Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
if i see people agreeing with robby about al hashimi i will start blocking. he does not have authority over her disability. he is not HR or management. he is not her doctor. he is an unreliable narrator and very mentally ill, the show being framed through his pov doesn't mean he's right. in fact, he's often quite wrong
when sylvia plath wrote 'the applicant' she was actually writing it directly for baran al-hashimi btw.
walk with me. "do you wear / a glass eye, false teeth or a crutch... stitches to show something's missing?"
no!!!111!!!! baran doesnt!! she hides her struggles precisely so she won't be assessed this way. her seizure disorder, her immigrant mother's sacrifice (mentioned in sepi's interviews) her PTSD from war zones, these are all invisible struggles. no one in her life picks up on these beyond the assumption that she's "just thoughtful." she has spent her entire career (lowk her life too according to ep15) ensuring these struggles stay invisible. because she understands intuitively that in a system built by and for a certain kind of person, visible 'deficiency' rarely earns you sympathy and much more often disqualifies you.
and so for the first several episodes, she basically is the applicant. we're in robby's position, assessing whether she's the right fit. she really isn't given any interiority of her own until we get into her backstory several episodes later, so the initial understanding of her character is defined by this sense of encroachment on robby's territory. she is very literally reduced to simply an applicant.
when she finally drops her armor and reveals her seizure disorder to robby in an act of deliberate vulnerability, she is offering her wound in exactly the way plath mocks. she's showing him her "hole" hoping it creates intimacy. this is her 'last resort' in a way and just completely blows up in her face.
summary: all you wanted was a perfect Valentine’s Day date with your boyfriend Steve. but when everything you planned goes wrong over the course of the day, Steve is there to remind you that he only needs you and nothing else to be happy on Valentine’s Day.
warnings: set between season 4 & 5, no mention of the Upside Down, sunshine!reader, clumsy!reader, sensitive!reader, established relationship, the fluffiest fluff, kissing, reader is having a hard time, chain reaction of inconveniences, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, Steve’s the best boyfriend ever, date night, making out, implied smut, happy ending
a/n: Happy Valentine's Day to all the baddies who spend the day alone and reading fics on here, still doing their best! 💕 I love you, I am you and you are wonderful and perfect as you are, don't you worry about it! (Steve Harrington masterlist)
💋
The light in Steve’s bedroom was always soft in the mornings.
Not much decorated the walls of his room, so the first careful sunbeams in the morning had enough space to dance on them. You blinked, nuzzling back into where you had woken up with your face squished into his naked chest.
You spent some time counting his heartbeat and softly caressing the scars on his neck, drawing little heart shapes and love declarations on the silver lines. Your heart never failed to seize up painfully at the sight, but it was only one more detail in the long list of why you had fallen hard for Steve Harrington.
Letting out a content hum, your boyfriend pillow stirred to consciousness after a while, his freckled arms tightening their protective hold on you on their own. Muscle-memory.
You felt the strands of his silky hair brush over your nose and let out a sleepy giggle, nose rubbing against his collarbone in pure affection. Steve and you barely had a filter when you were awake with each other to start with, but still floating in that half-asleep state of mind, it vanished completely.
If someone saw you right now huddled close under the navy-blue sheets of his bed, they would’ve seen two koalas with abandonment issues. You wouldn’t even object, you were just really in love with your clingy, perfect boyfriend.
And today, you loved him more than ever.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.” Steve murmured into your hair, followed by a sweet kiss to it as you stretched out with a throaty groan and rested your chin on his heart to look up at him. His big eyes were still hooded from a good night of sleep and cuddles with you, lazily blinking back at you with the kind of love-sick smile that was only reserved for you.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” You mumbled back, bridging the distance between you and him for a gentle kiss.
God, there was nothing like kissing Steve Harrington.
He always let out this little noise against your lips, like this was the first time and coming as a complete surprise. But only a second after, you always felt his entire being relax around you, hands pulling you closer and gently holding your head as he deepened the kiss.
You sighed happily, fingernails scraping over his shoulders as you hooked a leg over his. But Steve seemed to have other plans and slowly turned you on your back, shifting over you with one practiced motion so he could continue his journey of kisses down your neck.
You were like puddy in his hands, brushing your fingers through his hair as his lips ghosted over your skin, intent to find all your sweet spots and hear those little gasps he loved so much.
You could’ve stayed like this forever.
But unfortunately – before it was really Valentine’s Day and your boyfriend only belonged to you – reality was waiting.
“Steve…” You breathed, closing your eyes in bliss as he soothed a freshly sucked-on spot with his tongue, his hand drifting underneath your sleeping shirt, over your belly… “Steve, we have to get up. It’s getting late-“
“The kids can wait.” Steve huffed but pulled back, but not before peppering at least a dozen kisses on your face. You laughed underneath him, arching your back to escape the kiss attack but only ending up even more entangled with him.
“Maybe your bunch, but not my kids.”
With a sigh of lighthearted defeat, Steve rolled off you and let you sit up with a grin.
It might’ve been the most romantic day of the year, but life waited for no one.
Fortunately, Steve got a day off, but you were still expected to work the morning shift at the kindergarten. Steve had promised Lucas and Mike to help them pick out ties for their own little dates in the meantime and so, the two of you had settled to make it a romantic evening at his house, not telling each other your plans for the night.
“I’ll miss you.” Steve looked at you with his best puppy eyes and something big and loud inside of you wanted to give in and roll on top of him once more, but you were strong. Or at least, stronger than your primal urges to keep your boyfriend in bed all day.
“You’ll survive”. You kissed him one more time before slipping out of bed and walking to the attached bathroom.
Steve smiled to himself, crossing his arms behind his head as he listened to your steps and waited. He could hear them falter as you came to a stop in front of the mirror, a big gasp shortly following that made his heart flutter.
“Steve!”
When Steve drove you to work a little later, his hand rested on your thigh in the passenger seat, eyes tearing away from the road as often as he could to see you play in delight with the new shiny ring he bought for you.
“Have a good day, baby.” Steve smiled at you as he parked in front of your work, tucking a lost strand of your hair behind your ear and giving your forehead a featherlight kiss. “Take care, okay? I’ll see you in the evening. Love you.”
“Love you too.” You waved at him over your shoulder to show off your gift one more time and only when you made it to the door of the day care, Steve turned on the engine and allowed himself to drive off.
Just a few hours and you’d be all his again.
At work, your thoughts kept drifting towards the evening, a dreamy smile on your face as you thought of Steve while entertaining the toddlers in your kindergarten group. Luckily, today flew by with barely no tantrums, your kids all dutifully taking their midday naps so you could clean up the play area in peace for once.
Whenever one of your kids snuggled up to you as you read out loud for them or laughed at one of your jokes, it was almost impossible to not think of a future like this with Steve. You vividly remembered one afternoon where he had come to pick you up from work and stood frozen in the doorway, absolutely enchanted by the way you interacted with the kids, loving and patient and so adorable. Steve had wanted to make you his wife and mother of his future babies right there. And god, you were a strong woman, but when the love of your life murmured about wanting to see you pregnant with his babies while railing you expertly into the mattress, you had your weak moments.
You blushed to yourself at the memory while tying one of the boys’ shoes, lost in thought and silently going through your to do list for your big date with Steve.
“There you go, buddy, all done.” You let the kid go play with an encouraging nod, your hand playing with the delicate ring Steve had gotten you for your birthday. Not too many hours now…
Getting out of work was like a breath of fresh air.
After changing into one of the pretty dresses Steve liked so much, you felt light as a feather as you shouldered your bag and walked down to the small grocery store Joyce worked at. A week before, you had put together a list of everything Steve and you liked to eat when you were together.
Your boyfriend was a sucker for Boppers and good cheese, the bread they only sold on Saturdays for some reason and crackers he could dip into anything he found around the fridge. And there was this one sort of wine you were really into and that made a romantic night even fancier.
Joyce had kindly ordered everything from your list from a supplier outside of Hawkins, telling you with a wink that she was going to save it until you’d pick it up after work.
The grocery store was empty at this time of the day and when you entered, Joyce was rearranging canned soup and spices on a shelf near the cash register.
“Oh, hi honey!” The older woman greeted you, looking almost guilty at you. “I tried to call Steve’s home number earlier, but the two of you must’ve already left. We got a call this morning that the truck with our orders broke down. They won’t arrive until tomorrow.”
“Oh.” You frowned. “Are they…okay? Did someone get injured?”
Joyce opened her mouth in surprise. “No, no, they’re fine. But I know you really needed these things for your date with Steve, I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“It’s okay.” You sounded more cheerful than you felt, really. “I’ll just…browse for a moment and figure something else out then. Thank you, Joyce.”
“Of course, love.”
You walked past the shelves and freezers, but nothing really caught your eye.
Apparently, it was really hard to get your hands on Boppers these days and everything else wasn’t personal or special enough for a date night. When you got back to Joyce at the cash register with empty hands, she smiled sadly at you.
“I’m really sorry, sweetheart.” Joyce rubbed your shoulder, but perked up when she had an idea. “How about this, we got these red and pink balloons you can have? Balloons are nice for boyfriends, right?”
You laughed weakly and nodded. “I mean, if I can buy them, I’d love that.”
Joyce immediately walked to the back, talking over her shoulder to you: “I mean, my time for dating is long over, but I’d love some balloons on Valentine’s Day!”
“I’ll let Hopper know.” You called after her with a small smile, the disappointment over the lost food quickly becoming smaller when Joyce came back with multiple shiny heart balloons on a string. They were big and just the right amount of cheesy and you knew Steve would laugh at them.
“They’re perfect. Thank you so much, Joyce.”
You continued your journey downtown, the mass of pink hearts following you over your head. Maybe Steve would be happy about some pizza as well? But he’d spent the day with kids already and it was a real proper date night. Not even the wine had been in stock anymore, how would you look if you pulled up to your Valentine’s Day date with take out pizza and apple juice?
You rummaged around in your bag for some bubblegum, your own way to take the edge off as you mentally went through every other food store in Hawkins and if they maybe carried what was still on your list.
Your feet carried you forward blindly and just as you wanted to look up, there was a loud honk and you stumbled backwards in shock.
It all happened at once. The car that had nearly run you over drove past and you almost fell on your butt, the road way too close to where you had just stood. A split second later, you realized you had let the balloon string go.
“No, no, no…” You scrambled to your feet and jumped to get a grasp on them, but they were already gone.
You watched breathlessly as the red and pink hearts flew into the sky, mocking you silently as a few other people watched and marveled at them.
Shit.
There was something so sad about the sight, you felt tears prickle behind your eyes, harshly blinking them away to get a grasp on yourself. They were gone and they were not coming back. You were not going to stand in the streets and cry about some silly balloons.
Steve always knew how to cheer you up in small moments like this.
You knew if he were here with you now, he’d lay his arm around you and pull you along with a kiss, probably mumbling some sweet nonsense into your ear.
But with yet another fail of yours, the frustration in you grew and planted unease in your belly.
Luckily, the flower shop was still stacked in the afternoon, the room bursting at the seams with hundreds of different roses and other pretty flowers. Clueless boyfriends were running around and groaning about prices as you pushed through the chaos and quickly assembled your dream bouquet for Steve.
You added some extra flowers for good measure and left a tip for the ladies behind the counter.
With the bouquet pressed to your chest, you soldiered on.
At least you could get flowers right on Valentine’s Day.
You took a deep breath as you walked into Family Video, willing the growing overwhelming pit in your stomach away as you straightened out your skirt. Yeah sure, maybe plan a and b hadn’t worked out, but you still had Steve’s and your favorite movie.
To make sure it was in stock for today, you had asked Robin to hold it back for you without Steve noticing and you could always count on Robin. As you walked up to the busy counter – a lot of couples wanted to make it a romantic movie night, it seemed – you mentally took a note to bring Robin some flowers in the next few days, too.
“Oh my god, please don’t hate me.” Robin groaned, grimacing as she buried her face in her hands at your sight. “You’re gonna hate me so much, I’m so so sorry…”
You laughed nervously, prying her hands away from her reddening face as you frowned. “Um, Robin? Don’t be silly, why on earth would I possibly hate you? Is everything alright?”
“Noo…” Your friend cringed at herself, taking a deep breath. “Okay, so I meant to call you at work, but all these annoying couples are raiding our store like crazy and then I couldn’t and now you’re here and you’regonnahatemebecausethemovieisgone.”
You blinked at her, an eerie internal silence washing over you. “W-What?”
Robin sighed deeply, quickly excusing herself from business and coming to stand beside you around the counter to rest a hand on your shoulder. “I promise, I put the movie away for you, just like we had said. I even had it ready behind the counter because I knew you’d come in after work, but now it’s gone. There, I said it again. I’m so sorry, I lost the movie you wanted to watch with Steve tonight.”
Your heart sank, shoulder deflating as your gaze flickered behind her. “Are you sure? Maybe you just misplaced it, we can check again-“
“I already checked five times, I have no idea where it went.” Robin shook her head, really feeling for you as she gnawed on her lip. “Maybe one of my co-workers lent it to someone else while I was on break or someone took it from behind the counter…I can help you find something else? I bet Steve wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t your all-time favorite…”
If your bags had been full with food and the balloons were still with you, you would’ve agreed. But all you had for now were some flowers that would die in a few days and not even a romantic movie for the occasion.
You were surprised to open your mouth and find yourself at a loss for words, throat suddenly tight from boiling emotions. If you had not been through it two weeks ago, you would’ve guessed your period was close.
Of course, Steve wouldn’t mind.
Your boyfriend was one of the most patient, understanding people you knew. (At least with you.) But it was almost five and so far, you had nothing for your Valentine’s date with Steve and by now, it felt like it was all your fault.
Steve and you had watched that movie during one of your first dates. A night without the world ending or a bunch of chattering kids surrounding you. That night, in the dark of the movie theater, Steve had held your hand for the first time. A first sweet kiss had followed on your doorstep as he said goodnight.
It was special and maybe you were overreacting, but that wasn’t Robin’s fault.
You forced yourself to smile at her, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes and she could tell. “Okay, Robin. Thank you though, really. I’ll just…Have a good night with Vickie later.”
“Aw no, it’s gonna be alright!” Robin tried to cheer you up, but you had already turned for the door. You weren’t angry, of course not, but you felt like if you’d stayed just a minute longer, you’d burst into tears in front of everyone in Family Video and you had already been through enough today. “I’ll help you pick out another one, it’s gonna be fine-“
“Thanks Robin, but I’ll just go and think of something else.” You mumbled and pushed past the door, your nose itching as you tried to center yourself like Steve had taught you to when you were getting anxious.
Outside on the road, it was already becoming darker, your date with Steve shifting closer and closer.
You looked down the street, trying to think of another store you could burst into to get – at this point – anything that wouldn’t have you show up at Steve’s with empty hands.
But today, luck simply had abandoned you.
Checking your watch, you made a beeline for the crosswalk, not paying attention to the road.
“Watch out!” Someone called behind you, but it was already too late.
