they find it rather trivial. All that work for toys for children, who will mostly come from mountain clans. We have our own people to worry about for the winter, and while I’m sure it’s normal to give such instructions back in the south, in the north—”
“Lord Mollen, there must’ve been a misunderstanding in my absence,” Robb cut him off. “Which is expected, seeing that this is rather new for everyone. But from now on, you can safely assume that whatever instructions my lady wife gives, as polite as she makes them sound, come from me.” He crossed his arms over the desk and leaned forward, his jaw clenched. “And I do not give trivial commands.”
Since his lady was still leaning back to the desk, he couldn’t see her face, but Lord Mollen’s discontent was clear as day. Silence fell upon the room, and Robb let the veiled threat linger in the air without another word while Lord Mollen gulped, then took a deep breath.
“A misunderstanding indeed,” he said, and bowed his head. “I’ll make sure they follow your command, my lord. My lady.”
“Have a nice day, Lord Mollen!” his lady chirped while she walked him to the door, then closed it behind him once he left. Robb threw his head back.
“That prick…” he grumbled while his lady stood there for a moment, her hand still on the handle.
“Do you have some free time?” she asked after a beat, leaning back to the door. Robb ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m supposed to hold meetings with four more people until dinner.”
She let out a hum like she was lost in her own thoughts before she shrugged and bolted the door.
“They’ll wait.”
“What’re you—?” Robb was cut off when she flung herself into his arms for a kiss, letting him pull her into his lap with a squeal. He grabbed the side of her neck to tilt her head, the feeling of her melting under his touch intoxicating as ever when he deepened the kiss, the fire of desire coming to life with a stir.
Gods, it had been so long…
His lips trailed down the column of her throat down to her bosom, her lovely scent filling his lungs, her skin softer than the silk of her pretty gown. Her fingers buried into his curls with a gasp to tug at the roots, drawing a moan out of him as she shifted in his lap, the mere friction against his hardness enough to drive him mad. He blindly reached down to push her skirt up, but she grabbed his hands to entwine their fingers, trying to catch her breath, her lips swollen with his kiss.
“Robb, we cannot do that—”
The sound that left him sounded awfully like a whine. “But…”
“Not that.”
“Does my wife mean to torment me, then?”
A giggle climbed up her throat and she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, looked over her shoulder at the door, then turned to him again.
“No,” she said, “my husband misunderstands me.”
He could’ve come up with a retort if all the blood in his body hadn’t gone south, but any hope of even half a thought disappeared from his mind when she easily slid off his lap to kneel before him, the realization knocking the breath out of his lungs.
“I said we couldn’t do that,” she said, eyes gleaming with mischief as she looked up at him. “I never said we couldn’t do something else.”
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your amazing support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Southern ploys can be ruthless.
Word Count: 8k
Check the warnings before you read, please🩷
Warnings: Angst, explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, miscarriage, blood, pregnancy, periods, medieval era expectations and medieval era viewpoints on marriage and gender, mentions of childbirth. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Back in the Reach, you had so few responsibilities.
After your education and court training was complete, the only things you and Margaery were expected to do was to represent your houses well whenever there was an outing, and attend every feast, celebration and tourney. Sometimes you found it difficult to choose what gown to wear or what tourney to attend, and often you had to endure your sister-in-law and her comments, but that was the only chaos you had, other than that it was all fun and games.
Winterfell was different.
Lady Stark had left the castle after Bran was attacked, to go to King’s Landing and let Lord Stark know about it, saying that she didn’t trust any messenger, nor anyone else in the Red Keep that could have access to her letters before Lord Stark could see them. She had her suspicions about the royal family considering the dagger that was found on the assassin, but she had asked you and Robb not to share it with anyone else until she was back in Winterfell. So for the last few days, you and Robb had been the lord and the lady of the castle, but now Robb had to visit Lord Hornwood, which meant he would be away for a week, leaving you in charge.
Though the thought of it caused you enough distress to give you nausea, you didn’t want him to worry or think you weren’t ready for such responsibility, so you sat in the bed with the furs wrapped around you, watching him get ready at the earliest light of the day.
“But couldn’t someone else go?”
The question made him look over his shoulder with a grin while he put his doublet on.
“Like who?”
“A messenger. A friendly envoy if you will, just within the north.”
“But who?”
“Someone else,” you said with a shrug. “I don’t know. Theon.”
He huffed out a laugh. “You think Theon, of all people, would be a good envoy?”
“Not really,” you admitted. “He’d be terrible at it, but perhaps he’d get lost on his way there. One could hope.”
“Nah, he’d still find his way back,” he commented, fixing his sleeves. “So we’d just end up disrespecting House Hornwood.”
Your stomach turned again, making you grimace but you cleared your throat, then pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them.
“Then tell Lord Hornwood he can come here rather than you going there,” you whined, aware of the petulant tone of your voice. “We’ll throw him a feast and such.”
There was a playful glint in his eyes as he made his way to bed and sat on the edge, entwining his fingers with yours before he lifted your hand to press a kiss on the back of it.
“Lord Hornwood is too old for journeys, my love,” he said. “My father visited his banners, now I must in his absence.”
You heaved a dramatic sigh, rolling your eyes.
“Come on,” he cooed. “No sulking.”
You tilted your head, your mood taking a rather strange turn for some reason that remained a mystery to you at least for now. If it were any other time, you would have remembered how Lady Olenna had once told you and Margaery that there was a big line between luring attention and demanding it, and how you were never, ever supposed to demand it in an outright manner. A lady had to be subtle in such mind games so as not to appear needy and walk the line between admiration and nonchalance expertly, however, the words that left your lips were anything but subtle:
“Does this not upset you at all?”
Robb was rather confused at your question. “What?”
“We’ll be away from each other for a week, and you’re very willing to go to Castle Hornwood,” you pointed out, making him let out a chuckle.
“Lamb…”
“I’m just saying, it bothered you before but it appears to me you’re no longer bothered but more willing, as if—” you started but the rest of your sentence was claimed in a kiss, the pestering thought disappearing into the fog in your mind. His hand cradled your cheek while your fingers curled in the front of his shirt, not willing to let him go even when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours with a smile.
“I am both bothered and very unwilling to go to Castle Hornwood and leave you here,” he assured you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “It’s torment to be away from you for an hour, let alone a week. You know this.”
You traced the tip of your finger over the direwolf clasps at the front of his doublet.
“It was different, when my father was here,” he added. “Before, attending to these things was a chore. Now it’s my duty.”
Of course.
How could you forget about the biggest currency in the north along with honor?
Judging by the chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest, he could tell what you felt about duty from your mere expression.
“I’ll miss you every second of it,” he told you, nudging your nose with his before stealing another kiss from you and making you giggle, but your head whipped around when a servant knocked on the door.
“M’lord, your horse is ready.”
Your shoulders dropped as he let out a huff, then kissed you again and got up from the bed. He grabbed his cloak to fasten it while you let yourself fall back on the bed, and the moment he opened the door, Grey Wind darted inside. He jumped on the bed with a whine as if he was complaining about the trip he was being forced to go before he plopped down on you, resting his head on the furs on your stomach.
“I know, I know,” you said softly like you were speaking to a babe, scratching behind his ears. “I’ll miss you too, my sweet.”
“You spoil him too much,” Robb commented while you planted kisses on top of the direwolf’s head.
“He deserves to be spoiled,” you said, earning a yawn that turned into a small ‘awoo’. “Do you not my love? Are you the sweetest baby in the entire realm? Are you?”
“Grey Wind,” Robb said, “come. Time to go.”
The direwolf licked your hand, then jumped down from the bed with a huff to make his way out of the room, but even his gait was sulky, making you bite back a smile. Robb came closer to peck you on the lips.
“Be careful.”
“You too,” you said. “Miss me.”
“You too,” he answered with a grin before he left the bedchambers and closed the door behind him. You pouted, then let out a groan and pulled the furs over you.
“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Very well. A week, then.”
You couldn’t go back to sleep, so you figured you’d start the day earlier than usual.
By the time you were done with your bath in your own bedchambers and your maid finished helping you with your gown and hair, your nausea was even worse due to distress. You had debated going to Maester Luwin, but you knew he was busy with Bran, so you decided to take care of it yourself and asked your maid for a cup of hot water. After she brought it to you, you gave her leave until it was time for breakfast which was more than an hour away, and put the cup on the table before you made your way to the chest of herbs Arys had brought you.
“Where are you?” you sang to yourself, going through the carefully labelled pouches in his impeccable handwriting. “Where are—yes!”
You skimmed the instructions, then took out a generous amount of mixture of leaves and put them in the cup, the smell making you scrunch up your nose. You still had to go through the ledgers the Winterfell carpenters had given you days ago, which you figured you could do while you waited for the tea to brew, so you grabbed the ledgers and the cup, then went to sit on the bed, carefully placing the cup on your bedside table and opening the ledgers on the bed. It was a rather boring task, but the outcome was going to be so lovely for so many people, so you forced yourself to go through the first couple of pages until you decided the tea was ready. You took another sniff, then held your breath and downed it in one go, grimacing at the aftertaste.
“Gods, Arys…” you grumbled to yourself. “Could’ve put something sweet in it.”
You put the cup back on your bedside, but before you could turn back to the ledgers, small yet rushed footsteps approached before the door opened and Rickon appeared at the threshold, with Shaggydog right behind him.
“Oh good morrow my sweet!” You beamed at him. “You’re awake already? It’s rather early.”
He pouted and took a trembling breath like he was on the verge of tears, causing you to push yourself off the bed to rush to him and crouch down to his eye level.
“What’s happened?”
“Robb left?” he asked, his brows furrowed. “They say he left.”
“Oh, for a week only!” you assured him, gently pinching his chubby cheek. “He’ll be back in a week. Remember how he and Lord Stark left earlier with Jon and Theon? It’ll be like that.”
“Will he see Sansa and Arya?”
“No my sweet, Sansa and Arya are in the south.”
“Will he see mother?”
“She’s also going to the south,” you managed to say. “Robb is right here in the north.”
“Where in the north?” he asked and you pretended to think for a moment.
“Remind me, which house has a bull moose on their flag?”
“House Hornwood!” he exclaimed and you gasped.
“That one, yes!”
“Their flag is orange,” he said, proud of himself for knowing it. “Orange and brown.”
“I’m told they live near,” you said. “And when Robb is back, we’ll have so much to tell him about what Winterfell was like in his absence.”
He looked over his shoulder to Shaggydog, then turned to you.
“I want to go see Frost,” he demanded. “To give her breakfast. She eats funny.”
“We can do that,” you said. “She’s probably awake already. But before we go, do you remember what I said about how we ask for things when speaking to a lady?”
He thought for a moment, a frown pinching his forehead.
“Can we go see Frost…” he mumbled. “Please?”
“Yes!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands together. “That’s such a good job, Rickon! You remember!”
He gave you a toothless smile, his giggle echoing in the room while he jumped in his spot in excitement.
“And thank you!” he added in a haste. “We say please and thank you to ladies.”
Your jaw dropped.
“You are so smart, that’s exactly what we say!” you encouraged him. “I almost forgot about that part, it’s of utmost importance!”
He nodded, his curls bouncing around his head as he did.
“Alright, let’s go to the kitchen to get some carrots,” you said as you stood up and took his small hand into yours. “And then we can go give Frost her breakfast, she’ll be so happy to see you!”
The breakfast passed without any issues, and around noon you sent your ladies-in-waiting to the seamstress because apparently Barbrey’s cousin and her husband were soon coming to Winterfell, and seeing that Barbrey wanted to make her jealous, she needed opinions on her new gown. You stayed in the Great Hall, chatting with some of the guests and listening to their many opinions about your plan to have the carpenters make toys for the children who would come to Wintertown with their mothers.
“Galbert disagrees if I must admit, but I think it’s a great idea,” Lady Erena said. “Orphans get jobs, children get toys, and their mothers get some comfort seeing their children happy.”
“Well, yes but in the upcoming winter…” Lady Lynara heaved a sigh. “My lord husband disagrees as well. He thinks it unnecessary.”
“And what do you think?” you asked her and she hummed.
“I myself think it may offer some comfort to those mothers and children, but will it not interrupt the carpenters' usual work? Teaching the craft takes time and effort. Those orphans will walk in without any skills.”
“The carpenters will be compensated for their time and effort,” you said. “And most of the orphans end up without jobs, I’ve learned. It is hard without a family.”
Lady Lynara scoffed. “Winter is hard, my lady. They must learn the ways of life without you throwing them opportunities.”
You tried not to roll your eyes at her.
“Winter is indeed hard, so it is our responsibility to make life easier to everyone who’s in need,” you said. “Of jobs or comfort or opportunities.”
Lady Erena nodded her head. “I agree wholeheartedly,” she said. “I told Galbert the same thing, we must help. For example, our sons are nearly men grown, they have no need for toys. I’ve already sent a raven back home, all the toys from when they were babes will be given to carpenters in the nearby villages, so that they’ll have an idea of what to create.”
“Thank you, Lady Erena,” you said with a bright smile. “I appreciate it.”
“Of course.”
“My lord husband says it’s a very southern way to approach winter,” Lady Lynara pointed out, and you tried to keep your expression calm.
“It is true that in the south, we don’t have people who have to move from their homes to survive the winter,” you said. “However, I truly think that if we—”
The sudden sharp pain that hit you out of nowhere took your breath away mid-sentence, and something churned in your lower abdomen, the ache familiar and strange at the same time. Lady Erena frowned slightly.
“My lady?”
Your head whipped up, and you tried to smile as if you couldn’t feel the warmth between your legs.
“Forgive me I—um,” you stammered. “I just remembered an urgent letter I must send, if you’ll excuse me.”
You left the Great Hall, walking as fast as you could with small, deliberate steps, praying to the gods that the blood sticking your underclothes to your skin would not drip to the ground until you got to the safety of your bedchambers. If it were any other time, you would have gladly stopped and chatted with multiple people in the hallway but now you could barely nod at the in acknowledgment as you passed by them. The dull throbbing got worse with every second, and it was only when you hurried into your chambers that you realized your hands had balled up into fists, your nails digging into your palms.
How long had it been since you had your last moon blood?
You quickly shed your gown down to your chemise that already had a growing red stain on it, straining your mind to remember when you’d had your last moon blood. The knife that turned in your abdomen made you double up as the wave of pain rippled through you, and you squeezed your legs in a pitiful attempt to block the blood from dripping to the ground, pressing a hand on your stomach. It made no sense, your moon blood had never been as painful on your first day, nor had it been this heavy, it always started light—
The idea crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, making your breath hitch.
…Oh.
This was not your moon blood.
Something sunk its claws into your heart, your whole body freezing in terror. For a moment, you stayed right where you were, bent from the waist, your eyes wide yet unseeing, unblinking. There was an ache at the back of your throat, a sob already forming there, but the cramps snapped you out of it and you forced yourself to take a deep breath, as shaky as it was.
“Okay,” you whispered, forcing yourself to grab at the edge of the table so that you wouldn’t lose your balance, tears burning your eyes. “Okay. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
It was not the tremors that ripped your breath from your lungs this time, but the utter disbelief that it was happening; it was happening to you, right here and right now, miles away from anyone you could call for help. The arm of the sofa supported you for a moment, but as soon as you took another step your legs gave out and you crumpled to the floor, swallowing a sob while you blindly pushed the plush furs aside. A strangled cry ripped itself from your chest when the invisible dagger drove deeper into your guts and you curled up on your knees, one hand shooting up to wipe your nose, the other already stained with blood—
And to your absolute terror, that was when the door opened.
“My lady, I called out but…” Jorelle stopped talking at once when she stepped in, her eyes darting over your collapsed figure and the skirt of your chemise, drenched in blood.
Oh no.
No no no, this could not be happening.
Jorelle was the last person who was supposed to see you like this. She was the one whom the north loved and supported, the one who they thought was the better option for your status; the very same status that was now hanging by a thread, with you bleeding on the floor. Anyone who saw you in this situation would be able to tell what was happening, and the moment the word got out, the moment the north suspected you were unable to provide an heir to House Stark?
It wouldn’t matter how much Robb loved you, or how much you mesmerized him.
You were no fool, you knew very well how it worked. Beyond uniting your families, beyond all those grains and food your family would provide the north in winter and beyond how much House Stark would pull your family up in influence and power and status, this marriage had one, very specific expectation from you and Robb; to make sure the Stark bloodline continued.
An heir and a spare, minimum.
Though there were exceptions, the lack of heirs in a marriage usually came with two options, the annulling of the said marriage, or the husband siring heirs from a mistress and legitimizing them. In both of those options, you and your reputation would be dragged through the mud, and you would either be sent away with the whole realm knowing the reason, or you would turn into a living ghost right here in Winterfell, with no influence, no power, no respect or love.
And those banners and important families of the north would push Jorelle into the picture, especially now that she was the one who had caught you in such position and was surely going to use this to her advantage, as every other lady in the south would have.
It was all but a gift to her by the gods.
If you weren’t rendered speechless by the fear that took your body and mind hostage, you could’ve at least tried to come up with an excuse, as feeble and weak as it would’ve been. Jorelle seemed as frozen as you were, but her head whipped around when the chattering of the servants got louder with approaching footsteps. Her hand shot up to grab the door handle to pull it to herself when it rattled, your eyes widening as you pushed yourself to sit up, your whole body shaking.
“No—” you started but she shushed you, then opened the door just a little to slip through the crack and closed it before anyone could peek inside.
“Would you like to be louder?” She snapped at the servants at the door. “My lady is taking a nap, and she does not want to be disturbed. Shall I tell her whatever you’re talking of is more important than her rest, or would you like to shout into her bedchambers while you’re at it?”
The servants mumbled something you couldn’t hear.
“And Kyra, I expected better from you.”
“I apologize, m’lady. I was just going to check whether—”
“She doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Jorelle repeated. “Nor does she want anyone’s chatter or footsteps in the hallway, her sleep is very light. Make sure everyone stays away from this hallway until she wakes up.”
“Of course, m’lady.”
The sound of footsteps grew faint and Jorelle entered the bedchambers again, bolted the door, and rushed to you.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked. “Do you want me to get Maester Luwin?”
Pain burned down your lower back, and there were tears in your eyes, but that didn’t stop you from gritting your teeth to force yourself to glare at her.
“No,” you managed to say, your voice hoarse as you wiped the sweat off your forehead. “It’s just my moon blood, leave me be.”
Jorelle gave you an exasperated look before she ran to the corner of the room to grab the fresh towels for your morning baths. She helped you up, then slipped the towel under you and gently sat you down, a worried frown pinching her brows while you tried your hardest to mimic Margaery despite the cold sweat dripping down your back.
“If you utter a word of this—”
“I won’t,” she cut you off. “This goes to the grave with me, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”
That made you pause halfway through your threat.
“And so will what you’re going to answer me right now,” she said. “Has anything happened before the wedding? With Lord Robb or anyone else?”
“What? No!”
“If it was conceived on your wedding night, at most it’s been six weeks,” she murmured more to herself. “That’s good. That’s early. Bleeding should stop in a couple of hours, the worst part at least—my castle is quite crowded,” she added when she saw the quizzical look on your face. “You’re not the first woman I’ve seen who’s having a miscarriage.”
You wetted your dry lips. “If anyone hears…”
“They won’t, because once the bleeding lessens, we’ll burn the towels in the hearth,” she said. “Things get lost in a big castle all the time. No one will ever know, including the servants.”
You winced when you tried to shift your weight, your movements rigid and short. She hesitated for a second, her eyes darting over your face before she reached out to take your hand between hers, making your head snap around.
“It’ll help,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Not with the pain I’m afraid, but the rest.”
You opened your mouth and closed it again when no sound came out, so you gulped and tried again.
“Thank you,” you managed to say, and she squeezed your hand in an attempt to assure you.
“It’ll be okay.”
No it wouldn’t.
You knew it wouldn’t, so did she.
But neither of you could do anything but just sit there and stare at the flames in the hearth, waiting for it to pass.
Jorelle was right, the worst part of bleeding was the first hour, and though the deep ache were still there, you were either getting used to it, or it was getting slightly better. Silence filled the room for almost an hour, the only sound your gasps of pain from time to time along with the crackling of wood in the hearth.
But after a while, you forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat and turned to her.
“You didn’t have to help me.”
“Yes I did.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been trying to tell you since we met, I have no intention nor desire to be your enemy.”
You would have laughed if you had the energy. “The whole north thinks otherwise.”
“I care not what they think,” she said. “I don’t know why people are under the impression that I’m somehow a rival to you, but I’m not. There was only friendly affection and a promise of potential companionship between me and Lord Robb, and contrary to what everyone seems to think, I am not devastated over our broken arrangement, if you can even call it that. There wasn’t a betrothal.”
“No,” you admitted. “There wasn’t. But you know how these things work, if they wanted to push you...”
“They can push me all they want, I won’t move,” she said. “I won’t. He is in love with you, and you’re in love with him, what others hope for does not matter. Besides, even if you two weren’t in love, I still would not try to jam myself in between, I respect myself way too much to do that.”
Well, that hadn’t crossed your mind before.
This kind of thinking simply didn’t exist in the south. If there was any possibility of more power, no one stopped to think before they stabbed people in the back, personal feelings and pride and respect all came second when one could climb higher in status even at the expense of others.
And most of the time, it was indeed at the expense of others.
“Anyone else in your place would not hesitate,” you couldn’t help but point out, “back in the south.”
“This is not the south,” she said. “Things in the north work a bit differently. For which I’m glad.”
For some reason you doubted that; power was tempting, in the south or the north.
“And your family?”
Jorelle made a face.
“Well, my mother hates you,” she said with a chortle. “I wouldn’t take it personally. Everyone in the north wanted their daughter to wed Lord Robb, she’s no exception, though she was more intense than any other. I used to think she wanted me to wed him more than I wanted to wed him.” She paused for a moment. “Now to think of it, I’d say she wanted to wed him more than I did.”
A burst of hysterical laughter escaped you and echoed in the room, surprising even yourself.
“I’d keep an eye on her if I were you,” she added, a grin playing on her lips. “She is as ambitious as a southron, and she would indeed leave my father for your husband.”
Gods, this was the worst time to be laughing.
Yet, you didn’t seem to be able to stop yourself even though you covered your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. You doubled over, resting a hand on the floor to support yourself while your shoulders shook, tears running down your cheeks from amusement or the pain, you could no longer tell. A hiccup escaped you, the ache in your chest as heavy as the one in your abdomen while you tried to breathe through the sobs and Jorelle sat up straighter.
“No no no, we’re not crying right now,” she said in a rush. “We’re not crying, we’re talking of other things—um, so I didn’t tell you because you hated me, but funny thing, speaking of southrons, your brother asked me to be his mistress.”
Your head whipped up, your vision still blurry with tears while she nodded with wide eyes.
“I know,” she said. “I came up with one thousand retorts since he left. I’ve been writing them down, and I think I’ll turn it into a book and send it to Dorne on a ship.”
“Which—what?” you stammered, already distracted. “Which one?”
“Of the ships?”
“Of my brothers!”
“Perceon.”
“Perce?!” you exclaimed and wiped your nose in a haste. “Seven hells, Perce was who you were talking about in the kitchens?”
“Oh yes.”
“But you—I didn’t—” You hiccupped, trying to pick the right words. “I wasn’t aware you two were…”
“I’m as confused as you are, because we were not.” She motioned at you, flailing her arms. “We danced at your wedding, and then at the Harvest Feast, and I thought, well, he is very handsome.” A blush spread over her pale cheeks. “So I didn’t mind him courting me, but he wasn’t courting me. He asked me to be his mistress right after he almost kissed me.”
“Almost kissed you?” You sniffled. “He asked you to be his mistress before you two even kissed?”
“As I’ve said before. The audacity.”
You rolled your eyes.
“The twins came after Arys, so Arys claimed their share of wit in advance,” you said. “That’s why he’s so smart and Perce is an idiot. I apologize for his behavior, I’ll make sure to smack him when I see him again.”
“But is that what southrons do?”
“Things work differently in Dorne, and Perce belongs more in Dorne than the Reach at this point,” you said. “Mistresses in Dorne have official titles, and they have all the luxuries and none of the responsibilities of the wives. And he won’t wed, so he probably thought it was a good offer—though, this is the first time I hear a man asking a lady to be his mistress before a kiss.”
Her cheeks got redder as she fixed her gaze in the hearth.
“I was going to kiss him before that,” she admitted. “I wanted to, but then I got scared because I was worried I’d be, I don’t know, bad at it—gods, you must think me a fool.”
“I don’t,” you assured her, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t. I was terrified of being bad at it too.”
“Was Lord Robb your first kiss?”
That made you scoff a laugh.
“No.” Margaery’s face flashed before your eyes and you tried to focus. “No, I had a lot of…practice—but the Reach is different!” you added in a haste. “We have different customs and education. The North is stricter in such matters, and you have different priorities.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to have some knowledge,” she grumbled, her shoulders dropping. “The south got that right, at least. Some of the north dislikes you yes, but they all agree that Lord Robb is mesmerized by you.”
There was a fist clenching your heart, but you managed to give her a smile.
“Oh, don’t worry,” you rasped out and gestured at the towels you were sitting on, stained in deep red. “I’m on borrowed time.”
She frowned. “That’s untrue.”
“Come on.” You let out a dry laugh. “You know what it means if it started like this.”
“I do know what it means, it means nothing,” she insisted. “My mother lost a babe on her fourth moon before my brother, but she carried my brother very easily, with little to none sickness. My cousin, she had three miscarriages, and now she has twins. Granted they’re little brats, but they’re very healthy, growing like beanstalks.”
You blinked back the tears, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“And how many miscarriages do you think I’d be allowed to have until the north started whispering?” you asked. “Until all the prominent families started pushing Robb for a replacement, for an heir? They already dislike me, already looking for a fault.”
“He loves you—”
“We’re in the north, Jo,” you muttered. “You tell me what’s more important in the north, love or duty?”
“Loyalty,” she answered. “Loyalty is of most importance in the north, it means everything here. And one miscarriage means nothing at all. You and your husband are young and healthy, you apparently conceived on your wedding night, you’ll easily do it again.”
You turned your bracelet around your wrist, your gaze fixed on it as you sniffled.
“You’ll see I speak the truth once the pain passes.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Our maester told my mother to drink water during this, it’s better to be safe.”
She moved about in the room and grabbed the cup that you had drank your tea from earlier to dispose of the pulp, but she stopped dead in her tracks, falling quiet. You looked up from your bracelet and shifted your weight on the towel, pointing at the table.
“There’s another cup over there—”
She cut you off, her voice stern: “Who served you this tea?”
“No one,” you said. “I made it, it’s for nausea.”
Jorelle lifted the cup to her nose to sniff it, then shook her head. “Who told you it was for nausea?”
“My brother Arys brought me many herbs, they’re over there,” you said as she rushed to the chest you were pointing at, then lifted the lid to find the pouch in it. She untied it to spill the crushed leaves into her palm, her frown deepening.
“Did your brother oppose this marriage?”
“No,” you said. “All of them support it. Why?”
“Then you told someone else what was in the chest?”
“No, I—why do you ask?”
“This is not for nausea,” she told you. “This is moon tea.”
Confusion crashed down on you and you stared at her before you huffed out a laugh.
“It’s not,” you argued. “Of course it’s not, it’s for nausea. Arys made sure to write clear instructions on everything, especially after the wedding. He would never make such mistake.”
“I’ve seen moon tea before, this is moon tea.” She held out her hand to show the herbs in her palm. “One of my maids had to drink it in secret, I was with her. I swear to you, it looks and smells like this. And you’re supposed to take it with honey to help with the pain, you’re not supposed to just brew it and drink it as it is.”
You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the warning tone of her voice when she said your name as she took a step towards to catch you in case you fell. The skirt of your chemise was drenched in blood—most of which dried down, sticking the fabric to your skin, making you grimace. The room spun around you, but you forced yourself to focus, blinking away the dots flying in your vision.
If she was not mistaken, if it was moon tea, that meant this was no natural miscarriage. This was not the first sign of a lifelong distress of trying for heirs only to lose them again and again, with the threat of being replaced hanging over your head, this was—
Jorelle’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Who else knew about these herbs?”
“No one,” you said, approaching the chest on shaky legs. “Only my lady maid whom I’d trust with my life. She was here when I ate a sort of root to relax my mind before the wedding, she disagreed but then Eli—”
The thought hit you so hard that your breath caught in your throat and you took a step back, unable to tear your gaze from the chest.
Elinor.
That was what she was doing in your room the morning of their departure, at dawn when everyone else was asleep and you were supposed to be in Robb’s bedchambers. She had seen that chest, she had seen you close it, she could’ve easily sneaked into your bedchambers and…
“Elinor,” you rasped through frozen lips. “My brother Alton’s wife. She did this.”
“But why?”
“Because I—we—” you stammered, the hot rage spreading through your veins like poison. “We had a fight, and I told her I’d ask Robb to march his men to the Reach and root Alton out of his castle to replace him with another brother of mine, and I told her he’d do as I asked. It was a mere bluff because she attacked me and…” you trailed off. “She must have swapped the pouches.”
“She did this because you had a fight?”
“What’s the first sign of pregnancy?” you asked through your teeth. “Nausea. She swapped moon tea with nausea tea, because then I’d be drinking moon tea every single time I got pregnant, and I’d lose it every single time. In front of Robb. Over and over again.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“She wanted to make sure he’d stop loving me, because if he stopped loving me, I’d hold no power,” you managed to say. “All the power I have here goes through him, she knows that. What better way to ensure he wouldn’t be mesmerized by me any longer? Everyone would be asking for an heir and I…”
How dare she?
A snarl twitched your lips, your nails biting into your palms. You squeezed your eyes shut to get rid of the red haze of anger clouding your vision, a thousand needles pricking the top of your head and spreading to your temples. All traces of pain sunk deep under a wave of fury tensing your muscles, the pounding in your ears getting louder and louder until Jorelle spoke.
“I wouldn’t last a day in the south,” she stated, her voice muffled like you were underwater as you opened your eyes again. “This is too much plotting.”
You swayed on your feet for only a second before your spine straightened like a puppet with its strings pulled, as if the southern courtier in you had decided that this was enough slouching with or without the pain; chin up, shoulders squared, a small, yet feral smile baring your teeth. It was clear from Jorelle’s worried gaze on you that you looked rather deranged; the skirt of your chemise drenched in blood, your legs and hands stained red, wisps of hair that were carefully pinned into a braid in the morning now sticking to your forehead with sweat.
When you spoke, your voice didn’t even sound like your own: “Not a good one.”
“Hm?”
“Not a good one,” you repeated. “I’ll survive. She will not.”
“You—”
“I can be patient,” you said, nodding to yourself. “I can and I will be, and I’ll wait for the right time, but I’m going to kill her. I’m going to kill her, and then I’m going to kill Alton if he knew and didn’t tell me.”
“You might not have to lift a finger, when Lord Robb hears—”
“He won’t hear.”
“He won’t hear?” she repeated with a tilt of her head. “I understand not telling anyone else, but you won’t tell him either?”
“No,” you said, a strange calmness settling in your mind like a fog. “There are only two people in the world who I could tell about this, both miles away from me. I love Robb with all my heart, but he is not one of them.”
“He’s your husband.”
“And that’s the reason,” you said. “You wanted to learn about the southern ways to mesmerize someone, did you not? Here’s the first lesson. You cannot do anything to break the illusion. Ever.”
“You must be jesting,” she said. “You love him, surely you trust him.”
“This has nothing to do with love or trust, this is survival.”
“Survival?”
You weighed the words in your mind, then scrunched up your nose.
“I recognize that parenting styles are different in the north and the south,” you said, “but in the Reach, me and Margaery and all my friends, we were all taught one thing from the moment we could walk, something they apparently don’t teach anywhere else in the realm. Every castle that isn’t your home is a trap waiting to swallow you the second you take the wrong step.” You pointed at the cup. “This is the wrong step.”
“But how is this the wrong step?” she asked. “He won’t blame you. This was your sister-in-law’s doing, you couldn’t have known.”
“No,” you admitted. “No I couldn’t have, but it matters not. This is how you play the court game, this is why everyone sleeps with one eye open in the south. Robb loves me yes, he would—he would console me, yes.” You gulped when your voice cracked. “But in the long run, it’s still the wrong step. Love is one thing, heirs are another. And if he…”
Every word was a hot coal burning your throat, but you willed yourself to focus.
“It all comes down to power, I’m afraid,” you murmured. “Once you have it, you sink your teeth and your claws in, and you don’t let go. It’s no different than trying to survive in battle, I just make it look pretty.”
A breath of disbelief left her as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her before, and you dragged the tip of your tongue over your bottom lip.
“I love Robb,” you added. “I do. I genuinely love him, which is more dangerous than any other court scheme. But that doesn’t change the fact that my power here, it’s linked to him. My status, my influence, how involved I am in decisions, it all depends on his feelings for me. That’s why I can’t risk it, I can’t afford any flaws.”
“This is no flaw,” she managed to say, and you shrugged your shoulders.
“No, but this is something he might bring up when he’s angry,” you said. “People say all kinds of things when they’re angry. I’m not going to break the illusion just so that he can use the shards to hurt me.”
A stunned silence fell upon the room and you fixed your hair, ignoring how badly your hand was shaking.
“So, this simply never took place,” you said, making her head whip up. “We will burn the towels as you said, and we will burn my chemise, and I will have the maids draw me a bath. And once that’s done, that’s it.”
“My lady…”
“Nothing happened,” you told her, your eyes locked in hers. “I came here, I took a nap, woke up and had my moon blood. Nothing more.”
It was clear from the expression on her face that she wanted to argue, and though she pursed her lips, it seemed that she still couldn’t stop herself.
“Does it not get tiring?” she blurted out. “Looking at everything that way?”
The simple question pulled your lips into a wry smile and you blinked back the tears, a dull ache making its way to your temples.
“It’s exhausting,” you admitted. “But I don’t have any other windows to look through.”
She held your gaze captive for a moment, the defiant light in her eyes melting into something else entirely; sadness or compassion, you couldn’t tell. An exhale left her, and she shook her head slightly like she couldn’t believe you or herself before she clicked her tongue.
“Very well then,” she ended up saying. “As you wish. Nothing happened.”
You were no stranger to performing.
It was second nature to you at this point. You, Silas, Margaery, Loras, you were all masters at keeping the mask on and not letting it slip, no matter how heavy it got. Even when you were sick, even when Silas was heartbroken, even when Margaery was angry and Loras was frustrated, that teasing courtier smile didn’t falter, nor did the straight posture or playful words.
It’s your armor, Lady Olenna used to say. Only a fool takes off their armor in front of the enemy.
And you were no fool back in the Reach, and you certainly were no fool here in Winterfell, miles away from every member of your family.
So, you did exactly what you said you were going to do. Once the bleeding lessened, you and Jorelle burnt the towels and your chemise, you changed into a new chemise and asked the maids to draw you a scorching hot bath where you spent nearly an hour, scrubbing at your flesh until the water went cold.
It was all without forethought, like you were sleepwalking.
You would’ve thought you were indeed asleep, if it weren’t for the knife turning deep in your abdomen.
You changed into a gown, made sure to put not just one or two, but three folded pieces of linen cloth in your undergarments, then sat in front of the mirror so that your maid could do your hair while your ladies-in-waiting chattered in the room; Wylla and Lyra disagreeing about some northern lady, and Alys and Barbrey talking about Barbrey’s new gown.
Yet, no amount of chatter could distract Jorelle from watching you like a hawk.
She did join the discussion from time to time, whether to make sure Wylla and Lyra’s discussion didn’t escalate, or answering Alys and Barbrey’s questions about Barbrey’s gown and the seamstress’ suggestions on it, but you could tell she was still worried about you. She had suggested you would take your dinner in your bedchambers, saying that sometimes she did the same on the first day of her moon blood because it made her tired, all the girls agreeing with her.
But with everyone away, it fell on you to host the guests and show them good hospitality as the lady of the castle, and attending dinner with them was a way for that.
The pain had mostly subdued. It felt more like your moon blood and less like a miscarriage, but now you had the most painful throbbing in your temples that didn’t even tolerate the candlelight while you walked down the hallway with your ladies-in-waiting around you.
“And as I was saying, she claims blue will look better—”
“It will look better.”
“But purple is more eye-catching. Wylla agrees, do you not Wylla?”
“Deep purple or light purple?”
“Wait, which one do you think is better?”
“Deep purple.”
“But the beads we bought looked better on blue.”
“Jo, what do you think?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” Jorelle brushed Barbrey off, walking beside you. “My lady, I must insist that we cut this dinner short, you have been awake since early hours of the morning, you said.”
“She does have a point, you look rather tired,” Lyra added, brutally honest as always. “Your eyes are bloodshot, perhaps you need some rest.”
You did need rest.
You had no idea whether it was the blood loss or the pain, or the emotional toll of the day, but you felt so tired. Your maid had prepared you a bag full of hot stones that had been in the hearth, so that you could press it on your stomach to help with the cramps, and you had already decided you’d have it with you tonight in bed as well, perhaps that could help you sleep the exhaustion away.
One could hope.
“I’ll retire to my bedchambers afterwards,” you said, your voice calm and composed. “However, we must—”
The hallway spun around you for a moment, making you stop dead in your tracks. Your hand shot up to the wall so that you could support yourself, the voices growing faint with the blood rushing in your ears, heat creeping up your spine while your ladies-in-waiting rushed to you.
“My lady?”
No.
No, you were not going to do that.
You were not going to collapse and give anyone any reason to think you were anything but alright, that was how the whispers started.
You blinked away the black dots flying in your vision and forced yourself to take a breath, your hand slipping from the wall so that you could wipe the cold sweat off your forehead, then cleared your throat.
“I’m alright.”
Wylla and Jorelle exchanged glances.
“Shall I go fetch Maester Luwin?”
“There’s no need for that,” you said, your heart slamming against your ribcage, “thank you.”
“Maybe Jo is right, let’s go back.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying, thank you!”
“Aye, I don’t even like these people.”
“Lyra!”
“Wha—I don’t!”
“We can eat in your bedchambers my lady, I’ll tell one of the maids—”
“No,” you said. “We’re attending dinner here.”
“You look like you’re about to faint,” Lyra insisted while you let yourself linger in your spot for a moment, still swaying on your feet before you took a deep breath.
Nothing had happened.
And nothing was happening.
“I’m perfectly fine,” you managed to say. “Trust me.”
Your legs were still trembling, pain was churning your insides, and your hands were clammy, but you straightened your back, lifted your chin, and plastered that well-trained courtier smile on your face, then walked into the Great Hall.
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: There are lines that should not be crossed, even in enmity.
Word Count: 4,8k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, blood, mentions of wounds. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
It was very, very clear that your house and House Stark was complete opposites.
You had been in Winterfell for just a little over two moons, and you were proven the difference over and over again almost each day. Your house was all about ambition, House Stark was all about honor. Your house had agriculture and fertile lands as its strength, House Stark had military power and loyalty as its. Your house was a vassal house that had to claw its way to power, House Stark was the most ancient and powerful House in the north, with no need or taste for court games and intrigue.
And as you found out very recently, the parenting styles of your house and House Stark was no exception to such difference.
“Listen, I get that—”
“Do you really?” you asked, leaning on your hip. “Because from where I’m standing, you do not.”
“Things are different in the south, but I told you,” Robb said, making you narrow your eyes at him. “He cannot run to you crying every single time he’s scared.”
“Because winter is coming?” You mimicked his deep voice with his northern accent. “He’s a child—”
“You’re not his mother.”
You threw your head back with an impatient—and very unladylike—groan, then glared up at him.
“I know very well I’m not his mother, Robb,” you said. “Would you like to be reminded the reason why he runs to me crying?” You pointed at the door of the solar. “Because his actual mother is by his sick brother’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up!”
“Bran will wake up,” he said. “And in the meantime, Rickon needs to understand what is expected of him as a Stark.”
“And are the Stark babes born fully in control of their emotions?” you snarked. “Is that what happens? Did you all come out holding a sword and told the midwife the north remembers?”
“Quite the criticism from the girl whose midwife had to wear silk gloves to tend to her.”
Your mouth fell open with a gasp.
“Those were my nursemaids!”
“My apologies,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Of course. Your nursemaids.”
“And we’re not talking about me right now, we’re talking about the fact that Rickon is terrified—”
“And he’s going to stay terrified if you keep coddling him.”
“No, he’s going to stay terrified if he feels like he has to deal with this alone.” You crossed your arms. “I understand that things may be different in the north, but mayhaps it’s high time you reconsidered it when it comes to Rickon—”
“I’m doing what my father would have done,” he told you, “if he were here.”
Of course.
Of course Ned Stark could do no wrong in Robb’s eyes as a father, so Robb wanted to walk the path his father carved.
…Except, it was quite obvious that he was refusing to address a very specific situation that had been taking place since Lord Stark’s departure. While ruling in his stead, Robb was making some changes, especially now that Lady Stark was confined to Bran’s chambers and was not seeing any of it.
“You do realize I was trained in politics as well?” you asked. “Do you honestly think I don’t know the reason why Jon is in the room in almost every meeting you hold with the northern lords ever since your father left? Something he didn’t do when he was indeed here?”
A blush spread over his cheeks and reached his ears as he averted his eyes from yours like he was caught doing some mischief.
“My brother being by my side is no politics,” he mumbled way too fast as if he had already practiced the answer in his mind, and you rolled your eyes.
“Robb, come on now...”
“It is not politics.”
“It is if you’re making your vassals perceive his presence,” you taunted him, moving about in the solar. “It is indeed politics if you’re legitimizing his status by your side even if it’s not in name. Which is more than alright, you do that. But don’t pretend it’s not political, when you and I both know what it signals to your vassals about the future.”
“Jon is not who we’re talking about right now,” he insisted, eager to change the subject. “Rickon is. He’s not going to learn the ways of the world if he thinks you’ll be there every—”
He was cut off when someone knocked on the door and a servant’s voice reached inside.
“M’lord, the blacksmiths from Wintertown are in the Great Hall.”
Robb ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture almost making you smile before you looked over your shoulder at the door, then turned to him.
“And once you’re done with your duties of the day, you must talk to your mother,” you said. “She hasn’t been out of that room for days now.”
He nodded with a sigh and stood up from his chair. It appeared that Grey Wind decided at that moment that he had been patient enough, because he padded across the room to nudge at you, pushing you back with his snout in the process. You cooed at him and scratched at his head.
“Can we—” Robb started, but this time it was Barbrey who knocked on the door.
“My lady, the carpenters are ready for you.”
“Thank you!” you called out while Robb tilted his head in confusion.
“The carpenters?”
“Oh, I…” You cleared your throat. “When we first visited Wintertown, you said more and more people would arrive there now that the maesters announced the arrival of autumn. Farmers and villagers and mountain clans.”
“Mm hm.”
“And you said they send women and children and the men stay behind, if the winter is hard,” you added. “So I thought um—I thought if children are going to be away from their fathers not even knowing they’ll see them again, even the smallest gesture of hospitality could help them and their mothers feel some comfort. And I came up with a plan.”
“Shocking,” he said, though it seemed he was battling with a smile. “What is it?”
“I— alright, so before you say no,” you said, shifting your weight. “Promise me you’ll listen first.”
A laugh climbed his throat as he rounded the table, then leaned back to it. “What did you do?”
“Regardless of the north or south, all children like toys,” you said. “So I will ask the carpenters to make some toys for the children who will arrive here, or any of the nearby castles. And I’m actually going to hit two birds with one stone, because when I first shared it with my ladies-in-waiting, Alys said the carpenters might need some help with that, and I found a solution to that also!” You bounced on the balls of your feet, pride distracting you from your anger just now. “The carpenters here and in Wintertown will hire the orphans without jobs, so that they can get the help they need, and those poor orphans can learn the tricks of the craft and get paid. They’ll be the ones making the toys. And once all that is done, they’ll have a job that can make it possible for them to earn money not only here, but wherever they want!”
His eyes softened, a smile pulling at his lips.
“I’m told most of the toys—if they have any—pass from sibling to sibling for many smallfolk, so mayhaps having something of their own may cheer them up a little,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “I doubt it’ll look perfect, but it’ll be theirs.”
He took a deep breath, then reached out to grab your hand so that he could pull you closer to him, his thumb caressing the back of your hand while he wrapped an arm around your waist.
“We can argue about it,” you informed him, making him huff out a laugh. “But we’re expected, so it’ll have to—”
“I think it’s a great idea,” he told you and your eyes shot up to his.
“You do?”
“Mm hm.”
“No arguments? Because I practiced.”
“You practiced for arguments?” he asked with a confused frown, but before you could answer, Barbrey knocked on the door again.
“My lady.”
“I’m coming!” you called out and stepped out of his arms much to his displeasure, walking backwards to the door. “And I meant what I said about Rickon.”
He shot you a look. “So did I.”
“I suppose we’ll have to argue about that instead,” you pointed out and gave Grey Wind a quick peck on his head. “Lucky for me, I practiced for that too. I’ll find you later.”
With that, you pulled open the door and walked out of the room to make your way down the hallway with Barbrey following you in a haste.
Your conversation with the carpenters took longer than you had expected. After it was done, you and your ladies-in-waiting had spent some time with Rickon playing the games he wanted until Maester Luwin came to take him away, and it was only then you realized just how tired you were. You figured you could take a short nap but visiting Lady Stark in Bran’s room before that sounded like a good idea, so you gave your ladies-in-waiting leave until dinner time while you made your way to Bran’s room, but before you could reach his door, you heard your maid Kyra’s voice.
“M’lady!” She rushed through the hallway, holding a cup. “Your tea.”
“Oh thank you Kyra, you’re the sweetest.” You took the cup from her as the door opened and another maid stepped outside, carrying an untouched plate of food that no doubt was supposed to be Lady Stark’s breakfast. The smell of eggs turned your stomach, making you grimace and you held your breath until she walked away with the plate. You lifted the cup to inhale the sweet scent of your tea before you took a sip, then smiled at Kyra.
“I’ll take a nap after this,” you whispered, approaching the door. “So you can take the time off until dinner.”
“Thank you m’lady.”
You took another sip in an attempt to settle your stomach, knocked on the door and stepped in, Kyra helpfully closing the door behind you.
“Good afternoon, Lady Stark.”
Gods, she was a mess.
And rightfully so. You couldn’t even imagine being in her place right now, with her little boy lying there asleep for weeks and her husband gone with both of her daughters, miles away from her. She was weaving a sort of a talisman, and she only raised her head from it for a second to look at you, her blue eyes red-rimmed with tears and lack of sleep.
“Good afternoon,” she rasped out and you put your tea aside, then took a step towards her after stealing a look at little Bran who laid asleep in his bed with his wolf Summer at the foot of the bed.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, I just wanted to see if you or Bran need anything?”
She shook her head, her whole attention on the talisman again. “No, thank you.”
“I’ve been told I’m quite good at crafts,” you offered. “I imagine you must be tired. I could do that for you if you would like?”
She shook her head again.
“It’s for protection of a child,” she whispered. “Only a mother can make it.”
“Oh,” you said after a beat. “I am not familiar with it, I’m afraid.”
“And I hope you won’t have to learn it,” she said. “I hope your and Robb’s children never need it.”
There wasn’t much you could say to that, so you offered her a small smile, your gaze darting around the room.
“How is he?” she asked, making your head whip up.
“Robb?” you asked back and cleared your throat. “He’s alright. He’s doing a great job ruling in Lord Stark’s stead. But he’s also worried about you and Bran, the whole castle is.”
She nodded slowly.
“Rickon is alright as well,” you added in a haste. “My ladies-in-waiting and I just played hide-and-seek with him. I’m the least familiar with the layout of the castle so I always get caught first, and it amuses him a lot.”
You decided against mentioning Rickon’s nightmares, the poor woman didn’t have to worry about that on top of everything right now.
“And I wrote to my brother,” you said. “Arys. He’s studying to be a maester at the Citadel as you know, and he’s incredibly smart. Perhaps he’ll have some ideas as to how we can help Bran.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”
“Of course.”
A silence fell upon the room, and you fidgeted with your bracelet before taking a deep breath.
“Lady Stark, if you would like to rest—”
“I cannot,” she cut you off, her voice hoarse. “Bran needs me.”
“And I will send for you immediately if—when he wakes up,” you corrected yourself. “If he wakes up in your absence. But you must think of your own health as well, not just Bran’s.”
Even you could tell she was deaf to your suggestions, as you knew she would be. You looked from her to Bran and opened your mouth to insist, then changed your mind and forced yourself to smile.
“Please send for me if you change your mind,” you said. “Have a good day, Lady Stark.”
You grabbed your cup on your way out and shut the door behind you, then leaned back to it and let out a breath, closing your eyes.
Robb really needed to talk to her.
You opened your eyes again, then pushed yourself off the door, took a huge sip of your tea, and walked down the hallway to get to stairs so that you could go to your room for a much needed nap.
You were supposed to wake up before dinner.
And this nap was supposed to help you regain some energy.
Neither had happened.
When Robb’s gentle touch on your cheek and his lips on your forehead pulled you out of the depth of sleep, it took you more than just a couple of seconds to get rid of the haze. You let out a small whine that made him chuckle as he pulled back to look down at you.
“Well hello there,” he said, his thumb caressing your cheek. “Are you alright?”
You blinked groggily, now noticing how the room was completely dark.
“What…” you rasped out, kicking the fur covers off of you. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight.”
Your eyes widened. “What?”
“I wasn’t in the hall for dinner, did you eat?”
You shook your head, hunger clawing at your stomach at the mention of dinner. He pressed his palm on your forehead.
“I can’t tell if it’s fever or it’s because the room is boiling.”
“It’s not fever,” you assured him, pulling yourself to sit up in the bed. “I’m not sick, I…Gods, I wasn’t supposed to sleep the dinner away. My apologies.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said gently. “Rickon has been keeping both of us up for three nights now, you needed it.”
You yawned, rubbing at your eyes.
“Where is he anyway?”
“Rickon?” he asked. “He’s asleep in his own room.”
You dropped your hands to shoot him a look.
“Did you tell him to?”
“No, I just asked Jon and Theon to keep him busy while you were occupied, so he’s been running around the Godswood for the last couple of hours. He should be tired enough to sleep throughout the night.”
A scoff of laughter escaped you. “Robb!”
“I had to find a solution!” he defended himself as he easily got on top of you to settle between your legs, making you giggle. “I haven’t had my wife in ages—”
“Three nights,” you corrected him with a grin and he made a noise of disagreement, cradling your cheek to steal a kiss from you.
“It’s the same thing.”
“And we must—” You swallowed thickly when his lips found your throat. “Um, we— we must fight first because I practiced for it.”
“We’ll fight all you want after this,” he muttered into your neck, his touch making your breath hitch before you grabbed his wrist.
“But I’m hungry.”
That made him pause.
“…Now?”
You nodded your head when he pulled back to see you better.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” you whined. “Surely you don’t want me to perish.”
“No!” He was quick to assure you. “Of course not, but…”
“But nothing, I’m starving!”
You would’ve been lying if you said the sight of utter torment on his face at the mention of waiting to have you didn’t make you giddy. Lady Olenna had always said being married didn’t mean you couldn’t play with your husband’s patience, and it filled you with a strange sense of pride to see that even though it had been a month after your wedding and he laid with you almost each night since then, he still craved you. You pushed him a little and he got off of you to fall back on the bed with a dramatic groan while you crossed the room to grab your dressing gown to put it on.
“Just tell one of the servants,” he said from the bed and you shook your head.
“I don’t wish to disturb them,” you said. “And I don’t even know what I want to eat yet, I’ll decide it in the kitchens—by the way, did you talk to your mother?”
His hesitation was all the answer you needed, and you spun around on your heels.
“Robb.”
“I didn’t have time.”
“You have time now,” you said. “While I go get myself something to eat. Go talk to her, I’m certain she’s awake.”
“And say what?” he asked, sulking. “She doesn’t listen.”
“I talked to her today.”
He raised his brows. “And did she listen?”
“The point is not whether she listens or not,” you told him as you made your way to him, and he reached out to wrap his arms around your waist, nuzzling to your chest. “The point is that we must talk to her until she hears it. She needs to get out of that room, it won’t...” You trailed off. “It won’t do her any good if she spends her days there.”
“It won’t do anyone any good,” he muttered into your skin and raised his head to rest his chin there. You ran your nails over the nape of his neck, and he closed his eyes for a moment, relaxing under your touch.
“She asked me about you.”
That made him open his eyes again to roll them.
“What for?” he grumbled. “She knows where I have been since my father left.”
…Oh.
Oh you were an idiot for not seeing it sooner, Lady Olenna would’ve been disappointed.
Robb was trying to step into his role as Lord Stark, and this was the first time for him to be able to prove himself as the future Warden of the North, and he was doing a great job but—
But Lady Stark hadn’t even acknowledged it with so much as a word, too worried to leave Bran’s side.
You had to be very careful, because you knew very well that the moment Robb so much as sensed that you could tell he wanted approval, he would refuse to listen and insist that he didn’t need it in the most northern manner. People in the north thought even mere children had to deal with their fears alone with no help or comfort from anyone else, you could already tell the rules were even stricter when it came to grown-ups.
Which was nonsense to you.
But from Robb’s perspective, he had to be the perfect heir and the future Lord of Winterfell, and praise, comfort and reassurance was for southerners, not for the Warden of North.
“I think she was worried,” you said, still playing with his hair. “But I told her not to. Not to sound arrogant, but I was very convincing with the way I was singing your praises.”
Confusion flashed over his handsome features. “Hm?”
“Mayhaps you don’t realize it my love, but you’re doing a wonderful job ruling in your father’s stead,” you said gently. “It’s no easy task, but I think the whole north sees that they have nothing to worry about once the title eventually falls on you for good.”
The light in his eyes softened before he lowered his head so that you wouldn’t see the fire burning his cheeks, but you could see the tips of his ears growing pink, making you bite back a proud smile.
Aw, the big bad Young Wolf Robb Stark blushed at flattery.
You were going to have fun with that information.
He cleared his throat and stood up from the bed, adapting the solemn expression of the north, a frown pinching his brows.
“Aye, it’s—” he said gruffly as if he was trying to pull himself together, though the sight of pink on his cheeks betrayed him. “It’s duty.”
“I’m aware it’s duty,” you said, your voice airy. “And I would’ve loved you if you were Benjen the servant just as I love you as the future Lord of Winterfell who’s already proving himself to the north.”
A playful grin curled his lips. “Is that right?”
“Very much so. That’s why I’m not quite certain if what I say counts here,” you stated, “but I still think it’s important for you to know that you’re doing so well. Duty or not, I’m so proud of you.”
He gawked at you and blinked a couple of times, his cheeks getting even redder.
“It’s my—I—” he stammered. “Are you doing this on purpose?”
Your expression was completely innocent.
“I have no idea what you speak of,” you said, then gave him a bright smile. “Though, you do look so sweet blushing.”
“I don’t blush!” he defended himself, coaxing a laughter out of you as he spun you around to gently shove you in the direction of the door with him following you. “Go eat and come back as fast as you can.”
“But—” you were cut off when he smacked your butt, making you gasp and turn around at the door.
“Scandalous behavior!” you accused him, pointing a finger at him but he grabbed your wrist, that mischievous light glimmering in his eyes.
“You’ll see what scandalous behavior is when you come back,” he told you. “Go.”
“Talk to Lady Stark while I’m in the kitchens!” you called out as you rushed down the hallway, aware of his glances on you until you turned the corner. A giggle escaped you as you went downstairs and made your way to the kitchens, the whole castle asleep as you guessed.
However, your guess turned out to be inaccurate.
You stopped dead in your tracks when you caught the sight of Jorelle who whirled around on her heels the moment she heard you, holding a plate with a piece of cake.
“Hello,” she said after a beat. “I uh…I couldn’t sleep, and I got hungry. What are you doing here?”
“Slept too much and got hungry,” you answered, shifting your weight. “Are those lemon cakes?”
“Oh.” You took the plate from her and went to sit on the table while she leaned back to one of the counters. “Thank you.”
She nodded and turned around to grab a piece, then put it on another plate with a fork and held it out for you.
“Don’t mention it.” She waved her fork dismissively. “We were going to wake you up, then Lyra said maybe we shouldn’t. Do you feel alright?”
You nodded your head, pushing your fork into the cake.
“I feel groggy,” you admitted and took your fork into your mouth, closing your eyes at the tart yet sweet taste of the spongey cake for a moment. “Gods, this is the best remedy.”
Sometimes you wondered what kind of friends you and Jorelle would’ve made if you met in different circumstances. You were quite certain you would have been close with her, if it weren’t for…
Well.
Everything.
Her family pushing her, the whole north being ready to rally behind her, thinking that she would’ve been better at being the future Lady of the North.
Perhaps the worst part was that you knew very well she would’ve been great at it. She was the personification of the north with her cold and distant beauty even now in the middle of the night with no embellishments; her dark hair cascading down her back in soft waves, her gray eyes gleaming in the dimly lit kitchen.
“Are you certain you feel alright?”
You snapped out of your own thoughts and offered her a small smile.
“Of course,” you said. “How about you? Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“Ruminating, I suppose.”
You knew you were supposed to keep distant, Margaery would have advised you to keep distant, yet you couldn’t help but ask:
“About what?”
She looked like she was battling herself not to say anything, but then she exhaled through her nose.
“Are—” She stopped herself, then gritted her teeth. “Are southern men always so…full of audacity?”
A huff of laughter you couldn’t stop escaped you, and you nodded your head in a solemn manner.
“I’m afraid so.”
“I thought they were all courteous and knightly in the south.”
You made a noise of disagreement.
“They’re supposed to be,” you admitted. “But being knighted doesn’t mean a man is in fact knightly. What’s happened?”
“Your—one of the southern guests,” she corrected herself mid-sentence, “he disrespected me.”
Your heart skipped a painful beat.
“When you say disrespect…?” you asked and she frowned, then shook her head vigorously.
“Oh no, with words,” she assured you in a haste, making you let out a relieved breath. “Nothing happened. Just a very disrespectful statement.”
“Like what?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Who?”
“I’d rather not say that also.”
You hummed while you chewed on your bite, then swallowed it.
“Well, Silas is unfortunately in Dorne,” you said. “Had you told me before, we could’ve asked him to beat up whoever it was for his disrespect.”
She raised her brows. “You would’ve done that?”
A knowing smile curled your lips and you put your plate aside with a sigh.
“I’m well aware what the north thinks of you and me,” you said. “But there’s still a line. I wouldn’t let you or any other woman be disrespected by a man, no matter how we might feel about each other.”
She stared at you in silence for a couple of seconds like she was at a loss for words, but before she could say anything, hurried footsteps approached the kitchens and Theon appeared at the door, making you frown.
“What is it?”
“There’s a fire,” he said breathlessly. “In the library tower.”
You jumped on your feet, your stomach churning in worry. “Is everyone alright?”
“Aye, but Robb asked me to take you to safety.” Theon’s eyes found Jorelle over your shoulder. “You too, my lady.”
You grabbed Jorelle’s wrist to rush out of the kitchens with her, now hearing the wolves howling outside along with people shouting. Someone started ringing the bell, the sound echoing through the yard and reaching the halls while some of the servants ran past you. You took a look outside the window, the flames shooting from the windows of the library catching your eye and making your breath hitch.
“Gods,” you murmured, “all those books…”
Jorelle tugged at your hand to get you away from the window and you all turned a corner, your head shooting up with the sudden thought hitting you out of nowhere.
“Theon wait, has anyone told Lady Stark?”
“She knows, Robb was with him just now,” he answered while you all approached Bran’s open door. “Either way, it’s—get back!”
He drew his sword and stepped in front of you at the same time Jorelle pushed you behind her with a gasp. Your hands shot up to your mouth at the sight of Lady Stark standing in the middle of the room with blood pouring from the gashes in her palms, and Bran’s wolf Summer standing over a man who laid dead in the corner of the room with his throat torn out, his knife beside him.
“Lady Stark?” Theon stepped into the room with his sword at ready, and she raised her gaze from her hands, still stunned.
“I’ll get Maester Luwin,” Jorelle said and darted, her footsteps echoing in the hallway while you rushed to Lady Stark, your heart beating in your ears.
“I’m unharmed, so is Bran,” she said and you stole a look at Bran who still laid asleep in his bed, then grabbed the handkerchief on the table beside the untouched plate of food to press it on her bleeding palms.
“I’m sorry,” you said in a haste when she hissed. “I’m sorry, we must stop the blood—what happened?”
Her eyes snapped to yours.
“Someone—” she rasped out, then took a shaky breath. “Someone tried to kill Bran.”
Author's note 2 : Thank you so much for reading my loves! This is a friendly reminder that the next chapter will include certain topics that may be triggering, so please make sure to check the warnings. Love you! 🩷
By ten in the morning, you had already lost one cousin, found three tablecloths, moved two flower arrangements, told Hugh to stop “curating the energy” and start carrying something heavy, and discovered that your youngest sister had somehow managed to misplace only one shoe.
Not a pair of shoes.
One.
“Sarah,” you said, standing in the middle of the upstairs hallway with a clipboard you had sworn up and down you didn’t need and absolutely had not been carrying around for the last two hours, “how do you lose one shoe?”
Sarah, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor outside the bathroom in a silk robe, one roller hanging from the side of her head and a cherry Danish balanced on her knee, looked up at you with the deep, unbothered calm of someone who had never once been held responsible for the emotional success of a family event.
“I didn’t lose it.”
You stared at her.
She took a bite of Danish, “It’s just not where I remember putting it.”
“That is the definition of losing something.”
“No, losing is when it’s gone forever. This is temporary.”
“Your definition of temporary is why I have trust issues.”
From inside the bathroom, Maddie laughed softly.
Maddie had been in the house since seven, because thankfully, Maddie was the kind of person who said she’d be there early and then actually meant it. She had come in wearing jeans, boots, and a linen shirt, her hair twisted back, smelling faintly like hay and expensive shampoo, and had immediately done more useful things in twenty minutes than Hugh had done in three days of “conceptualising the guest experience.” She had helped Nana with the flowers, checked on the younger cousins without being asked, found Grandad’s missing cufflinks in a box labelled Christmas ribbon for reasons no one could explain, and somehow managed to calm Jordan down when the rental company arrived with the wrong number of chairs.
She was perfect for your brother in a way that made you want to both cry and gag.
Jordan had always been impossible to impress, impossible to rush, and impossible to tell what to do unless you were Daddy, a horse or Maddie standing very quietly beside him with one eyebrow raised.
“Found the steamer,” Maddie called from the bathroom.
You exhaled, “I love you.”
“I know.”
Sarah pointed her Danish at you, “See? Things get found.”
“Not because of you.”
“Still counts.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but from downstairs came a crash, a masculine curse, and then Grandad’s voice booming, “I’m fine!”
You closed your eyes.
The thing about being the eldest daughter was that birth order did not actually matter. Jordan was technically the oldest. Hugh had been born two years before you and spent most of his life weaponising that fact when he wanted to annoy you.
But eldest daughter was not a number. It was a diagnosis. It was standing in the hallway at ten in the morning on the day of your grandparents’ anniversary party, freshly moisturised but not yet dressed, with a clipboard in your hand, a missing shoe crisis on the floor, two hundred guests arriving by evening, and the iron-deep certainty that if you stopped moving, the entire family would collapse into the rose bushes.
You pointed at Sarah, “Stay there.”
She blinked, “Where am I going with one shoe?”
“Do not test me.”
You were halfway down the stairs when Logan appeared at the bottom of them, carrying two wooden crates of wine like they weighed absolutely nothing.
He looked up. You stopped.
A year in, and it was still sometimes embarrassingly easy for him to undo you.
He was wearing old jeans, boots, and a white T-shirt that had seen enough morning labour to cling a little at his chest. His hair was messier than usual, damp at the edges from the heat outside, and his arms were full of wine from Mama’s side of the family’s endless vineyards. There was a crease between his brows from concentration, and then he saw your face and it softened immediately.
“Hey,” he said.
“Please tell me that wasn’t Grandad.”
“That was Grandad.”
“Please tell me he didn’t break anything.”
“He broke a decorative crate.”
“Was anyone under the crate?”
“No.”
“Then we’re fine.”
His mouth twitched, “That’s the standard?”
“That is the standard until tomorrow morning.”
He climbed two steps, the crates still tucked against him, and tilted his head up at you, “You eaten?”
“I had coffee.”
“That’s not food.”
“It had milk in it.”
“Not food.”
“Don’t start with me, John Logan. I’m holding this family together with moisturiser and inherited anxiety.”
He looked so pleased by you that it was almost irritating, “You’re also holding a clipboard.”
“It is for intimidation purposes.”
“Working on me.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“No,” he agreed, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, “but you are.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, “Do not flirt with me while carrying alcohol. That is dangerous.”
“Pretty sure flirting with you is always dangerous.”
From behind him, Hugh’s voice rang out from the front hall. “If you two are done playing farmhouse romance novel, I could use some help with the seating chart.”
You leaned sideways to see past Logan. Hugh stood by the entry table in cream trousers and an open-necked shirt, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, looking offensively relaxed for a man who had turned the phrase “ambience direction” into a weapon. He was scrolling on his phone with one hand and holding three place cards in the other.
“Hugh,” you said sweetly, “the seating chart was finalised yesterday.”
“Yes, but Aunt Lydia and Aunt Camille have been placed too close together, and I think we both know the cheese course doesn’t deserve that kind of hostility.”
Logan glanced up at you, “Is he wrong?”
You sighed.
Hugh smiled without looking up, “Thank you, hockey man.”
“Do not encourage him,” you told Logan.
“I’m learning the family systems.”
“The family system is that Hugh makes everything complicated and then calls it elegance.”
Hugh looked wounded, “I have played polo with princes.”
“And yet you cannot carry six chairs without developing a personality disorder.”
Logan bit the inside of his cheek.
Hugh pointed a place card at you, “That mouth of yours used to be sweeter before you started dating Canadians.”
“I’m from Massachusetts,” Logan said.
“Same theoretical climate.”
You descended the last few steps, plucked a place card from Hugh’s fingers, and swapped it with another one from the table without looking, “Aunt Lydia sits near Mama’s college friend. Aunt Camille sits near the cousin with the twins because she likes babies and won’t start anything in front of them. The cheese course survives. You’re welcome.”
Hugh stared at the arrangement. Then at you.
Then he clicked his tongue with an impressed nod, “Terrifying woman.”
“Decorative man.”
“Beloved sister.”
“Burden of my life.”
He blew you a kiss and moved off toward the garden, already calling for someone to check the linen napkins because he had “a vision.”
You watched him go with the familiar fondness and exhaustion that came from loving someone who could charm an entire room and still somehow make you want to throw a lemon at his head.
Logan shifted the crates against his hip, “Where do these go?”
“Wine table by the side lawn. Not the bar, because Mama will have feelings. Not the kitchen, because Nana will have feelings. Side lawn.”
He nodded solemnly, “Side lawn. Avoid female family member’s feelings. Got it.”
You touched his arm before he could move away, “Thank you.”
He looked down at your hand, then back at your face, and there it was again. That softness. That impossible thing he had brought into your life and left everywhere.
“For what?”
“For running around all morning.”
“You say that like I’m not terrified of you.”
“You should be.”
“I am.” His voice dipped just enough that your stomach warmed, “Deeply.”
“Logan.”
“What?”
“You’re looking at me like that.”
“What way?”
“Like you’re about to make me forget I have responsibilities.”
His smile was slow and private and entirely inappropriate for the front hall of your grandparents’ farmhouse, “You do have responsibilities.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m one of them.”
“You are the opposite of helpful.”
“I carried wine.”
“You flirted while doing it.”
“Multitasking.”
You were about to say something sharp and embarrassing and probably too honest, but then Daddy came in from the garden with his sleeves rolled up and his hat pushed back, calling your name because Jordan wanted to know where the stable-side lanterns had been stored, and the house swallowed you whole again.
That was how the morning went.
You moved from room to room with your clipboard and your lipstick still not on, answering questions before people finished asking them.
You found Sarah’s shoe under a chair in Nana’s room, where apparently one of the baby cousins had put it “to sleep.” You approved Hugh’s revised seating chart, which you hated mostly because it was actually better. You helped Mama decide between two serving platters while she pretended she was not already crying every time she looked toward Nana and Grandad. You watched Jordan and Logan carry a long wooden table across the lawn, Jordan steady and quiet, Logan listening carefully while your brother explained the exact slope of the garden as though this was a military operation and not a place to put dessert.
At one point, you found Maddie outside by the paddock, crouched beside one of the older horses with her hand pressed calmly to its neck while Jordan stood beside her with the kind of expression your brother had probably once reserved for finish lines.
“You two are disgusting,” you called.
Jordan looked over, “Good morning to you too.”
Maddie smiled, “He was worried she looked stiff.”
“She’s twenty-four,” Jordan said defensively.
“She’s dramatic,” you said, “Like all of us.”
The horse huffed, as if insulted.
Maddie patted her neck, “She’s fine.”
Jordan’s shoulders loosened by half an inch.
You saw it. Maddie saw that you saw it.
She gave you a tiny look that said, Men.
You gave one back that said, Tragically.
Then Logan appeared behind you with two mason jars of lemonade, one of which he pressed into your hand without comment.
You looked down at it, “I didn’t ask for this.”
“You were doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where your voice gets really sweet and everyone gets scared.”
Jordan snorted.
You glared at him, “You have no room to laugh. You once made a horse broker apologise to a mare.”
“He was disrespectful.”
“To a mare?”
“She could tell.”
Logan looked between you and Jordan, fascinated, “I believe this completely.”
“You would,” Jordan said, and then, after a beat, nodded toward the fencing near the side lawn, “You free in ten? Need help moving those panels before the caterers block the drive.”
Logan nodded, “Yeah, I’ve got you.”
Something in your chest warmed so quickly it almost hurt.
A year ago, Logan had been the boy from the shop, the one you met half-soaked and frustrated beside your broken red Chevy, the one who looked at you like the rain had personally delivered you to him.
A year ago, he had been a little outside every room he entered, all broad shoulders and careful manners and quiet uncertainty, trying to work out where to put his hands in a family like yours.
Now Jordan asked him for help like it was nothing. Daddy handed him tools without checking if he knew what to do with them. Mama called him sweetheart from the kitchen. Nana had already scolded him twice for lifting things without eating breakfast. Grandad called him “boy” in the same voice he used for sons and grandsons and people he trusted to know when to duck.
He had gotten everywhere.
Into the garage, where Daddy let him look under the hood of Cherry without hovering.
Into the kitchen, where Mama kept his favourite biscuits in a tin she pretended was for everyone.
Into the family group chat, where Hugh sent blurry pictures of wine labels and Sarah sent voice notes that started in crisis and ended in gossip.
Into your room, your car, your routines, your future.
Into you so deeply that sometimes you still had to stop in the middle of a crowded house and remember how to breathe.
Logan’s fingers brushed the small of your back as he passed you, a touch so quick no one else would have noticed it.But you did, your body had learned him the way it had once learned the sound of Cherry’s engine turning over in cold weather.
He leaned down, just close enough that his mouth almost brushed your ear.
“Drink the lemonade,” he murmured, “Then boss me around some more.”
You turned your head, and for half a second, with your brother and his fiancée beside the paddock and your grandparents’ anniversary party being built around you piece by piece, Logan was all you saw.
“You like being bossed around?”
His eyes flicked to your mouth.
“By you?” he said, “Yeah.”
Maddie coughed delicately.
Jordan muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
You stepped away, cheeks hot, and pointed toward the side lawn, “Panels. Both of you.”
Logan grinned as he walked backward, “Yes, ma’am.”
You hated how much that worked on you.
The morning chaos settled into that suspended, golden hour before a party, when everything was technically ready but no one trusted it enough to relax. The tables stood dressed beneath the trees, linen flickering in the breeze. The flowers were arranged in low, sprawling bowls of red and cream and blush pink, with cherry branches tucked between them because Nana liked a little drama even when she denied it.
The bar was set. The lights were strung. The caterers had stopped asking where things went because they had learned to ask you once and obey forever.
Guests would arrive soon.
The family had scattered to shower and change.
You had forty minutes.
It felt like a religious experience.
The guest bedroom you and Logan had been given was at the back of the house, overlooking the garden and the little white gazebo half-hidden beyond the roses. It had old blue wallpaper, a heavy wooden dresser, a vanity with an oval mirror, and a bed that had creaked ominously when Logan sat on it the night before, making you both freeze, look at each other, and then burst into silent, childish laughter because your grandparents were two doors down.
Now the room was quiet except for the muffled sound of people moving through the house and the faint clink of glass from the garden below.
You stepped out of the bathroom freshly showered, wrapped in a towel, skin damp and warm from the steam. Your hair had been clipped up loosely while you did your skincare, little strands curling at the nape of your neck. You had rubbed your moisturiser in slowly, the expensive one that left your skin glossy and soft and smelling faintly sweet beneath the deeper cherry perfume you touched to your wrists, behind your ears, at the hollow of your throat.
The scent that you knew would make Logan go very quiet.
Your dress hung from the wardrobe door, catching the late light like a jewel. Red, beaded, sheer in delicate places, romantic. It looked like something your younger self would have stared at through a shop window and imagined wearing in a life where everything turned beautiful.
Under it, you had chosen lingerie with the kind of care that was both practical and not practical at all. Cream lace and silk, delicate enough to disappear beneath the dress, pretty enough that you had known exactly what would happen when Logan saw it. A garter belt. Stockings. Tiny hooks you had done up with patient fingers while standing in front of the mirror, skin still glossy, perfume settling into your pulse points.
You were fastening one earring when the bathroom door opened behind you.
Logan stepped out in dress pants and nothing else, a towel slung around his neck, his hair wet and pushed back from his face. Steam followed him into the room. A bead of water slipped down the side of his neck, over his collarbone, and disappeared somewhere your eyes absolutely should not have followed with only thirty-eight minutes until guests arrived.
You saw him in the mirror. He saw you.
The room changed. It was always like that with him. Even now. Even after a year of learning each other in every possible way, after fights and road trips and long nights and early mornings, after his clothes had become your clothes and your perfume had made a permanent home in his truck, he could still look at you once and turn the air thick.
His hand slowed on the towel.
You kept your fingers at your earring, but your pulse betrayed you immediately.
“Don’t,” you said.
His gaze lifted to yours in the mirror, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
“I’m allowed to think.”
“Not like that.”
He crossed the room slowly.
You tried to look unimpressed. And failed.
He came up behind you at the vanity, tall and warm and damp from the shower, and set his hands carefully on your waist. His palms spread over lace and bare skin, thumbs brushing the line where your lingerie met your ribs. For a second, he didn’t kiss you- he looked at you in the mirror, his eyes moving from your pinned-up hair to your earrings, to your throat, to the place his hands held you.
Your mouth went dry, “Logan.”
“Yeah?”
“We have to be downstairs.”
“In a minute.”
“You have no respect for timing.”
“I have a lot of respect for timing.” His mouth brushed your shoulder, barely there, “Been thinking about it all day.”
A shiver moved through you before you could stop it.
He felt it, and in response his hands tightened just slightly, and his mouth pressed properly to your shoulder this time, warm and slow. Then to the slope of your neck. Then the sensitive place beneath your ear where your perfume lived. His eyes stayed on yours in the mirror.
“You smell expensive,” he murmured.
You swallowed, “That’s because I am.”
His smile touched your skin, “Trust me, sweetheart, I know.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out thinner than you intended because one of his hands had slid over your stomach, possessive enough to make your knees feel unreliable.
“You’re going to wrinkle your trousers,” you said.
“I’ll live.”
“My family is downstairs.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re being reckless.”
“You wore this.”
Your lips parted.
His gaze dropped to your mouth in the mirror, “Don’t look at me like I’m the problem.”
“You are constantly the problem.”
He kissed your neck again, teeth grazing softly enough to make your hand grip the edge of the vanity, “You put this on under that dress and expected me to behave?”
“I expected you to have self-control.”
“I did.” His voice lowered, “This is me having it.”
That should not have done what it did to you.
But he knew you now. He knew every tiny place where teasing became heat. He knew when to be gentle and when you didn’t want gentle at all. He knew the difference between your public sharpness and the private softness you only trusted him to touch. He knew how much you liked being adored, and how much you liked when the adoration came with his hand at your jaw and his voice in your ear telling you to watch.
His fingers rose, brushing your chin.
“Eyes up,” he said quietly.
Your breath caught.
In the mirror, your own reflection looked back at you- glossy skin, lace, stockings, the beginning of a flush creeping up your chest, and Logan behind you looking like he had been made to ruin every sensible thought you had ever had.
“That’s mean,” you whispered.
His thumb traced your lower lip, “You like mean.”
“Sometimes.”
His eyes darkened, “With me.”
Your stomach dipped, “With you. Only you.” you admitted.
That was the thing about a year. It changed the shape of wanting. In the beginning, everything had been discovery, surprise, the breathless little terror of realising someone could touch you once and rearrange your whole nervous system. Now it was knowledge. Trust. A language built in glances and pressure and the exact angle of his mouth when he knew he was about to get his way. It was hotter because it was safer. Filthier because it was softer underneath. You knew where his control frayed, and he knew exactly where yours liked to be taken from you.
Logan turned you gently from the mirror and kissed you.
He kissed you like the whole day had been leading to this, like every brush of his hand in the hallway, every stolen look across the lawn, every yes, ma’am and quiet smile had been a fuse burning down between you. His hand cupped your jaw, the other firm at your waist, and you melted so fast it would have been humiliating if he hadn’t made a low sound against your mouth like it ruined him too.
You reached for him automatically, fingers slipping over warm skin, damp shoulders, the hard line of him beneath your hands. He pushed you back until your hips met the vanity, bottles and jewellery trembling softly behind you.
“Careful,” you breathed.
“Trying.”
“You’re not.”
“No,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth, “I’m not.”
He lifted you onto the edge of the vanity like you weighed nothing, stepping between your thighs, his dress pants brushing your stockings. Your hands went into his wet hair, and he groaned when you pulled a little, the sound low enough that it sank straight through you.
Downstairs, someone laughed. The noise broke through the room just enough to remind you where you were.
You froze and Logan’s mouth paused against your throat.
For one suspended second, neither of you moved.
Then he lifted his head, eyes bright with heat and amusement, “Quiet.”
You stared at him, “Me?”
His eyebrows rose.
You shoved lightly at his chest. “You are so-”
He kissed you again before you could finish, swallowing the insult with a grin you could feel. It turned messier quickly- your heel hooked behind his thigh. His hand slid along your stockinged leg, reverent and greedy at once, fingertips tracing the garter strap with such focused attention that made you want to both squirm and make fun of him for being predictable.
He pulled back just enough to look down, “Christ,” he said under his breath.
You tried for smug, “Pretty?”
His eyes lifted to yours, “Pretty?” he repeated, like the word offended him by not being enough.
Then he took your face in his hand and kissed you again, and you stopped being smug very quickly.
It was not rushed, rushed was what you did when you were scared of being caught and this was worse.
This was deliberate despite the time. Logan touched you with the confidence of someone who knew he could make you fall apart quickly if he wanted to, but liked taking the scenic route because he knew you would let him.
His hands at your waist, your thighs, your back. His mouth on your neck, your collarbone, the skin above the lace. Your fingers digging into his shoulders when his voice dropped against your ear, telling you how good you looked, how badly he had wanted to get you alone all morning, how he had nearly lost his mind watching you order everyone around in that sweet little voice like you didn’t know exactly what it did to him.
“You have a thing for authority,” you managed, breathless.
He laughed softly against your skin, “I have a thing for you.”
“That was disgustingly romantic.”
“I’ll make it worse.”
“You usually do.”
His hand slid back to your jaw, guiding your eyes to the mirror again.
There you were- perched on the vanity, lingerie imperfect now, lips parted, Logan bare behind you except for those dress pants you were definitely going to wrinkle.
His voice came low at your ear, “Look at you.”
Your entire body went hot, “Logan.”
“I know.” His mouth touched your shoulder, “I’ve got you.”
And he did. He always did.
That was what undid you more than anything. Not just the heat in his touch or the way his hands knew how to turn you soft and desperate in a room where you were supposed to be fastening earrings and becoming respectable. It was the steadiness in his fingertips, the trust in his actions and the way it would culminate into utter lustful chaos with ever feeling unsafe.
His palm slid from your jaw to your throat, resting there with enough weight to make your pulse jump beneath him. His eyes stayed on yours in the mirror, watching the exact second your mouth parted, the exact second your lashes fluttered, the exact second the sharp little part of you that ran around organising seating charts and finding missing shoes and telling grown men where to put wine crates started to loosen under his hands.
“There,” he murmured, mouth brushing your shoulder, “That’s what I wanted.”
You swallowed, and he felt it under his palm,“What?” you whispered.
His hand moved lower, over the glossy warmth of your chest, over lace that had already shifted slightly from his mouth and his hands, his thumb dragging slow along the edge of it like he had all the time in the world.
“You,” he said simply, “Like this.”
Your breath hitched when his other hand slid up the inside of your thigh, over the sheer stocking, following the line of the garter strap with enough patience to make your hips shift toward him without permission. His mouth curved against your neck.
“Needy already?”
You felt your cheeks heat in the mirror, “Don’t sound so proud of yourself.”
“Can’t help it.” His fingertips reached the bare skin above your stocking, warm and deliberate, “You get all bossy downstairs, and then I get you alone for five minutes and you’re shaking.”
“I am not shaking.”
He stilled his hand.
You hated him for it.
Then, with horrible patience, he looked at your reflection and waited.
The silence stretched for three seconds.
Four.
Long enough for the muffled sound of laughter downstairs to filter through the floorboards, long enough for you to remember there were people in the garden, people in the house, your entire family scattered within shouting distance while Logan stood behind you half-dressed and devastating, one hand at your throat, the other tucked high between your thighs like he had every right to be there.
You exhaled shakily.
His eyes darkened.
“No?”
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the vanity, “Logan.”
He kissed beneath your ear, “That’s not an answer.”
You tried to glare at him through the mirror, but it came out ruined by the way his thumb had started moving, slow and maddening, over the sensitive skin at the crease of your thigh.
Not where you needed him. Close enough to make you ache. Far enough to make you understand he knew exactly what he was doing.
“You’re being mean,” you breathed.
“You said you liked mean.”
“I said sometimes.”
“With me,” he reminded you.
Your stomach dipped.
His hand left your throat, sliding up to cup your jaw instead, tilting your face just enough that you had nowhere to look but the mirror. At yourself. At him. At the red flush spreading over your chest, the shine of moisturiser on your skin, the delicate cream lingerie already looking obscene with his big hands against it. His dress pants were still perfectly fastened, which felt unfair enough to be offensive.
“Say it,” he said softly.
You bit your lip. His fingers pressed a little higher.
Your whole body answered before your pride could stop it, “With you,” you whispered.
The reward was immediate. His mouth found yours in the mirror’s reflection before his hand finally settled where you needed it, over the damp heat of you beneath lace, and the sound you made was so embarrassingly quick that he had to kiss it out of your mouth.
“Shh,” he breathed, but there was a smile in it. A dark, pleased, utterly unfair smile, “You wanna get us caught?”
“You started this.”
“You wore this.”
“You are such a-”
He touched you properly, and the insult broke apart in your throat.
It was awful, how well he knew you now. Awful enough that your head fell back against his shoulder and your thighs parted for him without thinking. Your fingers abandoned the vanity to curl around his wrist instead.
He knew the pressure you liked when you were impatient and the slower rhythm that made you melt into him. He knew when you wanted teasing and when teasing tipped into cruelty, when your little huffs of frustration meant keep going and when your silence meant you were trying very hard not to make a sound.
“Look,” he said against your ear.
Your eyes were closed and you hadn't even realised.
His fingers slowed.
Your eyes snapped open in protest, meeting his in the mirror, and he smiled like he had won something.
“There she is.”
You would have complained about the smugness of it, the terrible satisfaction in his voice, except his hand moved again and your mouth fell open around nothing. Heat slid through you, slow and molten, gathering low in your stomach as he worked you through the lace with focused, almost reverent attention. Your hips rolled toward his hand, small at first, then less small when he pressed harder, his chest firm against your back, keeping you held there between the vanity and his body.
Downstairs, music began to test through the speakers, a low, staticky pulse that made the mirror vibrate almost imperceptibly.
You clung to him.
“Logan,” you whispered, and it came out more desperate than you meant it to.
“I know.” His voice was rougher now, “I know, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He shifted the lace aside with two fingers.
The first touch of him against bare skin made you jolt so hard the perfume bottles rattled against the vanity.
His hand came over your mouth instantly.
Warm and firm, muffling the little cry you had not managed to swallow. His other arm tightened around your waist, holding you still as he pressed his mouth to the side of your head.
“Quiet,” he murmured, but you could hear what it cost him, “Family’s downstairs.”
Your eyes watered from the effort of it. From the pressure. From the sight of him behind you, jaw tight, eyes burning, hand over your mouth while the other moved between your thighs with a confidence that made you feel boneless.
You nodded against his palm.
He searched your face in the mirror, checking even now, even like this.
You nodded again, fingers circling his wrist, holding him there.
Only then did he continue.
The rhythm changed. Slower. Deeper. Less teasing now and more devastating, his fingers slick and sure, his palm pressed against you in a way that made your knees tremble even though the vanity held most of your weight. You could hear yourself beneath his hand, little broken sounds you were mortified by and made hotter by at the same time, every one of them trapped against his skin while he watched you take it.
His breathing had changed too. You could feel it against your back, uneven and rough, his control fraying in tiny, delicious increments. He had started this like he could handle it, like he could stand there with his dress pants still buttoned and his wet hair dripping onto his collarbones and make you fall apart for him without suffering any consequences.
But his hips pressed forward once, almost involuntarily.
You felt him hard against you through the fabric. Your eyes lifted to his in the mirror.
That was when his composure cracked properly, “Don’t,” he said, voice low.
You dragged his hand from your mouth just enough to breathe, “Don’t what?”
His fingers stopped moving.
A cruel, yet a useful mistake.
You shifted back against him, slow and deliberate, and watched his eyes flash.
“Cherry.”
Your name sounded like a warning and it went straight through you.
“You said we had to be quiet,” you whispered.
His jaw flexed.
You did it again, rubbing back against the hard line of him, the vanity digging into your hips, your lingerie messy, your lipstick already kissed soft at the edges. The look on his face made you feel powerful for approximately two seconds.
Then his hand came back to your jaw.
He turned your face and kissed you hard enough to end the game entirely.
It was not sweet now. It was hot and deep and messy, his tongue against yours, his fingers sliding back into motion until your body forgot every clever thing you had ever said. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, like the sound belonged to him. Maybe it did. Maybe at this point too many parts of you did.
His hand left your jaw only to grip your waist, pulling you more firmly back against him.
“Still wanna tease me?” he asked against your mouth.
You were too proud to say no.
Too desperate to say yes convincingly.
So you settled on, “Maybe.”
His laugh was quiet and wrecked.
Then he gave you exactly what you had been asking for.
He bent you forward just enough that your palms hit the vanity, your reflection closer now, messier, your chest rising and falling above the lace while he stood behind you like something out of every thought you should never have had in your grandparents’ guest bedroom. One of his hands slid up your back, over the line of your spine, then into your hair, not pulling yet, but gathering enough of it to make you aware he could.
Your breath caught.
His eyes met yours in the mirror.
“Still okay?”
The question landed soft beneath all the heat.
You nodded immediately, “Yes.”
His thumb brushed once over the back of your neck.
Then his grip tightened just enough to make your whole body go pliant.
“Good,” he murmured.
The word broke you open more than it had any right to.
Everything narrowed after that. To his hands. His mouth. The sound of his zipper. The warm, dizzying pressure of him behind you. His body covering yours as much as the angle allowed, one hand braced on the vanity beside your own, the other at your hip, thumb digging into the red-mark warmth of your skin where the dress would hide it later. There was a pause, brief but heavy, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he dragged in a breath like he was trying to remember how to be sane.
You looked at him in the mirror.
“Logan.”
“I know.” His mouth brushed the back of your shoulder, “Give me a second or this is gonna be embarrassing.”
The laugh that escaped you was breathless and fond and immediately turned into a gasp when he finally moved.
His hand flew back over your mouth.
Your eyes went wide. His did too, but for entirely different reasons.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your skin, so quiet it barely made it past his teeth, “You feel-”
He cut himself off, jaw tight, hand still firm over your mouth as he eased into you with a kind of control that made the whole thing hotter. Every inch deliberate, every second stretched out until your fingers curled against the vanity and your body went soft around the size and heat of him.
He gave you time. He always did.
Even when he was shaking with the effort of it, especially then.
You reached back blindly, needing something, and his hand caught yours immediately, fingers threading through yours and pinning them gently to the vanity. The intimacy of it nearly ruined you. The filth of the angle, the mirror, his palm over your mouth, and then that - his fingers locked with yours like he was holding your hand through something holy.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
In the mirror, he began to move.
Slow at first, because he was Logan and because he liked watching you lose patience. His hips rolled into yours with deep, measured strokes, the kind that made your whole body push forward against the vanity and then back again, caught between furniture and him. Your mouth opened against his palm. Your eyes fluttered. He made a low sound, almost pained, and dropped his head briefly against your shoulder before forcing himself to look up again.
“No,” he muttered, more to himself than you, “Wanna see you.”
That did something horrible to your chest, and your body.
You moaned against his hand.
His pace faltered, “Jesus, baby,” his voice was ragged now, “You can’t make those sounds.”
You turned your face just enough that his hand slipped from your mouth to your jaw, “Then stop making me.”
He stared at you in the mirror.
For one hot second, nothing moved.
Then his eyes darkened in a way that made your stomach drop, “you’re such a brat.”
Your smile was ruined by the next thrust.
He stopped being quite so careful after that.
Not rough enough to hurt. Never that. But harder, deeper. The kind of pace that made the vanity knock softly against the wall until he had to shove one hand between the wood and plaster to quiet it, swearing under his breath while you bit down on your own knuckles to keep from laughing and crying out at the same time.