Startled, you dropped the bouquet, a splash of dirty water from the street landing on your dress as a careless driver waltzed the delicate flowers down under the wheels of their car.
You stood frozen, the skirt of your dress dripping wet and ruined with dark splashes, the flowers to your feet broken and trampled.
That was it.
The final straw.
A sob caught in your throat as you bent down and brushed a hand over the ruined flowers. What. The. Hell.
You walked up to Steve’s house feeling like a complete failure.
Your knees were still trembling from the run across half of Hawkins and exhaustion crept up your neck from holding back frustrated tears. Your shoes and calves were still splattered with dirty water from the car and you simply couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that nothing had worked out in your favor today.
There were no balloons with you or nice food or a gift. Hands empty except for a single pink rose you had managed to save from the squished bouquet on the sidewalk. Everything else had either been missing or destroyed.
Your fingers were trembling as your hold on the delicate flower tightened and you walked up the steps to the front door.
If you weren’t in such desperate need to be held by your boyfriend, you simply would’ve given up and gone home, ready to cry the night away with a big bucket of ice cream because you were such a pathetic girlfriend, you couldn’t even organize Valentine’s Day for the boy you loved more than anything.
You sniffled to yourself before trying (and failing) to take a deep breath.
You rang the doorbell and waited.
There were quick footsteps coming from the inside and you brushed over the skirt of your dress one more time, trying to be as presentable as possible in your current state. Then, the door opened and Steve greeted you with the biggest smile as he met your eyes.
It vanished in under a second.
Your boyfriend forgot how to breathe for a moment, the sight of unshed tears brimming in your tears and the dirt on your pretty dress nearly making his heart stop.
“Oh my- sweetheart, what happened?” Steve rushed out the door, both of his hands resting on your shoulders as he scanned you up and down for any injuries or pain. “Did you get into an accident? Someone say anything to you? I swear to god I’m gonna kill whoever made you cry like this-“
“I guess you’ll have to kill me then.” You shrugged miserably, not wanting to meet his eyes. But Steve only rested two fingers underneath your chin and tilted your face up and you went pliant at his soft touch.
“What?” Steve frowned, his heart breaking at the sight of your wobbling bottom lip and red rimmed eyes. “I don’t underst- c’mere baby, let’s get you inside first. You’re shaking.”
With a steady but gentle hand on your lower back, Steve led you into the hallway and closed the door behind him. His brain was going into overdrive, needing to get to the bottom of whatever made you so upset. He needed to fix it, to make you smile again and happy.
You hugged yourself as you looked at him guiltily, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you searched for the right words. But no matter how much you had wanted to keep it together, the tears were already overflowing as you struggled to stay calm.
“I only wanted to make tonight a good date.” You told him through the tears, too upset to refuse the immediate hug Steve was pulling you into. When you were like this, he always needed to hold you, no exceptions. It made him hurt just as much to see you hurting. “I had plans- I wanted to get all our favorite fancy food at the store and our favorite movie, but nothing worked out! I couldn’t even get Boppers! I had balloons and I let go of them and then I dropped your flowers and I feel so stupid, because I just wanted to surprise you and do something nice for you, but I can’t even manage that! The whole night is ruined because apparently, that’s all I do. I ruin nice things, I’m so sorry-“
Your ramble ended in a desperate gasp for air as you sobbed into Steve’s chest, the entire anxiety of today crashing together over you like a wave. You were sad, but also angry with yourself and it all felt like a big confusing cocktail of emotions that needed to burst out of you.
“Aw, my poor sweetheart.” Steve cooed comfortingly, swaying you back and forth as he held you and let you cry. You always had been an emotional girl and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Despite the pain in his chest to see your pain, it also made him feel grounded to know he was the one who could comfort you when everything just got too much.
And the reason for your tears? God, he just wanted to wrap you in his arms and never let go.
“Baby, it’s okay…” He kissed your temple and drew back just enough to carefully wipe away the warm trail of tears cascading down your face.
“I just wanted to do something nice for you.” You leaned into him, feeling stupid despite the kisses Steve pressed to your cheek and eyelids. “You always go out of your way to make me feel so special and I wanted to return the favor…”
“Baby, I love you so much for wanting to do that and I’m sorry you had such a bad day, okay? But I promise you I don’t need much to have a good Valentine’s Day with you. I would never be upset because you didn’t get me flowers. That’s part of my job, hm? To make you happy and spoil you like crazy. And who needs Boppers when I got the most beautiful, amazing girl I could ever ask for as my girlfriend? I’m the luckiest guy alive, okay? Not just today on Valentine’s Day.”
His kind, soothing words made a fresh round of tears well up in your eyes as you blinked up at him, sniffling. “Really?”
“Of course, sunshine.” Steve pulled you into his side to lead you towards the guest bathroom. “It’s all good now, okay? We’re fine, this is completely fine. And…you weren’t the only one who planned something for today, you know. How about you’ll freshen up and I’ll get you some of your other clothes, hm? Does that sound good?”
“Yes.” You sighed tiredly, the thought of washing your face and the whole day away sounding so good to your ears. “That would be nice.”
A couple minutes later, you were dressed in one of Steve’s comfy sweaters and shorts and your boyfriend was leading you out onto the terrace, his hands over your hands so you couldn’t see.
“Steve, I’m going to trip!” You giggled, holding on to his arms as he slowly led you forwards.
“I would never let you trip, baby, we’re almost there.”
You felt the grass tickling your ankles as he suddenly stopped, slinging his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Open your eyes.”
The most romantic sight was right in front of you.
A big blanket was splayed out in the garden, surrounded by dozens of little candles that painted the space in a soft, warm light. A tray of sparkling cider and two plates awaited alongside with a bouquet of pink flowers while a cake rested in the center of the picnic. It was the most spectacular cake you had ever seen, all decorated with sparkles and white cream icing. The elegant frosting on top spelled ‘I love you, sweet girl’.
“See?” Steve watched with a crooked smile as you gaped at it all. “I can plan a Valentine’s Day date too.”
“Oh Steve, this is so…” You blinked back tears for the third time this day as he laced your fingers together and led you towards the blanket. “I love this so much, it’s so pretty.”
“I also got our favorite movie for later.” Steve told you as you sank down to sit on a pillow, followed by an offended gasp coming from you.
“Oh my god, that was you!” You laughed, already feeling silly for being so upset earlier. “Robin held it back for me, but someone stole it from behind the counter. That was you?!”
Steve blushed filling up a glass for you with a mysterious shrug. “I won’t tell all my secrets, but…I might’ve had Mike distracting her so I could go through with it.”
You solemnly clinked glasses and Steve fed the first piece of chocolate-cherry cake to you as you talked about your day and everything that had gone wrong. But now, in Steve’s presence, you were even able to laugh about it. In return, Steve talked about the challenge that was picking ties for Mike and Lucas, especially when Dustin and Max had joined the mission only to make fun of them. Afterwards, the whole gang was going to meet up for a game with Will and El, so why dress fancy anyway?
“I guess they just want to impress the girls.” You said, having migrated to sit closer to Steve as you rested your head on his shoulder and looked up into the slowly darkening sky. “They learned from the best when it comes to girls, after all.”
“Who, me?” Steve smirked down at you, wiping a little icing from your bottom lip with a dreamy look in his eyes. “There’s just one girl in the world I’m trying to impress, baby.”
“You do.” You squeezed his hand in yours, warm and safe and snuggled against him. He widened his legs for you to sit between them, his hands automatically resting on your thighs and hips to steady you. “Every day. I know how much you care, Stevie…”
A shiver both from contentment and the chilly air outside ran down your spine.
Steve noted instantly, perfectly in tune with you as always.
“How about we go inside, hm?” He helped you up, hands rubbing up and down your back to get a little warmth back into you. “We can watch the movie, cuddle…”
Kiss. Kiss a whole damn lot.
It went on unspoken between you, but you saw how Steve’s eyes darkened when you bit your lip. The thought of heavily making out with your boyfriend on Valentine’s Day suddenly seemed way better than watching a movie you had already seen five times with him.
Steve seemed to think the same.
You stretched up on your tiptoes and played with the hair in his nape, your lips eagerly meeting his in the quiet silence of his garden. Steve almost stumbled backwards, but caught himself to hold you close, kissing you back feverishly.
You never got tired of the addicting way Steve kissed you.
He kissed with all the need and want in his body, all or nothing but still so soft and always giving you enough space to breathe if you wanted to. But right now, you didn’t need to – you needed to crawl inside of him, wrap yourself around him in a desperate attempt to become one.
Nothing felt more like home than Steve Harrington did to you.
And you were so ready to give yourself over into his experienced hands.
“Let me take care of you,sweetheart…” Steve mumbled against your lips, his arms already hooking underneath your thighs and lifting as the blankets slid from you. “’m gonna make love to you, take my time with my pretty perfect girl. I love you so much, you know that?”
“Yeah, I do…I love you too, Stevie.” You nodded at him with big eyes, gladly locking your ankles together behind his back and pressing your chest against his as he carried you up the stairs. “Take me to bed.”
The kisses didn’t stop once you were inside and there was a brief detour by the big couches in the living room and the bottom of the staircase, the two of you insatiable for each other as you kissed and kissed and messed up each other’s hair and clothes.
There was quiet laughter and the first careful moans let out into each other’s mouth while your hands explored each other’s skin. And when Steve pulled your sweater over your head for you and looked at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect in his life, you knew no matter what all had gone wrong today, this was still the best Valentine’s Day date ever.
There was still time for a movie later.
But if there was one thing you had learned today, it was that you didn’t always have to follow the exact same plan to be as happy as you could be.
being price's sub comes with a lot of different things. apart from the obvious pleasure and pain he's a huge fan of training his pets in anything he feels like; taking bigger toys, holding positions, taking whatever orders he gives them. and he takes good care of them, he really does pride himself in making sure his subs are well taken care of, whether its a short or a long term arrangement. he needs them to be well taken care of, both physically and emotionally, no matter what it takes; he truly wants the best for his toys. its true, you've spoken to a few of them that he was with before you, there was never any bad blood between them, any break up was mutual and in good spirits. they told you about their experiences with him from their perspective, sharing stories and playful warnings over some drinks and dinner.
but something that none of them warned you about? how utterly emotionally dependent you become on him. and its not just needing him to fulfill your emotional needs, to help you soothe you when you're not feeling well. he's got you trained far too well for your own good, your mind completely conditioned to need him, whether it was intentional of him or not. it goes so far that you need him to reward you for accomplishments to actually make them feel good and let you feel pride, needing praise to confirm that what you did was good and right by him.
whats really throwing you off however is the need for punishment. messing something up immediately made your mind jump to him, to his disappointment and the overwhelming urge to be better for him. whether he was actually disappointed or not was a whole differed story, im most cases he really wasn't upset with you at all, merely doing punishments as a formality most times - it'd be insane if he actually felt the need to punish you for forgetting something from the shopping list or not having dinner on the table by the time he was home, but whenever he didn't at least put you over his knee you seemed to get.. frisky. nervous. so obviously he does what he thinks is best for you, giving you a quick, simple punishment with gentle words of reassurance and a tight hug afterwards. maybe it did condition you to crave that, maybe it was a mistake. he truly doubted himself a little when you begged him to punish you, but how could he deny you when it was painfully obvious you needed something to put your mind at ease, to reset your brain?
summary: a starving, homeless man who was once a knight saves you when you are attacked in the midst of a famine raging across the kingdom. james protects you instinctively, not knowing who you are, and moved by guilt, admiration and an immediate affection, you insist on helping him. still feeling unworthy of your touch and kindness, james’ devotion to you becomes absolute, shaped by gratitude, love and obsession.
warnings: she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (reader's in her 20s; bucky's in his late 30s); forbidden love/secret relationship; angst; mention of poverty & famine; terrible parents; brief attempted sexual assault; reader is tipsy in one (1) scene; wounds & blood; one (1) brief panic attack; sword training; virgin!reader; reader wears dresses & has hair; bucky is called james; dark-ish!bucky; obsessed!bucky; protective!bucky; devoted!bucky; size difference (yes he’s huge, yes he has a big dick); jealousy & possessiveness; yearning; feelings of guilt; mentions of an unspecified religion; self-loathing; fluff; smut; masturbation (f & m); handjob; nipple play; oral (f & m); outdoor sexual activities; intercrural sex; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; creampie.
word count: 20.3k
a/n: big disclaimer → I wanted to set this in a time with no technology but with certain comforts, like running water 🥲 so don’t look too much into it pls. in general, I took as reference the middle ages in europe but I don't think there are many references/details about the reader's fashion and the general aesthetic of the story, so feel free to imagine whatever you want! also, the language is not accurate because I only speak present-day english. I tried to embellish it but I’m not sure, especially in the smutty parts. I’m also sorry if some parts feel a little rushed, but I was very tired.
hope you’ll enjoy!
The town is quieter than it should have been. The market stalls stand half-empty, their awnings flapping like broken wings in the wind. Smoke curls from chimneys, thin and bitter, carrying the smell of boiled roots and old grain. You walk slowly, your cloak drawn tight, counting the steps so you would not seem lost.
You needed to see it for yourself. The damage done by Father’s foolish delusions of grandeur. The heavy taxes levied to fund a recent failed campaign were destroying your kingdom. The court spoke of victory delayed, of honor salvaged from defeat, but the streets tell a different story. Grain sacks are gone. Meat is a memory. Even the dogs are thin.
The people bow to your image in the tapestries, yet curse your shadow in the streets, and never once saw your face.
Your parents never let you be anything but a symbol. At the palace, hands guide your steps; voices decide when you sleep, what you eat, whom you might speak to. They dress you in silk and call it protection, as though walls and guards could keep the truth from you forever.
But a symbol does not ache when it sees a child with hollow eyes. A symbol does not feel shame.
You slow near an alley, your breath fogging the air. Once, this place was loud with haggling and laughter. Now, it is only acrid smells and hunger.
If you stayed inside, you could pretend this is necessary. You could pretend Father was right. That's why you are here. Not to be brave. Not to be reckless. But because if you did not look, if you did not know, then you would be complicit in the lie.
Your heart thuds painfully as you pass a man crouched beside a wall, hands wrapped in rags. He does not look up.
The sound of footsteps behind you come too fast, too close. And for the first time since leaving the palace, you feel afraid. A shout breaks the stillness.
“Oi! You.”
You turn.
Three men stand near a shuttered stall. Their clothes are patched, boots worn to the sole. One holds a cudgel, another a knife more suited for bread than flesh.
“You lost?” One asks. “Or just brave?”
You swallow, trying to appear confident but not provoking. “I’m going home.”
“Not with a cloak like that.” The one with the knife says, pointing at you with the utensil. “Not when my children haven’t eaten in three days.”
He dives for you. But he never reaches you.
The air moves.
Someone strikes him from the side, hard enough that he stumbles into the stall, sending rotten apples rolling across the stones. The second man swings blindly and misses as a hand seizes his wrist and twists until the cudgel clatters to the ground.
The third fleds immediately.