The absurdity of it made everything hotter.
The party downstairs.
Your family in every corner of the house.
Your evening dress hanging obediently from the wardrobe door while Logan fucked you in the lingerie you had chosen specifically to ruin him.
His shirt still laid out on the bed because neither of you had gotten that far.
Your perfume blooming around you every time your body heated under his hands.
“You planned this,” he said suddenly, breath hot against your neck.
You blinked at him in the mirror, dazed, “What?”
“This,” his hand slid from your waist to the lace at your hip, fingers pressing into the delicate fabric, “you knew what this would do to me.”
You would have lied if you had enough air.
You did not.
So you smiled instead, slow and helpless.
Logan stared at that smile like it personally offended him- and in retaliation, his hand returned between your thighs.
“Oh my God,” you choked, grabbing the vanity.
His mouth found your ear, “Quiet.”
“I can’t if you-”
“I know,” he sounded almost smug again.
You would have hated him for it if you were not actively clenching around him hard enough to make his rhythm stutter.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, “Fuck. Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
His laugh came out broken. “You know what.”
You did. You did it again.
His hand covered your mouth at the same time his hips snapped forward, and your entire body went white-hot with it. Pleasure climbed too fast for you to be elegant about it, too sharp and too full, made worse by the mirror, by the muffled sounds, by Logan’s voice breaking low in your ear as he told you how good you were, how pretty you looked taking him, how badly he wanted to keep you up here and make everyone downstairs wonder where the hell you’d gone.
Your eyes locked on his in the mirror.
That was the end of you.
Your orgasm hit hard enough that your knees nearly gave out, but Logan was already there, arm around your waist, hand over your mouth, body braced behind yours as you came apart against him. He held you through every second of it, whispering into your skin, taking the shaking weight of you like it was exactly what his hands had been made for.
The world narrowed to heat and breath and his palm and his voice.
Then he followed you over with a harsh, bitten-off groan pressed into your shoulder, his whole body going tense behind yours, hips jerking once, twice, before he stilled so deeply inside you that the quiet afterward felt obscene.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The vanity was a disaster. Your breathing was a disaster.
Logan’s forehead stayed pressed to your shoulder, his arms locked around you from behind, his chest rising and falling against your back like he had just come off the ice after a third period.
Downstairs, someone called for Hugh.
A door closed.
The world continued with absolutely no respect for what had just happened in the guest bedroom.
Slowly, Logan moved his hand from your mouth and kissed the place where his palm had been, soft and apologetic and unbearably sweet after all that heat.
“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.
You nodded, still bent slightly over the vanity, still trying to remember how bones worked.
He kissed your shoulder, “Use words for me.”
Your eyes met his in the mirror.
“I’m okay,” you said, breathless. Then, because the honesty slipped out before pride could catch it, “Really okay.”
His expression softened so much it almost hurt.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kissed the back of your neck, then your shoulder, then the side of your face, each one gentler than the last. His hands moved carefully now, fixing what he had messed up, smoothing your garter strap, checking the stocking seam, brushing his thumb over the faint marks his fingers had left at your hip like he was already committing them to memory.
You let your head fall back against him.
For one suspended second, the room was only the two of you. Warm skin. Steam fading from the bathroom. Cherry perfume and clean soap. His body still curved around yours like shelter.
Then, because you were you, and because he loved you, and because there was no reverence in the world strong enough to survive your family’s schedule, you opened your eyes, looked at the vanity clock, and whispered, “We have twenty-two minutes.”
Logan went still.
Then he laughed into your neck, low and helpless and so full of affection that your heart did something stupid.
“Of course that’s what you’re thinking about.”
“I am an event professional.”
“You’re a vet student.”
“I am an eldest daughter. Same thing.”
He lifted his head, kissed you once, then again because one was apparently not enough, “You okay?”
You softened.
You touched his face, thumb brushing the damp line of his cheekbone,“I’m very okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You glanced down at his trousers, then back up, “You, however, are wrinkled.”
He looked down.
Then at you. Then he deadpanned, “Worth it.”
You laughed, and he kissed the laugh right out of your mouth.
Getting ready after that became its own quiet chaos. Logan found your earring under the vanity stool. You helped button his shirt because he claimed his hands were “compromised.” He zipped your dress with the concentration of a man handling something sacred, though his fingers paused halfway up your back long enough for you to swat him lightly. You fixed his collar. He fastened your necklace. You touched up your lipstick while he stood behind you in the mirror, fully dressed now and still looking at you like the lingerie remained visible through the dress by memory alone.
“Stop,” you said without looking away from your reflection.
“Can’t.”
“You’re staring.”
“You’re wearing that dress.”
You pressed your lips together, checking the colour, “Nana liked this dress.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“Do not make my grandmother’s approval sound suggestive.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly again.”
He came up behind you, hands finding your waist over the beaded red fabric, gentler this time. His chin rested lightly near your shoulder.
For a moment, the two of you just stood there.
You in red. Him in a crisp shirt and dark trousers, hair still a little damp at the ends, eyes warm in the mirror. The late afternoon light made the room honeyed and soft, touching the old wallpaper, the vanity, the dress, his hands on you.
Something in your chest went quiet.
He saw it happen, “What?” he asked.
You shook your head.
His thumb moved over your waist, “Tell me.”
You looked at the two of you in the mirror.
“I just love you,” you said.
His expression changed in that way it always did when you said it plainly, like even after all this time it still struck something deep in him.
He turned you gently and kissed you, soft now. Slow. No heat to hide behind. Just him.
“I love you too,” he said against your mouth.
Downstairs, Hugh shouted, “If anyone is still naked, I respect the commitment, but guests are arriving!”
You closed your eyes.
Logan’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“I’m going to kill him,” you whispered.
“He’ll expect it.”
“He’ll deserve it.”
“You look beautiful.”
You opened your eyes.
Logan smiled, small and certain, “For the record.”
And because you were already dangerously close to becoming sentimental, you pushed lightly at his chest and said, “Go downstairs before I start crying and ruin my mascara.”
He kissed your forehead, “Yes, ma’am.”
The party looked exactly the way Nana had insisted she did not want it to look.
Beautiful.
The garden had turned golden by the time guests began to move across the lawn, their dresses and linen suits catching the light as they passed beneath the trees. String lights hung in soft swoops between branches. The tables glowed with candles and flowers. Music drifted low from the speakers Hugh had placed so carefully you had accused him of developing a personal relationship with acoustics. Somewhere near the side lawn, Mama was laughing with one of her cousins from California. Daddy stood with Jordan and Grandad by the bar, all three of them pretending they were not watching Nana greet guests like a queen receiving her court.
Nana had worn cream.
Cream silk, pearls, red lipstick, silver hair swept back, and the expression of a woman who had spent all week saying this was too much while secretly enjoying every single second of being adored.
Grandad could not stop looking at her.
That was the first thing that made your throat tighten.
He stood in his dark suit with his hand wrapped around a glass he had not taken a sip from in twenty minutes, watching Nana move from guest to guest with the same astonished devotion he must have had at twenty-one. Every time she glanced over, she caught him staring. Every time, she rolled her eyes. Every time, she smiled after.
“That,” Hugh said beside you, appearing with two glasses of champagne and handing you one, “is what psychologists call terminal down bad.”
You took the glass, “Don’t talk about Nana and Grandad like that.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re vulgar.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain hair product and audacity.”
He grinned, “And yet you love me.”
“Under duress.”
His gaze slid over your dress, and for a rare second, his face softened into something almost sincere, “You look beautiful, by the way.”
You looked at him suspiciously, “That was nice.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“There he is.”
“Also, hockey man has looked like he’s been hit in the head with a mallet every time you walk past.”
You tried not to smile. You failed.
Across the garden, Logan stood with Garret, Logan and Tucker, who had driven in that afternoon and immediately been folded into the extended family machinery with frightening ease. Logan’s eyes found you like they had been waiting to do it. His conversation paused. His glass lowered slightly. He looked at you in the red dress, really looked, and even from halfway across the lawn, you felt the memory of his hands on the lace underneath it.
Heat bloomed low in your stomach.
Hugh made a gagging noise and you elbowed him without looking.
“Ow.”
“Behave.”
“I am behaving. I’m not even mentioning the fact that you two vanished upstairs for an unusually long time.”
You turned very slowly.
Hugh’s smile widened.
“Hugh.”
“Yes, beloved sister?”
“I will tell Mama about the New York wine cellar.”
His face changed instantly, “You wouldn’t.”
“I have photos.”
“You are evil.”
“I am organised.”
He lifted his champagne in surrender, “Your secret is safe.”
“There is no secret.”
“Of course not.”
“I hate you.”
“You adore me.”
Unfortunately, you did. All of them.
You adored Jordan when he came over to fix the clasp on Sarah’s bracelet with the same steady focus he used on tack and reins. You adored Sarah when she leaned her chin on your shoulder and whispered, “Do you think I could sneak a second dessert before speeches?” You adored Maddie when she appeared with a tiny safety pin before anyone had even asked for one. You adored Hugh when he charmed Aunt Camille out of complaining about the seating arrangement by asking about her garden as though it were a national treasure.
And Logan.
God, Logan.
You adored him most when he was not trying to be adored at all.
He helped Grandad down the shallow garden steps without making a show of it. He danced with one of your little cousins by letting her stand on his shoes. He listened when Daddy explained something about irrigation even though he had heard a version of the same explanation at breakfast. He blushed when Nana cupped his face and told him he looked handsome. He let Sarah take a photo of him holding two plates and one glass and caption it family intern without complaint.
At dinner, he sat beside you under the lights, one hand resting on your knee beneath the tablecloth.
A year ago, even sitting still beside someone had felt like a kind of question. Now his presence beside you was an answer your body understood before your brain had to ask.
The speeches began after the sun slipped fully behind the trees.
Daddy went first, voice thick enough that Mama pressed a tissue into his hand before he needed one. He talked about family, about land, about how some love stories became roots so deep everyone else grew from them without noticing. Jordan spoke next, short and quiet, making Nana cry in under two minutes because Jordan had always had that gift when he chose to use it. Hugh followed with a speech that began charming, swerved dangerously into inappropriate, and somehow ended with half the party laughing and Grandad wiping his eyes while pretending he had something in them.
Then Grandad stood.
The garden settled.
Nana, seated at the head table, looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “Do not embarrass me.”
Grandad smiled, “wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You absolutely would.”
“Probably.”
Everyone laughed.
He held the microphone loosely, like he disliked needing one. For a moment, he looked out over the garden, over the long tables, the children half-asleep in their parents’ laps, the cousins and siblings and neighbours and old friends, all the lives that had somehow spun outward from the two of them.
Then he looked at Nana.
“Well,” he said, voice rough, “she hated me when we met.”
Nana’s mouth twitched, “with cause.”
“With some cause,” he allowed.
“Entirely with cause.”
“Her family said mine were stubborn.”
“They were.”
“My family said hers were impossible.”
“We were.”
He nodded.], “still are.”
Nana pointed at him. “Careful.”
He grinned, and you felt Logan’s hand squeeze your knee beneath the table.
“The truth is,” Grandad continued, “we were young and proud and from two families who had spent so long being difficult that none of us remembered what we were being difficult about. Land, probably. A fence, maybe. Might’ve been a horse. Usually was.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the garden.
Nana leaned toward the microphone from her seat, “it was a horse.”
Grandad looked at her, “was it?”
“You know it was.”
“I remember you more than the horse.”
The garden softened.
Nana looked away, but not before you saw her smile.
“We tried to stay away from each other,” Grandad said, “that lasted about as long as you’d expect.”
Nana lifted her glass, “not long enough.”
He pointed at her, “you kissed me first.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You did.”
“You were blocking the gate.”
“With my mouth?”
Sarah nearly choked on her champagne.
Hugh covered his face with one hand, delighted.
Grandad looked pleased with himself. Nana looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh and failing.
“We tried it once,” Nana said loudly, to the entire party now, because apparently she had decided if she was going down, she was taking him with her, “during the feud, behind my father’s barn, and he has been insufferable ever since.”
The garden erupted.
You leaned into Logan, laughing so hard your eyes watered. He was laughing too, head bowed, shoulders shaking, hand still warm on your knee. Across the table, Jordan looked like he wanted to disappear. Maddie was wiping beneath her eyes. Hugh had the expression of a man mentally engraving the story into family history.
Grandad, for his part, looked victorious.
“One kiss,” he said, when everyone quieted, “and I was done for.”
Nana rolled her eyes but her hand, resting on the table, reached for his.
He took it and the laughter faded into something gentler.
“One kiss,” Grandad said again, softer now, “and then a lifetime of trying to deserve the woman who gave it to me.”
Nana’s face changed.
Your chest tightened, Logan’s thumb moved once over your knee.
Grandad cleared his throat, “Marriage is not magic. Don’t let anyone tell you that. It is work, and patience, and occasionally pretending not to hear what the other person said because you’d like to stay married.”
Nana nodded gravely, “That part is important.”
“But if you are lucky,” he said, “very lucky, you find someone who makes the work feel like coming home. Someone who gets into every part of your life. Your mornings. Your bad moods. Your kitchen. Your plans. Your favourite songs. Someone who becomes so much a part of things that one day you look around, and you can’t remember what the world looked like before they were there.”
Logan went still beside you.
So did you.
You looked down at his hand on your knee. The familiar shape of it. The scar near his thumb. The wrist you had held upstairs when he covered your mouth. The fingers that had fixed your necklace and carried wine and texted you good luck before exams and learned the exact sound your Chevy made when it was about to be dramatic.
Someone who gets into every part of your life.
Your eyes burned.
Logan’s hand turned beneath the table, palm up; you slipped your fingers through his.
Grandad lifted his glass toward Nana.
“To my wife,” he said, voice breaking just slightly, “Who kissed me first.”
Nana, crying now and furious about it, lifted her glass back, “To my husband. Who is still lying.”
The garden rose around them in laughter and applause.
Later, after cake had been cut and champagne had turned everyone warm and sentimental, after Nana and Grandad had danced beneath the lights while your entire family cheered like they were teenagers at prom, after Hugh had coaxed Mama into dancing and Sarah had dragged Jordan out by both hands and Logan had spun one of your little cousins until she shrieked, the party loosened into something softer.
The formal music gave way to old songs.
The kind everyone knew without knowing how.
You had kicked off your heels under the table half an hour ago. Logan found you near the edge of the dance floor, holding two slices of cake because Sarah had asked you to hide one for her and then immediately disappeared.
“Busy?” he asked.
You looked down at the cake, “Emotionally or logistically?”
“Either.”
“Yes.”
He smiled, “Come with me.”
“Where?”
His eyes moved past you, toward the darker edge of the garden.
The gazebo stood beyond the roses, lit by a few small lanterns Hugh had insisted were “subtle enough to look accidental,” which meant they had taken forty minutes to place. From there, you could still see the party, but only just. The lights. The movement. The blur of your family dancing and laughing beneath the trees.
You looked back at Logan.
“Are we sneaking away from my grandparents’ anniversary party?”
“For five minutes.”
“I am in charge of this event.”
“Event’s fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I asked Maddie.”
“You asked Maddie?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘Please remove her before she starts reorganising dessert spoons.’”
You gasped, “Betrayal.”
“She looked serious.”
“She always looks serious. It’s why Jordan listens to her.”
Logan took one of the cake plates from your hand and set both on a nearby table. Then he held out his hand.
You stared at it.
A year ago, you would have made him work harder for it.
Actually, no.
A year ago, you had been dripping rainwater onto the floor of his father’s shop, pretending not to notice the way he looked at you, and you probably would have taken his hand then too.
That was the embarrassing truth of it.
You had been done for earlier than you liked to admit.
You put your hand in his.
He led you through the garden, past the roses, away from the brighter spill of the party. Your dress brushed your legs as you walked. The grass was cool under your bare feet. Behind you, someone laughed loudly, and then Hugh’s voice rose in protest about a song change, and then Sarah shrieked, “Play it!” with the authority of the youngest child in any family.
A second later, the opening of Everywhere by Fleetwood Mac floated through the garden.
You stopped, hand going limp in his as you stared incredulously, Logan turned back.
For a moment, you just looked at him.
The song moved through the warm evening air, bright and soft and golden, all those little notes catching in the dark like light through leaves.
Your heart did something unbearable.
Logan’s smile was small. Almost shy, “Come on,” he said.
You let him pull you into the gazebo.
It was quieter there. The party still glowed behind you, music and laughter drifting over the grass, but the gazebo held its own little pocket of night. Lantern light touched the white railings. Roses climbed one side, their leaves dark and glossy. Beyond them, the farmhouse stood warm and full, every window lit.
Logan took your waist.
You rested your hands on his shoulders.
For a second, neither of you moved properly. You just stood there, close enough that your dress brushed his trousers, close enough that you could smell his soap and the faint trace of your own perfume where it had rubbed onto his skin upstairs.
Then he swayed.
Barely.
You laughed, “This is your dancing?”
“I’m easing in.”
“You play hockey for a living.”
“Doesn’t involve rhythm.”
“That explains so much.”
He pinched your waist lightly.
You smiled and let him turn you, slow and careful beneath the gazebo lights. The song carried over the garden. Your dress shimmered when you moved. Logan watched you like he could see every version of you at once- the girl in the broken Chevy, the girl chasing a goat across a flower bed, the girl in red lipstick outside his games, the girl in lace on a vanity, the girl barefoot at her grandparents’ anniversary with cake crumbs probably still on her fingers.
His girl.
The thought landed in you without fear.
You stepped closer, cheek resting against his chest. His arms came around you immediately. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your ear.
For a while, that was all there was. Fleetwood Mac, the garden, Logan’s hand moving slowly over your back, your grandparents dancing somewhere behind you in the light, your whole loud impossible family carrying on without you for five blessed minutes.
“Your grandad made you cry,” Logan murmured.
“He made you cry too.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“You got very interested in your water glass.”
“It was a nice glass.”
You smiled against him.
His chin rested lightly on your head, “You okay?”
You nodded. Then, after a moment, you said, “I think so.”
His arms tightened, just a little. You lifted your head to look at him. “It’s weird.”
“What is?”
“How fast it happened.”
“The party?”
“No,” You touched the front of his shirt, smoothing a crease that was probably your fault, “You.”
His face softened.
You glanced back at the garden, at the tables and lights and moving bodies, at the farmhouse that had held your whole life in one form or another, “I keep thinking about how you weren’t here before. And now you’re just…”
“Carrying wine?”
“That too.”
“Getting bullied by your nana?”
“Deserved.”
“Being called hockey man by Hugh?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m not,” You smiled, then swallowed because the feeling came back stronger, “You’re everywhere.”
Logan went quiet.
The song kept playing.
You looked up at him fully, suddenly embarrassed by your own sincerity but unable to take it back, “In a good way.”
His hand rose to your face, “You’re everywhere too,” he said.
And maybe it should have sounded too simple. Maybe there should have been a bigger speech, some grand declaration under the lights, some perfect line about futures and forever and all the things people expected at endings.
But it was Logan.
Your Logan.
He said the truest things plainly, like they did not need dressing up to matter.
You leaned up and kissed him.
It was soft at first, sweet enough for the song, but then his hand slipped to the small of your back and yours curled in his shirt, and for a second the whole year was there between you. Rain on concrete. Cherry-red paint. A broken engine. A first look. A goat. A drive-in. A party. A bedroom. A family. Every ordinary, ridiculous, beautiful thing that had become yours.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You know,” you whispered, “Nana and Grandad apparently started with one kiss during a feud.”
Logan smiled, “We started with a breakdown.”
“Very romantic.”
“Worked out.”
You hummed, “Did it?”
His thumb brushed your cheek, “I’m dancing in a gazebo with you while your family plays Fleetwood Mac.”
“Barefoot.”
“Barefoot,” he agreed, “So yeah. I’d say it worked out.”
You looked back toward the party just as Nana and Grandad came into view beyond the roses, dancing slowly near the edge of the lights. Nana said something that made Grandad laugh. He bent his head toward her like he had been doing it his whole life.
Maybe he had.
Maybe that was love when it lasted. Not one grand arrival, not one perfect moment, but a thousand small returns. A hand at your waist. A cup of lemonade pressed into your palm. Someone learning where the wine goes. Someone remembering your favourite song. Someone carrying your chaos without trying to quiet it.
Logan turned you again beneath the gazebo lights. You laughed, because he nearly stepped on your bare foot.
He caught you closer, laughing too, and kissed your temple, “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” he admitted, “I’m not.”
The music swelled behind you, bright and golden in the summer dark.
You rested your cheek against his chest again and closed your eyes.
And with his hand warm at your waist, your family glowing behind you, your grandparents still dancing somewhere beneath the trees, and Fleetwood Mac spilling soft through the garden, you thought maybe that was the thing about love when it was real.
Not because of traffic though there were enough cars crawling through the gravel lanes to make everyone patient. It moved slowly because nobody seemed eager to leave the glow behind. The white screen still loomed in the rearview, blank now, silvered by moonlight and the last wash of departing headlights. People laughed as they folded blankets into trunks. Someone three cars over was trying to shake popcorn out of a hoodie. A father in pyjama trousers carried a sleeping child against his shoulder, one little sneaker dangling loose against his hip.
Cherry rolled forward in tiny crunches over the gravel, her old engine humming like she was satisfied with herself, and the picnic basket sat tipped in the backseat with the dignity of an object that had survived more than it had been built for.
You sat in the passenger seat with your red heels back on, your white dress smoothed carefully over your thighs, and your hand still in Logan’s. You looked at his fingers laced through yours over the centre console, his thumb brushing your knuckles every so often like he was not even thinking about it.
The casualness of it was the problem.
Logan had touched you plenty by now. More than plenty. He had touched your waist in crowded rooms, your hand at curbs, your back when guiding you through doorways. He had caught you around the middle when Winston made a break for a flower bed. He had kissed you against Beau’s porch railing until Tucker, dressed as a bee, had been forced to intervene with more politeness than either of you deserved. He had just had his hands on you in the front seat at an outdoor cinema while the movie kept playing in the background like a deeply underpaid chaperone.
You looked down again.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve looked at our hands four times.”
“I have not.”
“Five now.”
You looked out of the window, offended by accuracy, “Maybe I like hands.”
His mouth curved, “Mine specifically?”
“Don’t fish.”
“I’m not fishing.”
“You have a rod in the water.”
He laughed under his breath, thumb sweeping over the side of your hand again, and the softness of it made you lose the next argument before it had even begun.
“It’s just nice,” you said.
His smile faded into something warmer, “Yeah?”
You shrugged with one shoulder, pretending to watch the car ahead, “Yes. Holding hands. With you. After.”
“After?”
You made the mistake of looking at him.
He looked entirely too pleased with himself for a man who still had a faint lipstick mark near his mouth and napkin evidence in the backseat.
“After the movie,” you said primly.
“Right.”
“And the picnic.”
“Sure.”
“And your slander against my preparedness.”
“Baby, I praised the napkins after.”
“You laughed first.”
“I had a journey.”
“You had a downfall.”
He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles. Quick. Warm. A little absentminded, like the gesture came before the thought.
Your entire body betrayed you anyway and you stared at him.
He kept his eyes on the brake lights ahead, the corner of his mouth betraying that he knew exactly what he had done, “Stop doing that,” you said.
“What?”
“Being charming when I have no defences.”
“Didn’t know you had defences.”
“I have several.”
“Name one.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
He glanced at you, “Yeah?”
“They are mostly under construction.”
His laugh filled the car, low and helpless, and the night settled around the sound. The date had gone soft around the edges.A little sticky from cherry cola, fogged windows, and kisses that had left both of you looking guilty under the drive-in lights. You had crossed something tonight, not just physically, though that too. There was a new ease in the car now, a terrifying ease, like your body had already decided Logan belonged in the small spaces of your life before your pride had finalised the paperwork.
You slipped your phone from your lap.
“Where’s the aux?”
He nodded toward the centre console, “Over there.”
The red aux cord sat coiled near the gear shift, tucked there weeks ago, forgotten about since suspiciously, three weeks ago Logan had started driving you places more than your chevy. You plugged in your phone one-handed, scrolling while Logan kept your other hand trapped in his.
“What are we feeling?” you asked.
“You’re asking me?”
“Yes.”
“You already know what you’re playing.”
“I am creating the illusion of democracy.”
“Appreciate that.”
You chose the song.
The opening shimmer of Fleetwood Mac’s Everywhere filled the car, bright and romantic and so aggressively obvious that Logan looked over before the first line had even started.
You faced the windshield with great dignity.
“Subtle,” he said.
“I like the song.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It has cultural value.”
“Does it?”
“Mama says good driving songs are inherited.”
“Mama says a lot of things.”
“Mama has a high accuracy rate.”
“She know where we’re going?”
Your finger stilled over your phone screen.
Logan’s eyes flicked from the road to you.
You cleared your throat, “In spirit.”
“In spirit.”
“Yes.”
“Cherry.”
“She knows I’m out. She knows I was with you. She knows, broadly, that I am alive and behaving within a reasonable margin of youthful independence.”
He stared at you.
You smiled, “See? Accurate.”
“That sentence had so many hiding places in it.”
“It did not.”
“It had a basement.”
You leaned across at the next red light and kissed his cheek before he could continue. The traffic light washed his face red, then gold, catching the faint stubble along his jaw and the tiny shift in his expression when your mouth touched his skin. He went still for half a second, fingers tightening around yours.
You settled back into your seat before he could turn his head.
His eyes narrowed, “You think you’re slick?”
“I think the light is green.”
It was not but it turned green two seconds later.
He looked at you.
You looked forward.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered, and drove.
The town fell away in pieces. The late-night diner. The gas station. The shuttered florist with plastic tubs still stacked by the door. Streetlights spread farther apart, and the roads grew darker, edged by trees that leaned over the lanes. You gave directions in small, distracted increments, sometimes with words, sometimes with a squeeze of Logan’s hand when the turn came before the sign.
“Left here.”
“This road?”
“Yes.”
“This road has a hedge taller than the hockey house.”
“It is a normal hedge.”
“It is a wall with leaves.”
“You are very suspicious of landscaping.”
“I’m suspicious of private roads after midnight.”
“No one is getting arrested.”
“You keep saying that in places where I am most likely to be arrested.”
You laughed, but the sound came out thinner than you meant it to. Logan heard the change immediately. His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
You looked ahead.
The road narrowed between old stone walls, the kind built by people who expected weather, animals, and descendants to test their patience. Branches laced overhead, dark against the sky. At the far end of the lane, two stone pillars appeared, and between them stood wrought-iron gates. The family crest sat in the centre where the gates met, softened by years and shadow. Grain sheaves. A cherry branch. A small rearing animal on one side. The old motto worn too smooth to read from the car.
Logan slowed.
His gaze moved from the gates to you.
You cleared your throat, “There’s a keypad.”
He lowered the window.
Cool night air rushed in, smelling like damp earth, leaves, and something faintly sweet. You leaned across him to reach the keypad, shoulder brushing his chest, your dress shifting high on your thigh. Logan went very still beneath you.
You typed the code.
The gates clicked.
Then opened inward.
Logan exhaled through his nose.
You sat back like this was not at all dramatic.
He stared through the opening, then at you, “You have codes.”
“Yes.”
“To gates.”
“Yes.”
“With crests.”
“That old thing?”
“That old thing is carved into iron.”
“It’s been there forever.”
“Cherry.”
“What?”
“How many places have gates?”
“That depends on how you define gates.”
His head turned slowly; you looked out the windshield, smiling despite the flutter in your stomach.
“Baby.”
“That tone is very serious.”
“It’s a serious question.”
“It’s mostly farming,” you said.
“Mostly.”
“Yes.”
“That word is wearing a fake moustache.”
Cherry rolled through the gates and onto the gravel drive. The headlights swept over clipped hedges, old trees, and the pale curve of a stone fountain ahead. Beyond it, the house rose out of the dark like it had not been built but had just materialised into existence since the dawn of time. Warm stone. Tall windows. Ivy curled over one side. Chimneys marked black against the sky.
Logan slowed again.
“Cherry.”
“Yes?”
“This is not mostly farming.”
You followed his gaze to the house, “It is adjacent to farming.”
“This looks like a place where people inherit scandals.”
You laughed, “Only seasonal ones.”
“Seasonal scandals.”
“Harvest suppers get political.”
He looked at the fountain as you passed it. The crest appeared there too, half-softened by moss at the base.
“Is that the same crest?”
“Yes.”
“On the fountain.”
“It’s a family fountain.”
“A family fountain,” he repeated.
“You’re doing a suspicious repeating voice.”
“I’m trying to survive.”
You smiled, but your fingers tightened around his.
He felt it.
“You don’t have to make it smaller for me,” he said quietly.
The words were so plain that they found a place under your ribs before you could move away from them.
“I know,” you said.
“And you don’t have to explain it all right now.”
That made you laugh softly, “That may be for the best. My family does not fit into a car ride unless you leave out crimes.”
His mouth twitched, “Crimes?”
“Mostly cousin on cousin.”
“That doesn’t help.”
You pointed ahead, “Park by the old packing barn.”
“The old packing barn,” he said, but gentler this time.
“It’s less suspicious in daylight.”
“I doubt that.”
The old packing barn sat off the circular drive, long and low with dark timber beams and cream-painted doors. The smell of wood and fruit lingered even from the car. Beyond it, rows of cherry trees stretched into the night, their leaves shifting softly in the breeze.
Logan parked where you told him and turned the engine off.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Without the hum of the car, the orchard became louder. Crickets. Leaves. Water murmuring faintly through the fountain.
Logan looked out at the trees. Then at the barn. Then at you.
“You brought me somewhere important.”
Your throat tightened, “Yes.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to show me.”
You looked at him, and for some reason that was what made the nerves settle. He was sitting in Cherry, under your family trees, holding your hand and waiting to be invited the rest of the way in.
You unbuckled your seatbelt.
“Come on,” you said, “I’ll show you the good parts.”
The gravel crunched under your red heels when you stepped out. Logan came around the car with his jacket over one arm, henley sleeves pushed up slightly, hair still a little mussed from the drive-in. He looked at the house once more before looking back at you in your white dress and red shoes, standing in front of the orchard like you had grown out of the place.
You took his hand.
The tour was not formal because you did not know how to be formal about this place. It held too many versions of you for that. You pointed out the main house without taking him inside, the fountain where cousins used to throw cherries and blame birds, the old packing barn which had once been fully practical and was now half-storage, half-event overflow because Nana believed old buildings should remain useful unless they were actively collapsing. You showed him the party lawn, where summer dinners ran late enough that children were bundled into cardigans and given bowls of cherries to keep them from interrupting speeches. The greenhouse, no longer used for anything serious but still warm during the day and smelling of soil, herbs, and damp glass.
Logan asked questions like the answers mattered.
Which cousins? How old were you? Did Winston ever come here? Had Clementine? Was the orchard only family use? Who managed it now? Why was there a framed photograph inside the packing barn of a woman in pearls standing beside six crates of cherries and looking like she had personally negotiated with God over the weather?
“That’s Nana,” you said.
Logan leaned toward the window of the barn, peering through the glass, “Of course it is.”
“She used to come here in white linen during harvest and complain about men not understanding shade.”
“I’m starting to think Nana may be the most powerful person in your family.”
“Starting?”
He looked back at you, “Right.”
You led him past stacked crates stamped with the crest, past old labels curling at the edges on a shelf visible through the barn window. Some had your grandmother’s family name. Some had your grandfather’s. Some wore the merged company mark that came later, after years of frost, fights, contracts, and dinners where everyone apparently used the correct forks with murder in their hearts.
Logan noticed the different names.
He tapped the glass lightly, “These are different.”
“Yes.”
“Two families?”
You nodded, “Nana’s people grew fruit and crops- like mama, but they’re different coasts. Granddad’s were livestock. Dairy, cattle, transport, all mud and fences and men pretending not to be dramatic- that’s where daddy gets it from.”
“And they merged?”
“Eventually.”
“Because of your grandparents?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling, “There was a frosty decade first.”
“Old farm feud?”
“Deeply boring to everyone except the people involved.”
“That sounds like most feuds.”
“Nana says crop people thought livestock people were uncivilised.”
“And livestock people?”
“Thought crop people were precious and overdressed.”
Logan’s mouth curved as he looked at you in your white dress and red heels.
You narrowed your eyes, “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought about it.”
“I did.”
You slapped his arm lightly and kept walking.
The path narrowed past the barn, slipping deeper between the orchard rows. You picked a cherry from a low branch and offered it to him.
He reached for it.
You pulled it back, “No, this one is mine.”
He stared at you.
You put it in your mouth, smiling.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
You swallowed, “That was educational.”
“That was cruel.”
You plucked another and held it out, “Here.”
He took it with his fingers this time, still watching you, then ate it. His expression lit immediately, “Oh.”
You smiled, “See?”
“That’s really good.”
“I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me. You just said your cherries were possibly the best in the state.”
“That was modesty.”
He reached for another one from the branch.
You caught his wrist, “Not that one.”
“It looks ready.”
“It’s lying.”
“The fruit lies?”
“Constantly.”
He looked at the cherry, then at you, “You say things like that and expect me to be normal.”
“I never expected you to be normal. I think it’s impossible”
“That so?”
“You wore bird wings to a party.”
“That was Tucker’s fault.”
“And you participated.”
He leaned closer, “You liked the arms.”
You looked away immediately.
His laugh was quiet and pleased.
The hidden gazebo appeared through the trees gradually as you walked further, first a pale shape, then ironwork, then the soft glow of lanterns. The path curved and opened into a small clearing where white-painted rails and rose-wrapped posts stood among the orchard rows. Gauzy curtains were tied back at the corners. Candle lanterns sat along the rail and on a little table. The furniture inside was old white wire, softened by pillows in cream, faded red, and tiny floral prints. Logan stopped.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“This is just here?”
“Yes.”
“In the orchard.”
“Yes.”
“With candles.”
“The staff lights them every evening in season. That’s when there's people here.”
He looked at you.
You smiled, “Nana says an unlit gazebo is depressing.”
“I don’t know what to do with that sentence.”
“She gets that a lot.”
You stepped inside, running your fingers over one of the curtain ties. The fabric lifted slightly in the night breeze.
“We used to hide here during parties,” you said, “Me and my cousins. Nana said this gazebo had the best gossip because adults thought children couldn’t hear through curtains.”
“Could you?”
“Not clearly. But tone carries.”
“That explains a lot.”
You gasped, “Rude.”
He grinned.
You moved to the far side where the gazebo opened toward the trees. Fireflies blinked between the rows, tiny gold sparks floating over the grass. You leaned forward against the railing with both hands, letting the night rest cool against your shoulders.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Logan’s hands settled at your waist.
Light at first. Waiting.
His mouth brushed your bare shoulder where the dress left your skin exposed.
Your eyes fluttered.
The kiss was soft and was followed by another, this one slow and purposeful. You leaned back into him, your body recognising his shape now with startling ease- his chest against your back, his hands warm through your dress, his mouth moving from shoulder to neck as the curtains stirred around you.
“So,” he murmured against your skin, “how far away are we from people?”
You answered too quickly to be wise, “I didn’t see the main house lights on, so there shouldn't be anyone here. Nana and grandad are the ones who stay during cherry season- they must be out.”
Logan paused.
His forehead rested against your shoulder.
“You really just tell the truth and have no idea how you sound.”
You turned your head slightly, “What?”
“Never mind.”
“No, what?”
“Don’t stress.”
“That is never reassuring.”
His hands slid lower on your waist, pulling you gently back from the railing, “I’m not worried.”
“You sound amused.”
“I am.”
“At me?”
“With you.”
“That is suspiciously phrased.”
He turned you slowly.
Your back touched the railing, the orchard behind him now, his face close in the candlelight. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your dress.
“You brought me here,” he said.
“Yes.”
“After a date.”
“Yes.”
“To a hidden gazebo in a cherry orchard.”
“Yes.”
“And then told me no one should be around.”
You blinked.
Then felt heat rush into your face,“Oh.”
His mouth curved, “Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“I know.”
“I mean, I did, but not like-”
“I know.”
“You are making this very difficult.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are standing in a charged manner.”
His laugh moved softly through the small space, “A charged manner?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to step back?”
The teasing thinned under the question. His voice softened, and the shift made your heart kick once. He was close enough that you could feel his warmth. Close enough that wanting him felt like something alive between you, obvious and trembling in the candlelight.
“No,” you said.
His eyes searched yours.
“No?”
“No.” You swallowed, “I don’t want you to step back.”
His hands tightened once at your waist.
You reached up and touched his face, thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw. He leaned into your hand by the smallest amount, the same helpless, almost thirsty movement he had made on Beau’s porch when you kissed him first.
So you kissed him first, again.
Sweetly at first. A soft press of your mouth to his, familiar and still shocking. His hands moved around your back, drawing you closer as the kiss opened, deepened, warmed..
Your fingers slid into his hair.
His mouth moved over yours with patient heat, tongue brushing yours until a soft sound slipped out of you. He caught it with another kiss and then another, walking you slowly away from the railing until the back of your knees brushed the white wire sofa swallowed in pillows.
You pulled back, breath uneven.
Logan stopped immediately.
His eyes opened, dark and careful.
You looked at him for a second, then turned around slowly.
The night seemed to hold its breath.
“Can you unzip me?” you asked.
For one long second, Logan said nothing.
You glanced over your shoulder and could make out him staring at you like his mind had taken a step away from his body.
“Logan?”
“Yeah.”
The word came out rough.
He stepped closer.
His fingers found the zipper at the back of your dress, and the slow slide of it downward felt louder than it should have. The dress loosened around your chest, then your waist. His knuckles brushed the bare line of your spine as he eased it open, and your breath caught.
He heard.
His mouth touched the back of your shoulder.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
The zipper reached the base of your spine.
The dress slipped.
You held it briefly at your chest, suddenly shy despite having asked, then let it fall.
White eyelet and red ribbon pooled at your feet.
Logan stopped breathing.
Underneath, you were dressed in a cream vintage bustier, delicately structured and embroidered with tiny flowers, fastened with hooks down the front. Matching underwear. Garters clipped to sheer stockings. Little satin ribbons at the centre, pale in the candlelight.
It had come from Nana’s cedar room, because of course Nana had a cedar room.
Not a closet. A fully stocked room. A narrow little one tucked beside her dressing room at the farm, lined with old drawers that stuck in the summer and smelled faintly of lavender, tissue paper, and expensive soap. It held gloves in labelled boxes, silk scarves folded into squares, slips wrapped around cardboard, dress bags with dates pinned to the hangers, and an entire drawer of what Nana called foundations, because Nana believed saying underwear made women sound as though they had no standards.
This set had been deadstock, she had told you. Never worn. Bought years ago from some old Boston shop that no longer existed, then stored away with the same seriousness other people reserved for tax documents or family silver. You had found it two summers ago while helping her sort through things for the charity auction, and Nana had watched you touch the embroidery with one careful finger before saying, very casually, “You may as well keep that one. It would only make someone else look sensible.”
You had worn it tonight because modern lingerie had felt wrong under the white dress. Too blunt and shiny. This was softer than that. Older and prettier in a way that felt private first and seductive second, like something you would have known about even if Logan never did.
Which was the problem now. Because he did know.
You shifted, suddenly aware of every bit of yourself. “Is it too much?”
His eyes snapped to yours, “No.”
The answer came too quickly to be polite.
Your mouth curved despite the nerves, “No?”
“No.” He stepped closer, “Come here.”
You did.
He kissed you once, hard enough to make you stumble into him, then softer, like he remembered where you were, what this was. His hands moved over your back, over the lace and satin, over the curve of your waist, hungry and careful at the same time. His mouth left yours and found your shoulder, your collarbone, the upper curve of your chest above the bustier.
You put one hand in his hair.
His mouth moved lower.
Touching the version of you that you had chosen for him, slowly enough that the waiting became its own kind of torment. When he reached the top edge of the cups, he looked up.
A question without words.
You nodded.
He did not pull them down immediately.
He kissed the swell above one cup first, then the other, and your breath turned shaky. His fingers slipped under the edge with a care that made your stomach twist. The first cup came down slowly, then the second, the fabric giving way until cool air touched your skin and then Logan’s mouth followed before you could feel exposed for more than a second.
“Oh,” you whispered.
He groaned like the sound had done damage.
His mouth was warm, then wet, then firmer when your fingers tightened in his hair. One hand spread across your back, holding you to him, while the other cupped you through the lowered fabric, thumb brushing, mouth working, teeth grazing lightly enough to make your knees unreliable.
“Logan.”
He hummed against you.
Your head fell back.
The whole gazebo seemed to tilt. Candles, curtains, fireflies, his mouth. You clung to him, one hand in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder, feeling the muscle move under your palm as his control thinned.
He lifted you suddenly.
“Logan.”
“I’ve got you.” He sat down on the sofa with you in his lap, pillows shifting under both of you. The old wire frame creaked.
Both of you froze.
You looked at him. He looked at the sofa.
Then you both laughed, quiet and breathless, mouths close enough that the sound warmed your lips.
“Nana says this furniture is stronger than it looks,” you whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I think.”
“You think?”
“She has many opinions about upholstery.”
“I’m gonna trust Nana.”
“Wise.”
You kissed him again, smiling into it, and the laughter did not survive long.
His jacket went first, dropped over the arm of the sofa. Then you tugged at his henley with both hands, impatient enough that he grinned against your mouth.
“You want something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Shirt. Off.”
“So direct.”
“Do not make me sound bossy when you are wearing too many clothes.”
He laughed and helped you pull it over his head.
The sight of him bare under the gazebo lights stole your next sentence. Warm skin, strong shoulders, the faint marks from hockey and work, the lines of him softened by candlelight. You touched him slowly, palms over his chest, his ribs, the slope of his shoulders, feeling his breath change beneath your hands.
“You’re pretty,” you said.
His brows lifted.
Then he laughed once, “Pretty?”
“Yes.”
“Not usually what I get.”
“You should.”
His expression softened so suddenly that you felt exposed all over again.
Then his hands slid to your thighs.
Your breath hitched.
“Jeans,” you whispered.
He kissed the corner of your mouth, “Bossy.”
“Observant.”
The next minute was awkward in the human way romance never warned anyone about. You climbed off his lap enough for him to undo his belt. He tried to push his jeans down without knocking three pillows onto the gazebo floor. You steadied yourself on his shoulder. He nearly stepped on his shoe. Both of you kept laughing under your breath, giddy and quiet and half-frantic, because apparently desire still had logistics.
He reached for his wallet.
You watched him.
“Do you have a condom?”
He held one up.
Your eyebrows lifted, “Oh. Prepared.”
His mouth twitched, “I think it’s the same one I’ve had since I met you.”
You stared at him.
Then bit your lip.
“You always know how to get out of trouble.”
His hands slid back up your thighs above the stockings, warm and slow.,“I’m in trouble?”
“Maybe.”
You slipped your fingers into his hair and played with the strands at the back of his neck. His eyes were on your face, but his hand drifted up, fingertips skating beneath the edge of your underwear just enough to make your breath catch.
You had not meant to ask then.
But nervousness did strange things to your mouth.
“You never told me how you ended up at the drive-in.”
Logan looked at you.
“Right now?”
“I’m curious.”
“You’re curious.”
“Yes.”
His fingers paused exactly where you wanted more.
Your mouth parted.
“Tucker wanted to watch The Sound of Music,” he said.
You blinked, “What?”
“At a drive-in. Dean likes going all out.”
You stared at him, outraged and breathless, “You are answering now?”
“You asked.”
“You weaponised the answer.”
His grin was lazy and terrible, “Maybe.”
You huffed, grabbed his wrist, and pushed his hand away.
His grin sharpened, “You’re being mean,” you said.
“You asked about the drive-in.”
“You stopped touching me to discuss the musical theatre preferences of your friends.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth, “You could always shut me up.”
You went very still. Then reached for the condom in his hand and plucked it free.
His gaze followed as you tore it open with your teeth.
Logan stopped functioning.
It was immediate enough to make you feel powerful for approximately one glorious second. His mouth parted. His eyes fixed on you as your hair fell over one shoulder and the foil crinkled between your fingers. The confidence lasted right up until you rolled it onto him and felt his body tense beneath your hands.
Then your own breath went shaky.
You lifted yourself over him.
Paused.
The question returned, absurdly, because your mind apparently wanted one last sprint before losing all usefulness.
“Actually,” you said, “that makes sense. Dean really does go all out.”
Logan stared at you.
You smiled faintly, holding onto the edge of the joke because the next moment felt enormous, “So did you prefer going with them or me?”
His laugh came out broken, “Is that even a question right now?”
“I get it.” You lowered yourself just enough that both of you inhaled sharply, “It’s hard to compare.”
“Cherry.”
“I go all in.”
Then you sank down.
Slowly.
The first press stole every clever thing you had ever said.
Logan’s hands flew to your hips giving you somewhere to put the shock of taking him inch by careful inch. Your mouth fell open. Your eyes fluttered. Both hands braced on his shoulders as the stretch scattered the world. The gazebo, the candles, the orchard, the old family house, everything narrowed to the heat of him beneath you and the way his jaw clenched like he was trying not to move too soon.
“Fuck,” he bit out.