The man before you sways dangerously, breath coming in sharp bursts. He is so much taller than you, yet terribly thin. His coat is threadbare, his boots rimed with frost. Dried blood darkens his knuckles.
“You should not walk here.” The stranger utters, still giving you his back. “People are hungry. Angry. They don't see faces anymore.”
“You saved, you were watching.” You marvel, still shocked.
He shrugs faintly. “Someone should.” Then he takes a step forward, possibly to leave, and falters, but you catch his arm.
“Careful.”
He stiffens instantly, pulling away as though your touch hurt.
“Don’t,” he whispers. “Please.”
You notice then how badly he is shaking. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m used to it.”
You study him properly now: the way he carries himself despite his weakness, the scars on his hands, the instinctive way he had placed himself between you and danger. Your lips part to ask more, but within moments, you are flanked by several men in armor, men he immediately recognizes as royal knights.
“Princess! Oh Gods! Please return to the castle. The King and Queen are worried sick.” Your Father’s trusted man throw a disgusted glance at the shivering man, who had carefully moved to the side when he saw them arrive. “It is not wise to interact with… Beings such as this one.”
You shoot the knight a look that quickly makes him cower in shame. “If I were to ignore a dying man when I am able to help, who am I to call myself a princess of the people?”
The man attempts to pull his head away, but is both too weak and too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything. He lets you feed and nurture him as he is taken back to the palace.
Over the next few days, James is taken care of thoroughly by the palace staff, his every need tended to. As he recovers, you visit him as much as your “duties” allow, chatting with him and making sure he is being treated well. He feels strange when he starts looking forward to your visits, even wanting to recover faster so he can stay by your side at all times.
And he is able to achieve that wish: his old rank is restored and eventually, you convince your Father to appoint James as your personal guard. It is not easy to get back in the field, although the training is deeply ingrained into his mind and muscles, James still has to get back in shape.
And almost six months later, he kneels before you as your personal knight. He pushes his limits and regains his strength… Only for you.
Gaining your trust, well, that is not difficult at all. After all, you are a kind and fair princess. You do not judge him for being a dishonored knight. And now he is your knight, and you believe in his strength.
James learns the palace the way a starving man learns the sound of bread breaking. Not by comfort, but by need.
He stands at the edges of rooms, where tapestries dull sound and shadows gather like confessionals, and he observes. Observing had once saved his life. Observing had saved yours.
He tells himself his actions are righteous. He repeats it until it feels carved into his bones. Devotion is not desire, it is vigilance. It is the willingness to be unthanked and unseen. It is standing between cruelty and gentleness even when the cruelty wears lace and smiles.
You move through the halls like something unspoiled by them. Kindness clings to your form— not the rehearsed sort, but the quiet habit of it. You thank servants by name, you listen too long. You assume goodness where there is only spite and envy. It makes you radiant, yet vulnerable.
And it makes something inside him tighten until it hurts.
James hates that tightening. He names it sin. He names it presumption. He reminds himself nightly of the distance between what he is and what you represent. A dishonored knight with cracked hands and a body that still remembers cold; a man who has slept beside rotting food and rats. He does not deserve to look at you longer than duty required.
So he watches the others instead.
He sees how the maids soften their voices when you walk by, how admiration blooms briefly on their faces before souring into calculation once your back is turned. Compliments become comparisons. Gratitude twists into grievance. They speak of your gowns while scraping plates clean; of your gentleness as if it is ignorance. As if you are not the only reason some of them still eat.
He catalogues it all.
Names. Times. Corridors. Patterns of malice that hide behind familiarity. He notes which butlers linger near doors, which knights laugh too quickly when your name is mentioned; the younger, loud, good-for-nothing knights and squires following your curves with nothing more than lechery in their eyes. And then the servants who pass rumors like currency.
He listens for repetition and invention.
At first, he convinces himself this is still duty. Then he begins waking already angry. The palace guards trust him, he has bled with them after all. The servants fear him, though they could not understand why. James does not threaten, nor accuse without proof. He simply knows too much, and he remembers everything. Evidence gathers itself naturally around a man who knows how to move in the shadows.
Reports are made and dismissals follow. A maid vanishes from service. A butler is reassigned, then imprisoned when the lies unravel under scrutiny. A knight is stripped of rank for words spoken in what he believed was privacy.
And James feels no guilt.
Each removal feels like clearing rot from a wound, and each punishment is proportionate, necessary. Mercy toward wolves is cruelty toward lambs. He tells himself he is protecting the realm by protecting you.
However, it is not enough.
James watches you too closely— not out of distrust, but reverence. He memorizes your routines, the way you tire in the evenings after hours spent studying foreign languages and basic accounting. The moments when the weight of your crown bends your posture just slightly. He learns the cadence of your footsteps, notices how often you smile when you should have hardened.
Love creeps in not like fire, but like frost: silent, consuming, undeniable.
He loathes himself for it.
James has never been a religious man, yet he kneels in the chapel, though his prayers do not ask for forgiveness for desire. They ask for eradication of it. He begs to be made smaller. Less wanting. Less aware. But the gods are silent, too indifferent, and leave him with a heart that would gladly stop beating if it meant you never learned how ugly the world could be.
He does not imagine you loving him. That would have been blasphemy.
What he imagines, what terrifies him, is a future in which you are hurt by someone he has failed to notice in time.
That thought hollows him. So he tightens his watch, narrows the circle. Recommends replacements chosen for loyalty rather than charm. He shapes your household into something cleaner, quieter, safer. A controlled environment.
James refuses to acknowledge this is no longer just devotion. However, he does not stop. Because if love is a sin, then he would commit it fully— wordlessly, invisibly, with his hands forever stained so yours could remain clean.
For most of your life, safety has been a public thing. Guards at doors, walls thick with stone, rules spoken in your name but never to you. You have been protected like an untouched object preserved behind glass. Your parents love the idea of you. The symbol. The promise. They raised you to be admired from a distance, not known. Needs were anticipated only in the broadest sense; no one noticed the small ones. No one ever asked what frightened you when the halls went quiet at night.
James noticed.
He does not overwhelm you with affection. He does not flatter, nor treats you as something delicate that might shatter if handled honestly. His care is deliberate, almost severe, as if your well-being is a task that demands his full attention and exacting standards.
And somehow, this makes you breathe easier.
You feel it in the subtle shifts of the palace; the way certain voices are now a distant memory, the way the air around you grows less sharp. Malice retreats without spectacle, removed so quietly that you never have to confront it directly. You simply wake each morning feeling less braced for disappointment.
Of course, this did not happen by accident.
James stands closer now. Not intrusively, but constantly. His presence is like a held breath— steady, grounding. He watches your surroundings with an intensity that makes you feel chosen, worth the effort. Worth the vigilance.
And no one had ever guarded your mind before.
You realize one evening that you no longer replay conversations in your head, searching for hidden meanings or mockery. You no longer wonder who smiles at you out of obligation or resentment. The burden of discernment, of emotional defense, has been lifted from your shoulders and placed, willingly, on his. And you trust him with it.
Perhaps you should have questioned the depth of his seriousness, the way his attention never truly strays. But you have grown up invisible in rooms full of people. To be the center of someone’s unwavering focus feels less like danger and more like coming home.
The cost of his devotion is engraved in the lines of his restraint. In how little he asks for himself. James looks at you not as something to possess, but as something to preserve, even from the uglier truths of the world.
And you begin to love him for that. Quietly. Fiercely. With the kind of love born not from fantasy, but from relief.
With James, you do not have to perform kindness or strength. You are allowed to rest. To be uncertain, human. His protection extends beyond blades and walls— it wraps around your thoughts, your fears, your softest hesitations, and holds them without judgment.
If others might have called it excessive, you do not. Because for the first time in your life, someone decided that your peace was worth defending at any cost.
And you have never felt safer than you do in the care of a man who watches the world so closely, so that you do not have to.
What James did not anticipate, is how his quiet work would come back to hunt him in the sweetest of ways.
It is late at night when he first sees your bare back. You are bathing, him standing by the door, facing it to guard you, standing stiffly as his eyes squeeze shut at the sounds of fabric falling on the floor and water rippling as your body slowly lowers into the tub.
Having been pampered your entire life, you do not exactly know how to properly bathe yourself. Now that all your maids have been removed, you do not know what to do with yourself. Your knight has yet to find new ones.
“James?” Your voice is soft, hesitant, carrying the faintest edge of embarrassment. “Could you… Help me, please?”
A sharp pang of panic runs through him. He had never imagined he would be entrusted with such an intimate task— not in all his years of service, not in any scenario he had ever faced. The thought of seeing you bare, of grazing the delicate flesh of your skin, makes his stomach twist and his heart race.
He swallows hard, forcing his voice steady. “Yes, Your Highness. I can help.”
The tips of his ear turn red when he finally turns, seeing your naked back turned to him. It is enough to have his cock straining in his pants.
“I cannot wash my back by myself. The new arrangements… I don’t know how to manage without you.”
He nods once, stiffly, and approaches, careful to avert his eyes for a moment before lifting his gaze reluctantly to meet your body. Every motion is deliberate, measured, his mind screaming with the need to maintain propriety while the reality of the task presses on him.
Moving the washcloth against your soft flesh feels almost sinful. You are his Princess, and yet he is touching forbidden territory. Your skin is warm, and with his gloves meticulously removed to move freely, his rough pads end up accidentally brushing it. His pulse spikes violently. James clenches his jaw to keep from faltering, focusing only on the sponge. His hands are surprisingly steady, but every fiber of his body is aware, painfully aware, of the proximity, of the trust, of the vulnerability you display with him.
“I–I didn’t expect–” James starts, but stops himself. Words fail him. Did he create this? By clearing out the staff? He only wanted to protect you, and now… His chest tightens. The room seems unbearably small, every breath too loud, every heartbeat a reminder of the delicate balance between duty and desire.
You glance over your shoulder, expression collected, and entirely unaware of the storm inside him. “I’m glad you’re here.” The softness in your voice tears him apart, both from relief and a quiet shame flooding his veins.
James swallows again, simply nodding and forcing his composure. This is his responsibility, at least until he finds the perfect staff for you. He must remain a knight first, a protector. Nothing more. No misstep. No lapse.
But as he finishes lathering your skin in soap, your back straight but not tense, he realizes something unsettling: he had not planned for this— never imagined that by protecting you, he would also be drawn into this intimate, fragile space where obligation and lust intertwine.
And yet, he would not flinch. He would not let his internal struggle interfere with your well-being.
“Better?” He asks quietly, stepping back.
You smile faintly and serene, almost turning completely to face him. “Much better. Thank you, James. Truly.”
He nods, breath hitching and eyes inevitably falling on your arm, pressed against your soft breast, the supple flesh squished up for him to admire.
His thoughts are a tumult of guilt and restrained longing as he quickly turns back to the door, ashamed of the painful pressure of his cock against the armor.
Days pass quietly, but with an undercurrent James cannot shake. The palace staff has been pruned, but their absence left gaps he had not anticipated. Small tasks, once invisible, now fall squarely on him: arranging your dresses, ensuring your meals are properly presented, checking that your chambers are warm and secure.
He moves through these duties with the precision of a knight, but each time you summon him closer, he feels that old, familiar ache— the impossible combination of desire and guilt. You never demand more than you need, never tease or provoke him, yet the intimacy of your blind trust weighs on him as heavily as any sword in battle.
“James.” His name falls softly from your lips, too familiar, and he curses the day he insisted you dropped the 'Sir'.
He appears instantly, seeing you standing by the window, struggling with a necklace clasp, and he approaches carefully, trying to quell the familiar heat in his belly.
“Allow me.” He simply answers, taking your hands gently. The slight tremble of your fingers makes him swallow hard. You offering him a space he should never enter digs a hole in his chest.
When the clasp clicks into place, he steps back for you to turn with a faint smile. “Thank you. I do not know what I would do without you.”
James’s jaw tightens. By removing those who were unkind, he made you rely on him in ways he never anticipated. And now, he must remain constant, always vigilant, always near.
The day continues, and small tasks repeat: adjusting your gowns, fetching books, preparing for audiences, making sure you have what you need. Each time he approaches, his mind wages war between propriety and the intimate closeness that both terrifies and captivates him.
At night, when he checks on your chambers before taking his own rest, he finds himself lingering, hesitant to leave your side. Sometimes you are already asleep; sometimes you are sitting quietly, reading by candlelight, and he would stand nearby, silently present, the steady beat of your life a tether to his own restraint.
He had sworn to protect you, and he would. But this proximity, the trust you place in him for even the smallest details, tests him in ways he had never expected. James cannot act on his longing; to do so would mean betray your trust and his honor. Yet every quiet glance, every small touch he offers in service, carries a weight he cannot escape.
The problem is, he does not wish for this closeness to end. He could not imagine a life where he is not your shield, your constant, your quiet presence.
James exhales softly, closing the door behind him, his hand lingering on the frame for a moment as if to reinforce the promise he has made to himself— and to you. He would serve you in all ways, endure the tension, and keep his heart restrained, no matter how excruciatingly close they become.
The afternoon sunlight gently spills through the glass as James kneels by a small stack of books, organizing them for you. You sit in the window alcove, your skirts pooled neatly around you, idly alternating between admiring the palace gardens and watching him.
“James.” A playful lilt to your voice. “You do take your duties quite seriously, don’t you?”
He glances up, austere as always. “A knight must be thorough. Carelessness invites danger.”
Your lips slightly curve up, eyes sparkling. “But must you hover so close even when I am perfectly capable?”
His chest tightens, and he swallows, aware of the weight of your gaze and the subtle challenge in your tone. “I… Cannot risk your well-being, Your Highness. It is my responsibility to remain near.”
You lean forward, resting your chin on your hands, teasing now. “You act as if I am made of glass.”
James’ lips press into a thin line, his jaw tight. Every word reminds him of your vulnerability, your trust in him, and the ache in his chest intensifies. “Glass can be shattered, after all.” He admits quietly.
You chuckle softly, and the sound is like the first rays of sun touching his face after a long, rigid winter. “Then I suppose I must rely on you to remain unbroken.”
He freezes, heart hammering against his ribs. You trust him and lean on him, and yet you tease, lightly, as if to test the boundaries he cannot cross.
For a long moment, you simply look at each other, the unspoken tension stretching taut between you. Then you smile faintly, the way you do when you feel safe enough to let your amusement peek out.
The silence lingers until James clears his throat. “There is… Another matter we should discuss.” His voice is quiet, tinged with hesitation.
You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”
“I cannot always be within reach.” His eyes set on your skirts. “And if you ever are in danger, you must have some means to defend yourself.”
Your eyes widen slightly, the mischievous curve of your lips dims a little. “Are you suggesting I— learn to fight?”
James nods. A knot in is throat forms at the sole thought of you facing danger alone, however theoretical. “I will talk with the King and the Queen and then teach you. It is prudent.”
Your eyes soften, warmth threading through your gaze. “James, you are quite serious, aren’t you?”
“I am always serious about your safety.” He frowns. But beneath the calm, his heart lurches at the mental image of him guiding your hands on a sword, of being close enough to correct your stance, to instruct you, and watch your strength grow.
You lean back against the window frame, a faint laugh escaping your lips. “Very well, then. I trust you, of course. But I suspect this will be more entertaining for you than it should be.”
Your trust is a tether, your teasing a challenge. And for the first time in days, he allows himself a small, private acknowledgment of the truth: he would do anything, risk anything, to see you safe, to see you grow strong, and to remain by your side.
You meet before dawn four days after that conversation.
The practice yard lays half-swallowed by mist, the stones damp beneath your feet. James has chosen the hour carefully after your parents’ affronted reaction to his proposal— no servants awake, no guards lingering. Even the birds seem reluctant to speak.
He places the sword in your hands with reverence that borders on fear.
“It’s heavier than it looks.” He warns, already adjusting your grip before you could answer. His fingers barely touch yours, as if even that contact might betray him.
“I’ve held heavier expectations.” The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, then his expression sobers.
“This isn’t play. If you ever draw a blade, it will be because something has already gone wrong.”
You glance at him. “You are very cheerful this morning.”
James does not smile. He steps back, eyes scanning the empty yard out of habit before settling on you again. When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.
“There may come a moment when I am too far from you.”
The words lodge in his throat. He swallows once, hard, as if forcing down something bitter and choking.
“Too far.” He continues, slower now. “To place myself between you and someone who means you harm.”
His eyes change. They always do when he imagines it— darkened, unfocused, as though he is seeing something layered over the present. A corridor too long. A door too slow to open. Your voice cut off mid-breath.
His hand curls unconsciously at his side.
“You look as though you’re facing an execution.” You try to lighten the spirit.
Yet he drags his gaze back to you, haunted. “I am.”
You laugh then, a soft, unguarded sound that mists in the cold air. “James, if danger ever finds me, I’m certain you will find a way to reach it first.”
He stares at you. That, more than anything, terrifies him. Certainty is fragile. It breaks.
“I would rather you never need to rely on that.” He utters. “Not even once.”
You lower your chin, solemn. “You tried to convince my parents of this.”
“Yes.”
“And they said no.”
“They said,” he starts tightly. “That no daughter of theirs will learn to wield a weapon like a common soldier.”
You hum, lips pressed together. “As if harm recognizes breeding.”
“Exactly.”
He steps closer behind you, correcting your stance, positioning your shoulders. This time he does not flinch from the contact, his hands are steady. Controlled.
“Feet apart,” he instructs. “Balance is survival. Strength is secondary.”
You follow his guidance easily, too easily, as if you were always meant to stand this way.
The warmth of your body seeps through his armor. “Promise me something.” His eyes fix on the side of your face.
“That sounds ominous.”
“If I say run,” he quietly continues. “You run. Not toward guards. Not toward courtiers. Away. Distance is defense.”
“And if you say fight?”
His jaw tightened. “Then you fight like your life depends on it. Because it does.”
Having your back pressed against his front as his hands engulf yours on the hilt of the sword, watching as you get flustered as he inevitably breathes against your neck, makes something warm stir in his belly.
“Again.” James exclaims, this time leaving your softness to face you, lifting his own blade. “From the guard position.”
Steel meets steel, and though he keeps repeating to himself this is preparation for a future he prays would never come, James could not stop the thought that haunts him most.
If the world ever reached for you, it would have to go through him— or leave you armed enough to survive without him.
Both possibilities terrify him equally.
James does not follow you back to the palace. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the mist thins and the yard feels abandoned again, before allowing his hands to tremble.
The sword lays where he has placed it, resting against the stone as if nothing sacred had just passed between them. He stares at it for a long time, breathing through his nose, counting each breath the way he once did in battle to keep himself from vomiting fear.
He has imagined you bleeding before.
The thought arrived unbidden, vivid as memory: your silky sleeves darkened, your breath catching in that small, shocked way bodies do when they realize they are wounded. The image makes his vision blur.
James bends sharply at the waist, palms braced on his knees.
This is what devotion does when it goes too far. It punishes imagination and weaponizes love.
He presses his thumb into the old scar on his left wrist, grounding himself in pain that was once real, not hypothetical. He reminds himself you had laughed, trusted him enough to point the blade meant to slay for you, at you. And you are confident in his ability to reach you no matter the distance.
That belief is heavier than armor.
“I will not fail you.” He whispers into the empty yard, the words torn from him before he could stop them.
The vow settles into his bones, ancient and irrevocable. He straightens slowly, forcing his breathing to steady. Control is the difference between protection and possession. He repeats that like doctrine, though he no longer knows where the line lies.
As he walks the perimeter of the yard, habit takes over. He checks sidelines, counts exits, measures distances between walls. How long would it take to cross them at a sprint? How much time would he lose if the ground were slick with rain? If the halls were crowded?
James sinks onto the cold stone bench near the wall and finally allows himself to sit with the truth he has been refusing to name.
He loves you.
Not as a knight loves a liege. Not as a man loves an idea. James loves you in the way starved things love warmth, with desperation and fear, and the knowledge that one day it might be taken away.
He abhors himself for it.
Love made him want to narrow your world until nothing could reach you. It made him want to decide for you, shield you from pain. Your laughter vibrates through the inside of his ribs, waking his numb, reluctant heart.
Although he would give his life to protect you, he hopes he never has to. Not for fear of dying– no death could be more honorable than the one in your name– but because every moment at your side is a blessing he is not worthy of, yet needs more than oxygen itself.
He stands at your door every day, longing for the moment when the sun rises and he is the first person you see when you open your pretty eyes. And then you smile at him, a lowly knight. And it feels as though the Gods have knelt before him.
And you have chosen him. Not with declarations or promises, but with trust. With your presence in a forbidden yard at dawn. With your willingness to place a blade in your hands because he asked you to.
That trust is sacred.
James bows his head, forearms resting on his thighs, and closes his eyes.
He prays then, for restraint. For the strength to guard without caging. To love without claiming. To be sharp enough to cut down threats and gentle enough not to become one.
If the Gods are listening, he does not know, but when he finally rises, the trembling has stopped.
The world remains dangerous, and the distance between him and you would never truly disappear. But he would bear it. He would bear everything. Because if his fear is the price of your safety, James would pay it every morning, in silence, long before the sun rises.
The city smells different now.
Bread, for one. Fresh, yeasted, unmistakable. Smoke comes from hearths instead of ruins. Laughters resound through the streets— still thin, cautious, but real. James walks beside you, who are hidden in a plain cloak with the hood thrown back despite his earlier insistence. Your head turns slowly as you walk, eyes bright taking everything in as if afraid it might vanish if you blink.
He hates crowds.
Not because of noise, but because of angles. Too many hands. Too many blind spots. Too many ways to lose you in the space of a single breath.
He stays close enough that his shoulder brushes yours when the street narrows. His hand hovers near the hilt beneath his cloak, fingers flexing, measuring distance with every step.
You notice, of course.
“Look.” You say, stopping suddenly. James nearly collides with you.
You gesture toward a baker’s stall where a line has formed— not orderly, or desperate, just waiting. A woman chuckles when flour dusts her nose. A child clutches a warm loaf like treasure.
“They are smiling.” You exhale, as if a boulder was removed from your chest. “They are not in despair.”
James scans the faces automatically. Hope does not erase resentment.
“They do not know who you are.” He answers under his breath.
“That’s the point.”
Then, it happens. A man brushes past you, jostled by the crowd. James’ hand snaps out before he can stop himself, fingers closing around the stranger’s wrist with bruising force.
The man yelps, and the street goes still.
James realizes what he has done a heartbeat too late.
The stranger stares at him, wide-eyed, more startled than angry, and the knight releases the man at once and steps back, forcing his hands to unclench.
“My apologies.” He utters stiffly.
The man nods quickly and hurries away, rubbing his wrist amongst the whispers rippling through the nearby crowd. Curious glances linger but the crowd resumes its organized chaos.
James feels it then, the familiar heat behind his eyes, the rush of imagined outcomes. A blade hidden in a sleeve. A knife meant for your ribs. Blood on stone.
Always blood.
He shifts, placing himself between you and the others without thinking.
Your hand touches his arm. Light. Steady.
“James.” You call quietly. “I’m here.”
The words anchor him more firmly than any command.
He draws in a slow breath. Then another. The city does not erupt. No one rushes them. The moment passes like a storm that decided, at the last instant, not to break.
“I apologize, Your Highness.” His cheeks heat up, unable to look at you. “Crowds make me… Vigilant. I did not mean to frighten you.”
You study his face, the tight control, the faint tremor he could not quite banish.
“You did not frighten me. You frightened yourself.”
He says nothing, but his back tenses at your simple yet smart answer.
After that, you move on more slowly. You linger at stalls, speak with vendors, listen to stories of loss and cautious recovery. James stays close, but he forces his hands to remain still, his posture relaxed. At one point, you laugh— openly, brightly— at something a cloth merchant said. The sound turns heads and the urge to pull you back, to protect your smile from the world’s hunger is torturing.
Yet James swallows it down.
When you finally reach a quieter square, you stop and turn to face him.
“You do not need to carry all of this alone.” Your voice is gentle, like a man coaxing a scared, hungry mutt. “I know the world is dangerous. But it is healing.”
His gaze drops to the stones between you.
“I cannot unsee what it has done to you.” He confesses. “Or what it could still do.”
You step closer, lowering your voice. “And I cannot pretend I do not feel safer because you see it.”
Your eyes meet. Something passes between you, something unspoken and fragile, broken by James straightening, discipline reasserting itself like armor locking into place.
“Shall we continue?” He asks.
You smile at him, soft and certain. “Yes. Together.”
And as you walk on, James keeps his control, telling himself that this, too, is protection: allowing you to stand in the light, even while he remains watchful in the shadow.
The Great Hall is blazing with light tonight. Gold and crystal catch the music and scatter it back across the polished floor. The banner of the Stark kingdom hangs side by side with yours, stitched together in forced harmony. Peace celebrated loudly, insistently.
James stands where he always does in these occasions: near enough to reach you in three strides, far enough to pretend that is all he wants.
You move from partner to partner with practiced grace. Hands offered. Bows exchanged. Smiles given.
Not the ones reserved for him. Never.
These are the polite ones, when your mouth curves careful and symmetrical, but your eyes remain distant. The smiles you wear the way one wears gloves: necessary, correct, impersonal.
The real ones reach your eyes first, soften your shoulders. Steal a fraction of your breath, as if joy surprises you every time it arrives.
Men try their luck anyway.
One laughs too loudly, leaning in too close. Another lets his hand linger at your waist longer than custom allowed. James feels each trespass like a blade dragged slowly across his ribs.
He catalogues them. Faces. Names. Countries. How their fingers press. How your shoulders tense by degrees so small no one else would notice.
No one else would know that your tension is the price of politeness.
James’ jaw aches halfway through the night. Thus, when the chance comes, he takes it without hesitation.
The knight steps forward during the brief chaos of a song’s end and inclines his head toward your current partner. “Your Highness,” he turns to you evenly. “There is a matter requiring your attention.”
Relief flickers across your face before you can mask it. “Of course.” You exclaim, already withdrawing your hand. “If you’ll excuse me.”
The man bows, disappointed but powerless.
James does not look back at him.
You move through the crowd and out into the night. The gardens greet you with cool air and darkness scented with flowers; the loud roar of chattering replaced by the crickets singing.
And that’s when your shoulders drop at once.
“You saved me.” A touch of laughter in your voice. “I was beginning to think I’d danced with half the room.”
The corners of his mouth lift slightly but it is too late to hide it. You smile at him, not the careful one.
Your steps are unhurried as your heels carefully hit the pebbled path. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across hedges and marble statues. You speak of the foreign dignitaries, the strained conversations, the effort of celebrating peace with people who had once cheered for blood.
“They’re trying to ignore what happened.” You sigh. “Some of them, at least.”
“They are too busy trying to impress you.” James corrects.
You glance at him, lips thin to hide your amused grin. “You say that as if it is a crime.”
“It is when they forget themselves.”
Your lips curve in betrayal. “I knew you were watching.”
“I always watch.”
You reach a bench half-hidden by ivy, and you sit with a tired sigh, tipping your head back to look at the stars.
“I love it out here.” You hum. “No expectations. No hands I have to pretend not to notice.”
“You should not have to pretend.” He grits out. Your head twists toward him, your eyes bright— too bright. Wine, he realizes. Not enough to dull your mind, but enough to soften your edges.
You raise suddenly and hold out your hand.
“Dance with me.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
“No.”
You blink, taken aback. “That was very fast.”
“I won’t.” He corrects, suddenly recognizing how it came out. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” You tilt your head to the side and James wants to avert his eyes at the adorable action.
Because I want to tear apart every man who touched you.
Because if I hold you like that, I will forget who I am.
Because I will never want to let go.
“Because I am on duty.” He opts to say instead.
But you do not give up, stepping closer, close enough that he could smell wine and flowers and something uniquely yours. Your fingers rest lightly against his breastplate.
“You are always protecting me.” You whisper. “So tonight protect me from the memory of that room, James.”
Your smile, gentle, coaxing, unbearably sure of him, undoes the last of his defenses.
He closes his eyes once, then takes your hand.
The music drifts faintly through the open doors, lutes and harps weaving a melody too light for the weight it carries. He leads you closer, aware of every point of contact: your palm warm in his, your other hand on his shoulder, his arm around your waist where no one could see.
James forgets to breathe.
Your gown catches the moonlight like something living, fancy silk and threads of gold shifting with every measured step. It is not extravagance that makes you radiant, but the way you hold yourself— chin lifted, shoulders straight, your movements deliberate and calm. They lend you a gravity no jewel could grant.
Noblemen came to you one by one, offering hands heavy with rings, and bows practiced to perfection. They touched your hands, turned you beneath raised arms. Drew too close, lingered too long. He told himself he had no right, no title, no place in this bright circle of silk and music. He is only a knight, standing guard as he has been taught, watching as others enjoy what duty denies him.
And yet you fit here best, in his arms.
To them, you are beauty and alliance, grace wrapped in soft gowns. To him, you are the woman who has looked at a freezing stranger with tenderness and who spoke his name as if it mattered.
For a moment, James forgets the armor, the crown. The distance that should have stood between you two. Your bodies move harmoniously at once, laughter ghosting across your lips as he spins you once, twice, your head tipped toward his chest.
“This,” You murmur. “is much better.”
His heart thunders.
James feels the echo of fury still coiled inside him, the memory of other hands where his now rest. It flares, and then dissolves, replaced by something dangerously tender.
He is not your guard now. He is just a man holding the woman he loves, under the stars, while the world pretends to be at peace.
And when the song ends, James knows— terrifyingly— that forgetting would be far harder than remembering.
Reality hits like cold water.
It rushes in the moment the music fades, the gardens fall quiet, and the distance between you, social, moral, irrevocable, reasserts itself with cruel clarity. He releases you at once, stepping back as if you burned him, bowing his head to hide the flush that creeps up his neck.