The word sounded almost pained.
You gasped, still lowering, body adjusting around him.
“Okay?” he asked immediately.
You nodded.
His grip tightened, “Words.”
“Yes,” you breathed, “Okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
You settled fully into his lap.
Both of you went still.
The sound Logan made then was not quite a groan and not quite a curse. Something deeper, held in his chest until it escaped because there was nowhere else for it to go. His forehead dropped to your collarbone, breath hot against your skin, hands flexing on your hips.
You were full of him.
Completely.
So much that you could feel your heartbeat around it.
For a moment, you did not move, could not even if you wanted to.
You held him with your thighs, with your hands, with the shaky rise and fall of your breath. His face stayed tucked against your chest, mouth brushing the lowered edge of the bustier, and you felt the effort it took him to stay still.
“Logan,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I know.”
You laughed weakly.
He lifted his head, eyes dark and soft and almost undone, “What do you need?”
You swallowed.
The honest answer sat low in your body, terrifying and simple, “You,” you said.
His expression changed. His eyes flicked over your face, searching for the joke, and when he did not find one, the heat in him went deeper. He slid one hand up your back, palm flattening between your shoulder blades, and pulled you closer until your mouth was almost on his.
“You have me,” he said.
The words landed so heavily you almost looked away.
Instead, you put your hand on his jaw and held him there, “Then look at me.”
His breath caught.
You moved.
A tiny lift, then a careful sink back down that made both of you gasp. Your nails pressed into his shoulder. His hands guided you, not taking over yet, helping you find the rhythm. Up and down, slow and deep, the old sofa creaking faintly beneath you, pillows shifting, curtains moving in the night air.
You tried to hold his gaze.
It felt important. Terrifying, but important.
His eyes stayed on yours, dark and steady, watching every reaction as your hips rocked over him, as your breath quickened, as your face warmed under the intimacy of being seen this closely. Then the pleasure pulled too sharply through you and your eyes fluttered shut.
Logan’s hand rose to your throat; no pressure, just the lax, lazy grip of his warm fingers at the front of your neck, thumb near your jaw, anchoring your face like he knew exactly where you had gone.
Your eyes opened on a gasp.
“There you are,” he murmured.
You shivered.
Your hand tightened on his jaw, thumb pressing into the edge of his cheekbone, “Don’t say it like that.”
His mouth curved.
Then you rocked down harder and the smile fell apart.
Your body tightened around him, and his head tipped back for half a second, throat exposed, mouth open, candlelight catching the sharp line of his jaw. You watched him. Watched the effect you had, the strain in his neck, the way his hands gripped your hips, the way his stomach tightened beneath you.
The sight made you bolder.
You held his jaw and dragged his face back to yours, “Kiss me.”
He did.
Messy. Immediate. His mouth opened over yours while his hands pulled you down more firmly, meeting you with a small upward thrust that punched the breath from your chest. You broke the kiss on a soft cry.
“Good?” he asked, voice rough.
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
His hands slid lower, fingers digging into your hips above the garters, and his next thrust up into you was deep enough that you grabbed his shoulder with your free hand.
“There?”
You nodded quickly, “Yes.” Your voice shook, “There.”
His gaze went dark.
Then he did it again.
The rhythm changed after that. Still slow enough to feel intimate, but no longer tentative. He helped you lift when your thighs trembled, helped you sink when you lost focus, and every time his hips met yours from below, the whole sofa creaked with soft betrayal.
You froze the first time it got loud.
Logan froze too.
For one second, you stared at each other in horror.
Then your shoulders started shaking.
“Do not laugh,” he whispered.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I am being respectful to the furniture.”
The laugh broke out of him silently, head dropping to your chest. You covered your mouth with one hand, but that only made it worse. The absurdity of it, the candlelit romance of the gazebo and the ancient sofa making scandalised sounds underneath you, had both of you breathless for a moment.
Then Logan’s mouth found the bare skin above the bustier.
The laughter disappeared.
He kissed you there, then lower, pulling one cup down further with his teeth now because apparently the man had decided politeness had limits. Your mouth opened. His hand at your back held you steady while he sucked at you, warm and deliberate, tongue brushing, teeth catching lightly.
Your hips jerked.
The sofa creaked again.
Neither of you laughed this time.
“Logan,” you whispered.
He answered by pulling the other cup lower too, less careful now but still mindful of the fabric. Both breasts spilled free, the bustier gathered beneath them, and the cool air lasted only a second before his mouth moved over you again. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the lower curve of your chest, then back to your hips, as if he could not decide where to touch because every part of you was apparently urgent.
“You wore this,” he said against your skin, voice thick, “And expected me to be normal?”
“I expected gratitude.”
He groaned and kissed you harder.
You smiled, breathless, “I did not wear all this lace for you to be polite.”
That ruined him.
You felt it in the way his hips stuttered, in the way his hands clamped down on your hips, in the sound he made against your chest.
“Cherry.”
“What?”
His eyes lifted to yours, dark and almost disbelieving, “You cannot say things like that and then expect me to be careful.”
Your stomach dipped.
You leaned forward, taking his jaw in your hand again. He let you. More than let you. His eyes burned up at yours when your thumb brushed his cheek, like being held there by you was doing something nearly as bad as your body around him.
“I didn’t say careless,” you whispered.
His breathing changed.
“I said not polite.”
For a second, he did nothing.
Then he moved.
One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close, and he thrust up into you harder. Not enough to hurt. Enough to shock a sound out of you that was too loud for an orchard at night. His hand flew to your mouth, palm hovering for half a second, asking without fully touching.
You nodded against it.
His hand covered your mouth gently as he did it again.
Your eyes rolled shut.
“Fuck,” he breathed, watching you over his hand, “That okay?”
Your answer came muffled against his palm, but your nod was immediate, frantic.
He removed his hand just enough for your mouth.
“Yes,” you gasped, “Yes, it’s okay.”
His hand slid from your mouth to your jaw, then your throat again, still no pressure, just the shape of control. You gripped his wrist and held it there, hips moving desperately now, all your earlier shyness burning away under the friction, under his attention, under the impossible intimacy of him watching you choose the mess.
“You said all in,” he murmured.
Your breath caught.
His thumb brushed your jaw, “You still mean that?”
You looked at him.
Really looked.
At the messy hair, the parted mouth, the way his body was shaking under yours from the effort of holding back. At the orchard behind him. At the lace around your waist, the dress on the floor, the red heels still on your feet because neither of you had remembered them. At the boy who had fixed your car and then somehow became the person you wanted in every place you had ever loved.
Your hand held his jaw tighter.
“I mean it.”
His face changed.
Then he kissed you like the answer had gone straight through him.
The next minutes blurred into heat.
His hands on your hips, gripping hard enough that you thought you might feel him there tomorrow. Your fingers in his hair, pulling when his mouth drifted down your throat. His hand under your thigh, lifting you higher, changing the angle until you cried out into his shoulder. The bustier slipping completely beneath your breasts, stockings catching against his jeans, the sofa creaking every time he thrust up, your lipstick on his collarbone, your mouth at his ear, your voice breaking around his name.
You got overwhelmed and hid your face in his neck. He caught your jaw and brought you back. He got too quiet, jaw locked, and you kissed the corner of his mouth until he groaned. The pillow behind him slipped halfway to the floor. He tried to catch it with one hand, failed, and swore softly. You laughed into his mouth, then gasped when he used your distraction to pull you down harder on him.
“Mean,” you breathed.
His eyes flashed, “You like it.”
“I like many terrible things.”
“Name one.”
“You.”
The word landed before you could soften it.
His rhythm faltered and your chest tightened.
Then he kissed you, almost too hard, and the sweetness of that ruined the joke entirely.
His hand slipped between you.
You jerked before he even touched you properly.
“Feels good?” he asked.
“You know.”
“I want you to say it.”
Your face burned, but everything else in you had gone too hot to bother with pride.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His fingers moved.
Your body bowed into him.
The pleasure built fast now, sharpened by the position, by his mouth at your chest again, by the way he kept one hand at your back and one hand between you, holding you together while taking you apart. You clung to his shoulders, then his jaw, then his hair, changing grip like none of your hands could decide where they were safest.
“Logan.”
“I’ve got you.”
“I can’t-”
“You can.”
“It’s too much.”
He slowed immediately.
You shook your head, almost angry with yourself, “No, don’t stop.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
“I mean-” Your breath broke, “It’s too much, but don’t stop.”
That did something awful to him.
His hand at your back pressed you closer. His fingers kept moving. His hips rolled up into yours in a deep, steady rhythm that made your thighs tremble around him.
“Okay,” he said, voice rough, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
You tried to keep looking at him.
Managed one second.
Two.
Almost three
His eyes were on yours when the orgasm started properly, and the intensity of it - of him watching, of you letting him - made it hit harder than you expected. Your mouth parted around his name. His hand at your throat steadied you, thumb brushing your jaw.
“Come on,” he murmured, “Let me see.”
You broke against him with a low, trembling moan, body tightening around him in waves that made his face twist. He held you through it, hips still moving slow and deep, fingers gentler now but not gone, pulling every last shiver from you until you collapsed forward, forehead against his shoulder, breath coming apart against his skin.
“That’s it,” he whispered, “Good girl.”
You shuddered.
He made a strained sound.
“Cherry, I’m-”
You lifted your head, still dazed, and kissed him.
That was all it took.
His arms wrapped around you, one hand splayed across your back, the other at your hip as he came. He buried his face in your neck, your name breaking against your skin like something he had been trying to hold back all night and finally couldn’t. His body went tense beneath yours, then softened slowly, breath uneven, hands gentler now as they moved up your spine.
For a while, there was only breathing.
Yours.
His.
The orchard.
The night.
You stayed in his lap, forehead against his shoulder, one hand in his hair, the other resting over his heartbeat. His arms stayed around you. The curtains shifted in the breeze. Somewhere beyond them, fireflies moved like sparks.
After a long minute, Logan brushed his mouth over your shoulder.
“You okay?”
You nodded against him, “Yes,” you whispered, “Very.”
His breath warmed your skin, “Good.”You lifted your head enough to look at him.
His hair was destroyed. His mouth was swollen. His skin flushed. There was a faint red mark near his collarbone where your lipstick had transferred again, though neither of you seemed inclined toward responsibility.
You touched it with one finger.
“You have evidence.”
His mouth curved, “Again?”
“You are a repeat offender.”
“You started it.”
“This time?”
“Every time.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he kissed you softly before the words formed.
It was a different kind of kiss. Slower. Almost lazy. The kind that belonged to after, when the body had stopped asking urgently and the heart had started speaking in ways you could not dodge with jokes. His thumb brushed your cheek, and you leaned into him.
“We should get dressed,” you whispered eventually.
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moved.
The distant hum reached you a few seconds later.
At first, it barely registered. A low mechanical sound, soft but approaching, somewhere along the orchard path. Familiar in the way childhood sounds were familiar before your mind named them.
Then you froze.
Logan felt it immediately,“What?”
You lifted your head.
The hum grew clearer.
Your eyes widened.
“Dress. Now.”
He blinked, “What?”
“Orchard cart.”
“That means something?”
“It means Nana.”
Logan’s entire body went still, “What?”
You scrambled off his lap with the grace of a panicked girl in a half-displaced vintage bustier, stockings, and red heels, “Nana. Or Granddad. Or both. Probably both. Oh my God.”
“Here?”
“Apparently.”
“You said nobody should be here.”
“I didn’t see the lights!”
“You said that like it was reassuring.”
“It was true at the time.”
“Cherry.”
“Do not Cherry me. Find your pants.”
The next thirty seconds were quiet chaos.
Quiet, because some part of you believed whispering preserved dignity. Chaos, because dignity had left the gazebo fifteen minutes ago and was likely halfway to the fountain by now. Logan found his jeans. You found your dress. He nearly stepped on his own jacket. You tried to pull the dress up over the bustier without fully reassembling anything underneath, which meant the fabric sat wrong at first and had to be tugged into place while Logan, still shirtless, tried to fasten his belt and watch the path at the same time.
“Shirt,” you hissed.
“Hair,” he whispered back.
“What?”
“Your hair.”
You touched it.
Several pieces had fallen loose.
“Oh, I’m going to die.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“You do not know my grandmother.”
He yanked his henley on. You stepped close and reached for his belt, your fingers working the buckle quickly while he looked down at you, still half-breathless, half-panicked, and horribly amused.
“This is not funny,” you whispered.
“It’s a little funny.”
“Logan.”
He caught your face gently, smoothing his thumb under your eye where something had smudged, then fixed a loose strand near your cheek.
You stared at him.
The hum grew louder.
“Stop being sweet. I am trying to survive.”
His mouth twitched, “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
You turned toward the path just as the orchard cart came into view.
It was a small cream-coloured electric buggy with a little lamp fixed to the front. Granddad drove with one hand on the wheel, silver hair neat despite the hour, linen shirt open at the collar. Nana sat beside him in a pale cardigan and pearls, hair pinned, posture perfect, looking less like a woman who had accidentally interrupted something and more like a woman arriving precisely when the universe had scheduled her entrance.
The cart stopped at the edge of the path.
Silence.
You stood beside Logan in your slightly crooked dress, stockings still clipped, hair visibly reassembled by panic and a man’s hands. Logan stood next to you with his belt fastened but not quite centred, hair messy, mouth faintly red at one corner.
Nana looked at you.
Then Logan.
Then the sofa.
Then back at you.
“Darling,” she said calmly, “the orchard staff light this gazebo for atmosphere, not privacy.”
You closed your eyes.
Logan made a sound that might have been him trying not to choke.
“Nana.”
Granddad badly coughed into his hand. Because he was laughing.
Nana tilted her head, “We wondered who had taken Cherry down the orchard path.”
“The car or me?” you asked weakly.
“Both, apparently.”
“Oh my God.”
Logan stepped forward slightly, shoulders straightening in a doomed attempt at respectability, “Ma’am, sir, I-”
Nana lifted one hand.He stopped immediately.
Her eyebrows rose and she grinned slowly- turning to your grandfather,“Oh, he listens.”
Granddad nodded, impressed, “Good start.”
You wanted the orchard floor to open. It cruelly did not.
“Nana, this is Logan,” you introduced, because manners had apparently survived where modesty had not, “Logan, this is Nana and Granddad.”
Logan nodded, looking like a man whose soul had left his body but whose upbringing remained intact, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Nana hummed, “Your timing could use work, but otherwise.”
“Nana.”
“What? I am being welcoming.”
Granddad finally allowed himself to laugh properly, warm and low, “Come inside. No point standing out here all night.”
“We weren’t-” You stopped, “Standing.”
“No,” Nana said, “I gathered that.”
You covered your face. Logan looked down like the floor might provide instructions.
Nana glanced toward the sofa, her mouth curving in a way that made your stomach drop before she even spoke, “Besides, that bench has never been built for grand romance.”
“Nana.”
“What?” she said, all innocence, which had never once meant innocence from her.
Granddad made a quiet sound beside her.
You looked at him, “No. Don’t you start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a noise.”
“A man is allowed to remember furniture.”
Your eyes widened, “A man is allowed to what?”
Nana gave him a look over the rim of her glasses, amused and warning all at once, “Careful, love.”
Granddad’s smile twitched, smaller now, but so boyish for half a second that you could almost see it- the younger version of him, all rolled sleeves and bad ideas, sneaking around the edges of some family argument with Nana laughing under her breath beside him.
“Oh my God,” you said slowly, “Absolutely not.”
Nana lifted one shoulder, prim as ever, “Your grandfather and I had very little to do with good sense at your age.”
“That is not something I need to know.”
“No,” Granddad agreed, clearing his throat, “Probably not.”
“And yet,” Nana said pleasantly, “here we all are.”
Logan made the mistake of breathing out a laugh.
You spun toward him, “Do not.”
His mouth pressed into a line,“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I breathed.”
“You breathed like a traitor.”
That almost finished him. His shoulders shook once, and he turned his face away like the old orchard suddenly needed his full attention.
Nana, meanwhile, looked completely delighted with herself, “In any case, the bench survived the war between our families, but only just.”
Granddad coughed into his hand.
You stared at both of them, horrified, “I am going to walk into the pond.”
“There’s no need to be dramatic,” Nana said.
“You just made me think about you and Granddad as horny teenagers.”
Granddad winced, “Darling.”
Nana smiled, “Well, she’s not wrong.”
“Nana!”
“What? We were teenagers. Everyone was cross with everyone. It was a very tense summer.”
Granddad’s ears had gone pink. You had never seen anything like it, “Perhaps we should go inside.”
“Perhaps,” Nana agreed, though she sounded entirely too pleased, “Before your granddaughter decides to perish from embarrassment in the shrubbery.”
“I’m already halfway there.”
Logan’s hand settled warm at your lower back, and the worst part was that he was still trying not to laugh. You could feel it in him, the contained shake of it, the silent, awful joy.
You pointed at him without looking, “Not one word.”
“I’m being very respectful.”
“You are being visibly disrespectful.”
“I’m learning family history.”
“You’re learning too much family history.”
Nana smiled at you, softer now, which somehow made the whole thing worse, “Come along, darling. You can have tea and pretend you are less mortified indoors.”
“I don’t think tea fixes this.”
“Tea fixes most things.”
“And the things it doesn’t fix,” Granddad added, still slightly fuschia, “your grandmother fixes by pretending she never said them.”
“Precisely,” Nana said, “A system that has served me beautifully for decades.”
The walk back toward the house was both the longest and shortest journey of your life. Nana took your arm as if the two of you were strolling away from a garden party rather than a crime scene. She smelled like powder, roses, and the little mint sweets she kept in every handbag. Her hand rested warm over yours, elegant and steady.
Behind you, Logan walked with Granddad.
You could hear their footsteps, low voices, the occasional laugh your grandfather tried and failed to soften. The orchard cart had been abandoned near the gazebo because apparently even vehicles could be left behind when narrative paired better with walking.
Nana glanced sideways at you.
“He seems steady.”
Your face went hot, “Daddy said that.”
“Your father has taste when he remembers to listen to your mother.”
“You are all very… organised about him.”
“We are observant.”
“That is worse.”
“It usually is.”
You sighed.
She squeezed your arm, “Do you like him?”
You looked ahead at the path, the lanterns, the faint glow of the house through the trees, “Yes.”
The word came easily.
Maybe because you were too tired to make it complicated. Maybe because Nana was the safest person in the world to tell the truth to. Maybe because after tonight, pretending felt almost insulting.
Nana nodded once, “Good.”
“That’s it?”
“For now.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is not. I’m simply old enough to know that liking someone is not made more dignified by over-explaining it.”
You looked at her.
She smiled faintly, “Though your mother disagrees. She has always been a woman of thorough emotional documentation.”
You laughed despite yourself. Nana reached over and adjusted one of the loose pieces of hair near your temple. Her fingers were gentle, practiced.
“You look lovely,” she said.
“I look caught.”
“You look happy.”
That shut you up.
The side kitchen was lit when you arrived, warm and yellow, with stone floors cool under your feet and copper pans hanging above the long island. It was not the grandest room in the house. That was why everyone used it. There were framed photographs along one wall- summer dinners, harvest suppers, children on ponies, cousins with missing teeth, your father holding a lamb as a boy and looking insulted by its existence, Nana in huge sunglasses with a cigarette she swore was only for the photograph.
A kettle was already on.
Nana moved through the kitchen with terrifying composure, setting cups down as if she had not just collected her granddaughter and a hockey player from a candlelit gazebo. Granddad leaned against the counter, openly delighted. Logan stood beside one of the stools like he had been invited to a royal hearing.
“Sit,” Nana told him.
He sat. Instantly. Ass to the barstool in less than a second.
Granddad’s mouth twitched and you wanted to disappear behind the biscuit tin.
Nana poured tea, “Sugar?”
Logan straightened, “No, thank you, ma’am.”
Nana looked at you.
You looked at the wall- interested in the layer of paint that was still pristine since the room's refurbishment in the early 80s.
Nana set down a steaming mug in front of Logan, which he graciously accepted with a quiet thank you- she nodded and turned to you, hand hovering by the sugar jar.
“She likes two,” Logan added after half a second, “If she’s pretending she doesn’t want any, it’s still two.”
Nana paused, then smiled down at the mug she was preparing.
You closed your eyes, cursing Logan for being so thoughtful.
“Is that so?” she asked.
“He is guessing,” you said.
Logan looked at you, with raised eyebrows- as if you hadn’t always added two sugars to every tea you ordered with him.
Nana put two sugars in your cup.
Granddad grinned into his own.
Tea, against your earlier belief, did help.
Not enough to erase the humiliation. Nothing could erase this humiliation.
Your bustier was still sitting wrong under your dress, your hair was still suspicious, and Logan still had the faint look of a man who had seen both God and your grandmother in the same ten minutes. But the kitchen helped. The warmth of it. The old wood. The familiar smell of tea and fruit and polish. Nana handing you a cup and then not looking at you like you were ruined or reckless, only like you were very dear and very human.
Granddad slid a plate of biscuits toward Logan, “Eat something, son. You look like you need stabilising.”
Logan stared at the plate.
Then, helplessly, took one.
You made a tiny strangled sound.
Nana sipped her tea, “Your grandfather means well.”
“I do,” Granddad said.
“He also enjoys blood sport.”
“That too.”
Logan glanced at you, and the two of you nearly laughed at the same time.
Nana caught it.
Her expression softened.
“So,” she said, “John Logan.”
He looked back at her immediately, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you make a habit of taking my granddaughter to unlit corners of family property?”
You choked on your tea.
“Nana, I brought us her-”
Logan put his biscuit down with great care, “No, ma’am.”
“Good.”
“She brought me,” he said, then looked horrified at himself. “Not that I’m blaming her. I mean- she showed me the orchard. Respectfully. Earlier. Before-”
Granddad leaned back, deeply entertained.
“Before the furniture test,” Nana supplied.
You put your face in your hands, “I am begging.”
Logan’s ears had gone red, “I like her very much.”
The kitchen went still and your hands lowered from your face.
Logan swallowed, but he did not look away from Nana, “And I respect her. A lot. I’m just sorry for… the timing.”
Nana watched him for a moment, eyes narrowed and red lips pursed- then set her cup down.
“Well,” she concluded firmly, “timing can be improved.”
Granddad nodded, “Respect is harder to fake.”
Logan’s shoulders loosened by the smallest degree.
You stared at him, heart turning over in your chest with such force that the embarrassment had nowhere left to stand.
Nana looked at you.
You looked at your tea.
“Your mother will not hear this from me,” Nana said.
Your head snapped up, “Really?”
“I am many things, darling. Suicidal is not one of them.”
Granddad laughed into his cup.
Nana stood, “Come upstairs with me. Your dress is twisted, and I refuse to send you home looking like I failed you.”
“Nana.”
“That was not a suggestion.”
You glanced at Logan.
He smiled faintly, still red-eared, and mouthed, good luck.
You mouthed back, traitor.
Nana led you out of the kitchen, leaving Logan alone with Granddad and a plate of biscuits.
For a few seconds, silence held.
Granddad poured himself more tea.
Logan looked at the photographs along the wall because it seemed safer than looking at the man who had just caught him in a gazebo with his granddaughter. His eyes landed on one photo in particular- a young woman laughing beside a cherry red chevy, hair tied in a scarf, one hand on the hood. Beside her stood a young man in rolled sleeves, grease on one forearm, looking at her with the expression of someone already lost.
Granddad saw where he was looking.
“That was before she agreed to marry me,” he said.
Logan glanced over,“Her grandmother?”
“Mm.”
“She looks like Cherry.”
Granddad smiled, “There’s a hereditary line of trouble there.”
Logan laughed softly.
Granddad picked up his tea, “You held yourself well.”
Logan’s face warmed again, “Sir-”
“I mean after being caught, not before.”
Logan coughed.
Granddad’s eyes gleamed, “Though if my wife is to be believed, the before was ambitious.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Granddad took a sip, “Don’t make a habit of needing to be.”
Logan straightened slightly, “I won’t.”
The older man looked at him for a second, measuring without being unkind.
Then he nodded toward the side door, “Walk with me.”
Logan followed him outside.
The night had cooled further. The fountain murmured in the circular drive, and the house glowed behind them with warm windows and old stone. From somewhere upstairs came a faint murmur of Nana’s voice, then yours, protesting something. Granddad smiled without turning.
“She’ll survive,” he said.
Logan looked up toward the window, “I hope so.”
“She’s dramatic. Comes by it honestly.”
They walked along the edge of the drive, not back toward the gazebo, thank God, but toward the line of trees where the orchard opened wide. Granddad tucked his hands into his pockets.
“So this is all yours?” Logan asked, then immediately winced,“Sorry. That sounded-”
“Normal,” Granddad said, “It sounded normal. The first time I came through gates like that, I nearly turned around.”
Logan looked at him. “You weren’t from this side?”
Granddad laughed, “No. My family had land, yes, but not this. We were livestock. Mud, cattle, transport, men shouting about fences as if fences had politics. Her family were fruit and crops. Beautiful fruit, very clean boots, ruthless contract rivalry hidden under linen tablecloths.”
Logan smiled.
“Our families hated each other,” Granddad said.
“Cherry mentioned.”
“Did she mention why?”
“Old farm hatred.”
“That’s her Nana’s phrase. Makes it sound quaint. It was mostly money and pride, which is most hatred once you scrape it down.”
They stopped near the fountain. Water spilled softly over moss-dark stone.
Granddad looked toward the orchard, then the house, “My father decided I needed character one summer. That meant work. Proper work, he said, though he meant work where I could be tired enough not to embarrass him at dinner. So he sent me to a garage owned by a friend outside town.”
Logan stilled,“A garage?”
Granddad smiled at the water, “Yes.”
Logan’s eyes flicked toward the house.
“How did you meet her?” he asked.
Granddad’s smile deepened.
“She came in during a rainstorm,” he said, “Angry as anything because the car had stalled twice and then died half a mile from the road. She was studying veterinary sciences then. Had mud on her shoes, lipstick on her mouth and a tone that suggested the car had betrayed her ruthlessly.”
Logan stopped breathing for a second and Granddad looked over.
“She was driving a cherry red chevy- horribly sensitive cars they are” he was grinning at Logan's stare.
The night seemed to hold still around the sentence.
“A cherry red Chevy?”
“Mm-hmm, if her grandmother had survived the early 2000’s, we would’ve given her that. But luckily we found an exact replica for her.”
Ahead, inside the house, your laugh floated faintly through an open upstairs window, bright and mortified and unmistakably yours.
Granddad looked toward the sound, then back at Logan.
“Best thing that ever broke down in my life.”
Logan said nothing.
He looked at the orchard, the house, the old fountain, the kitchen window, the path where you had brought him in your red heels and white dress. Pieces moved into place in his head slowly. A garage. A rainstorm. A Chevy. A girl who talked too much when nervous and still somehow made men follow her into impossible places.
He laughed once, soft and disbelieving.
Granddad’s eyes warmed,“I’m not saying history repeats,” the old man clarified, “That’s too neat. Life is messier than that.”
Logan looked back at him.
“But sometimes,” Granddad continued, “it rhymes.”
Upstairs, you laughed again, and Logan looked toward the sound with an expression he did not try to hide quickly enough.
Granddad saw it.
He clapped Logan once on the shoulder, gentle but firm.
“Come on,” he jutted his head towards the open side-door, “Before my wife decides she likes you enough to start giving advice.”
Logan followed him back toward the kitchen, still quiet, still carrying the sentence like something tucked carefully in both hands.
When you came downstairs ten minutes later, your dress sat properly again, your hair had been pinned into something passable, and Nana had loaned you a cardigan she claimed was “for the chill” and not “for the evidence.” You found Logan by the kitchen door with Granddad, both of them looking suspiciously like they had agreed on something.
Your eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Logan said.
You pointed at him, “That was a nothing voice.”
Granddad smiled into his tea.
Nana appeared behind you, “Let the boy have secrets, darling. You have plenty.”
“I do not.”
Everyone looked at you and you huffed.
Logan crossed the kitchen to you and offered his hand. Your heart went soft as you slipped your fingers into his.
Nana watched the gesture, eyes bright in a way she would deny if accused.
Granddad walked you both to the side door. The air outside smelled of roses and fruit and the faint dampness of the fountain. Cherry waited by the packing barn, red paint dark under the night, old and gleaming and far too pleased with herself.
Nana kissed your cheek.
“Drive safely,” she said.
“I will.”
“She won’t,” Granddad told Logan, “She thinks speed limits are suggestions with punctuation.”
“I do not!” You kissed your grandfather's cheek.
Logan’s mouth twitched, “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Dangerous responsibility young man,” Nana eyed him playfully.
He looked at you and you tilted your head at him.
“Yeah,” he said softly, “I know.”
You did not understand why his voice had gone like that, not fully. You only knew that he held your hand all the way to the car, opened your door, and looked at Cherry for a long moment before helping you in.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head, “Nothing.”
“You’re doing so many nothing voices tonight.”
He leaned down, one hand on the roof of the car, eyes warm in the dark.
“I’ll tell you later.”
You narrowed your eyes, “That is suspicious.”
“Yeah.”
Then he kissed you. Softly, because your grandparents were on the steps. Just a slow press of his lips against yours, you hummed and cupped his cheek as you smiled against his mouth.
Nana made a pleased sound behind you.
Granddad said, “I remember being young.”
Nana replied, “Not accurately.”
You pulled back from Logan with your face on fire and he was laughing when he closed your door.
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: The north and the south have different approaches to nightmares.
Word Count: 4,4k
Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of pregnancy, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Days after Bran’s fall, he still wasn’t awake.
And once again, you were seeing just how different the north was to south.
Though none had been as serious as Bran’s case, you were no stranger to falling ill when you were little. And whenever you did fall ill, every single time, the life in the castle would all but stop; your father would always assign someone else to handle his duties so that he could be by your side while the maesters treated you, just like Silas who would refuse to leave the room no matter how much your father insisted.
That hadn’t been the case in Winterfell.
Granted, Lady Stark hadn’t left Bran’s room ever since that morning. She was a mess, anyone could see that, and you couldn’t even decide whether your heart broke more for Bran or her. She didn’t sleep, she barely ate, and though you had tried your hardest to offer words of comfort, you were quite certain she was deaf to all.
However, not everyone had taken the same approach to such tragedy.
“What do you mean, your father is still leaving?”
Robb heaved a sigh, looking over his shoulder to the window to Bran’s room in the keep before he turned to you, drumming his fingertips on the table.
“He gave his word to the king that he would be the Hand.”
If it were any other person in the south, you would’ve assumed it was the ambition that dragged him away from his sick son and already mourning wife, but Lord Stark was the last person to do that. Your brows furrowed while you tried to wrap your head around the idea, staring at him.
“But if Bran…”
“He won’t die,” he cut you off, his voice determined like thought he could force the reality to bend to his words if he said them with enough conviction. “He’ll wake soon, and he’ll be fine.”
You blinked a couple of times, then nodded fervently.
“Oh I know.”
No you didn’t.
Neither did Robb. Neither did anyone.
“I just think—” You licked your lips. “Will your mother not be upset that he’s leaving at such time?”
“He gave his word,” Robb repeated. “It’s a matter of honor and duty. She will understand.”
You wouldn’t.
Gods forbid, if you found yourself in such state; if someday your child was fighting for his life and Robb left to ‘do his duty’?
You were not like Lady Catelyn, honor and duty would have to wait.
Robb raised his hand to wave at Jon who lingered by the entrance of the keep for a moment, then made his way to you.
“Good morrow,” he said. “Robb, father wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“Aye.”
“Did you talk to him yet?”
“Not yet,” Jon answered as you looked between them. “Tonight, perhaps.”
Robb bit inside his cheek. “And you’re sure about this?”
“About what?” you asked and Robb ran a hand through his curls.
“Jon is thinking of joining the Night’s Watch.”
Your eyes widened.
“What?” you squealed, your stomach doing a painful flip. “Jon, you must be jesting.”
“It’s a great honor.”
Alright, you had it up there with northerners and their honor, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
“I’ll be back,” Robb said and pressed a kiss on top of your head, then crossed the yard to enter the keep. You gawked at Jon who motioned at the seat as if asking for your permission and you nodded.
“Please,” you said in a rush and he sat down. “You cannot be serious.”
“It’s—”
“A great honor, I heard you the first time,” you finished his sentence, too impatient to wait. “The Wall is far from Winterfell.”
“That’s the idea.”
You pulled back a little when it dawned on you. “Jon…”
“Me being there will put a lot of people’s hearts at ease.”
No actually, it was going to put only one person’s heart at ease.
Lady Stark.
You were guessing Lord Stark’s departure was related to this. He was the one who had a soft spot for Jon, unlike Lady Stark who disliked his presence, and made no attempt to hide it. You couldn’t blame Jon for wanting to be out of her sight, but spending his life at the Wall as a soldier did not sound like the perfect solution to that.
Not to mention, Silas would have never forgiven you if you let his affair go off to the Wall to spend the rest of his life celibate and frozen.
“Not any of your siblings’ hearts.”
“Sansa and Arya will be in the south.”
“Robb will be here,” you reminded him. “So will Bran, who I’m sure would be devastated if he woke up and couldn’t find you here. And Rickon.”
“They’ll understand,” he said. “With my father in the Capital, Lady Stark will rule in his stead as the Lady of Winterfell—”
“Current,” you corrected him, making him tilt his head like a confused puppy, a gesture you had seen Robb do multiple times.
“Hm?”
“Current Lady of Winterfell. Funny how titles work, because as Robb likes to remind me, I’m to be the future Lady of Winterfell, and I’d very much like to have you here,” you said. “And I’m afraid you’re mistaken. With your father in the Capital, Robb will be ruling in his stead, and he wants you here as well.”
A frown pinched his forehead while he stayed silent, and you reached out to squeeze his forearm in an assuring manner.
“Please,” you said. “Stay, at least for a while. If you still think the same in a year, I swear I’ll embroider you a handkerchief that says the Lord of Night’s Watch for you to take it with you—”
“The Night’s Watch doesn’t have lords,” he stated, although your jest seemed to twitch his lips into a tiny smile. “It’s a brotherhood.”
“Whatever it is that they have over there.” You waved a hand dismissively. “But Jon, come on. You’re the only person I can talk to here, and Robb is going to be so busy. I’d like to have someone who I can trust, gods know I lack those here.”
Jon swallowed thickly, lowering his gaze to his hands.
“My whole family is away,” you reminded him. “And I already see you as one of my brothers. It’d put my heart at ease to have you here, as I know it would Silas’. You are one of the very few people whom he trusts.”
When his eyes snapped up to yours again, the stubborn light in them softened albeit in hesitance. You couldn’t help but smile at the unfamiliar sight, and he blinked a couple of times like he was trying to pull himself together, letting out a breath.
“You’d still have Theon,” he joked, making you grimace.
“Gods, even more reason for you to stay,” you muttered. “Can he not join the Night’s Watch?”
Jon bit back his grin. “I doubt he would.”
“Can we not offer his name?” you asked, and for once that managed to make Jon burst into laughter while you giggled. “No I’m serious—Jon listen, we can write a letter of recommendation, I’m quite good at those!”
On the day of departure, Lady Stark didn’t come out of Bran’s room to see Lord Stark and the girls off, they went there instead. You were almost certain that it was because she was angry at the fact that Lord Stark was leaving for the south, but it wasn’t as if you could ask her, or anyone else. On happier news for you, Robb had told you that Jon decided to wait a little before he joined the Night’s Watch, and though you knew it would’ve made Lady Stark upset if she knew you had made him change his mind, you were glad for it either way, and so was Robb.
Right after breakfast, while the squires readied the horses, you gifted Sansa two of your silk gowns that you had asked the seamstress alter for her. She hugged you tight, telling you all her plans to become the best queen the realm had ever seen, and even though you still weren’t sure about Prince Joffrey, you made sure to share her enthusiasm, promising her that you’d come to see her in King’s Landing before her wedding. You also told her to make friends and stay close to Margaery as much as she could, hoping that she would listen.
Arya, on the other hand, wasn’t as easy to give advice, or presents.
“I have been straining my mind to find out what to gift you,” You plopped down next to her on the stairs while the servants carried the chests into carriages, her direwolf Nymeria curled up at her feet. “And I’m told Jon already gave you a sword?”
Arya grinned at you.
“He did! I named it Needle.”
“A very fitting name.”
“And you don’t have to gift me anything,” she added. “I don’t need silk gowns.”
You hummed.
“Do you have no trust in me at all?” you asked and held out the small package, Arya’s face lighting up. She tore the paper open, then held her breath when she saw the armguard that you embroidered with direwolves. “Consider it my thank you for teaching me how to shoot arrows. Even though I’m not quite as good as you at that just yet.”
She threw herself into your arms, making you let out a laugh and hug her tight.
“Thank you!”
“Of course, my sweet,” you said when she pulled back. “And I have another thing for you.”
You placed the small gold medallion into her palm, making her frown as she lifted it to inspect it.
“What is this?”
“That is a special medallion that Cliff gave all of my brothers and I,” you said and paused for a second, then took a deep breath. “Arya, King’s Landing can be a very dangerous place. And I know how adventurous you are, so you might find yourself in trouble away from the Red Keep. If that happens…” you trailed off. “Find a harbour. Tell a captain there you’re Cliff Greensted’s sister, and show them this. They’ll take you to him, and he’ll bring you to safety. No matter what.”
She shifted her weight. “Will he teach me how to be a pirate if I do that?”
A small burst of laughter escaped you.
“We’ll see,” you said. “Keep this with you all the time, promise?”
“Promise. But think about it, I could be a great pirate.”
“If there’s anyone in the realm who could be anything they want, it’s you,” you told her. “And it’s a good thing you have a lot of time to decide what it is.”
“If I were a pirate like Cliff,” she mused, “I’d go on so many adventures, and come back with many stories.”
“He has great stories, does he not?”
“And I’d bring your babe things from all over the realm too.”
Your head shot up. “Hm?”
“Your and Robb’s I mean,” she said as if that wasn’t clear, and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat.
“We don’t have a babe, my sweet.”
“Sansa thinks you will.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So do your ladies-in-waiting, I heard them talking.”
“Only the gods know those things,” you managed to say. “In the meantime, promise me you’ll use that medallion when you need it, not when being a pirate sounds like a fun idea.”
“Fine, fine…” she mumbled and stole a look at you. “Do you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“That I could be what I want to be.”
Well, that was a complicated question; the realm didn’t offer many options to girls. While your brothers got to be whatever they wanted to be, you yourself had always known you’d wed one day and become a lady of a castle. Thankfully your father and Silas protected you from the fate that many unfortunate women faced and made sure you wed someone who was handsome, kind and honorable who turned out to be the love of your life, but at the end of the day, marriage was one of the very limited options you had as a woman.
The other was becoming a septa.
But you weren’t going to tell Arya that. Instead, in the future, when her father—and Robb— decided it was time for her to be betrothed, you were going to make sure to find someone who would be to her liking.
And who knew, really? Arya’s family loved her, and times were changing.
Perhaps she could indeed be something else other than a lady of the castle.
“All my brothers chose their own paths,” you commented. “It can’t be that hard if they did it.”
She frowned in deep thought. “Did you choose yours?”
“Not in the sense my brothers did,” you admitted. “But I’m very lucky either way, and very happy.”
“You’ve always wanted to wed Robb?”
“I’ve known him for two moons, my sweet,” you told her with a laugh. “I didn’t even know he existed until I was informed of our betrothal. I…” You paused for a moment, then reached out to hold her hand. “I think there’s nothing wrong with having different goals. Mine were quite similar to my friends’ when I was your age, yours are not. It doesn’t mean either of us are in the wrong; everyone’s happiness looks different, simple as that.”
She heaved a deep sigh, then turned your head when Sansa’s voice reached you both from the yard.
“Arya, time to go!”
“Coming!” she called out and you both got up from the stairs, then made your way to the yard with Nymeria following you behind. Sansa and her wolf Lady were already by the carriages, and it seemed that the whole family except Lady Stark and Bran were in the yard to see them off. Arya went directly to Jon and Robb, and you curtsied at the king and the queen before approaching Lord Stark.
“I wish you and the girls a safe trip, Lord Stark.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he said and his eyes found Robb over your shoulder. “Make sure he doesn’t throw himself into another duel if anyone from the south comes by?”
A laugh climbed your throat.
“I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“And uh—” He cleared his throat. “If Bran…”
“Robb will send you a raven as soon as he wakes up,” you assured him. “And I’ll make sure to help Lady Stark in the meantime. Do not worry about here, Robb and I already talked of what to do in your absence.”
That managed to make him smile, even if it was a little.
“I appreciate that.”
“And I haven’t got the chance to thank you before,” you added. “For agreeing to our union. I recognize the rest of the north hoped for something different, but I love Robb, and I’ll be grateful to you my whole life.”
“I gave him the same advice yesterday, but he stops listening whenever you’re anywhere within his sight,” he said, a fire awakening under your cheeks. “I’m glad you two are happy, but a marriage takes more effort than just depending on love. With all these new responsibilities on both of you, do keep that in mind.”
“I will.”
“Let’s go!” the king’s loud voice rang in the yard, and you rushed to bid the girls goodbye, then went over to Robb’s side. Rickon was clinging to his leg, Shaggydog by Grey Wind and Ghost’s side while Robb nodded at his father in acknowledgment, no trace of worry on his face in such northern manner. Lord Stark mounted on his horse and turned his head, his eyes stopping on Bran’s window. For a moment you wondered whether Lady Stark was looking out the window, but you forced yourself not to check seeing that it would’ve been rather intruding, so you smiled at Rickon instead, whose brows were furrowed in worry. He blinked back the tears when his father turned his horse around and followed the king out of the yard, and Robb ruffled his hair.
“You’re alright,” he told him, more of a statement than a question while Maester Luwin approached Robb to mutter something into his ear.
“I’ll be right there,” Robb told him, and you tilted your head.
“What is it?”
“There are some petitions I must listen to,” he said and pressed a kiss on your temple. “I’ll find you later. Jon, I need you in the room as well.”
Jon nodded his head and they both walked away from you and Rickon, who lingered in his spot as if he didn’t know what to do. You could see your ladies-in-waiting by the entrance of the keep and Wylla motioned at you as if asking you whether you needed anything, but you shook your head, then crouched down get to Rickon’s eye level.
“Rickon my sweet,” you said, reaching to push his hair out of his eyes, noting once again that just like most of his siblings, he took after his mother in looks. “May I ask something of you and Shaggydog?”
He nodded in silence.
“You’ve met Frost, have you not?”
His hand shooting up to his mouth so that he could bite at his thumb. “Yes.”
“I’ll go to the stables to check on her and give her some treats,” you said. “And then I’ll visit my horse Silk to do the same. Do you mind helping me?”
He looked up at you with wide eyes. “Me?”
“Of course,” you said. “And Shaggydog can wait at the door to protect us, how does that sound?”
He held his breath and nodded fervently, an adorable look of determination settling on his face as if you had just given him the most important duty in the realm.
“He will!” he said. “Shaggy already knows not to hurt Frost. And I’ll help you!”
“Wonderful,” you said and straightened up, then took his small hand into yours. “Now come. We need to get treats from the kitchens, Frost loves carrots, and Silk loves green apples.”
You had spent the entire day with Rickon; at first letting him feed Frost and Silk, and then you and the rest of your ladies-in-waiting made sure to keep an eye on him. Lyra had volunteered to be a monster to spar with him with wooden swords while Jorelle and Wylla pretended to be maidens he had to save until dinner time, the simple game managing to distract him from Bran and his mother, and the rest of the family who had left for the Capital.
With Lady Catelyn nowhere in sight, it had fallen upon you to converse with the other northern guests and be the lady of the castle, despite them being more familiar with Winterfell than you. The irony wasn’t lost on you or them, but surprisingly no one had commented on it, and you couldn’t help but wonder whether it was because Robb was in charge of the castle and by extension the north now. Robb had sent you word with a servant that he wouldn’t be joining dinner, and he had been busy with some northern lords in his father’s solar—or his solar now, if you had to guess—until after you retired to your and his bedchambers. You took a bath, got into your nightgown and were just in the process of writing a letter to Silas when Robb entered the room and flung himself on the bed facedown. You looked up from your scroll, biting back a smile.
“I take it you’ve had a very peaceful day.”
Robb groaned into the pillow before he reached to open and close his hand as if grasping air without lifting his head from the pillow. You raised your brows.
“Am I supposed to understand—”
“Come here,” he said, raising his head a little so that you could make out what he was saying, and you repressed a grin.
“Am I being commanded?”
“Implored,” he whined. “Please?”
You took your time crossing the room with deliberately slow steps, and the moment you reached bed Robb sat up so that he could wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you to his lap in haste. A giggle climbed your throat while he buried his face to the deep plunge of your cleavage, his beard scratching at your skin in the most pleasant way.
“They are so vexing,” Robb’s voice came out muffled while you played with his auburn curls, tension washing off his shoulders. “And unreasonable.”
You hummed, running your nails over his scalp and down to the nape of his neck.
“Gods, you smell amazing,” he mumbled into your skin, coaxing a smile out of you.