You do not look offended, too busy to unsuccessfully try to stifle a yawn.
“Let me accompany you back to your chamber, Your Highness.” He jumps immediately, softer than intended.
The palace corridors are dimmer now, most guests still linger in the Great Hall, their laughter echoing faintly through marble. Your steps are slow as you walk, the tipsiness you had shrugged off in the garden making itself known.
You sway once and James catches you without thought, his hand firm at your elbow, his other steadying your waist. Your body leans into his for a fraction of a second, unguarded.
Every muscle in his body locks.
“I’ve got you.” He murmurs.
“I know.” You sigh content, and let him guide you the rest of the way.
He focuses on the path. On the cadence of your steps. On anything but the warmth of you through the thin silk of your gown, the way the fabric shifts beneath his fingers when you move. He keeps his hold precise, innocent, as though he were escorting you across ice.
Your chambers door open onto quiet and candlelight, the familiar scent of parchment and flowers settling around you. You slip from his grasp reluctantly, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a sigh that speaks of utter exhaustion.
“James.” You start, rubbing your eyes. “Would you help me?”
He freezes.
“With… ?” He asks carefully.
“My dress.” You whine softly, gesturing vaguely over your shoulder. “It’s late, and Natalia is already asleep. I do not want to bother her.”
His mind stutters, then reels.
“I— Your Highness—” He stops, recalibrates. “If you are certain.”
You smile at him, small and drowsy. “You already helped me before Natalia and Wanda's arrival. I trust you.”
That is the problem.
He approaches as one might approach a sacred thing: reverently, and acutely aware of the consequences of a misstep. His fingers find the laces at the back of your gown, knotted more tightly than he expected.
“Tell me if I pull too hard.” He warns with a voice steadier than he thought.
“I will.” You promise.
He works with painstaking care, eyes fixed on the task, not the person wearing it. Still, when the laces loosen, the fabric parts just enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin, warm and undeniably real.
His breath hitches.
The sight alone is enough to make his heartbeat quicken. He turns his head slightly, giving you what privacy he could while finishing the last tie by touch alone.
“There.” He replies hoarsely. “You should be able to manage the rest.”
You nod, already shrugging the gown from your shoulders with a tired clumsiness that makes his chest seize.
“I’ll wait outside.” He steps back quickly. “Just beyond the door. In case you—” He stops himself. “In case you need more help.”
You look at him over your shoulder then, something soft and grateful in your expression.
“Thank you.”
He bows once and steps out, closing the door gently behind him. The corridor feels colder without you. James rests his forehead briefly against the marble wall, breathing slowly, deliberately, until the world steadies. He told himself this is composure. That restraint is not weakness. That love, real love, is proven by what one refuses to take.
He straightens as footsteps echo inside the room, alert again, every sense attuned.
“I’m in bed.” You call softly.
Only then does he allows himself to exhale.
He remains there until he is certain your breathing has deepened into sleep, standing watch in silence, guarding not just your door, but that fragile line, held together by nothing more than his will.
And tonight, he holds it.
Barely.
James returns to his quarters, shutting the door behind him with deliberate care. For a long time, he simply stands there.
The image of you— drowsy, unguarded; the warmth of your back beneath his fingers. The silk sliding away. The way his name had sounded on your lips, softened by weariness and wine.
James closes his eyes.
That was the moment.
Not the dance. Not the jealousy. Not the fury at men who had touched you carelessly. Those things are familiar, almost manageable. He knows how to master violence, how to endure hunger and cold and rage.
But that— standing behind you in the quiet of your chamber, entrusted with your vulnerability— has nearly undone him.
He wanted to stay.
James crosses the room and kneels at the foot of his bed, not in comfort but in discipline, as he had once done when vows still felt unbreakable. He presses his palms flat against the floor and bows his head.
He does not pray for forgiveness. Never. Forgiveness implies he intends to repeat the transgression. Instead, he takes account.
He measures the distance between who he is and who he is supposed to be. He acknowledges the truth without embellishment or mercy: his love has crossed into longing; his devotion is no longer pure. The line he guarded so fiercely has thinned to a thread.
He would not touch you in ways you had not asked for. He would not take advantage of trust offered in exhaustion or wine. He would not mistake your need for safety as permission for closeness.
These are not the rules imposed by rank or law. They are the last pieces of himself he still respects.
James raises and paces the room, restless. He imagines futures he must refuse: a kiss stolen in weakness, a night allowed to blur into something irreparable, a moment where you wake and see not your protector, but a man who has taken what he wanted.
The thought makes him sick.
He presses his fist to his chest, grounding himself in the steady, unyielding beat of his heart. You deserve better than his hunger. And yet, James acknowledges this too: he would not stop loving you.
Love, unlike desire, does not ask permission. It does not retreat simply because it is inconvenient, or forbidden. It settles in and demands responsibility.
If this is his burden, he would carry it. Because devotion, if it is to mean anything at all, has to be proven not in what he takes—but in what he denies himself, again and again, for your sake.
James tosses in his bed, cursing himself for having such good senses. He woke up in the quietest hour of the night and with his headboard against the wall his quarters share with yours, the small, breathy noises from behind your room travel to his ears so easily.
It is evident what you are doing, and James stares at the ceiling, his jaw tight and his cock erect in his pants.
Logically, you are a grown woman with needs. No man would be allowed to satisfy you, James would not let that happen, yet it is the first time he witnesses you pleasuring yourself. A knight should have a better hold on himself in this kind of situation, there is no reason to care for it, for a proper knight's feelings would have been that of indifference beyond protecting and serving their Princess.
But James’ situation is entirely different since he holds more fondness for you than is perhaps wise. More fondness than what is reasonably allowed.
He flexes his hand around the soft pillow. Your soft moans keep filtering through the wall and James finds himself slowly kneading it, trying to find distraction. It works momentarily, until the smooth, cool fabric turns into your thighs in his imagination.
The knight knows that even when you are lost in the throes of passion, you must look so elegant, for you possess endless grace. And your eyes– those gentle, sparkling eyes of yours, could pin a man to the floor better than any spear. They could heal a wound better than any herb and read a man’s soul like a book.
Realizing what he is doing with the pillow, James goes rigid. To show his greed so clearly, selfish and unfair as he indulges in your intimate moment, makes his stomach churn with uneasiness. You must be unaware of the volume of your the breathing, the noises, the soft creaking of the bed as you shift. As a matter of fact, the moans and whimpers grow. Unknowingly, James’ breath matches yours. Shakily in, shakily out. And then…
His hand squeezes his throbbing dick over his pants.
James gasps loudly, withdrawing his palm as if it burned. He wants so badly to remove the thin layer of clothing that bounds him, limbs trembling with the need to connect his lips to yours. He yearns to hear his name on your lips, whether whispered or cried out.
His fingers hesitantly trace his lips, imagining it is your hand tenderly stroking his face. His eyes close as his palm runs down his chest, stopping just above the hem of his underwear. Maybe with a little bit of saliva on his finger he could pretend it is your tongue grazing him, making sure to outline the still covered head.
Perhaps, if James could release some of the pressure, he would be able to face you with much less strain. Or maybe it is just a "reasonable" explanation in order to feel less guilty about jerking off to his Princess’ own pleasure. Shame curls hot in his belly as he finally removes his pants with a single, strong motion. Painfully hard, his body buzzes with lust and the risk of being heard by you. Maybe the sound of his desperation would carry through the paper thin walls and you would hear how crazy you make him.
Oh, to even entertain the thought that you could desire an older man as rough, hairy, and battle scarred as him.
His hand wraps around his leaking cock, hips thrusting up and mind conjuring the softness of your palm, instead of the rough callus on his. He shakes his head as if to condemn himself in real time. A part of him feels dirty, manifesting in the way his wrist stops for a moment, the temporary loss of contact almost bringing tears to his eyes.
In this dark, cold room, James accepts what he has become: a slave to his own pleasure.
“James.” Your soft whines of his name almost make him come on the spot. He squeezes his eyes close, too desperate to analyze the situation. Did you really call for him while plunging your fingers into your sweet core, or was it just a figment of his pathetic imagination? What he wouldn’t give to be in that room with you. To get lost in the tangle of your sheets, sweat, and arousal. To sink deep into you and mark you as his, and feel your hands on his chest as his fingers abuse your clit. The idea of absorbing every sound you make into his mouth makes James shiver, drooling as his hand squeezes once his cock, pretending it is your pussy clenching around him as you come.
He can hear how wet you are, your quiet whimpers overshadowed by your palm slapping against your slick skin. James fights to stay quiet, jaw tight as his thumb swipes over his tip. His hand shoots over his mouth, moaning through his fingers as you finally reach your climax, again whimpering his name. He keeps thrusting into his hand, his thumb focused on the tip and his chest heaving, bucking desperately into his own fingers. Almost close, James momentarily uncovers his mouth to reach onto his side table and retrieve the object of one of his biggest sins. One of your expensive cloaks, the one you accidentally dropped during one of your aimless strolls around the capital. A kind woman had brought it to him, yet he could not find it in himself to give it back. James presses his face deeply into the fabric, just like he did that same night in the privacy of his own room, his cheeks red and his chest aching with shame.
Draping the cloak over his face, he lets his lips fall open, coating the fabric in his spit to let your scent bless his tongue. Saliva slides down his chin, yet he does not care about the mess, too hopeful to retrieve any trace of you. Taking a deep breath, your scent penetrates deep into his nostrils, touching his soul.
With a cry of your name, his chest is splattered with cum. The heavy fabric of the cloak did nothing to muffle the sound of his own orgasm.
James has been waiting for you close to the throne room when the doors burst open with a sudden and loud noise. Your skirts tremble with every hurried step as you storm in the corridors. Tears glisten on your cheeks, yet you do not stop, sprinting with your shoulders hunched, as if trying to make yourself smaller.
“Your Highness!” He shouts, but you do not stop. You vanish around the corner and James follows after you, heart thundering against his ribs, until he reaches your chambers door.
It slams shut with finality.
The soft click of the lock reverberates like a hammer blow to his chest. He bangs on the door, voice breaking. “Your Highness! Please— open the door!”
Inside, he could hear your sobs— shattering, forlorn. His stomach knots. The world feels suddenly dark and hollow. Every instinct screams at him to break the door down, but he restrains himself, knowing you need your space, even if it tears him apart to hear you in such misery and being forced to stand powerless outside.
Natalia appears silently at his side, eyes wide with concern. “Sir James… I—I think I should tell you,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “They– the King and Queen… They—”
James’s heart drops to his stomach, anticipation tightening like a vise around his neck. He clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms. “What?”
Natalia swallows, then speaks. “They want the Princess to marry. They have arranged a ball, invitations are already being written for nobles of the neighboring kingdom. Lords, dukes…” Her gaze lowers. “Their Majesties believe it will strengthen the peace treaty.”
He faced famine, war, betrayal, and the harsh streets of the city, but nothing has ever made him feel so helpless. They’re trading your happiness, your freedom… For mere politics.
“They are already choosing gowns,” Natalia continues quietly. “The Queen wants her presented properly. Radiant. Approachable.” She hesitates. “Desirable.”
The words strike him like poisoned arrows.
James stares at the marble wall behind the maid, suddenly aware of how small the corridor feels, how thin the air is. He pictures you standing beneath chandeliers, surrounded by strangers who would smile at you and think they have a right to your body, and your future.
“How soon?” He exhales harshly.
“Very soon.” Natalia replies. “Within the fortnight.”
A fortnight.
Two weeks until men would touch your hands, guide you through dances, lean close enough that you would smell the wine on their tongues and their entitlement. Two weeks until you would be appraised, discussed, and measured like a prize horse.
“And she?” He asks, though he already fears the answer.
Natalia looks away. “She said nothing. She just… Went very still.”
James nods once, sharply. “Thank you for telling me.”
Worry etches into the maid’s face. “You’ll be there, right? With her?”
James’ answer is immediate.
“Always.”
Once Natalia steps away to return to her duties, James sinks on one knee outside the door, hands pressed against the cool wood. He cannot allow this. And yet, you have chosen to lock yourself away from him.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of agonizing waiting. He stations himself outside your door, silent and resolute. Natalia tries to coax you to eat, her voice soft and patient, but you did not respond. Eventually, the maid placed a small plate near James’ side and slipped away quietly, leaving him as your silent, immovable guard.
Finally, when the castle is engulfed by the silence of the night and the torches flicker low, the door clicks.
James’ breath hitches. He surges forward, heart hammering, and pushes the door open gently.
You are there– hair loose, cheeks wet, eyes red and swollen from crying, your gown wrinkled and clinging awkwardly to your frame. Yet still so beautiful. Your hands tremble as you tear up again at the sight of him.
James moves swiftly, closing the door behind you and wrapping an arm around your frame, pressing you to him with gentle insistence. “It’s over.” He murmurs, voice low and steady, though his chest aches. “I’m here. Nothing will touch you now.”
You try to speak, to explain, but he silences you softly. “No words. Not now. Just rest.”
Guiding you carefully to your big bed, he lets you sit on the soft sheets, trembling, before your faint whisper causes his body to go rigid. “Please, remove the armor. Stay–stay with me.”
His instincts scream against it, he has always been the protector, always armored and vigilant. But he cannot refuse. Not now. Not after seeing you like this.
Slowly, he removes the straps and plates, letting the weight of his armor fall away piece by piece. When he finally sits on the edge of the bed beside you, you tug his hand gently, drawing him closer. Your arms wrap around him, desperate, and James finally allows himself to uncoil, to give in to the moment.
He hugs you tightly, letting every ounce of fear, fury, and relief flow into the embrace. Sobbing quietly against his chest, he holds you firmly, breathing in the flowery scent of your hair, the warmth of your body, the unmistakable, unshakable presence of you.
For the first time that day, James is simply there— nothing to protect, nothing to fight, nothing to plan. Just you and him. He would move Heaven and Earth to stand by you always, no matter the cost.
He does not know how long you stay like that, surrounded by the stillness of the room and the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows across your face. You still tremble slightly, exhausted from the day’s grief, yet his hold is firm but gentle around you, letting you lean against him.
Your heartbeat is irregular and fast, and it mirrors the tension he has carried all day. You are safe now, here with him. And yet… He feels himself choke under the weight of everything he has tried to protect you from.
Finally, your voice comes, barely above the hush of the night. “James… I—” Your eyes close. “I–I don’t know what I would do without you. You always… Always know what to do, even when there seems to be no way out. You saved me more times than I can count, and… I–”
Your words falter. James’ heart throbs painfully in his chest.
“I love you.” The words are soft, vulnerable, almost a whisper, as if saying them louder might shatter the fragile quiet surrounding you. To James… Well, they feel like a cannon ball falling directly on his chest.
For a moment, he cannot speak, nor move. He should retreat and let the door shut close behind his back, a physical wall that symbolizes his final desperate attempt to distance himself from you.
Now, faced with the impending threat of someone taking you away from him, James refuses to be the umpteenth reason for your suffering.