“If you think flattery will make me forget that I couldn’t see you whole day…” you teased him and he lifted his head to look at you with heavy lids, the sight making your heart skip a happy beat. The rest of what you were going to say long forgotten, you leaned in to brush your lips against his, but you both snapped out of it when someone knocked on the door, making your stomach drop.
Gods, if it was this late at night…
You slipped off his lap and put on your dressing gown, your heart slamming against your ribcage while Robb made his way to the door with a frown on his face, but the moment he opened it, Rickon rushed inside to clutch at his leg.
“I had a nightmare!”
You pressed a hand on your chest and let out a breath, thanking the gods that it wasn’t bad news about Bran.
“Rickon…” Robb said with a tired sigh and crouched down while Rickon sniffled, clutching his direwolf toy to his chest.
“I had a nightmare, father was dead and they put him in the crypts—”
“Father is on his way to King’s Landing,” Robb told him while you crossed the room, and Rickon’s big tearful eyes snapped up to you, your heart clenching at the sight of fear in them. “He’s not in the crypts, and he’s most certainly not dead.”
“But he was!” Rickon insisted as you crouched down as well, reaching out to hold his little hand. “He was, I swear it!”
“It was just a nightmare, that’s all,” Robb said, wiping the tears off Rickon’s chubby cheeks. “Come on now. You’re a northman, and a Stark. We don’t cry.”
You frowned at Robb, then turned to Rickon to give him a smile.
“Nightmares can be very scary,” you told him while he hiccupped. “Would you like to sleep between us tonight, my sweet?”
“Wait, what?” Robb asked incredulously, then shook his head. “No. Rickon, go back to your own room. There’s nothing to be scared of.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Robb, would you mind stepping out with me for a moment?” you asked and straightened up, then grabbed his wrist to lead him out of the room into the hallway where Grey Wind was curled up by the door, but this time he was accompanied by Shaggydog. You stepped away from the door so that Rickon wouldn’t hear you, then whirled around on your heels to glare up at Robb. “Is this your first time hearing what a nightmare is?”
“He’s not sleeping between us just because he had a nightmare,” he said. “He’s a northerner, and a Stark.”
“He’s a child,” you reminded him, pointing back at the room, “and he’s terrified!”
“He won’t be a child forever,” Robb insisted. “And he must learn to face his fears.”
“And you think he must learn to face his fears at this moment, when his brother is sick, half of his family have left, and his mother is too worried to leave Bran’s room?”
Robb’s jaw clenched.
“He can’t expect to be soothed whenever he’s scared.”
“When else should he expect to be soothed?” you asked. “When I was his age, whenever I had a nightmare—”
“We’re not coddling him,” he cut you off. “We don’t do that in the north. I understand that things are different in the south, but winter is coming. He must learn.”
Of course.
You should’ve known. Lord Stark had taken Bran to watch a traitor be executed just last month, and Robb was raised believing that was normal and expected.
It was very clear House Stark raised children much differently than House Greensted.
You gritted your teeth, then looked in the direction of the room over your shoulder before you turned to him, crossing your arms.
“Are you going to be like this when we have our own?”
“Are you?” he asked back with a tense chuckle. “Because we’re not going to be raising little southern lordlings who cling to their mother’s skirts whenever they’re scared.”
Anger shot through you faster than lightning.
“We’re not going to be raising little northern lordlings who’re not even allowed to cry after a nightmare either—you know what?” You held up a hand. “I’m not going to stay here and argue with you when your little brother is terrified.”
“He’s going back to his room—”
“He’s not,” you retorted. “He either sleeps between us tonight, or he can sleep in my bedchambers with me and Frost while you sleep alone in your own.”
He scoffed in disbelief. “My wife sleeps in my bed—”
“Your wife sleeps wherever she wants!” you snapped, glaring up at him. “It’s up to you where you sleep, but I am not sending a terrified child to his own room.”
Your name left his lips in exasperation while you walked away from him and entered the bedchambers to find Rickon already sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs while still clutching to his direwolf toy. You went over to sit next to him as Robb entered the bedchambers and closed the door behind him.
“Would you like a bedtime story, my sweet?” you asked Rickon who sniffled and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, then nodded vigorously and pulled himself up to get comfortable under the covers. Robb threw his head back, then held up his hands to gesture surrender after you shot a curt glare in his direction.
“I said nothing,” he grumbled as you raised your brows at him, then smiled at Rickon.
“Alright then,” you said, your voice soft. “Would you like to hear about the first king of the Reach?”
The first sign that something was different was Logan’s hand.
Not the one braced beside your head, knuckles sunk into the pillow, holding most of his weight off you because he still did that even when you told him he could relax. The other one. The one on your thigh.
It had started at your knee, warm and broad and almost lazy, his thumb stroking back and forth over skin still soft from the shower you had taken an hour ago.
You had been half dressed then, damp hair twisted up with one of those clips you kept leaving in his bathroom, wearing an oversized shirt you had stolen from the clean pile at the end of his bed because you insisted that if Logan left clothes within “borrowing distance,” then he had no legal right to complain.
He had complained anyway. Mostly with his mouth against your neck.
Now the shirt was pushed up somewhere under your ribs, the clip had been lost to the sheets, and Logan’s hand had gone from lazy to careful in a way that made your whole body feel too awake.
His fingers slid beneath the bend of your knee and lifted your leg higher on his hip, encouraging, giving you time to stop him if you wanted to. You didn’t. You let him guide you open, let your thigh settle over his waist, let the shift change the angle enough that your breath caught before he had even moved again.
Logan noticed and lifted from your neck, hair falling over his forehead, mouth red from yours, “There?”
You stared up at him and tried very hard to look like a person who had not just lost her dignity to a minor adjustment in leg placement.
“There what?”
His mouth curved, “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t know.”
“I know many things.”
“Cherry.”
“What?” you asked, softer now, because he had said your name in that voice, low and amused and a little wrecked around the edges.
His hand tightened slightly at your thigh, “Does that feel good?”
The answer was in your body before it reached your mouth. Your fingers pressed harder into his back as your stomach dipped and you tensed your leg to stay exactly where he had put it instead of slipping down his thigh.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Logan’s eyes darkened.
He lowered his mouth to yours again.
The kiss started soft, which was rude, because the rest of him was not soft at all. His hips eased forward, slow and deep, and your breath broke against his lips. He was careful with you tonight, because careful had become its own kind of greed. He liked feeling every second. Liked watching your face change when he found something that worked. And dragging the pleasure out long enough that you forgot what you had been about to say, clutching at him with both hands like he had personally offended your nervous system.
You had accused him of being too observant once.
He had said, very seriously, “You say that like I’m supposed to be less interested in you.”
You had not recovered.
He moved again, same angle, and your hand flattened between his shoulder blades. The muscles there shifted under your palm, warm and tense, and you pressed your fingers into him as if you could steady yourself by holding onto the fact of him. Logan groaned softly into your mouth. The sound went through you in a straight line.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“Good?”
You nodded, then remembered who you were dealing with, “Good.”
His forehead dropped briefly to yours, “There you go.”
“Do not sound proud.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m pleased.”
“That’s the same thing in a nicer tone.”
He laughed, low and breathless, and the movement of it made him shift inside you just enough that your mouth fell open.
His laughter thinned.
Your eyes met.
The room, which had been warm and dim and almost sweet a moment ago, seemed to shrink around you. Logan’s hand slid from your thigh to your hip, then back again, like he could not decide where he needed to hold you most. His palm moved under your knee once more, lifting your leg higher, opening you that fraction more, and the next thrust hit deep enough that your head tipped back into the pillow.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Logan went still immediately. You almost hated him for that. For being good enough to stop when your voice changed, even though every part of you wanted him to keep moving.
“What?” he asked, “Too much?”
“No.”
His eyes searched yours, “Pain?”
“No.” You swallowed, embarrassed by how quickly you answered, “Just… a lot.”
“A lot bad?”
“No.”
“A lot good?”
Your cheeks burned, “You do not need to interview me.”
His mouth twitched, “I kind of do.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re gripping my back like you’re trying to leave marks.”
You looked down, as if the evidence might disappear if you checked quickly enough. Your hand was still pressed to his back, fingers spread over the hard line of muscle beside his spine. Your nails had dug in without you noticing.
You loosened them immediately, “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise.” His hips shifted, barely, and you clenched around him on instinct. His eyes fluttered for half a second, “Actually, do that again.”
Your pulse jumped, “The apology?”
“The hand.”
You hesitated, then dragged your nails lightly down his back.
Logan’s head dropped, a rough sound leaving him before he could bury it against your shoulder. The reaction made heat bloom low in your stomach, pleased and tender and a little wicked.
“Oh,” you whispered, because apparently that was the only word either of you were allowed tonight.
His laugh was wrecked against your skin, “Yeah.”
“You like that.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m gathering data.”
“Of course you are.”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it in your tone.”
He lifted his head, eyes warm despite the heat in them, “My tone?”
“Your John Logan thinks he knows something tone.”
“I do know something.”
“Mm-hmm?”
He moved again before answering, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough that the next breath left you in pieces, “I know you get mouthy when you’re overwhelmed,” he said.
Your fingers curled hard into his back again.
His smile flickered, “And I know that angle works.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Also know that.”
You tried to glare at him. But then he bent his head and kissed the corner of your mouth, soft and fond, while his hips kept moving in that same steady rhythm, and the glare became something else entirely. Your body felt too warm, too open, too full of him. Every thrust dragged pleasure through you in long, deep pulls that did not build the way you expected. Usually it was sharper, more obvious, a heat gathering low until it tipped. This felt stranger. Like the pleasure had spread into every part of you and was now collecting back together somewhere deeper, tighter, harder to name.
You shifted beneath him.
Logan’s hand flattened over your lower stomach. Warm and grounding as your hips tried to tilt away from how much you were feeling. The pressure of his palm made your entire body jolt.
His eyes dropped to where his hand rested.
Then back to your face.
You saw the moment he registered it.
“What?” you asked, too breathless to make it sound as casual as you wanted.
His thumb moved once, slow over your skin, “That felt good.”
You shook your head slightly, flustered, “I don’t know.”
He paused again.
You whined before you could stop yourself.
Logan’s expression changed, and the thing that flashed through his face was almost enough to make you embarrassed all over again. He liked that. Not because you were confused, but because you wanted him enough to protest the second he stopped.
“Baby,” he murmured.
You pressed your lips together.
“Don’t hide.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You’re making your stubborn face.”
“You are stopping at very inconvenient times.”
“I’m checking on you.”
“I appreciate that,” you said, voice unsteady, “In theory.”
His brows lifted.
“Physically, I am opposed.”
For one second, he stared at you.
Then he laughed, dropping his forehead to your collarbone, “God, I love you.”
The words came out easy, warm, half-laughed against your skin.
Your whole chest went soft.
It still did that sometimes, even now. Even after weeks of him saying it in different rooms, different voices, over coffee and in his truck and once across the grocery aisle when you held up two jars of cherries and asked which one had better integrity. He said it like it was a fact he enjoyed remembering, and every time, some stupid piece of you melted.
“I love you too,” you whispered.
His mouth brushed the base of your throat.
Then he moved again, and the softness twisted into something hotter so quickly that your fingers tightened in his hair.
The pressure under his palm returned. His hips rolled into yours, deep enough not to hurt but firm enough that you could not decide whether you wanted to pull him closer or push at his shoulder. You did both, somehow. One hand pressed flat to his back, the other slipped between your bodies and caught his wrist where his palm held your stomach.
Logan stopped.
You made a broken sound, “No, don’t-”
“I’m here,” he said immediately, “I’m here. What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
His face softened, but his body stayed still, “Okay.”
“I don’t know,” you repeated, embarrassed now because it was the truth and the truth felt ridiculous, “It feels weird.”
His expression shifted carefully, “Weird bad?”
“No.”
“Weird painful?”
“No.”
“Weird scary?”
You swallowed.
He caught it and his thumb brushed the side of your stomach, not moving lower, not pushing, just reminding you he was waiting.
“A little,” you admitted.
All the heat in his face gentled, “Then we stop.”
“No.” Your hands tightened on him immediately, “No, I don’t want to stop.”
“Cherry-”
“I don’t.” You took a shaky breath, “I promise. I just… it feels like I’m going to-” You stopped, mortification rushing in before the sentence could finish.
Logan’s eyes stayed on yours, “Like you’re going to what?”
“I don’t know,” you said, helpless and hot-faced, “That is the point of the sentence.”
He looked like he wanted to smile, not because he was laughing at you, but because you had become so flustered you were arguing with grammar while he was still inside you.
Wisely, he did not smile. Much.
“Okay,” he nodded, “We go slow.”
“We were going slow.”
“Slower.”
“That seems impossible.”
“It’s not.”
“It feels like a threat.”
His mouth curved, “It’s not.”
“You said that with threat energy.”
“I’ll stop if it gets bad,” he said, serious again, “You tell me.”
“I will.”
“And if you don’t know what it is, that’s okay too.”
You nodded.
“Words,” he said softly.
“Yes,” you whispered, “Okay. Slower.”
Logan kissed you, and then he did exactly what he promised.
Slower.
So slow you felt everything.
The drag of him inside you. The heat of his skin. The careful grip of his hand beneath your thigh, keeping your leg high against his hip. The pressure of his palm spread over your lower stomach, grounding and overwhelming at once. His mouth stayed near yours, not always kissing, sometimes just breathing there, sometimes brushing your cheek when the feeling got too intense and your eyes squeezed shut.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
You tried. Your eyes opened halfway, then fluttered shut again when he rolled his hips forward and the strange pressure sharpened.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I’ll look ridiculous.”
“You already look ridiculous.”
Your eyes snapped open, “Excuse me?”
His mouth twitched, “Beautiful ridiculous.”
“That does not repair the insult.”
“You’re wrapped around me, arguing vocabulary, and threatening to haunt me with your eyes closed.”
“I have not threatened haunting tonight.”
“Yet.”
You wanted to laugh. It came out as a gasp because he pressed a little deeper, and the pressure in your lower body pulled tight again, sudden enough that your hand slapped flat against his back.
“Logan.”
He stilled.
You shook your head quickly, “No. Keep going. Just-”
“I know,” he said.
“You do not know.”
“I know you don’t want me to stop.”
Your mouth opened but no sound came out.
His eyes darkened, but his voice stayed soft, “Am I right?”
You hated him.
You loved him.
You nodded.
“Words, baby.”
“Yes.”
He kissed you for the answer.
Then his thumb found your clit.
Your body jerked so hard his arm slid fully beneath your back to catch you. A startled cry broke out of you, louder than you meant it to be, and Logan froze for half a second before you grabbed at his shoulder.
“Don’t stop,” you gasped.
His breathing had gone ragged, “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Cherry.”
“I am sure.” Your voice cracked on the last word, “Please.”
That did something to him.
You felt it. The way his hand tightened at your thigh. The way his forehead dropped briefly against yours. The rough exhale that left him like he was losing some private fight with himself.
“Okay,” he said, voice wrecked, “Okay, I’ve got you.”
He moved again.
Deep. Slow. Thumb steady now.
The pleasure turned blinding.
Your body did not know what to do with it. Your hips tried to roll into him, then flinched away from the pressure, but his hand on your stomach kept you from twisting too far and his arm beneath your back held you close.
The pressure inside you built fast.
Too fast.
Different from before.
“Logan,” you whimpered.
His mouth was at your cheek, “I’m here.”
“It feels-”
“I know.”
“No, it feels-”
“What?” he asked, immediately slowing.
You wanted to answer. You really did. You wanted to be helpful and coherent and maybe charming in a way that made this feel less like your body had taken the wheel and driven straight through a fence.
Instead, you clutched his back and whispered, “I think I’m going to embarrass myself.”
Logan went still.
Then his face changed.
He looked down at you with his brows drawn and his mouth parted, like he was putting together the same pieces you were and had reached the edge of an answer neither of you was quite ready to say out loud.
“Do you want to stop?” he asked.
You shook your head before he finished.
“Do you want me to move?”
“Yes.”
“Same?”
You swallowed, “Yes.”
His eyes searched your face.
Then he nodded once.
“Okay.”
The next thrust dragged the sound out of you from somewhere deep in your chest. His thumb kept moving, and his palm pressed flat to your stomach, and suddenly the feeling was everywhere. Low and hot and unbearable, like your body was filling with light from the inside. You tried to press your knees together, but your leg was still hooked over his hip, and Logan’s body was between your thighs, and his mouth was at your ear saying your name like he was trying to keep you tethered to the room.
“You’re okay,” he murmured.
“I can’t-”
“You can.”
“I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Me neither,” he said, breathless, honest, “But I’ve got you.”
That was the last thing you heard clearly.
The release hit so hard it frightened you.
Your back bowed off the bed, hand dragging down Logan’s back as you came with a broken, startled cry. It was too much, too wet, too sudden, pleasure rushing through you in waves sharp enough to make your whole body shake. Logan made a sound above you, half groan, half your name, and then he stopped moving completely.
For a second, all you could hear was your own breathing. Then Logan’s. Then the tiny, obscene shift of wet sheets beneath you.
Your eyes opened slowly.
Logan was staring down between your bodies.
You followed his gaze.
The sheets were wet.
So were his thighs. So was the base of his cock where he was still inside you.
Your entire body went cold.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Logan did not move.
“Logan.”
Still nothing.
He looked stunned. Completely stunned. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving, his body still tense above yours like the two of you had both been caught in the blast radius of something neither of you had expected.
You tried to sit up.
His hand moved immediately, gentle on your waist, “Wait-”
“I’m sorry.” Your voice came out too high, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know- I swear I didn’t mean to- I thought that was fake.”
His eyes snapped to yours, “You thought what was fake?”
“That.”
He blinked.
You gestured helplessly between you, then immediately wished you had not.
“That,” you repeated, mortified, “I thought it was fake. Or exaggerated. Or like when people in movies wake up with perfect eyeliner. I did not think it was a thing my body was going to do on a Tuesday.”
Logan stared at you for half a second. Then his mouth twitched.
“Do not laugh,” you said immediately.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You are laughing in proximity to me during a vulnerable time.”
That got him.
He laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, and dropped his forehead to your shoulder like he needed somewhere to put it. His body shook over yours, warm and still inside you, and the absurdity of the entire situation cracked through your panic just enough that a horrified little laugh escaped you too.
“Stop,” you said, but you were laughing now, which ruined the command.
“I’m sorry,” he said against your skin.
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” he admitted, lifting his head with a wrecked smile, “Not really.”
You covered your face with both hands, “I am never leaving this bed.”
“That’s fine.”
“You will have to explain to the team that I died.”
“I’m not telling them anything about this.”
“I died mysteriously.”
“You did not die.”
“I saw the light.”
“That was my lamp.”
You gasped, offended despite yourself, and smacked his shoulder. He laughed again, catching your wrist and kissing your palm before you could hide behind it.
Then his face softened, “Hey,” he whispered.
You looked at him reluctantly.
“I didn’t know either.”
That settled something.
Not all of it, you obviously, were still embarrassed, still shaken, still hyperaware of the wet sheets beneath you. But the panic loosened because he was not looking at you like you were strange. He was looking at you like you had both just stumbled into some secret room neither of you knew existed.
“You didn’t?” you whispered.
“No.” His thumb brushed your cheek, “Not with you. Not like that.”
You swallowed.
“I mean, I’ve heard women talk about it,” you said, because silence was suddenly too intimate and your mouth had always been very good at saving you from feelings by creating new problems, “The women in my family are not exactly subtle. My aunt once gave a full explanation of pelvic floor exercises while making biscuit dough, which was upsetting on several levels, and Nana said she knew a man was selfish in bed because he ate corn on the cob like he was in a race.”
Logan stared at you.
You stared back.
His mouth opened.
“Do not,” you warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You wanted to.”
“I wanted to know what corn did to deserve that.”
You laughed despite yourself, then pressed your hand over your mouth like that might put the sound back, “It was a metaphor.”
“Was it?”
“I don’t know. Nana says things with confidence and everyone just accepts them.”
His eyes were warm now, amused and affectionate and still a little dazed, “So you had family warnings?”
“I had family folklore. There is a difference.”
“About this?”
“About everything. Bodies. Men. Marriage. Pregnancy. Why you should not trust a man who owns too many novelty mugs. But hearing something over pie and having it happen in your boyfriend’s bed are not the same.”
His expression went soft again at boyfriend.
That one still got him sometimes.
You saw it and immediately looked away.
Logan kissed your cheek, “No. They’re not.”
“It’s messy.”
“Yeah.”
“You keep saying yeah to that.”
“Because it is.”
“You could lie.”
“I could,” he said, brushing his mouth along your jaw, “But then you would know I was lying, and we’d both be embarrassed.”
“We are both already embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
You looked at him.
He was still flushed, hair ruined, chest moving too fast, eyes dark every time his gaze dropped to your mouth or your body and then came back like he was trying very hard to be normal.
“You should be a little embarrassed,” you said.
“Why?”
“You have national-park face.”
His brows drew together. “What?”
“The face men make when they discover something and immediately want to name it after themselves.”
For one second, Logan did nothing.
Then he laughed so hard he had to tuck his face into your neck again.
You laughed too, helpless and warm and still shaky, and wrapped your arms around him because it felt better than hiding. He was heavy over you, careful with his weight, one forearm still braced beside your head, the other hand tucked under your thigh like he had forgotten to let go.
The laughter faded slowly.
The room went quiet again.
You became aware of him in pieces. The heat of his body. The damp skin where his stomach pressed yours. The fact that he was still inside you, still hard, still trying very hard not to move because you had startled yourself badly enough that his own body had become secondary.
Something tender tugged at your chest.
Then something warmer.
You slid one hand down his back, slower this time, feeling the muscles there tense beneath your palm.
Logan’s breath caught.
Your gaze lifted to his.
“Cherry,” he said.
“What?”
“Careful.”
That made your stomach dip, “You stopped,” you whispered.
“You panicked.”
“Yes, but you stopped.”
“I’m not going to keep going while you’re upset.”
“I know.” Your hand pressed flat between his shoulder blades, then drifted lower, “I like that.”
His face softened.
Then your hips shifted, barely.
His jaw tightened.
“I also like that,” you added.
“Baby.”
“You didn’t finish.”
“I’m fine.”
“That is a lie.”
He closed his eyes briefly, “It is a very polite lie.”
“It’s not convincing.”
“I’m trying to be decent.”
“You are inside me,” you said, eyes widening a little at your own bluntness. “I think we have moved past decent.”
His laugh came out rough, almost pained. “Fair.”
You touched his face, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, “I’m okay.”
His eyes searched yours, “Sensitive?”
“Very.”
“Too much?”
You considered it honestly, because he deserved more than bravado and you were too shaky for lies anyway. Your body still felt tender and open, every nerve bright from what had happened. The idea of moving made your stomach flutter with both want and caution.
“A lot,” you said, “Not too much.”
Logan’s expression flickered, “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll tell me if that changes?”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
You smiled faintly, “I promise.”
His exhale was slow.
You lifted your hips just enough to feel him drag inside you.
Both of you froze.
The sensitivity made your breath catch, but the look on Logan’s face made heat rush through you all over again. His eyes went dark, mouth parting, the tendons in his neck shifting as he fought not to react too much.
“Oh,” you whispered.
His laugh was low and ruined, “Yeah?”
“You are under structural strain.”
He stared at you.
Then laughed again, forehead dropping briefly to yours. “Structural strain?”
“I am simply saying the architecture is compromised. One of my friends told me about it when she was complaining about her model building exercise.”
“Please stop talking about architecture while I’m inside you.”
“You’re the one lying about being fine.”
“I’m trying not to finish in two seconds after you just-” He stopped, jaw flexing.
Your cheeks went hot, “After I just what?”
His eyes lifted to yours, and for a second, the room forgot the joke.
“After you just surprised both of us,” he said.
Your heart stumbled.
That was better. That was so much better than any filthy line he could have given you right then. Not because you did not want him filthy - you absolutely did, unfortunately - but because this had been new for both of you. Something strange and startling your bodies had found together and he didn’t make it feel like a trick. He made it feel like discovery.
You kissed him.
He made a soft sound against your mouth and kissed you back with immediate, almost grateful heat.
This time, when you shifted beneath him, he followed.
Slowly.
He eased into motion like he was learning you all over again after the shock of it, like your body had become new information he wanted to handle carefully. His hand stayed beneath your thigh, keeping you open but not too much, thumb stroking once near your knee when your breath hitched. His other hand slid under your back and held you closer, his forearm warm across your spine.
You clung to him.
The sensitivity was intense, enough that every thrust made your stomach tighten and your fingers press into his back. But it did not feel bad. It felt full, deep, almost tender now that the panic had passed. Logan kept his mouth near yours, breathing with you, kissing you when your face pinched, pausing once when you made a sharper sound and waiting until you whispered, “Still okay.”
That did something to him too.
You felt it in the way his rhythm faltered.
“You keep checking on me,” you murmured.
“Yeah.”
“Even now.”
“Especially now.”
Your chest ached.
You kissed his jaw, then the corner of his mouth, “You can move, Logan.”
His hips stuttered, “I am moving.”
“You can move more.”
His eyes squeezed shut for a second, “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“You’re sensitive.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want-”
“I’ll tell you,” you promised. Your hand slid into his hair, tugging gently until he opened his eyes, “I’ll tell you. But I want you too.”
The words settled between you.
His hips drove deeper, his hand gripping your thigh more firmly, his mouth dropping to your neck as a rough groan left him. You arched under him, fingers dragging down his back again, and he shuddered hard enough that you felt it through your whole body.
“There,” you breathed, soft and pleased.
He lifted his head, eyes dark and almost disbelieving, “Did you just there me?”
“You liked it.”
“I did.”
“You’re welcome.”
His laugh broke into a moan when you tightened around him, and the sound of it made you bold in a way the embarrassment had not managed to kill. You wrapped your leg higher around his waist and pulled him closer, even though the sensitivity made your breath snag, even though your body was still trembling, because you wanted him like this. Wanted the flushed, undone version of him. Wanted the Logan who had stopped for you, checked on you, laughed with you, then lost his mind because you asked him to.
His rhythm grew rougher.
The bed shifted beneath you, his breath hot at your throat, his hand sliding from your thigh to your hip and back again like he needed to keep reminding himself you were there, real and okay and wanting him. He kissed you between uneven breaths, messy and open, and you caught his face in both hands because you wanted to see him.
“Cherry,” he whispered.
“I’ve got you.”
The words came out before you could think about them.
His eyes flashed.
Then his face crumpled into something so raw and beautiful you almost forgot how to breathe. You held him as he came, one hand in his hair, the other pressed firm against his back. His hips pushed deep, body shuddering over yours, a broken groan buried against your mouth as he finally let go. You felt every second of it, the tension leaving him in waves, his hands gripping you like you were the only solid thing in the room.
Afterward, he stayed over you, shaking slightly.
You stroked his hair.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
The sheets were ruined. Your legs felt unreliable. Logan’s breathing slowly evened out against your neck. Somewhere, faintly, his phone buzzed on the nightstand and neither of you moved to check it.
Then, because silence was starting to get dangerous and sentimental, you whispered, “There. Justice.”
Logan lifted his head slowly.
His eyes were still unfocused, “What?”
“For your dick.”
He blinked.
You looked at him solemnly, “It suffered nobly.”
For one stunned second, he just stared at you.
Then he laughed so hard he nearly collapsed on top of you.
“Cherry,” he groaned, face dropping to your shoulder.
“What? I am acknowledging sacrifice.”
“I cannot believe you just said that.”
“You were being all heroic and unfinished. It felt wrong.”
He was still laughing, warm and breathless against your skin, “Heroic and unfinished.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s going on my tombstone.”
“No, your tombstone will say beloved boyfriend, terrible liar, survived unknown consequences.”
He lifted his head, grin lazy and helpless and so full of affection it made your chest tighten. “Unknown consequences?”
You gestured weakly at the bed, “My body, apparently.”
The smile softened. His hand came up to brush your hair back from your face, thumb lingering near your cheek.
“Mine too,” he said quietly.
Your throat went tight.
You hated when he did that. Took your joke and found the soft centre of it like he had a map.
You looked away, “We need a towel.”
“Yeah.”
“And probably new sheets.”
“Yeah.”
“And I would like the record to show that I did not plan this.”
“Noted.”
“I also think we should consider a towel policy.”
“A towel policy.”
“For future unknown consequences.”
Logan stared at you. Then the national-park face came back.
Your eyes narrowed, “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked ambitious.”
“I feel ambitious.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“You said future.”
“I said policy.”
“You said future.”
“I am revoking the word.”
He kissed your cheek, smiling against your skin, “Too late.”
You groaned and covered your face.
This time, when he pulled your hands away, you let him.
His kiss was soft. Sweet. Still a little amused, but mostly warm. The kind of kiss that made the mess feel less embarrassing and the discovery feel less frightening. When he finally shifted away to get the towel from the drawer, he moved carefully, kissing your knee when you winced at the sensitivity and murmuring an apology into your skin even though you told him he was being dramatic.
He cleaned you up with a tenderness that made you quieter than you wanted to be.
So you said, “Nana would have opinions about this.”
Logan froze.
Slowly, he looked up, “Please don’t.”
“She would say something about preparation.”
“No.”
“And mattress protectors.”
“Cherry.”
“And then she would ask whether you were generous.”
His head dropped forward, shoulders shaking.
You smiled at the ceiling, pleased with yourself.
When he looked up again, his eyes were bright with laughter, “And what would you say?”
You turned your head toward him.
He was kneeling beside the bed, hair wrecked, mouth soft, towel in hand, looking at you like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.
Your face warmed.
“I’d say you listen,” you said.
The laughter faded out of him.
For a second, the room was very still.
Then Logan leaned down and kissed the inside of your thigh, gentle enough that it made you ache.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
You nodded, suddenly shy.
He kissed your hip. Your stomach. The place just below your ribs where your skin was still warm from his mouth earlier.
“Good,” he said softly.
“Do not get emotional.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just pleased.”
You smiled despite yourself, “Same thing in a nicer font.”
His laugh brushed over your skin, and this time, when he climbed back into bed and pulled you carefully against him, the sheets were still a mess and your body was still tender and nothing about the night had gone as expected.
But Logan’s arm was warm around your waist.
His mouth found the back of your shoulder.
And when he murmured, “Towel policy starts tomorrow,” you laughed so hard you forgot to be embarrassed.
Check Engine Light // John Logan x Fem!Reader - [Chapter Twelve]
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
You stared at the message for so long that the screen dimmed. The words remained there when you tapped it again.
It was simple and uncomplicated. A request for coffee. It made you nervous. If Logan had sent a paragraph, you would’ve known what to do. If he’d apologized again, you would have known what to do.
Those things were familiar.
You set your phone down on your bed and stood, and then immediately sat back down. Your thoughts felt chaotic. The truth was, part of you wanted to say yes immediately, like the answer had appeared in your mind almost the second you’d read the message.
Of course, you wanted to see him; you missed him. The idea of sitting across from him at a coffee shop sounded infinitely better than another week of pretending you didn’t look for him everywhere.
The problem was wanting something and being ready for it weren’t necessarily the same thing. You walked over to your window, deep in thought, and looked out across campus. You saw a few groups of students wandering between buildings.
Somewhere across campus, Logan was probably staring at his own phone. Waiting. The realization made your stomach twist. For weeks, you’d been the one always waiting. Now, he was waiting for you. You weren’t petty enough to enjoy that. If anything, it made you feel worse. Eventually, you picked up your phone again, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, and typed.
You: Coffee sounds okay.
A few minutes later, your phone buzzed.
Logan: Okay. Just coffee.
The corner of your mouth lifted. You could practically hear him say it. A moment later, another text appeared.
Logan: Whenever you’re comfortable
That one hit harder. He wasn’t pushing, or rushing, or trying to convince you. He was leaving the decision in your hands.
--
Coffee was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, five days away. You immediately regretted agreeing to it, but then spent the next five days looking forward to it. The contradiction drove you insane. You were just nervous about it.
On Wednesday, the bell above the door chimed softly as you entered the small café just off campus. Warm air wrapped around you immediately, carrying the scent of coffee beans and pastries.
The café was busy enough to feel comfortable, but not crowded enough to feel overwhelming. Students occupied most of the tables, and a professor you vaguely recognized sat in the corner reading a newspaper.
For a brief moment, you thought you might have been early, but then you spotted him. Logan was already there waiting. He was sitting near the window, two cups already waiting on the table in front of him.
The sight threw you off guard a bit. It was the fact that he’d beaten you there by at least ten minutes, and the effort and intention that it took. He’d made sure to show up early.
Logan looked up before you could compose herself, and the second he saw you, he stood. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, a smile appeared. It was small, tentative, and a little nervous; it was a smile you’d never seen on him before. You realized he looked terrified. The realization was so unexpected that it completely disarmed you.
This wasn’t the confident hockey player who could charm an entire room without trying. This wasn’t the guy who knew exactly what to say. This was a boy standing beside a coffee shop table, hoping you hadn’t changed your mind.
You felt something other than hurt for the first time in a while. You felt hope. It was small and fragile, but it was undeniably there. As you walked toward the table, you realized your heart was beating much faster than it should have been.
“Hi.”
The word felt strangely inadequate after everything that had happened between them. Logan seemed to think so, too. For a second, he looked as though he had prepared an entire speech and then forgotten every single line the moment you walked through the door.
“Hey.”
You set your bag down across the back of your chair before you sat. The table suddenly felt small. There was no crowd of teammates around you, no game happening in the background. No phones buzzing every thirty seconds. It was just the two of you.
Logan sat across from you, and his coffee remained untouched.
“You remembered,” you said, nodding to the coffee.
“Vanilla latte,” he said.
You smiled slightly. For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. It was like you were both trying to figure out how to occupy the same space again.
Eventually, Logan leaned back slightly in his chair. His hands wrapped around his coffee cup.
“How’s your week been?”
You laughed softly. The question felt absurdly normal.
“Kind of terrible,” you said.
To your surprise, Logan laughed too.
“Yeah.”
The sound of his laughter settled some of the tension between you. For the first time since you’d arrived, you felt yourself relax slightly.
The conversation moved slowly after that. Neither of you seemed eager to rush toward the difficult parts, so instead, they talked about classes, about the boys, and about one of your professors assigning a ridiculous amount of reading. It was little things; safe things.
Halfway through a story about Mel accidentally locking you out of your dorm, you realized something. Logan hadn’t looked at his phone once. The phone sat face down on the table beside him, silent and ignored.
You found yourself staring at it, and Logan followed your gaze. A flicker of understanding crossed his face, and without a word, he picked it up and slipped it into his jacket pocket. It didn’t go unnoticed by you, and something warm and painful settled into your chest because he knew exactly why you’d been looking at it. Instead of making a joke or pretending not to notice, he’d simply removed it from the table.
The conversation continued, and you told another story. Then another. And somewhere in the middle of explaining a disaster involving an exam, you stopped. The realization hit you so suddenly that it stole the rest of the sentence right out of your mouth.
Logan frowned, “What?”
“You stopped talking.”
The words landed gently, just an observation. You remembered the fight at the garage. How you told him that you stopped finishing stories because you didn’t think he was listening.
The memory flashed through your mind, and apparently through Logan’s as well. His expression shifted almost immediately. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the café filled the space between you.
When Logan finally spoke, his voice was lower.
“I keep thinking about that.”
You knew immediately what he meant. The stories, the listening, the garage. All of it. Logan rubbed his thumb along the side of his coffee cup.
“I didn’t realize you were doing it,” he said. His eyes lifted to yours.
“I know.”
Logan nodded slowly. The answer didn’t seem to surprise him. You wondered how many times he replayed that night in his head. A hundred? A thousand? You’d done the exact same thing. Every single sentence, every confession, every painful truth, you replayed over and over.
Logan let out a quiet breath, then leaned forward slightly. It was enough for you to know that the conversation was shifting away from the safe subjects and toward the real reason why they were here.
“I talked to Garrett.”
You smiled faintly.
“He told me something I didn’t want to hear,” Logan continued.
You waited, and Logan looked down at his coffee before looking back at you.
“He said I kept acting as if this happened overnight.”
The words settled between them, replaying the fight in your head.
Logan shook his head slightly, “I think I wanted it to be one mistake.”
His voice was quiet, thoughtful.
“I wanted it to be Malone’s, or movie night. But it wasn’t. It was all of it.”
You found yourself unable to look away from him. This was different. It wasn’t an apology or an excuse. It was understanding. Real understanding.
It took a moment before either spoke. You looked down at the table, realizing that you weren’t really talking about the fight anymore. You were talking about all of the things underneath it that had led you there.
Across the table, Logan seemed content to let the silence sit. That alone felt different. A month ago, he would’ve rushed to fill it or make a joke. Now, he simply waited.
Eventually, you looked back up, “What did Garrett say?”
A faint smile touched Logan’s mouth, “He said a lot of things.”
“I believe it.”
The smile grew slightly, and for the first time since you’d arrived, it reached his eyes. Logan leaned back in his chair.
“Most of it was profanity.”
You laughed because that part, you could easily imagine. Garrett wasn’t exactly known for his gentle delivery sometimes.
“Then he told me I was looking for an overnight solution.”
You frowned slightly.
“I think I wanted to show up to the garage, say the right thing, and somehow make everything better.”
The honesty of it caught you off guard, because it was exactly what you would’ve expected from him. Logan was a fixer; when something went wrong, he worked harder. He practiced more or pushed more. It was how he’d approached every challenge in his life. The problem was that relationships weren’t hockey. There wasn’t a drill for this. There were no extra hours of practice that could undo weeks of hurt.
Logan let out a quiet breath, “Garrett told me I wasn’t listening.”
You raised an eyebrow, “That couldn’t have been fun for you.”
A reluctant smile appeared, “No.”
The smile disappeared.
“He said every time someone tried to tell me something was wrong, I immediately started looking for a solution instead of actually hearing what they were saying.”
You, at the time, always thought that it was sweet he wanted to fix things; maybe it still was. But you understood what Garrett meant. Sometimes fixing wasn’t the same thing as listening.
Logan looked out of the window briefly. The afternoon sunlight spilled across the sidewalk outside.
When he spoke again, his voice sounded thoughtful.
“I think that’s why I kept apologizing.”
“What?” you asked.
Logan rubbed a hand across his jaw, as if he was still trying to untangle the thought.
“After movie night, after everything. I kept apologizing because I thought if I said sorry enough, we’d be okay.”
The sadness in his voice surprised you, because it wasn’t self-pity; it sounded more like regret. The kind that arrives after you’ve finally understood something you wish you’d realized sooner.
“I thought I was keeping everything together.”
His confession was almost a whisper, and somehow, it hit harder than anything else he’d said. You’d remembered that version of him, the one who kept saying he was fine and that everything would calm down. But then there was always the next thing.
“The stupid part is, I really believed it,” he added.
You’d believed it too. That was the tragedy of the whole situation. Nobody had lied. Nobody had stopped caring; that was never the issue. Life had simply gotten louder, and faster, and heavier, and somewhere in the middle of it all, you’d lost sight of each other.
It sat heavily between you.
“Why now?” you asked.
Logan frowned slightly, “What do you mean?”
“You could’ve told me all of this at the garage.”
Logan thought about the question, and silence stretched a bit between you. There was no defensiveness in his expression.
“Because I didn’t understand it then.”
Logan held your gaze.
“I understood that you were hurt, and that I’d messed up,” he said, “But I was still looking at everything from my side.”
Logan leaned forward slightly again.
“At the garage, I kept thinking about why I was late, and about practice. I wasn’t thinking about what it felt like to be the person sitting there waiting.”
More than anything else, this was what you had been trying to explain all along. You didn’t realize you stopped breathing until you let out a slow exhale.
You’d felt as though you were standing on opposite sides of a river for so long, but now, for the first time, it felt like he had crossed the distance to understand you.
Eventually, you leaned back in your chair.
“What happens if things get busy again?” you asked. The question came out before you could stop it.
The question wasn’t really about schedules, or hockey, or scouts. It was about trust. What happened when life got loud again? Inevitably, it would.
When Logan finally spoke, his voice was soft, “I think that’s the wrong question.”
You furrowed her eyebrows.
“Not because it’s a bad question,” he said, “Because things are going to get busy again.”
The honesty of the answer surprised you. Logan folded his hands together.
“Hockey isn’t going to get less demanding. The NHL definitely won’t be less demanding, and I’m probably going to have weeks where I’m stressed.”
You listened quietly. There was something strangely reassuring about the lack of false promises. If he’d sat there and claimed that he’d never make another mistake, you wouldn’t have believed him.
“The difference is that now I know what happens if I stop paying attention. I know what it costs,” he said.
Something tightened in your chest. You believed him. Not completely, not enough to erase every fear that you’d carried into this conversation, but enough that the walls you’d spent since the fight felt slightly less solid.
“When we were at the garage, you asked why you were always the thing that got dropped.”
The memory made your stomach twist.
“I kept thinking about that. I think about it every day, honestly,” he said.
You swallowed.
“I made a list,” he said.
“A list?”
A small, self-deprecating smile appeared.
“Dean laughed at me.”
A surprised laugh escaped you. Logan laughed too.
“I deserved it.”
“What kind of list?” you asked.
“Things I was doing that I didn’t even realize I was doing,” he said.
You found herself leaning forward slightly. Logan counted them on his fingers.
“Checking my phone every thirty seconds, saying yes to everything, assuming I’d have time later.”
The last one seemed to linger, because you both knew it wasn’t really about scheduling. It was about priorities and taking people for granted because you believed they’d still be there tomorrow.
You looked at him for a long moment. The boy sitting across from you wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t magically transformed and offering impossible promises. He was simply showing you the work. The uncomfortable, unglamorous work of looking at yourself honestly. Somehow, that affected you more than any grand speech could ever have.
For the first time since the fight, you felt the distance between them shift. It was like a bridge was slowly being rebuilt one board at a time.
For a little while, silence consumed you again. You had finally reached the part that mattered: what was underneath the arguments and misunderstandings and hurt feelings.
The part where two people sat across from each other and tried to decide whether they still trusted what they had. You weren’t sure you had an answer yet.
Logan wasn’t asking you for certainty or to forgive him. He was simply sitting there, telling you the truth and showing you the work he’s done.
A few people ducked into the café, bringing a rush of cool air with them every time the door opened. You looked back at Logan, who was already looking at you. You couldn’t remember the last time you had simply sat together without something looming or waiting.
“What?” Logan asked, his head tilted slightly.
“Nothing.”
A familiar smile appeared on Logan’s face.
“You’ve never been good at lying.”
You laughed softly, “Neither have you.”
“That’s not true.”
“It absolutely is.”
The tension that had existed between you seemed to disappear, just long enough to remind you what being around him used to feel like. How it was easy.
You’d spent so much time missing him that you’d forgotten something important. You liked him. Not just loved him, but liked him. Liked talking to him. Liked laughing with him. Liked the way conversations seemed to wander into completely ridiculous territory whenever you were together long enough.
Somewhere along the way, all of that had gotten buried between stress and disappointment. Now, sitting across from him, you caught a glimpse of it again.
The conversation seemed to settle between you, no longer demanding to be dissected or explained. You were just sitting together.
Logan looked like he wanted to say something.
You raised an eyebrow, “What?”
A laugh escaped him, “Nothing.”
He looked toward the window, and then back at you.
“Do you have anywhere you need to be?”
The question caught you off guard.
“Not particularly.”
A small smile appeared.
“Would you maybe want to take a walk?”
It wasn’t dinner, or a grand gesture. It was just a walk. The simplicity of it made something ache pleasantly inside you.
For a second, you considered saying no. Saying yes felt significant. But then you looked at him. You saw the nervousness he was trying, and failing, to hide. The way he’d spent the entire afternoon listening instead of defending himself. You saw the boy you’d fallen in love with. The answer came easily.
“Yes.”
The smile that spread across Logan’s face was immediate.
--
The weather this time of day was beautiful, and students wandered across the quad in small groups before the next round of classes. For a few minutes, you walked without any particular destination.
You shoved your hands into the pockets of your jeans and glanced up at the sky. Patches of blue sky were visible through the clouds. Logan kicked absentmindedly at a pebble in the middle of the sidewalk. The sight made you smile.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep asking.”
Logan’s mouth twitched, “I’ve missed that.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them, and you felt the air leave your lungs. You could tell he’d intended to keep that particular thought to himself, but it was too late.
You reached the edge of the quad and turned toward the path that ran alongside the athletic fields. The area was quieter here. You talked about a few things. You told him about a movie you’d watched that you thought he’d love.
You reached the far end of the path and slowed near a set of empty bleachers overlooking one of the practice fields. A few athletes were scattered across the grass in the distance.
Neither one of you seemed particularly eager to turn around. You rested your forearms on the railing, and Logan stood beside you.
Eventually, Logan let out a slow breath. You turned toward him, and he was staring out across the field.
The breeze lifted a few loose strands of hair across your face, and you tucked them behind your ear.
Logan rubbed the back of his neck.
“I don’t want things to go back to how they were. Not because I don’t want you, that’s not what I mean. I don’t want us to start over. I want us to build something better.”
You felt as though the ground had shifted beneath you. Logan looked at you, waiting for you to respond. You realized you already knew your answer.
The question wasn’t whether you still loved him; that had never been the question. The question was whether you were brave enough to try again. Standing there beside him, hearing him talk this afternoon, you weren’t nearly as afraid of the answer as you had been a week ago.
For a while, you had been carrying around a fear that you hadn’t fully acknowledged. A fear that if you found your way back to each other, nothing would change. That you would have one emotional conversation, make up, and slowly slide into the exact same habits.
You looked at him.
“Are you scared?” you asked. The words surprised both of them.
He laughed softly at your honesty.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been scared since that night in the garage.”
You folded your arms loosely.
“Of what?”
A small, self-deprecating smile appeared on his face.
“You really want the list?”
You laughed softly. He smiled at you before it faded.
“That you’d decide this wasn’t worth it,” he answered finally.
You looked at him as he looked back out at the field.
“I kept thinking about everything you said. The worst part was realizing you would’ve been completely justified.”
“Logan—”
“No,” he shook his head, “I’m serious. You would have been justified.”
You nodded softly.
“I had a much smoother version of this conversation planned,” he said.
A surprised smile tugged at your mouth, “Really?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
You laughed again.
The air between you seemed charged with something you were not quite ready to name. You became suddenly aware of how close he was standing. Close enough to remember the memory of his hand finding yours, the way he always smiled into a kiss.
You looked at him, your heartbeat quickening. Logan’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, and then immediately returned to your eyes. The movement was tiny, but you noticed it.
He glanced back down toward the path, realizing it was getting late.
“Can I walk you back to your car?” he asked.
The question was simple, and you recognized that it was the natural conclusion to the afternoon. The realization surprised you with a small rush of disappointment. You missed spending time with him.
You smiled, “Yeah.”
Together, you stepped away from the railing and started back toward campus. Your shoulders occasionally brushed as you walked, but neither of you commented on it or moved away.
The conversation drifted to easier subjects again; Logan filled you in on the garage and Jeff, and you talked about a book you were reading. By the time you reached the parking lot of the café, the sky had turned fully gold.
You slowed beside your car. The moment you did, the conversation naturally faded as both of you recognized where you were.
“I had a really good time today,” Logan said.
You looked up at him.
“Me too,” you said, smiling.
The answering smile that appeared on Logan’s face was immediate.
You rested one hand on your car door. Logan was close, but not close enough. Logan’s hands remained buried in his pockets, which you thought was probably for the best. You knew those hands, and all you could think about at this moment was what they felt like wrapped around yours or your waist.
You looked away, toward the row of parked cars and literally anything else. It wasn’t that you wanted the old relationship back; it was that you’d spent the last few hours remembering why you’d fallen in love with the boy in front of you in the first place.
You looked back at him and noticed he was nervous again.
“Y/N?” he asked, and the way he said your name caused your stomach to flip.
“Yeah?”
Logan let out a small breath, as though he was reconsidering what he was going to ask.
“Would it be okay if I kissed you?”
The world stopped. You took a second before stepping closer to him. His gaze settled on yours.
“Yes,” you finally said, softly.
There was no point in pretending. You loved him. Maybe always will.
When Logan leaned in, it felt less like a dramatic reunion and more like coming home after being away for too long. His lips softly met yours, and you threaded your hands through his hair, the kiss deepening.
When you pulled away, his hand found yours first, fingers threading together.
You squeezed his hand. Both of you laughed softly at how nervous you were. You realized that this wasn’t erasing what had happened before. This was something better; a new beginning. That felt like enough.
“What?” you said, laughing softly as he stared at you.
“I missed you,” he said honestly.
You laughed, squeezing his hand again.
“Can I take you to dinner this weekend?” It surprised you because there were no assumptions or pressure, just an invitation.
“John Logan, are you asking me on a date?”
He pretended to consider it before laughing, “Yes.”
“Okay.”
You reached up toward him again, kissing him as his hands found your waist. You stepped back before finally opening your car door.
Logan stepped back as you slid into the driver’s seat. You gave a small wave as you closed the door. Logan was still standing there, hands shoved into his pockets and watching you.
It was similar to the same image that night at the garage, only this time it felt completely different. That night, you’d driven away, wondering if you were losing each other. Tonight, you were driving away, knowing you had found your way back. Not to what you were before, but something new and stronger.
beau maxwell confronts you about your tiktok - drabble #1
🩵💗 - established relationship (bf/gf), cuteness galore, social media au ig, beau maxwell x fem!reader
word count: 782
"What's this?" Beau holds his phone screen in your face.
You try to play innocent, shrugging. "The truth?"
"You thought you could just post this and not tag me?" He's trying his hardest to look annoyed, but for some reason, he never can with you. "You know how many people have sent this to me?"
"I'm sorry that I made you famous, babe." A giggle emerges. "It's a trend."
The TikTok in question is three photos: one of you and Beau looking horribly in love, one of Beau's summer house in Cape Cod, and one more of Beau, asleep in your bed wearing your pajama pants. (He claimed yours were comfier.)
The first photo read, "This is me and my boyfriend Beau. We've been together for three years."
The second said, "His family owns the most perfect TSITP summer house on Cape Cod"
The third went, "and that's my why."
"This trend-" He glared. "Is horrible."
"I don't know. I'd say it's pretty funny."
"I knew it." He pretends to wipe away tears. "I knew you were using me for my money."
You nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry this is how you had to find out. I felt like it was obvious."
"You fooled me," Beau responds. "Is there any way to convince you to love me for me?"
You stood up, phone still on the couch as your hands slid up his chest. "I can think of a way."
"Yeah?" His voice cracked, and you couldn't help but smirk. "What do you have in mind?"
You shrug, kissing his cheek before walking towards the kitchen. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."
You'd gotten to the fridge before his hands were on you, spinning you around in his arms. "Oh-" His lips collided against yours, pinning you against the fridge. You sighed, pulling him closer. "Beau-"
"I love you." He spoke against your lips. "You cruel, cruel woman."
"Cruel?" You gasped as he kissed down your neck. "Try hilarious."
"So, are you convinced?" His voice sent chills down your spine.
"Very." You replied. "Very convinced."
"I don't know." He hummed. "I don't get that vibe from you."
"That vibe?" You scoff, pulling back. "What sort of vibe am I giving?"
"I'm not sure." He hooked his arms underneath your legs, carrying you to the bedroom. "Guess we'll find out together."
...
SPECIAL ADD ON - thanks to the anonymous person who gave me all the inspo for this <33
"Look at this." Beside you lies Beau, who is propped up against his pillow, watching highlights of some football player you don't know. "They're hilarious."
"Who, exactly?" He sets down his phone, giving you his full attention. "What did Dean say?"
"It's not Dean." You giggle. "It's the people in my comment section."
"Of that TikTok?" Beau's interest is officially piqued. "What are they saying?"
"Look for yourself." You hand him your phone, watching over his shoulder as he scrolls down. You smirk; the one he's looking at right now is your favorite.
"I am literally that little rat."
"Is that a rat?" Beau squints. "It looks like a human."
"Whatever." You stick your tongue out. "It's a rat-human hybrid."
"Oh wow." Beau's eyes widen. "This one is- something."
"I think it's hilarious." You giggle. "That little crying cat is my favorite reaction photo."
You look over and laugh at his face. It's no longer in shock. He looks the cockiest and proudest of himself he's ever been. "Don't get too confident now."
"Too late." Beau smirked. "Should I apply for Sexiest Man Alive now?" He puts a finger on his chin, like he's genuinely thinking about it. "I think so."
"Shut up." You glare, trying to pull your phone out of his hand. "I've created a monster."
"One more!" He cries, holding it out of your reach.
You squint, like you're wrestling him for your phone. "Fine. One more."
"Okay, okay." He looks back at your screen, giggling. "It's right below the other one."
"What is it?" You look over his shoulder once more, cackling. "Oh my god, I love it. I love it so much!"
"That was my original boyfriend, you know." Beau looks over, scoffing at the dazed look on your face. "What a dreamboat."
"You have a perfectly good dreamboat right here." He raises a brow.
You shrug, taking your phone out of his grip. "You'll do."
"Hey!" He gasps, holding a hand to his heart. "Take it back."
"I won't." You shake your head. "You can't make me."
"Oh yeah?" He's taken that as a challenge. In a moment, he's all over you, attacking you with kisses. It's horrible. "Take it back!"
"Mercy, please!" You screech, giggling as he continues. "I-"
"Yeah?" He's still going.
You can't breathe from all the laughter. "You're a dreamboat, you're a dreamboat!"
You woke up with your face half-buried in your pillow, one leg outside the sheets, one earring still in, and the very distinct feeling that something catastrophic had happened.
Catastrophic in the way that meant your life had shifted slightly to the left while you were busy wearing Betty Boop red lipstick and making choices on a porch.
You blinked at the sliver of sunlight cutting through your curtains.
Your head softly throbbed once, a polite warning from your liver- in response, slowly, you lifted your face from the pillow and immediately regretted it because the room tilted just enough to remind you of two things.
One, you had beaten Dean at shots. Again.
Two, you had kissed Logan.
Not just kissed him.
That would have been misleading. That would have been the polite, edited version you could tell your mother if your mother were not your mother, and therefore not already spiritually aware that something had happened.
You had kissed him first, yes, which you considered important for the record, but then Logan had bundled you against the porch banister, pushed his thigh between yours, kissed you like restraint had become offensive, and left you with smudged lipstick, ruined pin curls, and the kind of memory that made your entire body go warm before breakfast.
You groaned into the pillow, then smiled into the plush case and groaned again because smiling meant it had actually happened.
Your phone buzzed on the bedside table.
You reached blindly for it, knocked over a scrunchie, nearly dropped the phone on your face, then finally unlocked it with one eye half-open.
There were messages.
So many messages.
Mama 🌽❤️
Drink water, baby. Ginger tea if your stomach is upset. Eat something salty. Your aunt says pickle juice but she is wrong. x
Daddy 🐑
Hope you had fun, princess. Be kind to your liver today. ❤️
Mama 🌽❤️
Also your father says he is joking but he is not. Eat something.
You smiled despite yourself, warmth blooming through the hangover haze. Of course Mama knew. Not specifics, hopefully. Please God, not specifics. But she knew enough to send hangover instructions and pre-emptive emotional support to your liver.
There were also messages from the group chat.
🐈⬛ [Allie]
soooooooooooooo
Betty Boop disappeared last night
with a bird
interesting migratory behaviour
personal play boy bunny 🐰 [Hannah]
Are you alive? Also please tell us everything.
Also, you changed everyone's names in your phone- I managed to identify half of them and included names in their contact card.
I would've changed them back, but then you insisted on using your phone to show beau some curtains for the beach house.
🐈⬛ [Allie]
I AM NOT BEING ANNOYING I AM BEING A WOMAN IN STEM
AND Beau's beach house would benefit from new curtains, after he set half of them on fire with a tequila molatov
personal play boy bunny 🐰 [Hannah]
You are majoring in theatre.
🐈⬛ [Allie]
Exactly. The science of human disaster.
Bee-man 🐝 [Tucker]
You got home safe. I walked you back. You tried to explain why bees are unfairly marketed as less romantic than butterflies. You’re welcome.
Bee-man 🐝 [Tucker]
Also you said Winston would understand me. And a cow named Geraldine.
You pressed the heel of your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly.
Then you saw Logan’s messages.
Mechanic 🔧
You up?
Then ten minutes later,
Mechanic 🔧
Coffee?
That was it.
No awkward “about last night.” No over-explained paragraph pretending he had not kissed the taste of your own lipstick out of your mouth.
Just, ‘coffee?’
As if the answer to whatever had happened between you on the porch was simple.
Mechanic 🔧
I want to see you.
Your stomach flipped so suddenly you sat upright, which was a mistake.
“Oh,” you whispered to your room, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Bad choice.”
Your phone buzzed again.
Mechanic 🔧
Alive?
You typed back too quickly.
cherry 🍒
yes alive!! sorry. mildly haunted by vodka but otherwise functional.
Mechanic 🔧
Dean said you beat him at shots.
cherry 🍒
Dean should be ashamed.
Mechanic 🔧
He is. Loudly.
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.
Mechanic 🔧
Coffee?
You stared at the word.
Then at yourself in the mirror across the room, hair flattened on one side, one earring, smudged mascara you had apparently missed despite washing your face, sweatshirt twisted around one shoulder.
A vision of what could happen after your friend group and alcohol.
cherry 🍒
give me 35 minutes.
Mechanic 🔧
I’ll give you 45.
cherry 🍒
that was both compassionate and offensive.
Mechanic 🔧
Drink water, Cherry.
You looked at the phone for one long second.
Then flew out of bed.
Getting ready took forty-two minutes.
You knew because you checked twice, once while brushing your teeth and once while standing in a towel in front of your wardrobe trying to decide whether looking nice for coffee the morning after a porch makeout was too eager, not eager enough, or simply a normal response to being asked for coffee by a man who had learned the exact shape of your mouth less than twelve hours ago.
You showered. Washed your hair. Reapplied moisturiser and depuffed your face with cold spoons because Mama had taught you many things and one of them was that swelling respected temperature. You drank a full glass of water. Ate half a banana because Hannah’s emergency snack doctrine had finally reached you.
Then came the outfit.
Coffee was not a date.
Unless it was.
But he had not said date.
He had said coffee.
After kissing you.
After asking if you were alive.
After telling you to drink water like a man with either compassion or dangerous boyfriend potential.
You chose denim shorts, a deep red fitted top with a little wrap detail at the front and the red ballet flats that always made you feel like you had escaped from a French film with good lighting. Gold jewellery. Cherry gloss instead of lipstick because morning lipstick felt aggressive unless one was attending brunch with enemies. Hair brushed out, loose and shiny, clipped back with a small red bow.
You looked in the mirror.
Casual.
Pretty.
Not insane. Possibly insane if someone knew the internal labour behind it, but externally normal.
Your phone buzzed.
Mechanic 🔧
Here.
! cherry 🍒 reacted ♥️ to the message
Your heart did something that should have required medical attention.
You grabbed your bag, paused, added mints, lip balm, tissues, and painkillers because being kissed did not cancel out a hangover, then hurried downstairs.
Logan was leaning against his truck when you stepped outside.
He looked unfairly awake.
Jeans, a dark shirt, open plaid overshirt rolled at the sleeves, hair still slightly damp like he had showered not long ago. He had one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a coffee he must have brought for himself on the way, though the cup was untouched. His eyes lifted when the door closed behind you.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
The morning seemed too bright for what you remembered from the porch. Too normal. Too crisp and public. Birds chirped somewhere like they had not been raised properly. A neighbour’s dog barked. A cyclist passed at the end of the street.
Logan looked at you, focussed entirely on your form as you continued your way up to him.
“Morning.”
You walked down the steps, trying very hard not to smile like an idiot, “Morning.”
“You alive?”
“Barely. Tucker walked me home and apparently I lectured him on bee representation.”
“He told me.”
“Did you also tell him he was very polite after catching us?”
Logan’s smile deepened, “Yeah.”
“Good. He deserves public recognition.”
“I’ll get him a plaque.”
“You should.”
You reached the truck but did not immediately move to open the door. Logan stayed where he was, close enough that the space between you felt like it remembered things.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, eyes catching on the glint of your cherry gloss.
Your stomach flipped.
“Hi,” he said again, softer.
You laughed under your breath, “You said that already.”
“Yeah.”
“Are we being strange?”
“A little.”
“Good. I thought it was just me.”
His hand came out of his pocket, fingers barely brushing yours once. Then, he did it again, more purposefully. You looked down as he took your hand.
Sliding his fingers through yours beside his truck in the middle of the morning, like it was the natural next step after kissing you breathless on a porch at Beau’s beach house.
Your fingers curled around his automatically but your brain took a few moments to catch up.
Oh.
Public street.
His hand. Your hand.
Happening.
You looked around, not because you were embarrassed of him, but the world had suddenly gained witnesses it had no business having.
Logan noticed, “You okay?”
“Yes.” You nodded quickly, “Yes. I just-”
“People?”
“Not in a bad way.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed once over your knuckles, “This is.. still new.”
Your chest softened so quickly it was almost embarrassing.
“Yes,” you nodded, “Exactly.”
He opened the passenger door for you, then hesitated before you climbed in, “You free this weekend?”
You looked back at him. “For what?”
His thumb tapped once against the top of the door, he glanced around the two of you and pressed his lips together, “A date.”
Your mouth parted.
“With me,” he added, “In case that needed clarifying.”
You stared at him.
He waited.
“A date,” you repeated.
“Yeah.”
“This weekend.”
“Yeah.”
“With you.”
His mouth twitched, “That part I covered.”
You swallowed, trying to manage the ridiculous swell of happiness in your chest before it rearranged your face into something too obvious, “Yes.”
His expression shifted, relief, then innocent pleasure in the form of warmth that he tried, and failed, to make casual.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” you said, smiling now because you could not stop it, “I would like to go on a date with you.”
His eyes dropped to your smile, then back up to your gaze.
“Good.”
“Good.”
Neither of you moved.
Then someone’s car door slammed down the street, and you both blinked back into the morning.
“Coffee first?” he asked.
“Yes. Before my liver writes a letter to Congress.”
He laughed and helped you into the truck.
The coffee shop was busy enough to make the whole thing feel more real.
Students with laptops. A woman reading at the window. Two guys in Briar hoodies arguing quietly over a group project. The smell of espresso, sugar, toasted bread, and cinnamon wrapped around you the second you stepped inside, and your hangover, mild though it was, responded with deep gratitude.
You stood in line beside Logan, your shoulder brushing his arm. Every time it happened, you had to remind yourself that touching him was allowed now.
Last night had taken all the little almosts - the waist touches, the hovered hands, the glances that lasted too long - and weaved them into something undeniable. Now when Logan’s fingers brushed your lower back as the line moved forward, it did not have to be explained by crowd movement or practical safety. He could just touch you because he wanted to.
You could lean into it because you wanted to.
This was going to be a problem.
A very good problem.
When it was your turn, you ordered your usual, iced coffee, cherry syrup, oat milk, extra ice, and a pastry because Mama had commanded salt and your body had negotiated sugar. Logan ordered a hot coffee and a breakfast sandwich.
You reached for your card. Logan was faster and had already tapped his before it had emerged from your wallet.
You looked at him, “I can buy my own coffee.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you do that?”
“Wanted to.”
“That is not economically logical.”
“It’s coffee.”
“It’s symbolic.”
He took the receipt from the barista, “Then let me be symbolic.”
You stared at him and he met your eyes with a calm smile.
Your stomach gave up its last remaining dignity. While you waited near the end of the counter, Logan took your hand again. It was easier this time. Still shocking you enough that sparks flew through your fingertips. His fingers slid between yours, warm and sure, thumb moving lightly over the side of your hand. You looked down at your joined hands, then up at him.
He was already watching you.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“You are doing a nothing face.”
“I like your shoes.”
You looked down at the red ballet flats, “Thank you. I think they are appropriate for coffee.”
“Good to know.”
“And your shirt is nice.”
His brows lifted, “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You always this formal when flirting?”
“I am not flirting formally.”
“You complimented my shirt like I submitted an application.”
You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but Logan interrupted you, he glanced around the coffee shop quickly, then leaned in and kissed you. He tasted faintly like his first coffee and toothpaste.
You blinked when he pulled back,“What was that for?”
He wiped cherry gloss from his lower lip with his thumb, “Dunno. You look pretty.”
The sentence arrived casually enough that it took your nervous system a second to register the damage.
“You can’t just say things like that in the morning.”
“Why?”
“Some of us have nervous systems.”
His grin came slow. Thankfully before a violent blush could overtake your face, the barista had called your name.
You grabbed the coffees too quickly, nearly fumbled the pastry bag, and Logan took it from you with a quiet laugh that made you want to either kiss him again or file a complaint.
You ended up sitting in a corner booth by the window, knees brushing under the table, hands wrapped around your drinks. At first, conversation came in starts and stops because every silence seemed to hold the echo of the night before. Then, slowly, it returned to what it always had been between you, odd, easy, full of small arguments and too much sincerity.
You told him about your course, about a lecture that had made you question whether one professor had ever met an actual animal or only read about them in an aggressive book. Logan asked questions in that focused way he had, elbows on the table, coffee forgotten near his hand. You told him about Nana moving between the orchard and animal farm, about Winston’s escapades, about Mama’s hangover cure and Daddy’s liver warning.
Logan told you Dean had tried to pretend he was not hungover and then stared at a glass of water for ten minutes like it contained answers. Tucker had made breakfast for everyone who stayed over. Garrett and Hannah had disappeared to get coffee and returned looking disgustingly well-rested. Allie had apparently threatened to expose Dean’s “Maverick hangover” to the public if he didn’t help her find her bra.
You laughed until your head hurt, then winced when it did.
Logan immediately slid his water glass toward you, “Hydrate.”
“You sound like Mama.”
“Good.”
“She will like that.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Your gaze lifted.
His did too.
The words sat there, soft and too future-shaped for a coffee shop booth.
He did not take them back and instead of prodding at his intentions, you took a sip of water trying not to smile into the glass.
The date was set for Friday.
And by Friday afternoon, you had built an outfit, a snack plan, and a full relationship with your picnic basket.
The drive-in was showing Grease as part of a summer throwback series, and you had chosen it with the seriousness of a woman selecting a diplomatic venue. It was fun, romantic, not too serious, not too abstract, familiar enough to make talking over it acceptable, and musical enough that Logan could complain while secretly knowing half the lyrics.
You wore the white eyelet dress with the red ribbon details.
It was objectively one of the prettiest things you owned. Strapless, with delicate embroidered flowers, tiny red bows threaded through the bodice and tied along the skirt, the fabric falling soft and bright around your legs. You paired it with red heels, a glossy pair that made your calves look nice and your confidence slightly dangerous. A red cardigan went over your arm in case it got cold. Gold necklace. Cherry gloss. Hair down, soft and shiny, with one small red ribbon clipped near the side because you were not fighting your nature tonight.
You looked at yourself in the mirror and decided, with only mild panic, that you looked like someone going on a first date.
Which was accurate, so you let the panic die. Somewhat.
When Logan pulled up, you watched through the window for two seconds before going downstairs.
He got out of the truck, then paused when you came outside.
Jeans, with a Cream henley tucked in and a Carhartt-style jacket in a worn olive shade draped over his shoulders. His hair was slightly messy, like he had run a hand through it one too many times. God had favourites, and apparently one of them owned work jackets.
Logan’s eyes moved over you once as you pushed open the door of your building and started towards him.
“You ready?”
You lifted the picnic basket, “I have supplies.”
His mouth curved, “Of course you do.”
“Outdoor cinema is a hostile environment.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. There are temperature changes, unpredictable snack quality, and public bathrooms. One must prepare.”
He took the basket from you, “You look beautiful.”
You froze. He said it so casually, like a fact. Like the weather. Like something he had noticed and therefore reported.
You swallowed, “Thank you.”
His smile softened.
You walked to Cherry together, because you had a theme tonight, and were prepared to commit crimes to keep it intact.
Cherry the Chevy had been washed that morning and polished enough to gleam under the late afternoon light. You opened the back door to put the picnic basket inside, arranging it carefully on the blanket you had already laid across the seat. When you shut the door, Logan was suddenly closer.
Your back touched the car.
He planted one hand on the roof beside your head, the other lightly at your waist, boxing you in without trapping you.
“Hi,” he said.
You tilted your head and smiled up at him, “Hi.”
His head dipped toward your shoulder, and for one warm, dizzy second, he tucked his face against the side of your neck and inhaled.
You went still, “Logan.”
“Hm?”
“Are you smelling me?”
“Yeah.”
“That is very forward.”
“You always smell good.”
You wound your arms around his neck, pressing your nose into his shoulder as he rubbed placatingly along your waist. You attempted to look stern when he pulled away slightly, but failed.
Then he retreated just enough to reach into his jacket pocket.
“Speaking of.”
He held out a tiny perfume tester and your eyes widened.
“Oh my God.”
His mouth twitched.
“Where on earth was this?”
“My room.”
“Since when?”
“When you came back to return the rental.”
You stared at him, “Logan. That was a month ago.”
He paused, blinking down at you as you crossed your arms. You’d been living on other perfumes for the past month, settling for anything but your favourite perfume that lived in your purse. Until you lost it indefinitely. Or so you thought.
Then he said, “My bad.”
Your mouth fell open, “You kept my perfume tester for a month?”
“I forgot I had it.”
“You forgot?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
He looked away for one second, suddenly interested in the pavement in front of you. A slow smile spread across your face when you noticed the blush on his cheekbones.
“You’re obsessed with me. Lowkey.”
His eyes returned to yours, “Lowkey?”
“Highkey, but I was being gracious.”
He scoffed, but you were already leaning up to kiss him. It was meant to be quick, more of a reward for being ridiculous.
It became less chaste when his hand tightened at your waist and your fingers curled around the front of his jacket. He kissed you against Cherry’s door with the picnic basket behind you, the perfume tester caught between your hands, and the evening sun warm over the street.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was shiny with your gloss.
He looked down at you,“Keys.”
You blinked, “What?”
He plucked them neatly from the open top of your purse.
“I’m driving.”
“Cherry is my car.”
“Cherry likes me.”
“You cannot use my car’s affection against me.”
“She told me.”
“She did not.”
“She starts first try for me.”
Your eyes narrowed, “That is manipulative.”
He opened the passenger door with a grin, “Get in.”
You did. Because you were apparently going on a date with a man who could steal both your keys and your common sense.
The drive-in sat just outside town, tucked behind a field with a big white screen at the far end and rows of parked cars facing it like worshippers at a very specific automobile cult. The sun was sinking when you arrived, sky turning peach and gold, the air warm enough to have the windows down. Someone directed Logan toward a spot near the back, which he chose with suspicious competence.
“You’ve been here before?” you asked.
“Couple times.”
“With who?”
He glanced at you and you worked hard to keep your face innocently curious.
His mouth curved, “Jealous?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I am asking for general purposes.”
“Sure.”
You opened the picnic basket with great dignity and began setting things out while he laughed. Popcorn. Cherry cola. Crisps. Sweets. Napkins. A tiny container of strawberries because you had panicked in the shop and decided fruit made the basket balanced. A folded blanket. Hand wipes. Two bottles of water.
Logan watched as you arranged everything, “You always bring a full household to the movies?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
He reached for the popcorn, “Means I don’t have to.”
You smiled, pleased.
The movie began as the sky darkened fully.
Grease filled the screen, bright and familiar, all summer heat and old-school drama. You settled in with your legs tucked under you, cardigan over your lap, popcorn between you and Logan. For the first ten minutes, you watched properly. Maybe fifteen. You sang under your breath at the first song and elbowed Logan when he pretended not to know the words despite mouthing them half a second later.
“I saw that.”
“Saw what?”
“You know the lyrics.”
“Everyone knows those lyrics.”
“You said you tolerate this musical.”
“I tolerate it with knowledge.”
“That is a very male sentence.”
He threw one piece of popcorn at you.
You gasped, “Assault.”
“You’ll live.”
“I may not.”
“Want me to call Nana?”
“She would side with me.”
“She would like me.”
“She probably would, which is only because you’re handsome and she isn’t blind.”
He smiled and held the popcorn out to you as a peace offering. You accepted. Five minutes later, his arm was along the back of the seat, and your shoulder had somehow found its way against his side.
It should have felt strange.
Sitting beside Logan on an actual date after weeks of pretending neither of you were slowly becoming the first person the other looked for in a room. After Winston. The garage. The game. The costume party. After his hand at your waist and your lipstick on his mouth.
Instead, it felt terrifyingly natural.
Like the date had been waiting underneath the friendship all along, and now that someone had finally said the word, nothing had to rearrange itself.
You were halfway through telling him why Rizzo was emotionally the strongest person in the film when you realised Logan was not watching the screen. He was watching you.
You stopped mid-sentence, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Is there something on my face?”
“No.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
His eyes moved over your face in the flicker of movie light, “You’re just really pretty Cherry”
Your breath caught.
It was the same thing he had done at the coffee shop. A casual sentence delivered like it had not just pulled the floor out from under you.
“You’re a terrible flirt,” you said.
His grin rose slowly, “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You’re into it though.”
You turned toward him, heartbeat already changing, “Yeah,” you admitted softly, “I am.”
The first kiss was gentle. Smiling.
A little sweet because both of you were still half-laughing, because Grease was playing loudly through the little speaker and the popcorn bag crinkled between you when you shifted closer. Logan’s hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing near your ear, and you leaned into him with the easy, dizzy relief of being allowed.
The second kiss lasted longer.
The third opened.
By the fourth, you had forgotten the movie entirely.
Logan kissed differently on a date than he had on the porch. There, he had been pushed to the edge by jealousy and red lipstick and your tiny pecks finally breaking him. Here, he had time. Privacy, almost. Soft darkness, a car that smelled like old leather and cherry cola, movie light slipping over his face, his hand cupping your jaw like he could hold the whole moment there if he was careful enough.
You shifted closer and his hand slid to your waist.
Your breath came faster, “The movie,” you whispered against his mouth.
He pulled back immediately, just enough to look at you, “We can stop right now.”
Your fingers tightened in his jacket.
“I’ll watch the movie if you want,” he said, voice rough but steady. Then, after half a second, because he was Logan and apparently incapable of lying when it mattered, “But I’m not gonna lie to you, Cherry. I do not give a fuck about the movie.”
A laugh broke out of you, breathless and bright.
“I’ve seen it five hundred times.”
His eyes darkened, “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
That was all the permission either of you needed.
You climbed over the console badly.
Your heel caught on the edge of the blanket, the popcorn nearly tipped, and you muttered an apology to the cup holder before Logan caught you by the waist and pulled you into his lap with a laugh that turned into a groan when you settled over him.
“You apologise to objects a lot.”
“They get caught in the crossfire.”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.” You adjusted the skirt of your dress over your thighs, suddenly aware of the fact that you were in his lap at a drive-in with movie light flickering over the windshield and his hands steady at your waist. “Are you?”
His eyes dropped to where you sat over him. Then back up.
“No.”
Your face heated, “Logan.”
“What? You asked.”
You kissed him before he could say anything worse.
The car became very small.
His hands moved over your waist, your back, the bare skin at your shoulders where the dress sat low, and yours slipped beneath his jacket, feeling the warmth of his henley and the shape of him underneath. You kissed him until your mouth felt swollen, until the windows had begun to fog faintly at the edges, until the movie was only sound and colour somewhere beyond the glass.
At first, it was just kissing.
Then it became your hips shifting over him, slowly just barely enough for you to notice.
His hands tightened at your waist, “Cherry.”
You froze,“What?”
“You know you’re doing it again?”
Your face burned, “Balancing?”
His mouth curved, “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“You feel good.”
Your hips moved again, this time on purpose.
His eyes fluttered half shut, “Oh, fuck.”
The curse went through you like heat.
You leaned into him, mouth near his ear now, suddenly braver because you could feel what you were doing to him, “Still don’t care about the movie?”
His hands flexed at your waist, “I don’t even know what movie we’re at.”
You laughed softly.
Then his hand slid under the skirt of your dress.
To your thigh, warm palm against skin, thumb stroking once as he waited. Your body went still for a second, not from fear, but from the sudden awareness of the next step. The fact that you were not on a porch anymore. Not being interrupted by a bee-costumed Tucker. Not stumbling into a first kiss. You were here, on a date, choosing this with him.
Logan felt the stillness, “Hey,” you looked at him,“We don’t have to do anything.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
His hand stayed still against your thigh, you swallowed then lifted your hand to his mouth- his eyes followed your movements and furrowed slightly in confusion when you paused against his lips.
For one second, you wondered if you should say it. Then his lips parted slightly, and the thought disappeared.
You touched your fingertips to his lower lip, “Can you…”
His eyes flicked to yours, “What, baby?”
The word baby nearly made your brain empty out.
You pressed your fingers lightly against his mouth, and he understood before you had to finish. His tongue touched your fingertips, warm and slow, wetting them while his eyes stayed on yours. The intimacy of it made your chest tighten, made your breath tremble, made every inch of your body suddenly too aware of itself.
When he took your hand gently and guided it down, you let him.
His fingers replaced yours a second later.
Slow. Careful. Testing over your underwear while the movie played bright and forgotten beyond the windshield. Your head fell forward against his shoulder, one hand gripping the front of his jacket.
“Like that?” he murmured.
You nodded.
His hand paused, “Words, Cherry.”
“Yes,” you breathed, “Like that.”
“Good girl.” Your hips jerked.
His mouth brushed your temple, “Yeah? You like that?”
“Logan.”
“I know.”
His fingers moved again, slow strokes that made your breath come apart in small pieces. There was nothing rushed about it, nothing frantic, though he was hard beneath you and breathing like restraint was something he had to keep rebuilding.
He touched you like he was learning the shape of your reactions. Like the soft gasp you made when he pressed slightly firmer was information he intended to keep.
You clung to him, face tucked against his neck, moving into his hand in helpless little motions.
The car smelled like cherry cola, warm skin, popcorn, and the faint clean edge of his cologne. Outside, someone laughed several cars away. On screen, people sang and danced, completely ignored.
“Cherry,” he murmured.
“Mhm?”
“You with me?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
His face was close, eyes dark, mouth still shiny from your gloss and from where you had touched him. His expression was hungry, yes, but careful too.
You kissed him.
“Yes,” you whispered against his mouth, “I’m with you.”
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and your mouth opened on a silent gasp.
“There?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He touched you properly then, and the world narrowed to his hand, his voice, his mouth at your jaw. You were already so worked up from kissing, from grinding against him, from the entire awful sweetness of the date, that it took very little to make you shake. His fingers moved in slow circles, then firmer when you whispered more, his other hand holding your waist to keep you steady when your thighs began to tremble.
“You’re so gorgeous like this,” he said, voice low against your skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say things.”
His mouth curved at your neck, “You like when I say things.”
“I like it too much when you say things.”
“Yeah?”
Your hand tightened on his shoulder, “Yes.”
Logan brushed his mouth up from your neck to your cheek and pressed a kiss to your dewy skin, “My honest girl.”
The praise made your body shudder and your breath break around his name. Logan kissed you through it, fingers never rushing, never stopping, drawing you closer with each stroke.
When you came, it was quiet.
A soft, broken sound into his mouth, your body tightening in his lap, nails pressing into his shoulder while he held you steady. He murmured something against your lips - good girl, that’s it, I’ve got you - and the words followed you down until you were boneless against him, face tucked into his neck.
For a while, he only held you.
His hand moved carefully away. His other arm wrapped around your back. You breathed against him, warm and dazed and slightly embarrassed by the fact that the movie was still going like nothing had happened.
Then you felt him beneath you.
Still hard beneath your thigh and breathing carefully, his chest rising steadily as he tried to be good and respectful.
You lifted your head.
His eyes opened, like he had known from the change in your breathing, “What?” he asked.
You looked at him, then drummed your fingers gently in their place, you glanced down at his jeans and met his gaze once more.
His jaw flexed, “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
Your voice was soft but steadier now, “Can I?”
His eyes darkened, “Yeah.”
You glanced down between you, suddenly shy enough to make him soften.
“Cherry.”
“What?”
“You can tell me what you want.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to be perfect.”
Your eyes lifted, “I’m not trying to be perfect.”
His thumb brushed your waist, “No?”
“I’m trying to be good.”
His expression changed, “Oh, baby.”
Your face warmed fiercely. “Not like- I mean-”
“I know what you mean.”
You swallowed, “Can you…” You glanced at his mouth, then at your hand.
He understood. This time when you held your hand toward him, Logan caught your wrist and brought your palm to his mouth. The gesture was slower than yours had been, his eyes on you as he spat lightly into your palm. Heat rushed through you so fast you almost forgot to breathe.
“There,” he murmured, “like that.”
Your fingers curled.
Then your hand moved to him.
The first touch dragged a sound from his chest that you felt more than heard. His head tipped back against the seat, jaw tight, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before he forced them open again, like he did not want to miss you.
You watched his face. The way his mouth parted, the way his breath punched out when your thumb moved the way he quietly told you to, the way his hand tightened at your waist when you found a rhythm that made his hips shift beneath you.
“Like this?” you whispered.
His laugh came out wrecked, “Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Fuck, Cherry. Yes.”
The curse made you clench around nothing.
His eyes sharpened through the haze, “You like hearing me?”
Your face went hot and you tried to look down, but he caught your chin with two fingers.
“Hey,” you met his eyes, “You do?”
You swallowed and nodded, “Yes.”
His mouth curved, strained and devastating, “Good to know.”
“Don’t use that irresponsibly.”
“No promises.”
You would have scolded him if he had not groaned then, low and rough, because your hand had tightened exactly where he had shown you. The sound went through you like his praise. You leaned in and kissed him again, swallowing the next broken breath he gave you, feeling the way his body fought for control under yours.
It was intimate in a way you had not expected.
You had thought it would feel bold. Maybe even dirty and thrilling because of the drive-in and the darkness and the fact that neither of you cared about the movie.
It was all of those things.
But more than that, it felt like learning. Like Logan letting you see him undone in pieces. Like the instructions he whispered into your mouth were not just commands but him trusting you, trusting whatever you had turned into.
“Good,” he breathed, “Just like that.”
Your hand moved and his hips jerked once.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
You smiled against his mouth, “Don’t be.”
His hand tightened at your waist, “Cherry.”
“What?”
“I’m close.”
“Oh,” Your stomach fluttered.
He laughed breathlessly. “Yeah. Oh.”
You kissed him again, softer now, and kept going the way he had told you. His forehead dropped to yours, breath uneven, lips brushing yours between curses and praise that made your whole body hum.
When he came, he held your wrist gently but firmly, guiding you through it, his mouth open against yours, the sound of your name breaking low in his throat.
Afterward, both of you were silent and the movie continued in the background. The car windows were fogged enough now that the world outside had blurred into colour and sound.
You looked down at the napkins sticking out of the picnic basket.
Then at Logan.
He followed your gaze.
A laugh broke out of him.
You covered your face with your clean hand. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You packed napkins,” he said, like this was both the funniest and most devastating thing that had ever happened to him.
“Outdoor cinema is an unknown environment. I like being prepared”
“Thank God.”
You laughed too then, soft and helpless, but the sound faded when you looked down again and saw the mess still warm and glossy across your fingers. Logan’s laughter thinned with it. You felt him go still beneath you, felt the whole car shrink around the two of you while the movie kept flickering uselessly across the windshield.
You tilted your head, considering him with a sweetness that did not quite match the way your pulse had started to beat.
“I mean,” you said lightly, “if you want to laugh at my tissues…”
Logan’s eyes lifted to yours.
Your stomach flipped at the look on his face.
You brought your hand to your mouth before you could overthink it, tongue slipping over your fingers in a slow, careful drag that turned his expression from amused to ruined in the space of a breath.
He did not blink. He barely moved. His lips parted, his chest rising like he had forgotten what air was supposed to do, and the sight of him watching you like that made something warm and reckless bloom beneath your ribs.
“Cherry,” he said, voice rough.
You hummed, far too innocently for what you were doing, and leaned closer.
There was still a little of him on his stomach, a pearly streak that had slipped down the flushed length of him while he was too busy laughing at your emergency napkins to notice. But you noticed and you had been raised to clean up after yourself.
Logan’s hand shot to the back of the seat when you bent over him.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
You glanced up at him through your lashes, lips hovering just above his skin, “Still funny?”
He shook his head once, too fast, “No.”
“Good.”
Then you lowered your mouth and licked him clean, slow enough that his whole body jerked under you, slow enough that the breath he dragged in sounded almost pained. The taste of him lingered on your tongue. Salt, heat, skin. Logan made a strangled sound and one hand came to your hair holding on like he needed somewhere to put the shock of you.
You sat back with your mouth glossy and your cheeks hot and your eyes much too bright.
Logan stared at you.
For once, he had absolutely nothing to say.
You reached for a napkin with exaggerated dignity and dabbed delicately at the corner of your mouth, “See? Useful.”
A broken laugh left him, more disbelief than humour, and then he was pulling you back toward him, kissing you hard enough that the napkin crumpled between your fingers.
“You,” he murmured against your mouth, still breathless, still half-laughing like he could not decide whether to worship you or accuse you of attempted murder, “are going to kill me.”
You smiled into the kiss.
“Hopefully, it's very practical.”
Eventually, you settled back beside him, no longer in his lap but tucked under his arm, dress smoothed, heels off now, red flats-less feet tucked beneath the blanket because you had complained about temperature changes and then been proven correct. Logan kissed the top of your head once as the movie moved toward its ending.
You watched for approximately three minutes.
Then whispered, “Do you know what’s happening?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Good movie.”
“Excellent.”
His chest shook under your cheek.
The final number played bright and loud across the screen. You watched it with the solemnity of people who had absolutely not missed half the plot due to mutual orgasmic collapse. When the credits rolled, cars began starting around you, headlights blinking on, people laughing and packing up blankets.
You did not move immediately.
Neither did Logan.
His hand traced slow, idle lines over your shoulder.
You looked at the screen, then at the darkening field around it, then down at the picnic basket half-empty on the floor.
“That was a good first date,” you said softly.
Logan looked at you, “Movie or after?”
“Logan.”
“Both?”
You tried to glare and failed, your unimpressed pout shifting into a begrudging smile, “…both.”
His smile was so warm it made your chest ache.
He leaned in and kissed you once, gentle and lingering, nothing like the frantic heat from earlier and somehow it still made your stomach flip dangerously.
When he pulled back, you looked at him for a long second.
There was one more place.
You had known before the movie even started, though you had not admitted it to yourself fully. One more place you wanted him to see. One more piece of your world, older and quieter and more private than the barn with Winston or the garage with Daddy.
A place that felt like summer evenings, sticky fingers, childhood games, Nana’s laughter, Granddad pretending not to know where the good cherries were hidden.
A place that made sense after Grease, after the car, after his hands, after the softness that had settled between you like it had always belonged there.
“I have one more place I want to show you,” you said.
Logan’s gaze sharpened slightly, “Now?”
“It’s not far.”
“Cherry.”
“It has an orchard.”
He stared at you.
Then laughed under his breath, shaking his head, “Of course it does.”
You smiled, reaching for your heels and slipping them back on, “And a very good view.”
“Of course it does.”
“And possibly the best cherries in the state.”
“Possibly?”
“I’m being humble.”
“That’s new.”
You swatted his arm lightly.
He caught your hand before you could pull away and kissed your knuckles, one by one, because apparently Logan had decided public flirtation was not enough and private tenderness needed to become your new problem.
Your breath caught.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” Your smile softened, “I just like when you do that.”
His thumb brushed over your fingers, “Good to know.”
You narrowed your eyes, “Again, not information to be used irresponsibly."
“No promises.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling when he started Cherry’s engine.
The drive-in emptied slowly behind you. The road ahead stretched dark and warm, lined with trees and late-summer air, and you sat beside Logan in your white dress and red heels, your picnic basket in the backseat, your heart still beating a little too fast.
“One more place,” you promised.
Logan looked at you, then at the road, “Lead the way, Cherry.”
Since the night you almost said something real and Logan almost let you, things had settled into a rhythm that felt too fragile to name and too obvious to ignore.
He still wasn’t your boyfriend, technically. You weren’t his girlfriend, technically.
Technically had become a very convenient word for two people who kept finding excuses to be alone in his truck, who texted about nothing until one of you fell asleep, who knew each other’s coffee orders and class times and the exact kind of silence that meant the other person was tired instead of upset.
Logan had continued to appear in your day with an ease that made you nervous if you thought about it too long, leaning against the wall outside your lecture hall with his hands in his pockets like he had not crossed half of campus just to walk you somewhere you were perfectly capable of walking alone.
It was not dating, because neither of you had called it dating.
It was not casual, because casual did not look like Logan keeping a spare perfume sample in the cup holder of his truck after you left yours there twice.
Casual did not look like him slowing his steps automatically when you were wearing impractical shoes, or you texting him photos of produce displays at the grocery store because a tomato looked “ suspicious” and knowing he would answer like the tomato had personally offended him.
Casual did not look like his hand finding the small of your back in crowded rooms and then leaving too quickly, like he had remembered he was not allowed to want that kind of closeness unless one of you was brave enough to say it out loud.
You had become friends in the way people became friends when they were very badly pretending not to fall in love.
There were inside jokes. There were routines. There were looks from Hannah and Allie that made you talk faster and Logan look at the floor.
There was a spot in the passenger seat of his truck that had started to feel like yours, though you would rather have eaten one of his protein bars dry than admit that.
There was the night he drove you back from the farm and did not kiss you at the door, even though he looked at your mouth for so long you forgot the entire English language. There was the morning you found him outside the coffee place with your order already in his hand, and when you asked if he had started stalking you, he only shrugged and said, “You’re predictable, Cherry,” with a smile that made you want to throw the cup at him and kiss him at the same time.
So no, nothing had been decided.
That was the problem.
Nothing had been decided, but Logan looked at you differently now. Like he knew there was something between you and was trying very hard not to scare it off by reaching for it too quickly.
Like the confession-not-confession had left a mark on him too. Like every time you brushed against him, every time your scent lingered in his truck, every time you smiled at him over the rim of a milkshake or called him handsome in that careless, sunny voice that made his ears go pink, he had to remind himself that wanting you did not automatically mean he got to keep you.