He leans closer, letting his forehead rest on yours. “I have for so long–” His voice breaks, hoarse. “I have for so long loved you from afar. You are everything I am not worthy of, and yet…”
Your fingers trace lightly along his jaw, and his blue eyes close gently, finally slackening against your touch like an abandoned dog looking for affection. “And yet?” You prompt softly, breathless.
“And yet,” he whispers. “I cannot imagine letting anyone or anything take you from me. I have sworn to protect you, but… I also swear to be here, with you, for you, in every way I can. If you’ll let me.”
Your smile is small through the tears, a mixture of exhaustion and relief, but James has never seen you so radiant before. “I will.” You exhale. “Of course I will. I trust you. Always.”
He hugs you tightly, not needing to speak, letting the shared confession linger in the silent space between you. No threats, no attacks– only the truth of your hearts, spoken softly, held carefully, and received fully.
Your noses brush against each other when your face emerges from the slope of his neck. Your chest heaves when you finally let out your confession.
“I have never laid with anyone before.” James swallows, shaky fingers tracing the line of your jaw.
“I have done things by myself, but…”
“I know.” He confesses. “I heard you.”
“I know. I hoped you would.” Your smile is mischievous when you timidly utter that, and James’ breath hitches.
“Your Highness—”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” Your lips purse in a small pout.
He flinches, momentarily taken aback. “I am your knight–”
“Not only my knight now.” You whisper, slowly lifting one of your legs. James waits with bated breath as your body positions itself on his lap, tentatively yet cunningly.
“We cannot move any further.” His voice breaks, wheezing when your hands cradle his stubbled face.
“I just want to hold you, James.” It is such a simple request, yet he feels like someone has just poured a bucket of icy water on his bare body. Because that’s how he feels, bare, not only emotionally but especially physically; his armor, the symbol of everything he should be, lies carelessly on your rug, because no princess should be forced to be pressed against hard, uncomfortable metal.
His hands lie weak by his sides. Sitting like this, with a pretty woman such as yourself on his lap, James might get untoward ideas and touch you in places he is not allowed to reach.
And now you are tugging down his pants, and James is sputtering to stop you, no real heat in his voice as his hard cock springs out. You swallow, watching it with parted lips.
“It’s… Big.” You mutter, hips unconsciously making a little thrusting movement.
“Is it– alright?” James swallows, blushing.
“Yes.” You smile and he manages to reciprocate, a deep rosy blush sitting on the apples of his cheeks.
You like him, you are accepting him.
Your sparkling eyes lift to look at his damp face, one of your hands placing itself on his pec. “Can I… ?”
And James is only a man.
He nods eagerly, gasping when your soft finger ghosts over his tip. It glides down the veins as you lean in close to get a better look, curious.
“I have never seen one before.” You admit abashed, using two fingers to rub the vein on the underside. James moans, hips jumping into your soft caresses. When you hold his sac, soft and pliable, in your hand he gasps hotly, before finally wrapping your hand around his cock, stroking it to full erection while his head rolls back. His lips part when he sighs, feeling himself grow impossibly harder and thicker in your hand.
“How does it feel?” You ask and twist your wrist, pulling a long guttural moan from him.
“So good, my princess.” He bites his bottom lip, then dares to open his eyes, flitting them down between his legs. “You made me so hard.”
You press a kiss on the side of his neck that sends his eyes back into oblivion, quickening your strokes, twisting a little harder, smearing the dew drops of precum over the smooth head.
“Gods!” James growls, thrusting his hips up into your hand, his breath caught in his lungs. You smirk at his reaction, nipping at his neck yet not enough to leave a lasting mark but one he would certainly feel tomorrow. Your tongue soothes it over while your free hand traces down the expanse of his hard chest to gently hold his balls. His whines are the sweetest of melodies to your ears.
“Let go for me, darling?” You purr and James cries out, a sob echoes in the dim-lit room as a familiar shudder rolls over his body. The hair on his neck raises and his belly contracts when he finally growls out a curse that would make even the rudest of soldiers balk, coming all over your fingers.
James' body shakes as he lets himself fall back against the bed, taking you with him. You let out a elated sigh as you give him a softer squeeze before you regard your soiled hand with innocent interest, and under his stunned gaze, your tongue peeks out enough to taste his seed.
“Gods above, sweetheart.”
You do not answer right away.
The word lingers between you, unfamiliar and precious. Warmth spreads slowly throughout your body, traitorously.
“You—” you stop, smiling despite yourself. “You have never called me that before.”
He looks almost uncertain. “I won’t again, if you do not want me to.”
You swallow, tightening your hold on his shirt. “Say it again.”
James' real smile is not dazzling, but real. It softens his face, strips years from him, something boyish and unexpectedly gentle breaking through the severity he usually wears. It is not as bright as the sun, but it carries his happiness all the same. And when his lips close around another term of endearment, you know you would remember the sound of it for the rest of her life.
Your arms wrap around his torso in a warm hug, squeezing him once as your whisper presses against his chest, so timidly. “Will you… Stay until morning?”
James swallows hard. Every instinct screams at him that he should, that he must, that the world outside could wait. “Yes.” He does not hesitate, his voice barely audible. “I am not going anywhere, my heart.”
You squirm slightly, hugging him tighter. James exhales slowly, letting himself slacken on the comfortable mattress. No threats, no guards, no political maneuvering— just you and this quiet moment of pure, unadulterated love.
For once, James allows himself to simply be the man who loves you and would not let you go.
The Great Hall is shimmering in opulence once again, but James barely notices. His eyes are fixed on you, tracking every turn, every step, every laugh that feels forced.
The King’s announcement had come before the music even began: you are to entertain suitors, men from the other kingdom, all chosen to cement the fragile peace.
James’ chest had tightened the moment the words left his mouth. He had protected you through enemies both known and hidden, and now your own parents are auctioning you like a prize.
He moves alongside the sidelines, keeping close, as you greet the nobles with careful courtesy. He can clearly see the subtle curl of your lips, polite but empty, and the tension in your shoulders. You hate this. He wants to tear the chandeliers down, strike every man who dares step too close. But James remains quiet. Restrained. Observing. Always observing.
At some point in the night, inevitably, the crowd shifts: laughter and music and drink colliding, and you are gone.
James has always prided himself on having a strategic mind, on being a reliable soldier that always knows what to do, how to act. Now, he darts through expensive gowns and glasses that cost more than his salary, asking anyone who would look at him.
“Have you seen the Princess?”
Finally, a round man says. “She went toward the balcony.”
James sprints to the other end of the room, his boots hitting the marble in harsh, irregular beats. The balcony doors open to the cool night air. And there you are.
You, cowering against the stone wall as a man's hand presses firmly around your forearm. A duke, the knight immediately recognizes him. The sharp tang of alcohol reaches James before he even sees the cocky man’s face. It takes one glance at your wide, terrified eyes for the knight to launch himself at the slimy man, fury and steel all wrapped into one.
The duke yelps as James grabs him, relentless. Some knights had noticed the chaos, their faces turning from curiosity to alarm as they saw the ferocity in James’ eyes and his agitated movements. They followed, apprehending the nobleman and restraining him immediately.
“You know not who you address! You know not who I am! How dare you turds—”
His useless words dispel in the crisp darkness as James kneels quickly beside your hunched form, lifting you gently but firmly into his arms. Your shivering body loses all its tension, falling into his, as your own arms go around his torso instinctively.
“Shh.” He murmurs. “It’s over. You are safe.”
Your forehead rests against his chest, letting the tremors pass slowly.
“I can’t believe— He—” Your voice breaks.
“I know.” James closes his eyes, voice raw with anger. “I know. But I came. I will never let anyone do this to you.”
Your arms tighten around him. “James.”
He lifts his head slightly, letting his eyes meet your. They are wide, glistening with tears, but gone is the fear.
“I—” His voice falters. “I cannot stand to lose you. Not to them, not to anyone.”
Your hand pressed to his chest grounds his racing thoughts. “You won’t. You won’t lose me.”
He shakes his head slightly, disbelief and relief mingling.
“You are my protector, my strength… And my heart.”
He swallows hard, before delicately pressing his trembling lips on the top of your head— a kiss not of passion, but of surrender.
You sigh happily at the contact, trembling less now, yet refusing to ease your hold around him.
“I love you.” You whisper.
James exhales harshly, his hold desperate around you. “And I love you. Always. Even when I hate myself for it.”
James’ boots thump on the marble with a rhythm that matches the pounding in his chest. He has been summoned to the King and Queen’s presence, and he already knows the reason— they want to reprimand him.
They do not understand. They never will, not fully.
The King’s booming voice ripples the silence like a thunder the moment the knight enters. “You assaulted the Duke of Eastpier! Explain yourself!”
James keeps his posture straight, eyes unwavering. “I did not assault him. I restrained a man who was threatening the Princess. He had no right, no claim. He was putting her in danger. My duty is to her safety.”
The Queen’s sharp gaze slices across him. “Your violence was unseemly, sir James. Reckless. A knight is not above law or courtly protocol!”
James grits his teeth. Of course they would be more worried about appearances. The thought burns in his mind. Not that a man had cornered their daughter on a balcony, pressed his hand against her arm, intoxicated and convinced he could have his way with her? Not that she could have been hurt?
They are fretting over gossip, scandal. And James is expected to care more about their fragile reputation than the fact that their daughter had been assaulted.
The rage coils in his chest like a viper. He fought frost and famine for you. He made sure that whoever tried to speak ill of you was apprehended accordingly; he kept you safe. And now, the people who brought you into this world care only about what others think over your own well-being?
He forces himself to breathe evenly, to reply not out of disregard of their words, because that could lead them to strip him of this position and banish him from the palace, far from you.
“I am her knight. It is my duty to protect her. The court’s whispers mean nothing when her life is at stake.”
The King and Queen exchange glances, unease flickering behind their anger. “We… Appreciate your work, sir James.” The Queen admits, quieter though detached. “You have done a lot for our daughter. But you must temper your actions. Be more subtle, for the sake of the court.”
Subtle.
That word makes James’ blood boil. Subtle? After what you endured? After what that scumbag tried to do to you? Subtle will not save you from men like him. Subtle will not shield you from danger. And yet that is what they care about. Their daughter’s safety, apparently, is secondary to the court's opinion.
He holds himself rigid, forcing his jaw to relax, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the Queen. Behind his back, his fists clench until little crescent marks bloom onto his palms. “I will act with discretion. But let it be clear: my priority is the Princess. Always. Nothing else matters.”
The Queen’s expression softens just slightly, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “We are relieved she has such a devoted knight by her side. But discretion, sir James. Please.”
Discretion. Their voices grate against his brain like steel. He leaves without another word, fury still simmering under his skin and heart hammering with indignation.
He finds you pacing in your chambers shortly after, a frown on your pretty features. Your eyes land on the door as he enters, relief flickering in your eyes as you see him.
“They were angry.” You claim softly, stopping mid-step. “I did not know what they’d do to you.”
James crosses the room quickly and holds out his hands for you to take. “Nothing will happen to me. I am your knight. I swore an oath to protect you, and I will never break it.”
You hesitate in his embrace, your shoulders lowering as a fraction of the tension leaves your muscles. “I was so afraid they would punish you. Or force you away. You did nothing wrong.”
“And yet I must be careful.” He admits bitterly. “For appearances. But that does not change the truth: no one, nothing, will harm you while I stand here.”
Exhaling slowly, your chin lifts up, wishing to behold his face. “I know.” Your voice quiet but certain. “I trust you. You have kept me safe all this time. I don’t want to imagine what would happen if you weren’t here.”
James’ gaze softens, allowing his hand to hesitantly cup your cheek. “You need not to imagine it. I am always here, by your side.”
The court could fume. Nobles could whisper. But the threat is gone, and for the first time since that unpleasant event, both of you can breathe.
The infirmary is still when you open its door: no hearth lit, no servants bustling through, only the faint smell of iron and dried herbs clinging to the stone.
James sits on the edge of one of the narrow cots, his back straight despite the blood seeping through the torn linen of his shirt. He has not noticed you yet, his focus is inward, jaw clenched, one hand braced against the mattress as if holding himself in place.
You close the door softly behind you.
“James.”
At the sound of your voice, he stiffens. He turns too quickly, and pain flickers across his face before he can mask it.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He says at once, not wanting for you to see him like this, pathetic, in pain.
“I know.” Your mouth curves a little, stepping closer.
He stands, as if to put distance between you, and sways. You catch his arm without thinking. For a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. His skin is hot beneath your fingers, fevered from exertion and blood loss. His eyes drop to where you are touching him, and his shoulders go rigid.
“I’m fine,” he clears his throat, too quickly. “It’s nothing.”
“You are bleeding through your shirt.” You refuse to let it go. “Sit down.”
He searches your face, as if gauging how far he could push this before you yielded. You do not, on the contrary, you meet his gaze steadily, princess or not.
Finally, he exhales and lowers himself back onto the cot. After gathering what you need, you dip one of the edges of a white cloth in the bowl of water, before glancing at James and halting in your movements as if seeing him for the first time that afternoon.
“I believe you will have to take off your shirt.”
James’ lips press together as if to hide an amused grin at your sudden modesty. Despite that, he feels a slight pull at his nerves at the realization. You have never seen his upper body. He does not fear your judgement, not after what you had done that night. But perhaps he does feel a bit anxious to fulfill your expectations, considering the signs of battles he brings with himself like a sore reminder of his past.
The moment he slips his shirt off, gritting his teeth at the pull at his cut, you are left staring at him, suddenly mute, lips parted with a soft sigh that speaks of everything but disappointment.
James would have been a liar if he denied how your silent wonder stroked his ego. He worked for the muscles in his upper body his whole life, particularly after he decided to gain back his strength to become your protector, when his bones were too exhausted from the cold to collaborate, and his tongue could not remember the taste of bread. Now muscles adorn his torso again, alongside various scars, a souvenir of his reckless days as a Knight Banneret.
“I would never use my strength to hurt you, my heart.” You swallow, the sides of your neck heating up as he finally lets his walls crumble.
“I know.” You fret, before clearing your throat and composing yourself. “I was merely… Assessing the damage.” You wait, letting him indulge in smugness a little more. “Darling.”
James is certain his ears are on fire now.
“May I?” You whisper, already moving forward and reaching out your hand.
Your knight gulps. By all means, he longs for you to touch him, trace every line with your fingers, with your lips, your tongue–
“Of course.” He rasps instead, frowning at himself.
Your dominant hand dutifully wipes around the wound first, tender but thorough. The cut is clean but deep, an angry red line across his torso where the blade had slipped past guard and armor alike during practice.
Your other hand rests on his shoulder for balance as you stand between his legs, crouched and a little twisted, your position slightly awkward and no doubt uncomfortable.
“You were careless.” You start quietly, more relief than scolding in your tone. “You could have been killed.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”
“That’s not what I meant.” You dampen the cloth again. “You do not get to throw yourself away anymore.”
His gaze flicks up to your face. “And why is that?”
Your hand pauses.
“Because I—” You swallow, your eyes landing on his lap before looking him straight in the eyes. “Because you are mine now.”
His expression shifts, something raw breaking through the discipline.
“And I am yours.”
You let the words hang between you two as you go back to clean the cut. James hopes you cannot feel the way his heart is trying to crawl out of his rib cage from how quick it is beating. He decides to focus on something else, such as your beauty. It is rather unusual for him to see you from this angle, normally he towers several inches above you, having you have to tip your head back to simply look at him.
“When did you learn to dress a wound, my sweetheart?”
The hand on his shoulder squeezes the flesh once, a way for you to free yourself of the dizziness taking over you each time he lets himself indulge in your love for each other, releasing himself from duty and etiquette.
“I was a wild child.” You muse, a little smile brightening your features. “And there was a maid who would take care of me. She taught me a lot.” The fondness in your voice is evident as your eyes grow hazy, remembering a happiness long gone. “She was more of a mother than my own.”
A frown clouds your soft features with disappointment, quickly dissipating as James’ hand moves gently on the curve of your waist in comfort. You give him a small smile, before using a bit of wine to disinfect the wound.
He really did not want to show you how the sting affected him, yet he finds out that letting you, out of all people, see him vulnerable is not the worst thing to happen. When a hiss falls from his lips at the burn, your eyes raise to his with an unspoken apology; and his pain is soothed by the softest of kisses. James proceeds to steal several more, squeezing your hips, toying with the hem of your bodice before he lets you continue, demanding such compensation every time you make his jaw clench; and with each kiss, his hunger grows.
The moment you need to take a fresh cloth to bandage his torso, a squeal escapes your throat as strong arms circle your waist, dragging your body to sit on his thighs. Leaning onto his shoulders to not to fall, your breath fans his face as you shift in an attempt to find a comfortable position, inevitably brushing his most sensitive part.
Your knight claims your mouth, a hand reaching to cradle your face while his thumb gently strokes your cheek. Your body melts into his, pliant, and your lips succumb to his advances. His arm pulls you firmly chest to chest, your gasp of surprise swallowed by his mouth as your hands grab his arms. His pants are too tight all of sudden and he has no doubt it does not escape your attention.
“My dear heart…” He whispers, tasting the skin of your neck. How sweet you are, so effortlessly, unconsciously alluring to all his senses. The scent of your skin, the taste of your lips, the tender heat of your touch. Your eyes are blown with lust and wide as you feel his arousal, he cannot help himself with an angel like you resting on his lap. Your trembling hands settle on his shoulder for support, only to start grinding against him and Gods, he is so close to throw you on the cot and have his wicked way with you.
James had women in the tavern please him for money when he was younger and irresponsible, and his hand temporarily eased his lust thinking of how sweet your heat would be. Yet nothing could compare to your touch on his bare skin, and your palm around his cock.
Your lips part with a shaky exhale when his hands travel up your waist, teasing the underside of your breasts. He craves to taste them since the moment he helped you wash your back and your arm pressed against your sinful curves out of decency.
“James–” You whimper as your thighs tremble when his hips thrust up. He can feel the pressure in him building, his hands burning to untie your bodice, ruck up your skirts and pull his pants down to remove all barriers between you. Just him, you and absolute bliss.
“My heart, my sweetheart, how you tempt me.” He pants into your skin. A small pitiful sound which almost breaks his resolve has his blood boiling when his mouth meets your neck, heavy breaths expanding his chest as much as they do yours, every inhale causing your breasts to brush against his naked chest.
He dares to look up at your glistening face, instantly regretting it when his cock throbs at the sight of your own desire written all over your features. “This the most difficult and yet the sweetest trial I have ever faced. You are beautiful, so beautiful.”
James grabs your hips, forcing his own to cease the instinctive motions, preventing your own as well.
The corners of your lips lift in a shy smile. “And you are so handsome, darling.” You admit. “It is hard to not give in to sin.” You timidly mumble, caressing the hair on his chest.
His beautiful, kind, bashful minx of a Princess. How could he not fall for you?
“I feel the same, sweetheart. I love you.” Your eyes shine with affection as you cup his face and plant a soft kiss on his forehead.
“I love you too, James.” You swallow, squirming. “Promise me you will be more careful.” Your eyes flit to the wound you had not finished cleaning, but James tips your chin up gently so you can look at him.
“I promise, my sweetness.”
You clear your throat, slowly standing up from his lap under his confused gaze.
“Perhaps,” your knees land on the wooden floorboards, the discomfort unmistakable and immediate, yet your soft skirts alleviate it a little. “You need a stronger… Encouragement.”
James towers over you, still and bewildered. His Princess, kneeling before him, a lowly knight. How blasphemous!
Your hands work nimbly on the opening of his pants, finally freeing his erection from its confines.
The world slips out of focus until all that’s left is James’ shaft, leaking and proud against his abdomen. Your mouth waters at the sight– his tip is flushed red, swollen; the length throbs under your misty eyes, undeniably starved for him.
“Sweetheart–”
“Let me do it, please.” You mumble, forcing yourself to look up at his parted lips. “Let me make you feel good.” You mewl, reveling in his gasp when your hand wraps around his shaft, the head nudging your mouth, smearing his precum across your lips, now shining with him and oh, your tongue finally peeks out to taste it, and Gods above… The sight alone could have him coming untouched.
His hips rut forward automatically, pushing his tip in and out of your mouth. “Sorry my love.” He rushes out, unable to stop himself from feeling your velvety warmth around him. His musky scent fills your nose, and your thighs clench against each other.
“Oh Gods.” He moans, finally working his way into your mouth. You relax your throat, just like Natalia told you to do. It was quite embarrassing to ask her for this kind of advice, but your trusted maid revealed herself to be very knowledgeable, and happy to help you. She has extensive knowledge on your special relationship with your knight.
James’ head falls back, his hand involuntarily fisting your hair, before soothing your head with gentle apologies and soft caresses.
“No.” You wheeze, tightening his hold on your hair with your own hand. “Let me take care of you.” You lean forward, pressing a kiss on his hip bone. “I want you to use me, James. You deserve it.”
He stifles a groan at your eagerness as you engulf his cock as far in as you could, his balls nudging your chin. His blue eyes darken, now locked with yours as his jaw unclenches. He is utterly in love with you. Everyone else was completely ruined for him the moment you took a look at him when he was still homeless, and decided to nurse him back to health. Despite the fact that James spent the first months in denial, he knew he was truly, irreversibly gone for you.
His hand shakily smooths your hair back as your tongue licks a long stripe along the underside of his length, base to tip. Your palms slide up his thighs, feeling his taut muscles beneath your fingertips, then your right hand gently cups his balls.
“Oh princess.” His head falls forward, and you take him into your mouth again, rolling his sack in your hand, gently suckling at his tender head.
His soft whimpers blend with the warmth of your bodies.
“Sweetheart, your mouth–” His praise is cut off by a whine when his tip kisses the back of your throat deliciously; your hand continues to work on his balls, the other anchoring yourself to his thigh.
He forces his hips still, groaning brokenly as your cheeks hollow around him. “Where did you learn– oh Gods!” His jaw clenches, finally willing his eyes open to enjoy the show.
Small tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you gag around his cock, the sight alone makes his knees tremble, his breath stalling in his chest. He is so close, you can feel it.
Seeing your devoted, hard-working knight reduced to a moaning mess makes your hole clench around nothing. What a mess you are making in your undergarments!
Saliva pools around his length, slicking down his balls. His teeth hurt by the way he is clenching his jaw, trying to keep his hips firmly on the cot, until your hand squeezes around his thigh. He looks down hurriedly, scared to have hurt you, yet he only sees your wide eyes, before you nod at him. That’s when his hips snap forward, both his hands flying on your hair to help you bob your throat up and down his cock.
A wet gulp, a slap of his balls against your skin, your mouth slurping with every thrust.
Before you can realize what is happening, James bursts into your throat with a needy groan, hot ropes of cum painting your insides as your eyes close, forcing yourself to swallow around him to ensure not a single drop goes to waste.
Your skin is hot and sticky with sweat as the sound of heavy breathing fills the dimly lit room. Finally pulling out, James slowly loosens his grip on your hair, instantly going for your waist to help you up and on his laps. With eyes half-lidded, you regard him, quiet yet hopeful for some sign of approval.
“You are going to kill me one day, sweetheart.” His fingers brush your cheek with gentleness, searching your face for any sign of discomfort; his shoulders lower only when you giggle at his dejected voice. Then, your eyes widen.
“Oh Gods, your wound!”
This day feels like a gift. Sunlight spills freely across the gardens, warming the stone paths and waking the scent of flowers that have slept through the colder weeks. The air is gentle on your face, carrying the soft hum of insects and the distant splash of fountains scattered across the grass. For once, nothing presses at your chest. No expectations, no lessons, no whispered plans made without your consent.
You lead the way to the pond with a skip in your steps that makes James barely contain his satisfied smile. It lies tucked behind a curtain of willows, their branches trailing low enough to brush the crystalline water’s surface. The world seems to end there– the sounds are muffled, and the palace is reduced to something imagined rather than real. It has been your favorite spot since childhood, a place where you could pretend to belong only to yourself and nature.
James steps in front of you, instinctively scrutinising the surroundings before setting an old, big cloak on the trimmed grass for you to rest on. The tension eases from his shoulders when he sees no one else is near.
“There is no one around.” You smile, settling onto the makeshift cover at the water’s edge and kicking off your shoes.
James immediately understands what you mean. That's what you say to imply your wish of having him closer, out of his duties. Sitting beside you, close enough that your arms brush against each other, James closes his eyes for a moment, simply listening— to the water, the wind, the fragile peace neither of you trust to last.
Yet, it is enough for now.
Then, you lean into him. He stiffens for half a heartbeat, habit more than hesitation, before his arm comes around your shoulders. His touch is still careful, always careful— at least when his blood stays away from his loins, for he fears the world might punish him for touching you too freely.
You tilt your head up, the tip of your nose grazing his jaw. “No one can see us.”
“I know.” He murmurs, his gaze flicking once more to the trees before landing on you. He observes you with anticipation as you rise onto your knees, only to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him.
It is unhurried, freeing, nothing like the stolen, breathless moments you usually manage. His hand slides to your waist, tentative at first, then surer when you lean into him more. When you part, James rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.
“I wish I could give you this every day.” He confesses like a prayer.
“You already do.” Your hands cradle his cheeks, thumbs caressing his stubble. Your head turns then, brushing your lips along his jaw, his cheek, smiling when he finally chuckles, a low, unguarded sound.
You lie back together, your head on his chest as his arm wrap around your shoulders, keeping you close to his muscled body while his fingers trace absent lines along your arm. You tell him about the lessons you skipped yesterday, about a ridiculous myth you had read in one of Father's books that morning, and then you comment the swans freely playing in the water, marveling at their graceful beauty.
And James listens, because your every word matters.
Your voice dwindles into silence eventually, and when your eyes raise, they find his already admiring you with a soft, rare smile on his lips. Before long, your little haven comes alive with heavy breathes, heated gazes and wandering hands.
James draws you to him, mouth still pressed on your delicious lips, barely holding back from sinking his teeth into the supple flesh. You respond with a small, pleased noise, soft and warm against his taut body, and your tongues much more daring than the previous times you indulged in such moments of forbidden closeness.
With a grunt, James gently guides you back until you lay completely on the cloak, bracing himself with an arm above you. With growing confidence, your arms circle around James’ head, hands fisted into his hair and curiously roaming his body.
You open up like a flower under his fingers. Slowly, he kneads your chest, then your hips, your thighs, all to be rewarded with gasps and whimpers leaping from your mouth into his. You keep pulling him against you, as if you wish to melt into one. It is easy for your knight to explore what's hidden under your dress, for you chose a lighter, simpler gown today– were you hoping for something indecent to happen? Have you been luring him in all morning, only for his control to finally slip?
The skin of your inner thigh is soft when he presses his big palm to your core, causing you to buck into it clumsily.
“Gods.” James sighs, dipping his face into the inviting curve of your neck. “You are divine, sweetness.”
Your answer dissolves into sighs and whimpers as James kisses the skin of your neck and grounds his palm into you. The way you are coming apart underneath him, how your hands caress up his back, how your thighs keep trying to shut close around his arm, and most of all the soft, desperate sounds falling from your lips… It is driving James crazy. With a practiced hand, his fingers reach for the hem of your undergarments and pull down. Then, his hand finally touches the warm spot between your legs, wet and slick from pure desire. Your every breath and twitch are delightful as he slowly trails his fingers over and between your folds, lightly rubbing your hidden nub.
“James.” You whine against his lips. It is not enough. Thus James pulls the cups of your dress down, breath hitching at the sight of your beautiful breasts, and kneads the flesh with his other hand, kissing between your tits; your gasps are loud and your chest pushes insistently against his mouth as he finally tastes your turgid nipples. The hands in his hair tightens once the knight gathers some of your wetness to spread it on your sensitive peaks; sucking and moaning around them, his eyes roll back when your tangy nectar quenches his thirst for you. You whimper and arch into his touch, and James smiles satisfied with his face nestled on the soft cushion of your breasts. He is wholly and entirely endeared, you are so beautifully receptive to even the most minuscule of movements on your pussy.
“W–What…?” Your neck cranes confused when you cannot feel his warmth against your bare chest anymore. With a soothing caress on your thigh, James grips it, guiding you until you spread your legs apart, as wide as your skirt allows. And then, you squeal.
His tongue darts out to lick at your core, sending thrilling jolts throughout your body.
You quickly hike up your dress, finally catching sight of him as his mouth attaches to you. You watch transfixed, exhilarated as James sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around it circularly, dipping between your folds with every shudder of your thighs.
His eyes are closed in peaceful bliss, and his tongue shakes back and forth, nose nuzzling in closer to your core like you are seeping nectar instead of arousal. His voice escapes in little grunts and gasps as you preen and moan above him; your thighs attempt to close around his head, yet he welcomes the sudden pressure with a loud moan, before he forces them open again.
“James!” You moan, head thrown back against the old cloak. “I feel— I think I’m–”
Besides your voice and his, you have never heard a noise so crude as the result of him fucking you with his mouth. Your hole clenches around nothing, and James decides to close the remaining distance, pressing a finger inside. It is the perfect pace and pressure that makes you grip his hair, finally humping his face as your wanton sounds resound through the willow fronds, the most melodious song that James has ever heard.
“James!” You come hard, ignoring his grin against your core as your insides tightened around his finger. He drinks your orgasm up with his cock straining in his pants, loving the way you clutch around his head like a vice, to the point where he stops thrusting his finger and instead focuses entirely on nursing on your clit until you are trembling and sobbing for him to stop.
When your mind does not feel so foggy anymore, the first thing you notice is a heavy weight on your chest: content, your knight rests on your warm breasts. You simply cradle his cheek, placing a thankful kiss on his forehead.
It is not difficult to convince him to let you help him with his own arousal. His cock slides back and forth but it passes over your clit each time. Your nails dig into the skin of his forearm as your back is pressed securely against his chest, one of his hands resting firmly on your hips to pull you back and forth in perfect rhythm with his thrusts.