And you, because you were apparently not as sensible as you had always assumed, kept letting him almost try.
You loved costume parties.
You loved the drama of them, the absurd seriousness that descended upon otherwise normal people when a theme was introduced. You loved how quickly a room could transform once everyone agreed to abandon dignity in the name of a bit. You loved the planning, the references, the tiny details nobody else noticed until you pointed them out with both hands and an alarming amount of enthusiasm. You loved that a costume could be pretty, funny, clever, historical, slutty, sweet, stupid, or all of those things at once, depending on how committed someone was to the narrative.
And you were committed.
Deeply and religiously.
The problem was that your commitment to a theme had apparently created tension in the room before you had even left the house.
Allie said this was because you looked “insane.”
Hannah said Allie needed to use kinder adjectives.
Allie corrected herself and said you looked “insanely good.”
You accepted that with only mild suspicion.
The three of you had taken over the bathroom and most of Hannah’s bedroom, which now looked like the backstage area of a very underfunded but ambitious cabaret.
Makeup bags lay open across the dresser. A curling iron sat cooling beside three lipsticks, two pairs of false lashes, a packet of bobby pins, and one emergency granola bar Hannah had insisted on placing within reach because “someone in this room will forget to eat if we don’t assign snacks.”
That someone, based on history, was you.
Tonight, however, you were too excited to forget anything.
You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the mirror while Hannah adjusted one of the glossy pin curls at your temple. You had decided against a wig ever since Nana had said a wig would flatten the ‘romance of it’- instead you decided to pin it into a vintage shape that had taken an hour, two instructional videos- each of them increasingly millennial and Allie standing behind you with a can of hairspray like she was armed.
Soft curls framed your face, shining deep under the bedroom light, while the rest was pinned close enough to evoke Betty Boop without turning you into a theme park employee.
The dress was red. Of course.
A low sweetheart neckline, thin straps, a short fitted shape that hugged your waist and hips before ending in a hem you kept forgetting was shorter than anything you would normally wear without tights.
The fabric had a faint sheen under the light, not quite satin, not quite costume-store shiny, and it moved beautifully when you did. Too beautifully, according to Allie, who had nearly swallowed her lip gloss the first time you spun.
There were matching red heels waiting by the bed.
A little gold heart necklace at your throat.
Red lipstick, glossy and precise.
And, currently causing major distress, a vintage garter Nana had sent in tissue paper with a note that read:
For the costume. Do not let anyone boring tell you it is too much.
Love, Nana.
You had nearly cried.
Then you had tried to put it on and discovered it came with opinions.
“It keeps slipping,” you said, frowning down at your thigh.
Allie, who was midway through becoming J.Lo and therefore already glowing like a woman with an agenda, looked over her shoulder and froze.
Hannah’s hands paused in her hair.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed now, one leg bent, carefully sliding the red garter higher up your thigh beneath the hem of the dress. It was pretty, lace-edged and vintage, with a tiny embroidered heart at the centre. It matched perfectly. It also refused to stay where you put it.
“Do we think the garter is too much?” you asked.
Allie looked at Hannah.
Hannah looked at Allie.
“For the costume?” Hannah asked.
“Yes.”
Allie’s mouth curved slowly. “No. For the costume, it’s perfect.”
“Good.” You exhaled, relieved, and adjusted it again, “Because Nana said boring people would object, but Nana also wore a velvet cape to Thanksgiving once, so I do have to consider her scale.”
“Nana sounds hot,” Allie said.
“She is. Granddad tells people he married above his station, and Nana tells him that he can’t confess to obvious things.”
Hannah laughed, then placed another pin in your hair, “Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You are vibrating.”
“I love costume parties.”
“We know,” Allie said, “You’ve said that twelve times.”
“That seems like an undercount.”
“It is.”
You smiled at your reflection, giddy. It was not even about looking sexy. You liked the costume because it was theatrical and sweet and vintage and silly. Betty Boop had always seemed like a little animated contradiction, huge eyes, tiny waist, ridiculous voice, all innocence and flirtation at once, like someone had drawn glamour and then made her bounce.
The costume felt like play. Like being allowed to step inside a childhood cartoon and commit fully.
Apparently, everyone else had decided it felt like something else too.
Allie leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, “Logan is dead tonight.”
You looked at her in the mirror, “Why?”
Hannah’s lips pressed together.
Allie stared at you.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was a something tone.”
“It’s just a good costume,” Hannah said carefully.
You smiled again, “Thank you.”
Allie muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
You turned, “What?”
“Nothing, Betty.”
You narrowed your eyes but let it go because Hannah was adjusting the final curl, and you did not want to ruin an hour of structural labour by interrogating Allie’s tone.
Hannah, already dressed in her bunny costume for the couples costume she was doing with Garrett, looked painfully pretty in soft white and little ears that made you clap when she first put them on. Garrett was the magician, because obviously.
Allie was J.Lo, all glowing skin, confident hair, and enough body shimmer to be seen from space. Dean was Maverick, someone named Beau was therefore Goose, Logan was apparently “the bird,” and Tucker was “the bee,” which, according to Allie, was one of those jokes men thought up and then congratulated themselves for like they had invented theatre.
“The birds and the bees,” you repeated for the third time while slipping into your red heels, “That is so stupid.”
“It gets worse,” Hannah said, “They’re proud of it.”
“I respect pride in bad work.”
Allie pointed at you with a lip gloss wand, “Do not encourage them.”
“I encourage themes, not men.”
“That should be on a shirt.”
You stood carefully, balancing in the heels as the dress settled around you. The garter slipped half an inch immediately.
You looked down, “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Allie’s eyes widened as you lifted the hem slightly to fix it, “Babe.”
“What?”
“You cannot be doing that in public.”
“Doing what?”
Hannah made a soft strangled sound, half laugh, half warning, “Adjusting it like that.”
“It is sliding.”
“Yes, and every man at that party is going to walk into the ocean if you fix it like that in front of them.”
You blinked. Then looked back down at your thigh.
“It’s a garter.”
“It’s your thigh,” Allie said.
“Yes. I brought it with me.”
Hannah laughed so hard she had to sit down.
You frowned, “You two are being strange.”
“We are being realistic.”
“I have grown up around farms, baby cousins, goat births, and men who wear shorts in February. A thigh is not a national incident.”
Allie gave Hannah a look, “She’s going to kill him.”
“Who?”
“Betty,” Hannah said gently, “Finish your lipstick.”
Beau’s beach house was already glowing when you arrived.
The house sat low and wide near the water, all glass, weathered wood, and warm lights spilling across the porch. Music drifted out through open doors, thudding under the sound of the ocean beyond the dunes. Cars lined the drive and half the road. People in costumes moved across the lawn and through the house in bright, ridiculous clusters, angels, devils, athletes, cowboys, superheroes, one very committed pirate, and two people in inflatable dinosaur suits trying to drink from plastic cups.
You stopped at the bottom of the steps, eyes wide.
“I love costume parties,” you whispered.
Allie hooked her arm through yours, “We know.”
Inside, the party was louder, warmer, and already much less structurally sound than it should have been.
The living room had been cleared for dancing, furniture pushed back, drinks spread across the kitchen island, a table near the back stacked with snacks and bottles, sliding doors open onto the porch where people were clustered in the ocean air.
You saw Hannah’s face light up before you saw Garrett.
He appeared from the hallway in a black magician’s cape, looking both embarrassed and very pleased with himself. Hannah walked straight into his arms, bunny ears bouncing, and Garrett lifted her hand to spin her once, cape flaring with more drama than any of you expected. Hannah laughed, and he looked at her like the whole costume had been worth it just for that sound.
Allie spotted Dean next.
Maverick, obviously, flight suit half-zipped with an obnoxious grin. He saw her J.Lo costume and made a noise that had several people turning around.
“Subtle,” Hannah said.
“Allie doesn’t date subtle,” you replied.
Dean swept Allie into a hug and kissed her cheek loudly. She shoved at his shoulder, laughing, then let him pull her close anyway.
You were busy admiring everyone’s costumes, complimenting a girl’s fairy wings, and asking Hannah to turn so you could see the bunny tail when you felt, from somewhere across the room, the strange prickle of being noticed.
You looked up.
Logan was standing near the kitchen with Dean and Beau.
Bird.
That was the costume, apparently, though he had interpreted it with the bare minimum of literalism and the maximum amount of effect on your nervous system. Dark jeans, boots, a loose sleeveless shirt that did unfair wonders to his arms, you finally understood the costume when you saw the flicker of a pair of miniature bird wings flapping lazily against his back.
It looked stupid in theory, the cheap black elastic was stark beneath his shoulders but on him, it looked like the sort of thing a man could wear while leaning against a counter and making you forget how to speak.
You noticed Tucker, nearby in a yellow-and-black bee costume that included translucent yellow wings he was wearing with disturbing calm, and that completed the joke.
The birds and the bees.
It was objectively ridiculous.
Unfortunately, Logan’s arms were not.
You looked away quickly.
Then remembered you were not meant to be looking away quickly because that made things obvious.
Then looked back too late and found him still looking at you.
His bottle paused halfway to his mouth. You smiled, bright and automatic, and lifted your hand in a little wave, you blew a friendly kiss as you continued greeting other people you recognised.
His brows rose in recognition but at the same time he took a quick swig of the alcohol. Too fast. And ended up choking silently. You turned back at the sound.
Dean’s head snapped toward him.
Beau laughed.
You frowned slightly, concerned, but Allie grabbed your arm and turned you toward a girl dressed as a disco ball before you could go ask whether Logan had aspirated beer.
Across the room, Dean’s grin spread slowly.
“You good?”
Logan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his silver chain rubbed against his wrist, “Fine.”
“You just swallowed wrong.”
“Shut up.”
Beau, still looking toward you, tilted his head, “Who’s Betty Boop?”
Dean’s eyes flicked deliberately to Logan before he answered, “You can go ask her. She’s nice.”
Logan’s jaw ticked and in response, Dean’s grin turned openly evil. Logan took a long sip from his bottle, eyes following Beau as he pushed off the counter.
Dean leaned closer, “You okay, buddy?”
Logan flashed him the middle finger without looking away, “Just peachy.”
You were mid-conversation with Hannah and Allie about whether Garrett’s cape had enough theatrical integrity when the garter slipped again.
“Oh, not again,” you muttered, lifting the hem of the dress just enough to slide it higher up your thigh.
Allie’s eyes widened.
Hannah pinched the bridge of her nose.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” they said together.
You opened your mouth to question that, but Beau arrived before you could.
“Betty Boop,” he said, one hand over his heart, “You walked into my birthday party and raised the bar for everyone.”
You brightened instantly, “Thank you so much! Happy birthday.”
“Thank you. And seriously, damn. Great costume.”
“It’s mostly vintage,” you said, because you believed compliments were best handled by giving context, “Well, the dress is newer because the old one from the costume trunk was too delicate to wear out, but my cousins in Vancouver sent over the accessories because they have all the old costumes at that farmhouse, and Nana sent the garter because apparently she had one from a cabaret-themed party in the eighties, but Granddad says it was the nineties, but honestly they are both unreliable about decades.”
Beau stared at you for half a second, then smiled wider.
“The farmhouse in Vancouver has costume trunks?”
“My cousins are very serious about storage.”
“Clearly.”
“And Nana said if I wore a cheap garter with a good dress, she would know.”
“Would she?”
“Yes.”
Beau’s eyes dipped when you adjusted the garter again, and to his credit, he looked away almost immediately, clearing his throat like a man making a noble attempt at manners.
However, almost immediately was not instantly, and it still left time for him to be a man.
You did not notice, busying yourself straightening the lace edge.
Behind Beau, Hannah and Allie exchanged one look and slipped away with the ease of women who knew exactly when to abandon someone to the narrative. Hannah went to Garrett. Allie went to Dean. Neither of them looked guilty enough.
You looked back at Beau’s costume and smiled, “You’re Goose?”
“I am.”
“Oh, God, I cried so much when he died.”
Beau blinked, then laughed, “That’s one hell of a greeting.”
“No, I mean it was devastating. Clementine looked at me like I was dying.”
“Clementine?”
“My goat.”
“Your goat watched Top Gun with you?”
“Not voluntarily. She was outside the window, but she was emotionally present.”
There was something easy about Beau. Warm, funny, flirty in a way that was theatrical enough not to feel heavy. He listened to your tangent about Clementine and Top Gun with the amused patience of a party host who had discovered a better conversation than he had once expected. When the song changed and your face lit up before you could stop it, he noticed.
“You like this one?”
“It’s one of my favourites.”
His grin softened into something more charming, “Dance with me, then.”
You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to dance, but because the question had been so sudden your brain needed a second to file it.
Beau held out a hand, “Come on, Betty. Birthday boy privilege.”
You laughed, about to answer- but your hand paused when Logan appeared by your side, canned cocktail in hand.
“Got your drink,” he said.
You blinked at the can.
Then at him.
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“Dean said you did.”
Across the room, Dean lifted both hands as if he had been wrongfully accused.
You looked back at the can,“Oh. I like this flavour.”
Logan’s mouth twitched, “Lucky.”
Beau looked at the drink, then at Logan, then at you. Something like understanding passed over his face, followed by immediate amusement.
“Ah,” he said.
You looked at him, “What?”
“I see what’s happening here.”
“What’s happening?”
“Nothing, Betty.” Beau lifted both hands, backing away with a grin, “Enjoy the drink.”
You frowned after him, “That was cryptic.”
“Was it?” Logan asked.
“Yes.”
He took a drink from his bottle.
You turned to him fully, still holding the canned cocktail he had apparently manifested through lies and Dean’s cooperation, “Did Dean actually say I wanted this?”
“Maybe.”
“Logan.”
“He might’ve implied you liked the flavour.”
“That is not the same as asking.”
“You want me to take it back?”
You looked down at the can, “No. I do like the flavour.”
His smile was immediate and far too pleased.
“You are morally slippery,” you told him.
“Morally slippery?”
“Yes. Like a seal with intentions.”
He laughed, and the sound settled warm under your ribs.
You started telling him about the costume then, because you were excited and because Logan was looking at you in a way that made silence feel too thick. You told him about the Vancouver cousins and the farmhouse costume trunks, about Nana’s garter and Granddad’s decade confusion, about how Hannah’s hand-made bunny ears were superior to the ones in the shop, about Allie’s J.Lo look being “historically important,” and Beau’s Goose costume making you think of Clementine judging your grief through a window.
Logan nodded, sometimes..
He said “yeah” once. Maybe twice.
But he was not listening properly.
You realised it somewhere around the moment you said, “and then Nana said a cheap garter was an offence to narrative integrity,” and Logan’s eyes dropped to your thigh again like the word garter had pulled him there instinctively.
You looked down, the dangerous hem of your dress had ridden up slightly, caught on the elastic edge of your garter- you tugged it down, not noticing how his jaw had flexed and was ticking wildly. That was until you looked back up, absent-mindedly smoothing out your curls.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“You look strange.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that when you are visibly not fine.”
He looked at your mouth, then away, refocussing on your eyes with a heaving, clarifying sigh. He shook his head and watched curiously as you noticed that the can had wet your fingers with its condensation.
Shrugging, you leaned over the kitchen island to grab a napkin- the movement was small, ordinary as you stretched and hummed victoriously when your nail caught on the edge of the tissue.
The dress rode up. You felt the air hit the back of your thighs and immediately straightened, tugging the hem down with one hand, huffing, you set your drink down and wiped your fingers.
Logan went very still.
“Logan?”
His eyes lifted to yours, “Come here.”
You blinked, “Why?”
He set his bottle down next to your can and your heart tripped when the bottle clinked loudly against the marble.
“Porch.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“You’re acting like something is wrong.”
He moved despite your questions, not dragging you exactly, but he had your hand in his with enough certainty that your confusion turned into motion before your dignity could object. You followed him through the side of the kitchen, past two guys arguing over whether a cowboy hat counted as a costume, through the sliding door, and out onto the porch.
The ocean air hit your skin cool and damp.
The party dulled behind the glass, music muffled, laughter blurred into the steady hush of waves beyond the dunes. Porch lights cast everything in amber, the railing, the steps, the empty chairs, Logan’s hand around yours, your red heels clicking too quickly as you tried to keep up.
Your hair bounced around your face.
The dress rode up again.
You tugged it down with your free hand, huffing.
“John Logan, what is going on?”
He stopped near the far end of the porch where the light was softer and the shadows from the railing striped the floorboards. You nearly bumped into him, then pulled your hand free and planted both hands on your hips.
Or tried to, but the garter had slipped, again.
“Oh my God,” you muttered, bending slightly to fix it, “This thing has no respect for structural integrity..”
Logan’s voice came low, “You look really good.”
You stopped, fingers paused at the garter.
Slowly, you looked up at him.
The ocean moved somewhere behind you. The party flashed through the windows at his back. Logan stood in front of you, all dark costume and tense shoulders, mouth set like he had been fighting a losing battle for the past twenty minutes and had finally decided to surrender by starting a war.
You straightened, “You did all that to tell me this?”
His mouth twitched, “You asked what was going on.”
“I thought there was an emergency.”
“There is.”
You stared at him, eyes wide and incredulous- you had to stop a scoff from bubbling out of your throat. It was bad manners after all, according to your mother.
He looked at you as your mouth popped open, painted lips shining in the warm glow of the porch lights. The feeling of your face warming from his attention made you want to run into the nearby sea to cool off.
“Oh, you’re being difficult.”
“Maybe.”
“And vague.”
“Maybe.”
You crossed your arms, then immediately uncrossed them because the dress neckline did not cooperate with the movement, “I was having a conversation.”
“I know.”
“With Beau.”
“I know.”
“He is very nice.”
“I know.”
“And it is his birthday.”
“I know.”
“You are saying ‘I know’ in a way that suggests you are not receiving the information.”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then the neckline of your dress that had slipped from your movements and then the garter, that currently was wonky around your thigh. Then, he came back up.
“I’m receiving plenty.”
You breath caught as you searched for a respectable response. You hated a sentence that simple could make your body react before your brain had decided whether it was annoyed.
You looked him over, partly to regain control and partly because it was becoming impossible not to. The costume was stupid. It really was.
The bird thing should not have worked. But the black shirt fell from his shoulders and arms in a way that made the concept of birds suddenly feel like something worth serious academic study. The feathered wings against his shoulders only made them look broader, and the porch light caught the muscles in his forearms when he flexed his hands at his sides.
“Oh,” you breathed out, hoping it was soft enough that he didn’t hear.
His brows lifted, “Oh?”
You shut your eyes and internally cursed his perceptive skills, “Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“Your costume is…” You swallowed, “Effective.”
“Effective?”
“For your arms.”
That shut him up for half a second, and for that moment, you felt intensely proud. That was until he stepped closer and your pride evaporated.
“Cherry.”
“What?”
“You liked Beau flirting with you?”
Your eyes widened, “That’s not what I said.”
“Wasn’t the question.”
“He flirts with everyone.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you being strange?”
“Because I don’t like watching it.”
You blinked; the initial annoyance shifted into something softer, and more dangerous.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Logan laughed once, rough and almost humourless, looking down like your honesty had physically struck him, “Cherry.”
“No, I’m asking.”
“I know you are.”
“That sounded like an answer, but it wasn’t.”
He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze made the porch feel smaller, “Because I don’t want him touching you.”
Your breath caught and the party noise seemed to fall further away.
“Oh.” The word came out tiny.
Logan’s jaw flexed, “Yeah.”
You should have said something sensible. Something that returned the conversation to safer ground. Something about Beau being harmless, about Logan not needing to worry, about how there was nothing to be jealous of because you were friends and friends did not get jealous over birthday boys in Goose costumes.
But honesty had always been your downfall.
“I didn’t want him touching me,” you confessed.
Logan went very still, “No?”
“No.”
He took another step closer, and you backed away in parallel, the back of your thighs brushed the porch bannister.
“Who did you want touching you?”
Your mouth parted.
That question just took every vague thing and pulled it into the light. Your body knew the answer so quickly that your mind had to sprint to catch up and you hated that Nana would have sensed from the farm, sat upright in bed, and started praying if you answered the way your pulse wanted you to.
Logan watched you carefully, and it undid you more than anything else- more than his low voice and the fact that his proximity meant that you could smell beer, clean skin and the faint edge of his cologne under the ocean air.
The care in his gaze made your chest unravel, the way his body crowded over yours but his eyes stayed on your face, giving you the space to step away even while every inch of him looked like it would cost him.
His expression communicated so much that it made your head ache.
This is all you.
If you don’t want this, I’ll back away.
If you do, I’m done pretending.
Your heart thudded so hard it felt almost embarrassing and your gaze flicked between your eyes and his mouth, settling back onto his face.
His hands moved slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, and settled at your thighs. Not high but warm against the outside of your legs, fingers brushing the red fabric where the dress ended. Your breath shook. He paused immediately.
You nodded, just barely- but he saw, and moved his hands further, sliding up the sides of your thighs until one reached the garter. He touched it lightly, then snapped it once against your skin.
A tiny shock went through you and your mouth popped open.
Logan’s eyes stayed on yours, reading every change in your face.
“Still okay?”
You nodded again.
“Words.”
“Yes,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed the lace, “Good.”
The garter slid slightly under his touch.
You swallowed, “It won’t stop slipping.”
His mouth curved, “You poor thing.”
The way he said it should have annoyed you. It did annoy you.
Unfortunately, it also made your knees feel unreliable.
He lowered one hand and slipped the garter back into place with careful fingers, slow enough that you felt every second of it. His fingertips tucked just beneath the hem of your dress, pushing the fabric higher to smooth the lace against your thigh. The contact was not even indecent by any reasonable measure. It was barely anything. A touch. A fix. The same practical adjustment you had been doing all night.
But this time, it was his hand doing it, a firm yet gentle press of his fingertips against your leg whilst he watched your face. A soft sound spilled from your lips before you could stop it.
Logan’s eyes darkened.
Your hands flew back to brace against the banister, leaving you open, caught between his body and the railing, chest rising too quickly under the sweetheart neckline, glossy red lips parted, pin curls shifting against your cheeks in the night air.
He looked at you like you had ruined him, “Too honest for your own good,” he murmured.
You tried to answer.
You had words for this situation. Many of them.. You could have said that he was being unfair. That he had brought you outside under suspicious circumstances. That this porch migration had been, at best, kidnapping-adjacent. That he had no right to sound so proud when his fingers were still tucked against the garter Nana had mailed from a farmhouse with a handwritten note about boring people.
Instead, one hand lifted shakily from the banister and settled against his face.
Logan inhaled sharply.
The reaction was so immediate that your fingers nearly pulled away, but he leaned into the touch, just a fraction. His brows tilted up slightly, like he had been thirsty for a thousand years and you had offered him water by accident.
That expression did something unbearable to your chest.
You could say it.
You could be honest.
You could look him in the eyes and say, you. I wanted you to touch me. I want you. I have wanted you for weeks, in pieces, in garages and trucks and rinks and supermarkets, in every tiny moment I pretended was practical because practical was safer than wanting.
You could say it.
Nana would know, the farm would know- God would most certainly call your mother. So you did the only thing left to protect the bubble of privacy the two of you created out on this porch.
You leaned up and kissed him- more of a peck. A delicate press of your lips to his, soft and almost unbearably careful.
It lasted only a few seconds, but given your shaky breath and pouted lips, it felt like hours.
Logan froze. Something in him seemed to stop entirely, like his body had been braced for impact and instead received something so gentle it did not know where to put the force.
You pulled back half an inch, his eyes were still closed and his hands were still sure and steady against your body. Your heart dropped and you panicked, so you kissed him again.
This time, his hand flexed against your thigh.
You pulled back, just barely, gaining confidence when he slightly chased your lips and kissed him again. Finally, he snapped out of his stupor.
Logan moved all at once.
His hand left your garter and came up into your hair, careful enough not to destroy the pin curls completely, but firm enough to hold you to him as his mouth opened over yours. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in, and the sound you made against him - startled, soft, almost a squeak - disappeared into the kiss.
He kissed you like he had been waiting so long that waiting had become part of him, and now that you had ended it, he had no idea how to be moderate.
The banister pressed against the backs of your thighs.
Logan shifted you back slightly, one arm still around your waist, guiding you until you were half sitting against it, secure enough that your feet barely touched the porch. His thigh slid between yours, giving you height, balance, pressure, and your whole body reacted to the closeness before you could think better of it.
Your hands went into his hair.
His mouth tilted against yours.
The kiss turned messy almost immediately.
This wasn’t the kind of first kiss people described later in soft candlelight with violins and tasteful metaphors. It was your smudged red lipstick and broken breathing and your fingers twisting in his hair while his hand spread along your jaw and throat, tilting your face up because you still were not quite tall enough even perched against the banister. It was him kissing you deeper, then pulling back just enough to catch your lower lip between his teeth, gentle but sharp enough that you gasped.
He groaned against your mouth at the sound.
Your stomach flipped.
His thigh flexed beneath you as he shifted closer. The pressure dragged a tiny, helpless breath out of you, and your hips moved before you realised you had decided anything. Just a small roll against his thigh, instinctive, searching, embarrassing in its honesty.
Logan pulled back a fraction.
“Cherry.”
“What?” you breathed.
His mouth curved, unfair and breathless, “You know you’re moving, right?”
Heat rushed up your neck and you opened your mouth to deny it, but you couldn’t find the words to deny it.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His eyes went darker, “Yeah?”
“A little.”
“A little?”
“Don’t make me quantify it.”
His laugh broke against your lips, low and wrecked.
Then he kissed you again, harder than before.
Your hands tightened in his hair. His fingers slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you there while the other arm anchored your waist. You could feel the banister under your palms when you reached back for balance, feel his body in front of yours, feel the cool night air on your thighs where the dress had ridden up again and neither of you had the sense left to fix it.
The party kept going inside.
You could hear it in pieces, a bassline, laughter, someone shouting Dean’s name, the sliding door opening somewhere else and closing again.
None of it felt real enough to matter.
Real was Logan’s mouth. Logan’s hand. Logan’s thigh between yours. Logan breathing your name like he had forgotten it was possible to say anything else.
His hand shifted from your hair.
Down, over your shoulder, stopping at your chest. His fingers splayed slightly against your collar bone, touching like he had been given permission to want and still could not quite believe the object under his fingers was real.
His thumb brushed the little gold heart necklace at your throat, catching on the pendant.
Your breath hitched and he looked down.
The necklace had twisted slightly from the kissing, the heart resting off-centre against your skin. Logan caught it between two fingers and drew it gently taut, the fine chain glinting in the porch light. You watched his face as he looked at it, his breathing uneven, mouth stained with your lipstick.
“Pretty,” he murmured.
You didn’t know whether he meant you or the necklace, and you didn’t care enough to ask when he had let the pendant fall, the cold gold slipped down the centre of your chest, disappearing into the dip of the sweetheart neckline where your cleavage was high enough to envelope the charm.
You shivered, and barely tilted your head back- Logan tracked the necklace, allowing his fingers to follow. He grazed the top of your breast where the dress curved low, the touch of his fingertips was light enough to be considered a question. Your answer came as a broken little breath into his mouth when he kissed you again.
His hand slid just beneath the edge of the neckline.
Far enough to cup the warm curve of your chest, enough to make you arch softly against him, enough that your hips moved again over his thigh, less accidental this time and somehow more embarrassing because he felt the difference.
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You’re killing me,” he said.
You blinked at him, breathless, lips swollen and glossy and wrecked, “I kissed you first.”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed once, and your eyes fluttered, “That’s part of the problem.”
“You froze when I did.”
“I was processing.”
“Processing?”
“You kissed me.”
“Yes.”
“Three times.”
“You weren’t responding.”
His mouth twitched, “I was trying not to scare you.”
You stared at him.
Then, despite everything - the heat, the lipstick, the hand at your chest, the thigh between yours, the whole violently undone feeling of being kissed by Logan on Beau’s porch while dressed like Betty Boop - you laughed.
“You thought not responding was less scary?”
His forehead dropped briefly to yours, “Fair.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“You kissed ridiculous.”
“I was under pressure.”
His lips brushed yours, “From who?”
You tried to glare and failed because his hand was still inside the top of your dress.
“You.”
“Me?”
“You took me outside and started handling my heirloom garter.”
“Heirloom?”
“Nana sent it.”
His eyes closed for half a second, “Of course she did.”
“It has history.”
“It has been very helpful.”
Your mouth fell open, “Logan.”
“What?”
“That is my grandmother’s garment.”
“Accessory.”
“Still.”
His hand withdrew from your neckline only to settle back at your waist, like he was trying to behave and failing gracefully.
“You want me to stop?” he asked.
The question softened everything immediately.
His eyes stayed on yours as you shook your head.
His hands tightened once at your waist, “Words, Cherry.”
“No,” you whispered, “I don’t want you to stop.”
His jaw flexed.
Your honesty made him clench his teeth, unavoidable and entirely easier than pretending.
He kissed you for it and you kissed him back like you were no longer interested in careful answers.
The second wave of kissing was worse. Better? You settled on both.
Your hands slid over his shoulders, feeling the ridiculous feather detail give way to the firm line of muscle underneath. His shirt was warm from his body, the fabric soft under your palms, his arms bracketing you against the banister while his mouth moved over yours with increasingly poor concern for anyone who might step outside.
You tugged lightly at his hair, he made a sound that went straight through you- it made you smile against his mouth before you could stop yourself.
He pulled back, “Did you just smile?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“You made a noise.”
“You tugged my hair.”
“You liked it.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but the effect was ruined by the red lipstick smeared across his mouth, “You’re getting bold.”
“I kissed you first.”
“That you did.”
“And I might do it again.”
“Might?”
You leaned in.
This time he met you halfway, and the kiss caught hotter, faster, the teasing burning up before it fully formed. His hand returned to the back of your neck, thumb near your jaw, while the other settled low at your waist, holding you against him as you shifted over his thigh again. You did not mean to make the soft little sound that followed. It came out anyway, high and breathless, immediately swallowed by his mouth.
Logan pulled back just enough to speak against your lips.
“Still moving.”
Your face burned, “I’m balancing.”
“On my thigh?”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
“Shut up.”
His smile was wicked, “Make me.”
So you kissed him again, more force than finesse, hands in his hair, mouth open under his, and he laughed once before it turned into another groan. The sound made you shiver so hard that his hand tightened at your waist.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” Your voice trembled with frustration now, not fear, “Stop checking like you’re not actively responsible.”
His brows lifted, “I’m responsible?”
“For this.”
“For you grinding on me?”
Your eyes widened, “Logan.”
“What?”
“You cannot say that.”
“You’re doing it.”
“I know, but you don’t have to narrate.”
His thumb brushed over your waist, “You like when I narrate.”
“I do not.”
He looked at you knowingly and you attempted to stare back- which lasted a brave two seconds.
“I hate that I can’t lie quickly.”
His expression shifted into something so warm and pleased it almost hurt,“Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”
Then he kissed you softer.
Your hands loosened in his hair and your body went warm all over, his palm at your waist flattened, thumb stroking once through the red fabric of your dress. His mouth slowed. You followed him instinctively, still breathless, still perched half against the banister, still feeling the shape of him everywhere he touched you.
The door slid open.
Both of you froze.
Tucker stepped onto the porch in full bee costume, antennae slightly crooked, drink in hand.
He stopped and blinked.
Looked at Logan. Looked at you.
Looked at Logan’s arm braced beside your head, your red lipstick everywhere except where it belonged, the dress slightly rumpled, your pin curls less structurally sound than when you arrived, and the fact that you were very clearly hiding behind Logan’s shoulder despite being directly in front of him.
Tucker lifted his brows.
“...alright.”
Logan did not move and you took the chance to bury your face against his shoulder.
Tucker took a slow sip of his drink.
“The guys,” he said. “The girls. They’re looking for you both.”
Logan lifted one hand without turning fully around and gave Tucker a thumbs-up.
“Thanks, man,” Logan said, voice rough.
Tucker nodded, almost turning to retreat but then he paused.
“Also, maybe wipe your face before you come back.”
Logan closed his eyes and you made a tiny mortified sound into his shoulder.
“Thanks, man,” Logan repeated.
Tucker pointed two fingers at him in acknowledgement and backed toward the door.
“Carry on. Or don’t. Actually, maybe don’t. There are windows.”
“Tuck.”
“Leaving.”
The door slid shut behind him.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then you started laughing.
You could not help it. It came up out of your chest, breathless and embarrassed and delighted all at once. Logan turned back to you, and the sight of him made it worse, his mouth stained red, a smear near the corner of his lip, another faint mark at his jaw, hair messed from your hands, expression caught somewhere between desire and disbelief and the kind of laughter he was trying not to let out because it would make both of you worse.
“You have Betty Boop on your face,” you whispered.
His mouth twitched, “Is that your professional diagnosis, miss vet?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not exactly clean.”
Your hands flew to your face.
He caught them gently, laughing now too, “Don’t hide.”
“I look insane.”
“You look-” He stopped, eyes moving over you in the soft porch light, “You look so good Cherry.”
“You said that already.”
“Still true.”
You tried to glare.
It dissolved into a smile almost immediately.
His hands came up to hold your face, thumbs careful near the ruined edges of your lipstick. He was still laughing quietly, and you were too, the embarrassment making everything lighter without making it less intense.
If anything, the laughter made it worse. Sweeter. Not a perfect first kiss preserved under glass, but the two of you on a porch at a costume party, caught by Tucker in a bee costume, messy and breathless and unable to stop smiling at each other.
“I think we got caught,” you whispered.
Logan laughed against your mouth, “You think?”
“Tucker was very polite.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“He saw my lipstick.”
“He saw mine too.”
“That is worse.”
“Why?”
“Because mine is on theme.”
He smiled, “Mine is evidence.”
Your breath caught at that and his eyes dropped to your mouth again.
“We should wipe it off,” you said.
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moved while the party thudded inside. The ocean moved beyond the porch. Somewhere, someone shouted Beau’s name and a chorus of laughter followed.
You should go back in, you both knew that. Your friends were looking for you. Tucker had said so. Hannah and Allie were probably already building entire criminal profiles from your absence. Dean, if he had noticed, would be unbearable for the rest of his natural life.
But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, when Logan’s hands were still holding your face and his mouth was still red because of you.
A tiny, delighted smile tugged at your lips.
“What?” he asked.
“I kissed you first.”
His eyes warmed, “You did.”
“Just noting it for the record.”
“Important record.”
“Very.”
His thumb brushed your cheek, “You gonna do it again?”
You pretended to consider.
Then leaned up and kissed him, softly, at first.
He smiled against your mouth, soon his hand slid back into your hair and the kiss deepened again, laughter turning into a breath, then a sigh, then that same dizzy heat as he pulled you closer against him.
Inside, the party kept roaring.
Outside, Logan kissed the laugh right out of your mouth.
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Fears burden the mind.
Word Count: 4,3k
Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of pregnancy, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Back at the Reach, one of the things both you and Margaery would get reprimanded for was gossip.
It wasn’t rare for either of you to stay up until the hour of the wolf and going over what happened during the day over and over again, focusing on a different person each time. Sometimes it’d be about fashion, or paramours, or the latest scandal, but there was always something.
And now, especially with the king’s visit, you had so much to go over, yet Margaery wasn’t here, and you still didn’t trust anyone in Winterfell.
So you had found a different solution.
“Robb, wake up!”
Robb let out a small groan when you shook him by the chest.
“Wake up,” you insisted. “I have things to tell you.”
“Can it wait?” he mumbled into his pillow, and you shook your head even though he couldn’t see you.
“Do you not find it strange that the king ignores the queen all the time?”
Robb’s eyes fluttered open and he squinted at you, the sight of his messy auburn curls making your chest all warm.
“What time is it?” he rasped out and you shrugged.
“Early. It’s rather rude of him, is it not? He ignored her in front of everyone when they first got here. And then at the feast too.”
“Why are you—”
“And not only did he ignore her, he also humiliated her at the feast, in front of people!” you insisted. “Does he not like her at all, do you think?”
“You woke up at this hour to gossip?”
“We barely talked last night,” you whined, your shoulders dropping in defeat while he smirked.
“We were too busy to talk.”
“But I wanted to talk!” you insisted. “And now that you’re awake—”
“I’m not awake.” He threw his arm around your torso to pull you to his chest, coaxing a giggle out of you as you propped yourself up on your elbows.
“Is it not strange?” you asked. “I mean when they wed, everyone agreed that she was the most—” You shook him, making him groan again. “Robb, I don’t think you’re listening!”
“Gods be good…”
“Has your father said anything about them?”
“No.”
“How come you—” A squeal escaped you when he squeezed your butt still half asleep, but you reached back to grab his wrist. “Not now, focus! Why didn’t you ask?”
“Why would I ask?”
You rolled your eyes.
“I swear I will never understand men,” you grumbled. “How are you not curious? He doesn’t like her, it’s very surprising.”
“Is it?” he asked with a yawn and opened his eyes, then ran a hand over his face as if trying to get rid of the haze of sleep. “Of course he doesn’t like her, she’s not pleasant at all.”
“Maybe not to other people, but she probably was pleasant to him at least at first,” you said. “She must have tried. There is no way she did not.”
“I suppose sometimes it just doesn’t work.”
“Her family is powerful,” you insisted, counting with your fingers, “she’s beautiful, educated, fashionable—”
A chuckle escaped him. “I don’t think the king cares much about fashion.”
“It helps still,” you commented. “I don’t know, the realm thinks she’s everything a queen is expected to be. And they have three children together, one would assume…”
“Hm?”
“How did he not eventually fall in love with her?”
He folded an arm under his head. “Maybe his love for Aunt Lyanna does not let him love anyone else.”
“It is rather odd, how every man has a different reaction to being left behind,” you muttered, heaving a sigh as you rested your chin on his chest, absentmindedly tracing his muscles. “The king wed and fathered children, but he still loves your aunt. And my father never recovered after my mother. No mistresses or wife, even though everyone kept pressuring him. It makes me wonder what she would think. Or what your aunt would think had she lived.”
If you hadn’t been so lost in your own thoughts, you would’ve noticed the silence falling upon the room, or his body tensing up.
“I guess there’s a reason why so many love ballads are sad,” you mused. “Heartbreak one way or another. That might be the one thing years cannot take away.”
He was so quiet that for half a minute you were convinced he had fallen asleep again. Yet, his deep voice that rumbled in his chest and vibrated underneath your palm didn’t sound sleepy at all when he finally spoke, the stern command almost taking you by surprise.
“You’re not allowed to do that.”
You lifted your head to blink up at him.
“Do what?”
“You’re not allowed to die before me.”
You couldn’t stop your chortle. “Robb…”
“I’m serious. You cannot.”
“When it comes to longevity, the gods seem to favor men more,” you couldn’t help but point out. “Men die in battle in wartime. Women die in childbirth regardless of war or peace.”
His eyes found yours.
“Is that what you fear?” he asked quietly and you pinched your lips, trying to pick the right words.
“I don’t think fear is the right word for it,” you ended up saying. “I’m no fool, I know what happened to my mother was largely related to the very short time between the twins’ birth and mine.”
Silas and Arys had told you that. Upon hearing your septa talking about how motherhood came with a price and the childbirth was the ultimate sacrifice, Silas had said fuck off to her face, making you burst into laughter even with the fear churning your stomach.
“My sister will not be sacrificed just so that some prick somewhere can have an heir,” Silas had spat. “And she will be educated to minimize the danger. Stop filling her head with nonsense, unless you want my father to release you of your duties.”
Arys had been the one to tell you all about it; how it was of importance that one’s body was given enough time to rest.
“When you wed,” he had told you, “you’ll have many herbs at your disposal. We’re not letting you wed anyone who you might not like, but regardless of how much you might like your future husband, you are putting your own health first. Always. No babe is more important than you, and you’re not making the same mistake mother and father did. You will only have kids when you’re ready, and they will have at least 3 years between them, not like us.”
“We won’t…” Robb started, then paused and shook his head. “I would never put you through that.”
Nor were you going to put yourself through that. You were going to be very careful and take nothing for granted, because you knew how it went for your mother; she’d had such easy childbirths until you, and each time she had bounced back so fast that both she and your father were convinced nothing bad would happen.
So the gods had decided to prove to them otherwise.
“No,” you said in an attempt to sound more confident than you felt, willing yourself not to think about Arrana’s bad wish. “It won’t be like that for me.”
But there was still that danger.
Even if you did everything right, there was still that danger, for you and for every woman in the realm.
However, Robb was never going to hear that from you, not even with a blade to your throat. He wasn’t going to hear that, your own family wasn’t going to hear that, none of the Starks were going to hear that, none of your ladies-in-waiting or your maids were going to hear that.
The only person whom you had shared those concerns with was Margaery, and it was going to stay that way.
“Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” you added, desperate to disperse the gloomy air that felt almost suffocating around you. “Besides, no use worrying about any of that, only the gods know these things. Look at your own mother, she’s very healthy and she’s had five children so far—”
He pulled his brows together, confusion snapping him out of his own thoughts. “So far?”
Of course it worked.
“Well yes.” You shrugged your shoulders. “So far. You never know, they’re both still young—”
From the grimace twisting his handsome face, one would’ve thought you had spoken of something utterly unacceptable.
“Seven hells, don’t say that!”
A burst of laughter escaped you. “Robb, my love, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the fact that you have four other siblings—”
“That happened in the past!”
“Rickon is still little,” you argued. “And your mother and father are in love, anyone could see that. It’s normal!”
“It’s not normal,” he said, still grimacing while he motioned at the door. “He loves her from…from afar.”
“Mm, from up close. Very close, I’d say, because five kids is no duty—”
“From a respectable distance.”
“No to that also.”
He made a noise of disgust. “Can we stop talking about this? They’re too old to have a babe.”
“They’re not too old.”
“Fine, I’m too old to have a sibling,” he said, your laughter bouncing off the walls. “And I refuse to believe they would betray me like that.”
“Oh, such betrayal,” you said in an exaggerated manner, a hand on your chest. “Disaster, if you will.”
“Aye, it would be.”
You rolled your eyes at him while his gaze darted over your face, a frown pinching his forehead again.
“But you’ll be—” He swallowed thickly. “You’ll be fine, when…”
He didn’t need to finish his sentence, you knew exactly what he was referring to. You turned your bracelet around your wrist, heaving a dramatic sigh.
“How about this?” you said. “You give me your word that you won’t die in war, and I’ll give you my word that nothing will happen to me in childbirth. That’s called diplomacy, if you’re too northern to recognize such concept.”
That managed to make him huff out a chuckle, though the haunted look in his eyes didn’t disappear, not completely. He nodded after a beat, reaching out to cradle your cheek in his palm.
“Very well,” he said. “I give you my word. Do you?”
You lifted yourself a little to brush your lips against his, his hand slipping from your cheek to the side of your neck. His other arm snaked around your waist to press you to his body, butterflies erupting in your stomach.
“I do,” you said, a smile warming your face. “See? Who said the north and the south can’t negotiate?”
All your ladies-in-waiting agreed that the queen had to have grown bitter in time, perhaps because of her husband, perhaps because of her responsibilities, and perhaps because she had fewer admirers now than when she first wed the king. You didn’t know the reason, nor did you say too much out loud, but you were more than aware that she did not look happy at any time, with the exception of when she was talking to her brother.
Well, one of them, at least. Her other brother, Tyrion had arrived in Winterfell nearing the end of last night’s feast, having spent the whole day in a brothel in Wintertown, so if you had to guess, he was going to get along well with Theon.
Robb was busy throughout the afternoon, and so were you. While he went on a hunt with his father and the king, you and some of your ladies-in-waiting were tasked with taking baskets of food and herbs to Wintertown per Lady Stark’s orders. As much as you liked going to Wintertown, you still wondered whether there were no servants left in the castle to do this exact task, but you managed to keep your mouth shut.
She was probably making sure everyone in Wintertown had seen you and talked to you, and this was a good way to make sure of that.
Or perhaps she was trying to keep you out of the queen’s sight after that little exchange of yours the other night, that could’ve been the reason as well.
Alys, Lyra and Wylla had gone into the other street, leaving you with Barbrey and Jorelle. It had taken you a much shorter time to give the baskets to all the houses you were supposed to visit, so now you were waiting for the others while you explored the market, making small talk with vendors as Barbrey and Jorelle trailed after you. This was yet another instance that you couldn’t help but note was different in here, because back in the south, the vendors sold many different types of jewelry seeing that it was popular among noble ladies. In the north, rather than jewelry, women embroidered their gowns with beads and intricate pieces of bronze, copper and ivory.
Perhaps you could use some of those on your cloaks at least.
“…And my cousin will visit Winterfell with her lord husband, and she’ll die when she sees me,” Barbrey chattered. “I doubt she believed me when I wrote to her to tell her I’m a lady-in-waiting. I’m planning to get a new gown and embroider it by the time she visits, she’ll be so jealous!”
You accidentally exchanged glances with Jorelle who looked like she was trying her hardest to keep herself from rolling her eyes at Barbrey.
“Her wedding was two years ago, and she had the audacity to criticize what I wore to it. And let me tell you, her wedding gown wasn’t so impressive either! Her lord husband is of House Flint, and her gown had eyes all over it, it looked so weird.”