“Sweetness, I know–” James gasps. “I know it feels good but you need to stay put or it will end inside you.”
You whimper, it is so wet and warm and the way your intimate parts sound together is so perverse, yet the fear of being caught faded once your swollen clit started rubbing against his thick cock, every single vein deliciously teasing your wet folds.
Lightly grabbing your jaw, James lifts it up enough so he can press a loving kiss on your lips, his free hand groping your still naked chest. “So soft and so lovely for me, my princess.”
He shakes and clutches your skin hard enough to toy with the line between pleasure and pain, grunting prayers for forgiveness in your ear until he tarnishes your pussy with his seed. Your name has never sounded so tender on someone's lips.
He is in the practice yard when he hears your steps. Not the measured ones you usually take when you come to find him, nor the careful quiet of your secret meetings in his room. This is ragged, uneven. Your skirts are hitched too high, and your breath breaks. He turns just as you burst through the archway, cheeks wet with fat tears and eyes shining red.
“James!” You scream, to hell with good manners. And the way his name fractures in your mouth makes his blood go cold.
He crosses the yard in three strides and catches you before you could say anything else. Not an embrace— he never dares that where stone and shadow could betray you— but his hands close around your forearms, steady. He forces his voice into the calm he uses on frightened horses and wounded men.
“What is it?” He frowns. “You are safe now. Slow your breathing.”
You shake your head, a sharp, helpless motion, and the tears spill at last. “They have decided.” You whisper, closing your eyes in pain. “My parents. They have chosen him.”
The world narrows to the irregular sound of your breathing and the dull thud of James’ own heart. Chosen. Him. The words echo, merciless.
For a moment, an image rises unbidden: a foreign lord’s hand closing over yours, a crown pressed down where his fingers brush your hair. A life sealed shut like a door slammed in his face.
He loosenes his grip before you can feel his hands tremble.
“Who?” He swallows around a knot, though the name hardly matters. Any name that is not his would have the same weight.
Your eyes land on his chest, unable to face the storm inside his. “A duke from the Western side. They say he is… Suitable.” Your voice breaks again, a cruel scoff of a laugh falling from your lips. “That this will secure the border for good.”
Something fierce and ugly surges in him then— an instinct as old as hunger. Take you and run. Put steel between you and anyone who dares claim you. He has lived with less than nothing before; he could do it again if it meant you are free.
But he says none of it.
“James, I can’t– I don’t want him. I don’t want any of this. You have to do something please! I–” Your words tumble over one another, dissolving into a thin, frightened sound. A tremor runs through you, and your hand presses on your chest as though trying to hold your heart in place. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, and your gaze darts past him as if the world has started to spin at the speed of light.
James angles his body so he blocks you from any prying eyes. His voice remains low, firm. “Look at me.” His finger gently lifts your chin. “Do you trust me?” You desperately nod. “Then follow me, we cannot stay here.”
Your eyes flick to his, wide and unfocused. Somewhere beyond the archway, footsteps echo— distant, but real. Without hesitation, James reaches for his cloak, previously abandoned on a stone, and wraps it around your shoulders, drawing the hood up to shadow your face. His hands are steady even as his pulse thunders in his ears, you are more important.
“Head down.” He murmurs. “Stay close and do not speak.”
His hand on your back guides you forward, the other subtly steering you through the narrow passages he knows better than his own body. Every corner suddenly feels dangerous. Every servant, every guard a threat— not to him, but to your dignity and privacy. If they see you like this, tear-streaked, shaking, it would spread. Whispers would turn to speculation. Speculation to certainty.
James would not allow it.
You reach your chambers without incident, and James wastes no time. He locks the door behind you, and only then does he turn back to you. The moment the latch clicks, your strength weakens. You sag against the door, breath coming in short, broken gasps. James is there instantly, kneeling in front of you, his presence solid, unyielding.
“You are safe.” He utters quietly. “No one can see you now.”
Inside, fear claws at him, sharp and relentless. The walls meant to protect you are now a deadly trap, and this is only the beginning. The first crack in something that could shatter you both. But he keeps his face calm, his voice sure. Panic could take many things from him, but not you, not while he still stands between your peace and the world.
“Breathe with me, my heart.” He encourages softly, one of your hands led to his chest to match his breathing. “I am here now, nothing can hurt you.”
He knows how this world works, how little a princess’s wish could weigh against treaties and borders. His love feels suddenly small and useless, a candle guttering in a storm. He draws in a slow breath and waits until you match it, until the sobs ease into shaky inhales. All the while, dread coils tighter around his heart. He could face blades and hunger and exile, but the prospect of a future where he stands by and watches you marry a man that is not him, against your will… He would tear that future apart before he allowed it to come to pass.
Only when the blizzard inside you quiets, your legs give up under you. James promptly catches your waist, guiding you to sit on your bed with a softness that makes tears spring up in your eyes again.
“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, hands fisted in his cloak as if it was the only solid thing left.
“You are not alone.” He chooses each word like a step across thin ice. “We’ll find a way forward.”
“I refuse to let anyone else touch me the way you should, James.” You swallow, tugging him closer by his shirt. “Let it be you, the man I love, before I am married off to someone undeserving of my touch, who only values gold and titles.”
“My love, what are you suggesting—”
“Take me.”
“Don’t—” He strangles out. “Some words are too dangerous to be spoken aloud.”
“Why?” You almost shriek. “I love you James, and you love me. Let it be you!”
“You must,” His jaw tightens. “You must think this through. If anyone was to hear… If this were spoken of, it would stain you. I won’t be the reason—”
“Please, James.” You are now sobbing, clinging to his shirt like the last thing tethering you to this world. The sight strikes him harder than any blow. “We have already indulged in each other's pleasure—”
James stares at you, disbelieving. “What you are asking is completely different. Don't say what cannot be taken back.”
Your voice shakes, but it does not falter. “I am to be given to a man who sees me as a treaty, as a chest of gold with a crown upon it. He does not know me. He does not love me.” You sniffle. “You do.”
“That is precisely why I can’t,” he replies, too quickly. “Because I love you.”
Your fingers reach up, stopping just short of touching his cheek, as if granting him the chance to pull away. “James,” you whisper. “Please. Let me choose something for myself before I am no longer allowed to.”
His ears ring. He craves to close the distance, to give you the comfort you ask for, the truth his body has known long before his mind allowed it. He needs to have you, and mark you. No one would be allowed to claim you.
“Are you certain?” He asks hoarsely. “Tell me you won’t regret this. Tell me you won’t wake tomorrow and wish I had been stronger than you were.”
You meet his gaze without flinching. “I will regret it if you don’t.”
For a long moment, James does nothing. He sits there, torn between devotion and damnation, between the man he has sworn to be and the man you are asking him to become. Then, with a care that borders on reverence, he lifts a hand to your cheek, as if even that was a transgression in this moment, and leans in.
The kiss is supposed to be brief, chaste. A promise rather than a claim. But after he pulls away, his breath unsteady, his forehead resting against yours as if he could not trust himself to look at you, his restraint snaps.
With a moan, his hand moves against the back of your neck, pulling you until your lips collide with his. His other hand finds its way to your hip, rubbing the skin through the soft fabric of your gown in a soothing motion.
“You are trembling,” he comments softly. “Are you scared of me, my heart?” You quickly shake your head, pulling him down into another breathless kiss. He groans, kissing you harder, hand finally sliding down to cup one of your breasts. Heat instantly floods your core, and he revels in your little gasps. “Gods, you don’t even know what you do to me.” Your cheeks are flaming at the veneration in his words, his compliment igniting something deep inside of you, a burning, aching need in your belly that has you wiggling your hips to relieve some of the tension.
“It's just me.” Your breath quivers as his forehead gently rests against yours. “Let me worship you, my love.”
You can only nod eagerly, and James kisses you again until you are dizzy. His hand slides back under your dress, his fingers softly caressing your skin until you tighten your hold on his shirt. He undresses you slowly, taking his time in admiring the sight of you beneath him as you slowly bare more and more of your gorgeous body to him, until you are fully exposed to his gaze, now lying on your bed.
You tentatively reach up and grasp at his shirt, helping him pull it over his head, and you moan at the sight of his broad chest. You have seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never when he was looking at you like an animal hunting its prey. Pressing your lips to his, you continue your mission of undressing him, clumsily toying with the hem of his pants and helping him to tug them down his legs, leaving you both naked and vulnerable.
Your gaze wanders downwards before you even realize it has, and you quietly gasp at the sight of his cock, already hard and aching for attention.
James notices the way your eyes fight the urge to glance back down at his cock, and a little grin brightens his features. You can sense in his warm gaze and the way he holds you closely to him, that he understood what you crave.
He moves to straddle you, pressing his forehead to yours so all you can see are his pretty blue eyes staring right back at you, blocking out the rest of the world and your own thoughts. “Speak to me, sweetness.”
You put your hand on his heart thumping in excitement as the other one traces the expanse of his torso, until it reaches his cock. When you wrap your fingers around his girth, you both let out a loud moan. He always feels so heavy in your hand, so thick and hard under your fingertips as a pang of arousal shoots through you when he moans out your name at the contact. Oh, you could barely wait to have him inside of you.
“My greedy princess.” He exhales slowly, precum dribbling from the tip and you cannot resist the urge to thumb over his sensitive tip to collect some of it. You barely contain your pleased grin when he moans loudly at the feeling, he could come on the spot if you do not abandon your teasing motions.
To know that he is the first man you have ever seen or touched sends a sensation through him that he cannot quite describe. Something primal that fills him with the pride of being the first to have you like this. To be the only man who will ever have you wholly like this.
“I don’t believe it's going to fit.” You breathe out, drooling like a hungry mutt as you keep jerking him off.
“Then let's get you stretched until it does, princess.”
James worships you with his mouth and fingers. He makes sure to guide you so your hips roll against his eager tongue. You gain a rhythm, moving back and forth seeking out that delicious friction against your clit as you grasp his hair with both hands. Your breath comes out in short pants, and you feel the pressure deep within your pussy close to overtaking you. His fingers move with care, slipping between your thighs like he already knows your body’s secrets. The first touch makes you gasp— gentle, slow, utterly devoted. You rock down against his mouth a couple more times, two fingers deep abusing your sweet spot until you cry out, your first orgasm bursting and rippling over your body. James hums approvingly as he drinks your slick like fine wine.
“I have given you the world, my love.” He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as his length teases your folds. “Let me show you the divine devotion of a true knight, loyal until the bitter end.” Slowly inching it inside you to revel in the feeling of your tight walls, you can only moan into his mouth in response. At first, he thrusts inside you slowly and deliberately to get you used to the feeling. The sensation is initially foreign to you, the stretch unlike anything you have ever known, pain and pleasure mixing together in the most delicious way as you whimper against his mouth.
“I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.” He starts to rut into you more roughly, abandoning his rhythm once he has a taste of you. “Just like this.” His hips snap forward, and you cry out in response.
“Oh James, Gods above!” Your back arches, legs tightening around his waist, silently begging for more.
“I'm not going to last if you look at me like that.” You can only kiss him, his hips rocking against yours to the hilt in a rhythm that makes you clutch at his bicep with one hand and his neck with the other, nails exquisitely marking his skin.
“I can't let you marry him, I can't let you go.” He needs you ruined for any other man. His fingers trails between your thighs, stroking lazy, merciless circles until your hips jerk up. His mouth closes around the swell of your breast, tongue hot and insistent on your nipples, and you cry out, arching against him.
“James.” Your voice breaks as your body trembles on the edge.
“Forgive me, my princess. I cannot stop.”
“You're not allowed to stop!” You whimper.
“You’re mine to cherish, mine to love.” James whispers, voice rough with possession. “I’ll worship you within an inch of your sanity, fuck you so tenderly and viciously that you will think of nothing but this moment.”
And when he kisses you again, filthy and slow, your body shatters for the second time, clinging to him as you come undone. Shame no longer exists; only the endless tide of your desperate touch, and your sweet moans as he tears you apart. He swears he has never seen anything more angelic than the sight of you overtaken by pure bliss.
A shiver runs down your spine when his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and wild, and you swear he growls when his body presses you more firmly into the wrinkled sheets, his mouth attached to your throat, your legs disgracefully open for him and only him. James brutally thrusts into you, harder, deeper, the sound of your cries jumping on the marble walls, careless of any servant that might walk by and hear you.
Every thrust, every scrape of his teeth along your skin, every hot kiss to your breast claims you wholly.
“I can’t— Gods!” He pants your name into your neck, kissing and sucking down the column of your throat, his hand digging into your thighs mercilessly. You are so close again you can barely breathe. The world narrows to the animalistic pace of his hips, his musky scent, the heat building in your core. When your climax hits you for the third and final time, it’s like a storm roaring inside you. James feels you clench around him impossibly tighter, indulging in the way you scream his name, shaking and moaning out of control. An angel made of sinful rapture, pliant for your knight to use as he pleases. Your delicious whimpers and the sounds of your wet pussy sucking his cock back in are utterly obscene, and he knows he is not going to last much longer.
“I need—” He groans, crashing his mouth against yours in an open-mouth kiss. His thrusts grow erratic, before spilling into you with a deep, shuddering moan muffled by your raw lips, filling you with his warmth.
Clinging to each other, both of you tremble, your body exhausted yet sated. James breathes heavily against the damp crook of your neck while you gently thread your fingers through his hair. His hold around you is urgent, terrified someone might break the door down and drag him away from you. Your arms tighten around his shoulders to keep this moment forever, because no matter what is going to happen, you belong to him.
James lies on his side, staring at the gradually slowing of your chest beside him, tracing the curve of your eyelashes in his mind, the gentle brush of your hair tickling his skin.
He has always known loyalty, but today it transformed into something more. Fierce, unyielding, all-consuming. Your laughter, your sighs, the way you look at him when you think no one is watching— they are all treasures he would guard with his life. He could fight armies, bear scars, face danger without hesitation, but nothing matters as much as your happiness.
Not even his armor.
He presses his hand to his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat sing the truth he has tried to ignore for so long. He has no crown to offer you, no kingdom to claim, no power to command armies. But he has his sword, his vow. And his heart, utterly, irreversibly yours.
When his forehead rests against yours, and your fingers intertwine, your focus is solely on him.
“I have a sword to protect you, but not a crown to have you. Marry me, my sweetness, and let us leave behind this world that wants to bind you. Let us write our own story, where we are free, and happiness is ours alone.”
Your breath hitches at those hushed words, yet they outshout every symphony, every reprimand, every demand that has shaped your life. Tears well in your eyes, shimmering like the morning light as your free hand cradles his already damp cheek.
“Oh my beloved knight. Yes James, I will be your wife! Take me with you and let's leave this place behind. Together.”
He holds you close, feeling the weight of every fear and every doubt melt away. In that embrace, surrounded by the warm light of the candles, you allow yourselves to believe in a future untouched by duty or sorrow— a future that is entirely and beautifully yours.
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