You raised your brows. “Her gown had eyes?”
“House Flint’s words are Ever Vigilant,” Jorelle explained, “and their banner has a pair of eyes on it.”
“And it looked like she was wearing the banner itself,” Barbrey added. “Let’s see whose gown is better now. And also, if I may, I’m sure I’ll make a better marriage now that I’m—”
“Barbrey, did you see that vendor over there?” Jorelle cut her off. “I think they have more colorful beads over there, they’d look good on your purple gown.”
“You’re right!” Barbrey gasped. “My lady, may I—?”
“Please go ahead,” you said a bit quicker than intended, but Barbrey was too excited to notice that. She rushed to the stall Jorelle was pointing at, and Jorelle let out a breath.
“There. Some peace and quiet.”
You bit back a smile. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
You sometimes wondered whether you would’ve been able to get along well with Jorelle if it weren’t for her family and her whole almost betrothal with Robb. She probably held some resentment for you, and you still felt rather threatened by her. Despite that, sometimes she reminded you of Margaery with the calm air around her that made it nearly impossible to see through her, but you cast the thought away from your mind, forcing yourself to look at the beads on the tray.
“These look nice,” you commented as you approached the counter. “Are you good at embroidery, Jorelle?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Not my absolute favorite, but yes.”
“What is your absolute favorite?”
“I like riding.”
Right.
Of course she liked riding.
“So do I,” you said, taking a couple of bronze pieces into your palm to inspect them. “Silk is faster than my horses back in the Reach, but I’m getting used to such speed.”
“Your brother gifted her to you, did he not?”
“Yes. Cliff.”
She stole a look at you.
“And you’re close with all your brothers?”
“Mm hm. Well, Silas is the one I’m closest with, and then the twins. Arys and Cliff left home quite early, so I see them very rarely. Mostly on my namedays and such.” You lifted your gaze from the pieces in your hand. “I think you’ve talked to Perceon?”
Jorelle blinked a couple of times, her cheeks betraying her nonchalant demeanor when they turned pink.
“Yes,” she said, making herself busy with the beads. “He was—he is very southern.”
“Dornish, more like.”
A silence fell upon you and Jorelle nibbled on her lip, her eyes falling on Barbrey before turning to you.
“Can I ask you something?”
You put the bronze pieces back and grabbed a particularly shiny bead. “Of course.”
“Why did you…” she trailed off. “Why did you choose her to be among your ladies-in-waiting? After what Arrana has said?”
That question wasn’t about Barbrey, and you both knew it.
You had to give it to Jorelle, unlike other northerners, she did know how to be subtle. A bitter smile twitched your lips as you put the bead down, then reached for a thin silver chain, pretending to direct your attention on it.
“I’m very southern,” you said, your voice silky. “That’s one of the many cultural differences, I’ve found. Northerners are quite direct about alliances or enmity, but back in the south, it’s more complex than that. We’re taught to keep some people close, precisely because of lack of trust.”
She raised her brows, staring at you as if the remark had taken her by surprise.
“Ah,” she said after a beat, pressing her lips into a thin line. “I see.”
“My lady!” Wylla called out, making you look over your shoulder to see her approach you with Lyra and Alys following her. “We’re finished. Shall we go back?”
You thought for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders.
“Let’s stay a while longer,” you said, linking your arm through hers to lead her to the nearest stall. “I have plans for some of my cloaks, and I am in a desperate need of some beads.”
Much to your displeasure, you couldn’t see Robb for the rest of the day. He had been with his father and the king in the Wolfswood the entire day, and they hadn’t returned to the castle during dinner either, because of the king’s request to have their dinner in the woods like he and Lord Stark used to whenever they went hunting in their youth.
At least that was the explanation Robb mumbled into your ear when he joined you in bed at dawn, waking you up with kisses instead of going to sleep himself. At first you had assumed he would be too tired, especially after having spent the whole night in the woods, but you were soon proven wrong.
There were many things, you had found, that you loved when it came to marital bed. The act itself was pleasurable beyond words, Robb always made sure you enjoyed it every single time, unlike what that lady of the night had told you back in the Reach. You hadn’t even thought it possible before, but it made you fall in love with him even more, your heart so full of him that it sometimes made you worry whether there would be room for anything else. You enjoyed his kisses, his touch, his weight upon you, and how he made you feel before and during, and after.
That was one of your favorite parts as well.
After.
How he held you until your trembling passed, with chaste kisses and the sweetest praises that made your stomach flutter happily. Even now, while you tried to catch your breath with his arm around you that pressed you tight against his chest, you felt half delirious, all thoughts but him shattered to different corners in your mind, impossible to put back together. He pressed a kiss on your damp forehead, his other hand brushing back your hair before he dipped his head and his lips found yours. You couldn’t decide if the fire that colored his cheeks was because of the heat of the room or the chase of pleasure more; a sheen of sweat making him glow under the sunlight spilling through the thin curtains around the bed. His curly auburn hair was a mess in the most handsome way, and the light in his eyes was so soft that you could swear your heart melted when he looked down at you with a fond smile, awakening your own.
You felt tired, and sore, and sticky all over, but most of all; completely and utterly happy.
“What are you thinking about?” you whispered while your fingertips traced his chest up and down, light as a feather.
“How pretty you are,” he said, the northern accent in his deep voice drawing a giddy giggle out of you before you brushed your lips against his.
“Right answer,” you said. “Especially after spending a whole day away from me.”
“It wasn’t by choice,” he grumbled. “I considered sneaking back into the castle like a common thief, more than once.”
The image his words conjured up in your mind was too funny for you to hold back your laughter. “Really?”
“My beautiful wife was in our bed waiting for me, and I was in the woods with a bunch of men.”
“But you were hunting,” you told him. “You love hunting.”
“Lamb, I promise you, there’s nothing I love more than this.” He motioned at your naked body, making you scrunch up your nose in embarrassment. “I was all but taken hostage. Just because the king doesn’t want to go back to his wife doesn’t mean he should assume the rest of us share that sentiment.”
…Was that—?
Was that Robb gossiping?
“Did he say that?”
“No, but he said something else while drunk,” he answered with a grimace, making your jaw drop. “I will not repeat those words to you, but he dislikes her even more than you assume.”
Very well, there was room for improvement there.
Not everyone could be a natural like you and Margaery, you’d teach him how to gossip in time.
“The queen drinks too,” you said. “I noticed it at the feast, and tonight’s dinner as well. Too much wine.”
“Might be the only thing they have in common.”
“Not the only thing, because she doesn’t like him either,” you said. “Have I told you the other night at the feast, she tried to give me advise, and then she said…”
“Hm?”
“She said she hopes we’ll be as happy as her and the king.”
Robb flicked his gaze up for a second with a scoff, the gesture so similar to the way you rolled your eyes whenever you were annoyed.
“She can keep hoping,” he said. “Seven hells, I can’t wait until they all leave.”
“But you don’t think—” You paused. “Do you think it was like that always?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s rather bitter, and all my ladies-in-waiting have many ideas about the reason. The queen had a lot of admirers when she was young, and Lyra has this theory that when one who’s used to compliments grows old…” you trailed off. “I don’t believe time takes away beauty, but I don’t want to be bitter like that when I grow old.”
His fingertips traced shapes on your bare skin. “You won’t.”
“It worried me all day today.”
“It shouldn’t have.”
“But perhaps she wasn’t like that either at first, because—”
“You couldn’t be bitter if you tried, it’s not in you.” The corners of his mouth curled, the glint in his eye making you blink up at him in confusion. “And I would know, I was just in you.”
A gasp left you and you pushed at his shoulder, heat sweeping over your face like a firestorm.
“I’m talking about something of importance!” you whined when he caught your wrist, his laugh echoing in the room. “And you’re making jests—”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he cooed, though that mischievous smile of his betrayed the gentle tone of his voice. “I’m sorry. Come here.”
He pulled you to himself while you pouted at him, your brows knitted together in defiance. He bit back his grin, the pad of his thumb smoothing over the pinch of your frown before he cradled your cheek, his lips finding yours. That familiar warmth dripped down and down, a half sigh hitching in your throat as the kiss deepened, melting away your frustration along with every other thought that was plaguing your mind. Your eyes fluttered open when he nudged your nose with his, then pressed a kiss on the corner of your mouth, coaxing a giggle out of you.
“Jesting aside,” he said, the pleasant rumble of his voice vibrating under your palm resting on his chest. “It shouldn’t have worried you.”
“But what if you—”
“It shouldn’t have worried you, because there will never come a time when I look at you and not forget to breathe.”
Whatever you were going to say disappeared somewhere between your mind and your mouth while you gazed up at him, painfully aware of the lovesick smile on your face.
“And also,” he added, idly playing with your hair. “I meant it when I said you couldn’t if you tried. Your heart is too soft to be anything like her.”
That made your smile falter. You bit inside your cheek in deep thought, and when you spoke, your voice was almost too low to hear in the already quiet room:
“Everyone says life has a way of hardening hearts.”
He ran his knuckles down your spine as if trying to assure you.
“You entrusted me with yours to safekeep,” he murmured. “I will protect it from harm, for as long as I draw breath. Such fears will never come true, I promise.”
Tears rushed to your eyes out of nowhere but you blinked them away fast, desperate to swallow the lump in your throat. You captured his lips with yours, his hand slipping to your jaw to tilt your head, but you were both pulled out of the haze when someone pounded on the door, making you recoil in his arms.
“What?” Robb snapped at whoever it was behind the door. “What is it?”
It took you only a second to understand something was wrong.
“Robb, it’s—” Jon’s voice cracked mid-sentence before he took a shaky breath. “It’s Bran. He fell from the Broken Tower.”
three times beau maxwell proves to you that he is boyfriend material, and the one time you decide to let yourself fall for his charms
PAIRINGS: beau maxwell x fem!reader, beau maxwell x curvy!reader
WARNINGS: reader is described as curvy, slightly shorter than beau with a naturally wavy/curly hair pattern, angsty as hell, fluffy as hell, deeply insecure self-talk, hardly any self-confidence, yearning, golden retriever energy (ala beau maxwell), dramatic confession
WORD COUNT: 4.3k
🎶 : boyfriend - justin bieber
AN: 🩵♥️💗 - i love this fic with my whole soul. i thought of this after seeing an edit on tiktok of beau to this song and i just ran with it. please enjoy and feel free to leave a comment!
one: the Sig Tau darty
You don’t like partying.
If you got into the gory details of it all, you’d find that wasn’t true.
You loved partying in its truest and purest form. You loved talking with your friends, dancing for hours and hours, and looking at the stars on the walk home. The dark was where you thrived: no one could see the sweat that built up on your brow, or your slightly disheveled appearance. Night served as a cloak, and it only built up your confidence. (Which, if you were being honest with yourself, wasn’t exactly very good to begin with.)
You loved partying, not dartying.
It was always too bright. Everyone could see your hair transform from perfectly blown out to your natural texture. In fact, if you were to take a photo of your hair every couple minutes and put it into stop motion, that short film would make it to the Cannes Film Festival. Plus, people got weird when they drank during the day.
Yet here you were.
Because Beau Maxwell had convinced you to come.
He’d asked you once, very casually, and you had to sit him down and explain why you detested darties. He honestly understood, but that hadn’t stopped his eyes from molding into the same melancholy look of a kicked puppy’s.
Dean tracked you down after and told you that your rejection had killed his spirit.
You hated how easily you caved after that.
So here you were at three in the afternoon on a Saturday.
Your jeans clung to your slightly damp skin, your top (a light green with florals and many fluttery layers) skillfully hid your rolls. Your hair was blown out, your makeup perfectly done (besides the beads of sweat building up on your brow), and your sunglasses were perched neatly on your nose.
In other words, you felt good. Hot, even.
There was one issue though. You’d yet to see Beau. Who, even if you were too scared to say it outloud, was the whole reason you were here.
You nervously fidgeted with your purse while taking a leisurely sip of the Sig Tau bucket. It tasted like a Dirty Shirley, but you couldn’t be sure.
“Come here often?”
“Nope.” You smiled lightly as your eyes scanned the crowd. “Just waiting on a friend.”
“Oh?” The frat brother was not leaving. Great. You tried to come across as friendly, but not friendly enough that it felt flirty. Obviously, you did not succeed. “If she’s half as beautiful as you, we’re in for a treat?”
There were so many things wrong with that statement, that you simply did not have time to unpack it. “He is on the way, so…”
“He?” This statement only seemed to egg on his flirtations. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“Not exactly.” You thanked whatever was above that your glasses hid your deadly glare. “Look it was nice talking to you, but I should really get-”
“He obviously isn’t interested enough to stay by your side. Whereas I-”
“Am making someone extremely uncomfortable?” You raised a brow, officially done with playing nice.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” You took your glasses off, placing them on your head. “This entire conversation you have done nothing but talk over me and treat me as an object. I honestly thought that maybe you’d respect the threat of another man coming over here. But still, you persisted.” You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out ever so slightly. “You are the very worst of what Sig Tau has to offer.”
“You’re a-”
“Is there a problem here?” Beau’s voice broke through the tense air. “What’s going on, Tucker?”
“Maxwell.” Tucker seemingly cowered at the sight of Briar’s beloved quarterback. Good, serves him right.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Beau’s cologne flooded your senses. “Is there a problem here?”
“No.” Tucker shook his head quickly. “No problem.”
“Huh.” Beau’s eyes stayed on the boy as he addressed you. “Is there a problem here, Killer?”
Killer. A nickname you’d earned after tearing Beau to shreds. You were in a bad mood, and once you set your sights on Beau, there was no turning back. You’d apologized profusely, but it was too late. He’d dubbed you Killer, and the nickname had stuck ever since.
“Not anymore.” You responded. “I think Turner here was just leaving.”
“Tucker, but, yea.” Turner nodded. “Bye.”
Beau scoffed, mumbling under his breath. “I am so reporting his ass to standards.”
“That is so kind of you.” You imitated, turning around to face the boy. “How are you?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He frowned. Your eyes drifted down to his hands, which were grazing yours just barely. You could tell he was itching to reach out and hold you, to make sure you were alright. Deciding to put him out of his misery, you settled on a nice arm squeeze.
“I’m fine. But thank you.” You genuinely smiled at the boy, your hand still lingering on his arm. (It was hard not to notice exactly how muscular he was.) “Seriously. I had no idea where that was going.”
“Don’t worry. If I have it my way, Tucker won’t be a brother for much longer.”
You smirked, stepping just a hair closer, testing the waters. “And we all know the influence you have.”
“Are you having fun?” He laughed. “Besides the whole-”
“I’m having a great time.” Liar.
“And to think,” His pointer finger wrapped around yours. “That you hate darties. Now look at you.”
“What can I say?” You shrugged. “I’m a changed woman.”
“You know,” he was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet. “I was just about to play a game of pong. I don’t know if you’d be down, but I need a partner.”
Something about seeing him reduced to a bumbling nervous mess made you incredibly mushy inside. “I’m down.” You smiled. “I’m so down. Lead the way.”
And when his hand tightened its grasp on yours, you said nothing, simply following after him.
two: the spa day
This was stupid. There was no way that he would want to do this.
Spa day was originally a girls' night. All of your roommates had excitedly put the event into their calendars. Then, suspiciously, hours before, all of their boyfriends had decided to take them out for a date, a date that they just couldn’t get out of.
They later confessed with not a shred of guilt in their tones.
They were giggling when they told you. Actually giggling in your face as they destroyed your girls night. The smug bastards. Grace at least gave you the courtesy of apoligizing.
“We’re sorry, but we knew you would never do it on your own. You need to make sure he knows you’re interested, babe. And what better way than a chill night in? Just the two of you.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Alone.”
“We want to see you in love.” Malia added on. “You deserve it.”
“And in order to do that-” Grace continued. “You need to be vulnerable.”
The phone is ringing longer than normal, and you take that as a sign to hang up. The second you pull the phone away from your ear, Beau’s voice rings out like a beacon in the dark. “Hello?” Your throat closes, and suddenly, you’ve forgotten how to speak. Why were you so nervous? “Killer? Are you there?”
“Hi.” You put him on speaker as you pace around your apartment, your voice crackling. “Are you, um…” You take a deep breath. “Are you busy right now?” You can hear Dean in the background, as well as some of the other hockey guys. Shit. “This was crazy, sorry for bothering-”
“I’m not busy at all.” Dean groans, and you can hear Beau hiss at him to ‘shut up’. “What’s up?”
“My roommates and I were supposed to have a spa day today, but they all backed out at the last minute. And I know this is stupid, so I honestly wouldn’t blame you for saying no, but I was wondering-”
“Yes.”
“Yes to this is stupid, or yes to-”
“To the spa day.” Beau laughed. “Yes to the spa day.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He sounded like he was smiling. God, you hoped he was smiling. “I’m on the way. Do you need anything?”
“I have snacks and wine and face masks, so I’m good.”
“Give me ten minutes.” It takes at least twenty minutes to get to your apartment from the hockey house. He most definitely drove over the speed limit, because ten minutes later, Beau was at your door.
You whipped it open, trying your best to look disappointed. “How many minor traffic laws did you break?”
“Only a few.” He grinned. “Can I come in?”
“Please.” You shut the door behind him, watching as he walked around your living room.
“It’s different from the last time I was here.”
Ah, yes, the last time he was here.
Sophomore year, you had had too much to drink. After making Beau swear that he would take care of you, your roommates all left the party. And take care of you he did. The entire night he stayed by your side, guarded your drinks, danced, and even laid with you on the grass to look at the stars.
When you were ready to leave, so was he. He walked you all the way home, took off your makeup, and tucked you into bed. Looking back, Beau had always been boyfriend material. Even when you were just mutual friends. That was just Beau though, he was kind to a fault.
“We went with a coastal grandmother vibe this year.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “As opposed to the ‘barbie hot pink’ vibe.”
“Exactly.” You laughed. “You get it.”
“This face mask is cold.”
“Did you expect it to be warm?” You mumble, carefully spreading the mask around his face. “It’s supposed to help your skin glow.”
“Do you think my skin needs to glow more than it already does?”
A snort escaped you before you could help it. “Just think, you’ll like the sun baby from Teletubbies after this.”
“I’ve always wanted to look like her.”
“Really?” Giggles snuck out between every word. “Trust me. With the help of this mask, people are going to have to wear shades to look at you.”
“They already do.” He wiggled his brows. “You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because my future’s so bright.”
You closed your eyes. “You did not just say that.”
“I’m not ashamed.” He smirked. “What does the one that you’re wearing do?”
“It uh-” You opened your eyes, suddenly realizing how close the two of you are. There’s no other way to put it: you were sitting on his lap, straddling him as you applied his mask. “It’s supposed to hydrate your skin while cooling it down. Sometimes-” Your breath hitches as his hands drift up from your hips to your waist. Normally, you’d flinch. You’re extremely uncomfortable with people being anywhere near your rolls, but with Beau, you crave more. Always more. “My moisturizer doesn’t exactly do the trick, and I use this face mask to rejuvenate.”
“Huh.” His smile could make flowers bloom. “So that’s why your skin looks so dewy.”
Your head falls back as the giggles take over once again. “Dewy?”
“What’s so funny?” His hands squeeze ever so slightly. “Your skin is dewy.”
“You’re perfect.” You laugh. “Who taught you how to use that word?”
“Learned it all on my own, thank you very much.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” You focus back on the task at hand. “Now hold still, I’m almost done.”
He tried to contain his smile as he tipped his head back. “Yes, ma’am.”
three: the gala
“Football’s biggest fundraiser of the year is coming up.”
You look up from your textbook. “That’s cool.”
“It’s a silent auction, gala, sort of thing. Briar’s entire board of trustees normally attends. We also invite our biggest donors, parents, and friends.”
“Sounds like a fun night, Beau.” You smile, trying not to be obvious about the fact that you’re talking in the middle of a lecture. “Is it fancy?”
“The fanciest.” He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. “Would you want to go?”
“To the gala?” You hummed. “With you?”
“Yes?” He sounds scared.
“I’d love to.” You looked over, covering your mouth to hold back the laughter. “Breathe, Maxwell. You know I can’t say no to you.”
“I just don’t want you to go because you feel obligated or anything-”
“I don’t feel obligated, Beau.” You smiled. “I want to go with you.”
“Good.” He smiled back. “Good.”
“I’ll have to buy a new dress.”
“Of course.” He sounds so sure when he says it, that you just know he’s gonna weasel himself into coming along with you.
“Is there a color scheme?”
“Normally I see the girls wearing navy blue, red, black, that sort of stuff.”
“Briar colors?” You nod slowly, envisioning the possibilities. “I can work with that.”
“You know you’ll look beautiful in whatever you wear.”
Your cheeks could cook an egg. “That’s sweet of you to say but-”
“Am I interrupting something?” Your professor stared at the two of you. “Is Mr. Maxwell distracting you?”
“Not at all.” You smiled brightly. “I was just clarifying something for him.”
“Mhm.” She was not convinced. “Raise your hand next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Beau replied. “Will do.”
You waited a minute before continuing. “Is there dancing?”
“So much dancing.”
“Good.” You grinned. “I love dancing.”
“I know.” His pen tapped against the table at a million miles a minute. “I know you love to dance.”
“Relax, Killer.” Beau leans over, whispering in your ear.
“I’m very relaxed.”
“You’re messing with your dress a lot for someone who’s relaxed.”
“Do you always notice everything I do?” A scowl forms on your lips.
He hums. “Usually.”
“Oh.” You don’t have a retort for that. “I should have gone with the black one. It’s more slimming and-”
“You look beautiful. Like a movie star.” His eyes bear into yours, with a look that almost feels like he’s daring you to disagree with him. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.” You whisper. “Are you sure it’s not too much-”
“Killer, don’t make me do something drastic.”
“Drastic?” You raised a brow. “And what exactly would that entail?”
“Do you really want to know?” He put the car into park, staring at you.
“That’s why I asked.”
He smirked, running around to open your door. “I guess I’d have to prove to you just how beautiful I think you are.”
“Oh.” Your breath hitched as he extended his hand for you to take. “I’ll take your word for it then.”
“Thought you might.” He handed his keys to the valet, walking you into the venue. Jazz standards and small talk filled the air, with people packed into the hotel ballroom as far as the eye could see.
Beau was immediately bombarded with fans, board members, and the like. He smiled, shook hands, and introduced you to every single one of them. He talked his way through a million conversations like it was easy, like this was just another day. He’d grabbed you champagne without you even having to ask, handing it to you mid-conversation.
After what felt like an hour of talking, you’d finally found yourselves alone. Or at least, able to talk to each other without another person present. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” He tilted his head.
“You just seemed so-” Your cheeks feel hot. Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s his attention. “So natural talking to all those people.”
“I like to talk, so it works out.”
“No that’s not it.” You shook your head. “You’re just so-”
“So?” His hand found its way to your waist.
“So confident. So quick witted and kind. A natural leader.” Your hands, now free of a champagne glass, found themselves placed gently on his chest. You can’t help but think that to an outsider, it must look like the two of you were about to kiss. “It’s admirable. You’re amazing.”
“Wow.” He grinned, his hands falling to your hips as he spoke. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me.”
“Don’t let it get to your head.” You laughed. Your eyes drifted from his lips to his bow. “Your bow is crooked.”
“Oh.” He looked down, frowning.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Your hands reached up, fidgeting with it until it was just right. When you were done, you leaned back, admiring your work and smoothing out his jacket. Was it sort of an excuse to rub your hands down his chest?
Maybe.
Beau must have been holding his breath, because when you’d finished, his chest practically heaved. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Killer.” His voice broke.
“Beau.” This felt like something out of a fairytale.
“Do you want to dance?”
“Yes.” You sound breathless.
He grabbed your hand, leading you through the crowd. The dance floor is in sight when an older man and his wife steps in front of him. “Mr. Maxwell.”
“Sir, ma’am.” Beau smiles kindly. “How are you?”
“I’m fantastic. You were fantastic this season. Lots of talk about the draft.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Do you have time to talk?”
“I-” Beau looks back at you, and then at the man. “Sorry sir. I need to dance with my date.”
“Understood.” The older man smiles at you. “Miss.”
You nod, staring over your shoulder and Beau leads you the rest of the way. “Who was that?”
“Oh him?” Beau shrugs, twirling you into his arms. “He’s the head coach of the Buffalo Bills.”
“What?” You’re gawking, you can feel it. “Beau, go talk to him.”
“Do you not want to dance?” His hands find their place, gently swaying to the music.
“Of course I want to dance. But I can wait.”
“Well, so can he.” He’s holding you so close it feels like you’re one person.
“That man could get you a career, Beau. It’s really not worth it.”
“It is to me.” He leaned his forehead against yours. “You’re worth it.”
You were gawking again. You can’t think of anything to say, and so, you lean your head against his chest and dance with him for what felt like forever.
And when the dance is over, he guides you back towards the Buffalo Bills coach with his hand on the small of your back. “Sir.”
“You have a good one here.” The man smiles.
“Thank you.” Your arm wraps around Beau’s. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Joey Brady, and this is my wife Lauren.”
“It’s so nice to meet you.” Lauren sticks her hand out, and you shake it.
“It’s nice to meet you as well.”
“Did you have fun dancing?” Lauren replies. “It’s so rare to find a moment to slow dance anymore.”
“I agree.” You smile. “Thank you for waiting.”
“No need to thank us.” Mr. Brady smiles. “I would do the same.”
The conversation flows easily between the four of you. The night ends before you can blink. You and Beau are leaning against the bar, nursing a couple of espresso martinis when the bartender yells out last call.
“Shall we?” You tilt your head, pushing your drink away.
“We shall.” he grins, shrugging off his coat. “Here.”
“You really don’t need to.”
“Take the coat, Killer.”
You gladly take the warm, cologne soaked coat from his hands, pulling it close. “If you insist.”
one: the conversation that changed everything
So this was what heartbreak felt like.
Yesterday, Briar Hockey threw a party. Of course, you went. You had fun, played Pong, danced (of course), and you’d even stayed longer than normal, watching ‘America’s Got Talent Worst Auditions’ with Dean and Beau until the wee hours of the night. And, in the deep moments of tired delusion, you’d left your things behind.
Most notably, your hoodie and purse.
You’d texted Garrett asking when a good time to come over was, and he’d said whenever. Your fist had been raised, you’d almost knocked. And then you heard it.
“She’s been leading you on, man.” Some Sig Tau brother.
Beau’s voice cuts through. “No she hasn’t.”
“She kind of has, though.” Some other Sig Tau brother. Dean must have been hosting some brotherly bonding event.
“What do you know about it?” Dean. You smiled to yourself. “Some girls take a little longer to warm up. That doesn’t mean that they’re leading you on.”
“It’s been four years, man.”
Beau scoffed. “Are you guys keeping track or something?”
“Maxwell, you have to admit, it’s crazy that she still hasn’t-” The first Sig Tau brother speaks up. “You know.”
“No I don’t, you know.” Beau sounds heavily annoyed. “And you should stop talking about her like you know her. You have no idea what she’s been through or what she’s actually like. You’ve talked to her once, dude. In class.”
“She’s not exactly the easiest person to talk to.” He had a point.
“Or the nicest.”
“I guess that’s why she’s called Killer.” The second Sig Tau brother mutters.
Tears threaten to spill over your water line. “Hold on a second. When did this turn into a ‘let's all be dickhead’s’ party?” Dean, once again.
“If she needs to take her time, then I’ll do anything she needs me to-” Beau’s voice grows in volume, but you sort of black out from the sheer embarrassment of it all. “And for however long she wants. I’m sorry you assholes don’t understand what being in lo-”
You step back, the floor board creaking under the weight. A gasp leaves your lips before you can help it, and you know you’ve been caught. The only reasonable thought that passes through your mind is to run.
So you do.
Or at least, you try to. You get down the porch steps and to the sidewalk when the door swings open, and Beau Maxwell calls out your name. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough.”
He frowns. “They’re dicks.”
“Beau-” A single tear falls. “I- I shouldn’t have been here. It’s really okay-”
“Killer.” He approaches you carefully, like you’re a stray dog. Like you’re going to bite at any minute. Because, in all fairness, you might. It’s your defense mechanism after all, and it kills you that you’ve made him feel like he has to walk on eggshells around you. “Don’t listen to them. They’re stupid, they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“They’re not stupid.” You shook your head. “They’re right, and you know they are.”
“What?” This is the first time you’ve seen Beau look even slightly annoyed in your presence. You never want to see him look like that again. “What are you saying right now?”
“Beau-” You sob, hugging yourself. “I- It’s all my fault, why we haven’t-”
“Haven’t what?” He steps closer. “Haven’t what, baby?”
That’s new. “We could have been something this whole time, and I- I’ve held us back.”
“You haven’t held us back.” He shook his head. “How could you think that?”
You’re fully sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for projecting my insecurities on you. You just- you don’t understand what it’s like.”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me.” He whispered. “You have to know that.”
“Boys see someone like me and they laugh. It’s just the truth. Eventually, after years of being asked out as a joke, I decided that it was easier to be harsh and mean than it was to be kind and vulnerable. I became resentful, and harsh to cover up the fact that I-” You laughed, angrily wiping away your wet cheeks. “I wanted what everyone else had.”
“Baby-”
“And then you came along, all kind and pure, and I thought, this must be a joke. A bet him and his friends made. And then you kept talking to me. You hung out with me, you introduced me to your friends, and I was like maybe, maybe you liked me.”
“I do.” He’s now in front of you.
You almost step back from the shock of it all. “You care about me, even when I treat you like shit.”
“You don’t treat me like shit.”
“I do.” You whisper. “I do and you know it. I push you away, and you always come back.”
“Because I love you.” He sounds as confident as ever, like he’s barking out orders on the field. Like what he just said is something he’s said a million times. “And I’ve always known it, deep down. From the day you tore into me, I told myself that if it took a million years, I was gonna get you to trust me. And if it took another million, I was going to wait for you to love me back.”
“You’re determined.”
“Yeah.” He laughed. “I guess I am. Others could say I’m in love.”
Your stomach flipped as you spoke. “You’re wrong, you know.”
“About what exactly?”
“You don’t have to wait for me to love you back.”
The look of sheer panic was replaced with one of a pure smug nature. “Is that so?”
“I’ve loved you always. But I especially love you right now.”
He lunged forward, lips colliding against yours, and his hands holding your face as if it were made of glass. He’s no longer afraid to hold you. No longer are you a stray feral killer. You are in love with a man who knows all of you and chooses to stay.
He leans his forehead against yours, and his hands fall to your waist.
Check Engine Light // John Logan x Fem!Reader - [Chapter Eleven]
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
You couldn’t say what songs played on the radio or how many traffic lights you stopped at. Your thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on the garage and on Logan’s face when you’d told him you felt like you were already losing him.
You hated that image. It followed you all the way back to your dorm.
By the time you got to your room, kicked off your shoes, and dropped your bag onto the floor, exhaustion had finally caught up to you. For a while, you tried to distract yourself by changing into sweatpants, washing off your makeup, and straightening up things in your room that didn’t need straightening.
Anything to avoid thinking or looking at your phone. Eventually, you failed. The screen lit up the second you picked it up.
There was a text from Logan, sent twelve minutes ago.
Logan: made it home?
You stared at the message; it was such a normal thing to ask. You sat down on the edge of your bed and typed back.
You: yeah
The response came a few minutes later.
Logan: okay
That was it. You stared at the screen long after the message arrived, just waiting. Not that you expected another text, but that you realized you wanted one. Something stupid, or meaningless. A meme, or a joke, or a complaint about Garrett or Dean or Tucker. Anything that felt normal. Nothing came.
You set the phone on your nightstand and climbed into bed. The room was dark aside from the soft glow of the lamp beside you. You found yourself staring at the ceiling, wondering what he was doing. Was he asleep? Was he replaying the fight too? Was he sitting in his room at his house feeling just as miserable as you did?
Despite everything you’d said that afternoon, despite all of the hurt and frustration and tears, you first instinct was to worry about him.
Eventually, sleep came. Not easily, but… eventually.
The next morning, you woke up before your alarm. For a few seconds you remained half asleep, staring at the pale sunlight that was filtering through the curtains.
Then you reached for your phone, the movement automatic. Your fingers found the screen, and that’s when you realized that nothing was there. No text, no good morning, no heart emoji.
The empty screen shouldn’t have surprised you. Not after the garage and everything you’d said. Now, there was only silence.
You placed the phone face down on the mattress beside you, before immediately picking it back up again, as if another message might have appeared in the last five seconds.
As you got ready for class, you found yourself checking your phone far more often than you wanted to admit. Again, not because you were expecting a message, but that you couldn’t quite stop hoping for one.
By lunchtime, you had convinced yourself that you were being ridiculous. Not because you suddenly felt better about what happened at the garage, but because you were perfectly capable of surviving a few hours without hearing from your boyfriend.
Or former boyfriend. Or whatever you were now. The problem was that you weren’t entirely sure which category applied.
You hadn’t broken up, neither of you had said the words. There hadn’t been some dramatic declaration in the middle of Logan & Sons.
But, you also hadn’t left with a plan. There was no ‘let’s work on this’ or ‘let’s take a few days and talk again’. Not even a ‘we’ll figure it out.’
You hated ambiguity. By the time you’d reached the student center between classes, you’d checked your phone often enough that you shoved it into the bottom of your bag out of sheer stubbornness.
That lasted twenty-three minutes. Not that you were counting.
You were sitting at a table near the windows, attempting to read an article for class, when Mel dropped into the chair across from you.
One look at your face and her expression immediately softened.
“Oh.”
You groaned.
“It’s not that bad.”
Mel leaned back in her chair.
“The fact that you’re arguing before I even ask a question tells me it’s bad,” she said.
You rolled your eyes.
Mel watched her for a moment before speaking again.
“Have you heard from him?” she asked.
You looked down at your half-finished assignment in front of you.
“No.”
Mel nodded slowly.
“Have you texted him?”
“No.”
The time, Mel’s eyebrows lifted. You immediately knew what you were thinking.
Normally, you would’ve. Normally, if there was tension, you wre the first person to reach across the divide. The first to call and smooth things over. This time, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were just tired.
Mel seemed to understand that without you saying it. She reached across the table and squeezed your hand briefly.
“What do you want to happen?”
The question caught you off guard. Everyone kept asking what had happened, but nobody had asked that. You looked away for a moment.
“I just want him to understand.”
The words came out before you could think about them. Mel nodded.
“I don’t need him to agree with me, or think I’m right about everything. I just need him to understand why it hurt.”
You looked down at your hands. What you needed was for Logan to understand that it wasn’t one individual moment; it was that those moments had stacked on top of each other, week after week, until you’d felt more alone in the relationship than you ever thought possible.
Mel was quiet for a few seconds, then she said softly, “I think he does.”
You looked up, “What?”
“I think he does understand. Maybe not all of it.”
She paused before adding, “From what you’ve told me, he looked pretty devastated.”
You laughed weakly.
“Yeah.”
That was one word for it. The way he’d looked when you’d told him you felt like you wre losing him. The way his face had changed when he’d admitted he didn’t know how to fix it. Hearing him admit he was lost had made the situation feel frighteningly real.
Mel tilted her head, “What are you thinking?”
You hesitated and then answered honestly, “I miss him.”
“Of course you do,” Mel said, almost expecting that answer.
You shrugged, feeling stupid.
“You don’t stop loving somebody because you had one terrible conversation,” Mel said.
You nodded. You just wanted to believe that the boy you loved was still somewhere underneath all of the pressure and expectations. You just wasn’t sure if either of you knew how to find him anymore.
--
The first few days were the hardest. You hadn’t realized how much of your daily routine had quietly wrapped itself around Logan until suddenly he wasn’t woven through it anymore.
His absence showed up in strange places. A walk across campus where you instinctively glanced toward the hockey facilities because that was usually where you’d find him. A funny story during class that had you reaching for your phone before remembering that there was nobody else you wanted to text it to. A late-night trip to the dining hall where you automatically checked your messages, expecting some complaint about one of the guys eating someone else’s leftovers.
Every time it happened, the realization stung all over again. There was no clear ending to mourn, because again, you hadn’t broke up. There was just a conversation at the garage and a silence that neither of you seemed willing to break.
By Friday, you had become embarrassingly aware of how often you looked for him. A campus that once seemed enormous, now seemed determined to throw you into each other’s orbit.
The first time was outside the student center. You were leaving a class meeting when you spotted a group of hockey players coming down the front steps. Your stomach dropped before your brain fully processed why.
Logan.
One glimpse of him and every carefully constructed emotional wall that you’d spent days building developed cracks. He was laughing at something Dean said, his head tilted back slightly. His shoulders were relaxed, and for a brief moment, he looked exactly like himself.
The sight hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed seeing him smile.
As if sensing something, Logan looked up. Your eyes met across the crowded walkway.
Dean kept talking, Garrett said something, but Logan stopped walking.
The smile faded from his face; not because he was unhappy to see you, but because now he looked uncertain. For a second, you thought he might walk over and part of you desperately wanted him to. However, you simply looked at each other.
Then, you forced yourself to keep walking. By the time you glanced back, the hockey players were moving again and Logan disappeared into the crowd.
The encounter lasted less than ten seconds, but it ruined the rest of your afternoon.
--
That night, you were halfway through answering emails when your phone buzzed. The sound immediately drew your attention.
The screen lit up on your desk, and you saw the contact name. Logan. For a moment, you simply stared at the name. Finally, you tapped the screen, opening the message.
Logan: Hope your presentation went okay today
You read it twice. No apology, no request to talk or emotional speech. It was just a simple message, but it was significant. You hadn’t told him you had a presentation today, at least, not recently. Then, you remembered. Three weeks earlier, lying in bed together at his house, you told him you had the presentation and you were nervous about it.
Logan had apparently remembered, and that realization caught you off guard.
You: it went well
You stared at the message before finally hitting send. The bubbles appeared to show he was typing.
Logan: good, I know you were stressed about it
The words made your chest tighten. They sounded like Logan. Just your Logan.
You looked at the screen for a moment, and then set your phone aside without answering. You didn’t know how to continue the conversation. For the first time since the garage, something other than sadness settled in your chest. Not happiness, not yet, but the faint, cautious realization that maybe silence wasn’t the only thing waiting on the other side of that conversation.
The conversation didn’t continue that night. For some reason, that made you respect it more.
--
The next afternoon, you found yourself at Malone’s, grabbing a quick lunch. What you didn’t realize, was that Allie would be your waitress that day.
You hadn’t spoken to Hannah or Allie more than a few texts here and there, and you figured that they’d gotten the story from Logan or their boyfriends.
Allie appeared next to you at your table, putting your drink down. She looked like she was deciding whether to say something or not.
“Dean’s losing his mind,” she finally said.
You looked up.
“What else is new?”
“No, seriously.”
“What happened?” you asked curiously.
“Logan left here after twenty minutes yesterday.”
You blinked, “What?”
“Twenty minutes. Dean thought he was dying.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“Why?” you asked.
Allie shrugged, “Said he was tired.”
You looked down at the menu in front of you. The answer shouldn’t have mattered, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about it. Logan loved this place, not because he loved the place itself, but because that’s where everyone was: his team, his friends, and the noise and energy he’d always seemed to thrive on.
You nodded.
Allie watched you carefully, “He’s been weird lately.”
The comment was casual, and you immediately knew there was more coming. You sighed.
“Allie.”
“What?”
“Don’t.”
A grin tugged at her mouth, “I’m not doing anything.”
“You absolutely are.”
She laughed, and then surprisingly, let the subject drop as she took your order.
That relief lasted approximately twenty minutes, long enough for you to convince yourself that Allie would drop it. Then, Allie appeared to drop off your food.
“You know what’s even weirder?” Allie asked.
You groaned.
“Allie—”
“He turned his phone off.”
Your head snapped up before you could stop yourself.
“See?”
“Allie.”
“He turned it off.”
“People turn their phones off.”
“No they don’t.”
You opened your mouth, and closed it again.
Logan practically lived with his phone attached to him lately. The image of him constantly checking messages at Malone’s flashed through your mind, the memory still stinging.
“You’re just as bad at meddling as Dean,” you said, trying to change the subject.
Allie laughed and walked off. You couldn’t stop wondering why Logan would shut his phone off. Not because you thought it had anything to do with you, that would’ve felt dangerously close to hope. Still, the thought stayed with you for the rest of the afternoon.
That evening, you attended the Briar U Hockey game. You spent most of the drive to the arena debating whether you should go at all. That argument was ridiculous; of course you wre going. You’d been going to games long before the garage argument happened, long before you’d start wondering if you and Logan were slowly slipping through each other’s fingers.
One conversation didn’t get to take away hockey and supporting him from you, even if part of you worried that seeing him might hurt.
The arena buzzed with its usual energy. Students packed the stands in blue, white, and red. You were wearing one of Logan’s old practice jerseys, the 22 and LOGAN in bright white letters on your back.
Music blasted through the speakers, and the ice gleamed beneath the bright arena lights. Everything looked exactly the same. You weren’t sure if that was comforting or upsetting. You found your usual seat and settled in just as warmups began, and the boys skated out onto the ice. You felt your heart jump as you looked for number 22 but didn’t see him yet.
A few minutes later, Dean spotted you. Even from halfway across the ice, he waved enthusiastically. You laughed and lifted a hand in return to wave. Some things never changed.
A few of the remaining boys who weren’t there for warmups came out later, Logan and Garrett included. Their backs were to you as they all stood for the national anthem to play.
Then, the game started. For a while, you managed to lose yourself in it. The speed and noise were distracting you. Then, Logan stepped onto the ice, and suddenly nothing felt simple anymore.
You watched as he effortless glided across the ice, commanding attention. The same person you’d spent days trying not to think about, but also missing. You watched him adjust his gloves after the whistle was blown, and he glanced towards the stands.
Then, he froze. Only for a second, it was a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. But, you saw it, because he was looking directly at you. Even from across the rink, you could see the surprise in his expression. The realization that you’d come. Neither of you looked away from each other. Then, the referee skated into position, and the moment ended as Logan got ready for the game to resume.
For the rest of the first period, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. It was like the ground beneath you was finally beginning to move after standing perfectly still for the last few days.
The game was one of Logan’s best in weeks. You had realized it sometime during the second period, as he scored, and the announcers kept saying his name. You heard the crowd around you start whispering about him. He looked different during the game; lighter.
The tension you’d grown accustomed to seeing in him seemed less pronounced somehow. He was still playing hard, still carrying the pressure that came with being one of Briar’s biggest NHL prospects, but there was a confidence to him tonight that had been missing lately.
Twice, you caught Dean looking toward the stands and grinning. You caught Garrett doing the same thing. The second time, Garrett pointedly looked from Logan to you and then shook his head as if he had just solved a mystery.
You immediately pretended not to notice. Unfortunately, Garrett saw you notice. His grin widened.
You spent the rest of the period avoiding eye contact with any of them entirely. By the time Briar secured the win, the arena was loud enough to shake the bleachers. Logan had scored twice.
Student surged toward the exits, excitedly talking about the game and beating one of the team’s biggest rivals. The team gathered near center ice with their coach. You remained seated for a few extra moments, letting the crowd thin.
A month ago, you would’ve lingered outside the locker room, assuming you’d see him afterward. Maybe you’d grab food, or end up at his house. The possibilities had once felt endless, but now they felt impossibly far away.
You stood, standing there for a moment before you headed toward the exit. It wasn’t because you wanted to leave, but you’d spent too much time waiting already and didn’t know what to say to him. You felt strangely proud of yourself, because leaving hurt, but you did it anyway.
The text arrived ten minutes later. You were stopped at a red light when your phone buzzed in the cupholder beside you.
You saw the name flash across the screen. Logan.
The light turned green, and you forced yourself to keep driving. Only when you reached your dorm parking lot did you finally check it. The message was short.
Logan: thanks for coming tonight
You stared at it and read it again. There was just gratitude.
You: you played really well
The response came a minute later.
Logan: I wasn’t sure if you would come
The honesty of it caught you off guard. It felt like Logan. For the first time in days, you allowed herself to imagine what he was doing. The post-game interviews were probably over by now. Was he headed to Malone’s?
You looked back at your phone.
You: I’ve never missed one of your home games
The response took longer this time, long enough that you wondered if he’d gotten pulled into something. When the message finally appeared, it was only one sentence.
Logan: I know.
Two words. Somehow, they carried more weight than entire conversations. It was something deeper, like he was saying ‘I know you’ve always been there.’
Your phone buzzed again.
Logan: Can I ask you something?
Your heartbeat immediately quickened. The question felt different. You stared at the screen for several seconds before replying.
You: okay
This time, the pause stretched longer. Long enough that you wondered if he’d changed his mind. Finally, the bubble popped up showing he was typing.
Logan: would it be ok if I took you to get coffee sometime next week?
You read the message a few times. Not dinner, not a date, just coffee. Something simple, and low pressure. The type of request that acknowledged exactly where they were, and didn’t assume anything.
Something inside of you softened, just a little. Not enough to erase the hurt and undo the last few weeks. But, to remind you why this had been so difficult in the first place. Logan wasn’t trying to force his way back into your life. He was knocking, and waiting to see if you would answer.
Inksy @anotherimaginesaccount - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
