summary: after days of believing jacaerys might be dead following the battle of the gullet, y/n learns that he came back home to her.
warnings: none i just want my boy back.
author’s notes: that fucking episode ruined me i need fluff.
THE SEA STILL SMELLED OF SMOKE.
Even days after the Battle of the Gullet, the winds that swept across Dragonstone carried traces of ash and salt, as if the Narrow Sea itself remembered the blood that had stained its waters. Every report that arrived from the ships returning to harbor made Y/N’s heart pound harder.
No one would tell her the truth.
Not at first.
Every answer she sought seemed wrapped in careful avoidance, hidden behind sympathetic looks and half-finished sentences. Servants lowered their gazes whenever she approached, while knights and messengers exchanged uneasy glances before offering the same frustrating response: they did not know.
Yet rumors drifted through Dragonstone’s halls like ghosts.
She heard that Prince Jacaerys had fought bravely against overwhelming odds, leading men into battle with the same courage that had always made others follow him. Some claimed they had seen Vermax soaring through walls of smoke and dragonfire, his emerald scales flashing amidst the chaos before disappearing into the flames. Others spoke of burning ships, shattered fleets, and the sea choked with wreckage.
There were survivors, they said. Men who had escaped the slaughter and returned with tales of fire raining from the sky. There were casualties too—far too many to count—and with each passing hour the lists of the dead seemed to grow longer. But when it came to Jacaerys, certainty vanished.
No confirmation arrived. No raven carried his name among the living or the dead. As the days stretched on, the whispers gradually faded, replaced by something far crueler.
Silence settled over Dragonstone like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. It was the worst kind of silence; the kind that left room for hope and despair to exist side by side, tormenting her with every heartbeat.
For three endless days, Y/N remained in her chambers overlooking the sea, unable to eat, unable to sleep, staring out the window as though she could somehow summon Vermax from the horizon.
Her betrothed.
Her future husband.
The man she had loved since childhood.
The man who had promised her beneath the godswood trees of Dragonstone that he would return from every battle.
“Because I have something worth returning to.”
The memory hurt.
Especially because she no longer knew whether he was alive.
Outside her chambers, servants moved quietly. Guards spoke in hushed tones.
Everyone feared giving her news.
Because no one knew what news existed to give.
Then, shortly before sunset on the fourth day, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor.
Y/N barely looked up.
She expected another servant, another apology, another uncertainty.
The door opened.
“My lady—”
She stood immediately. “What is it?”
The maid looked breathless. “He lives.”
Tears immediately filled her eyes, and for a moment it felt as though everything around her had come to a standstill. The world blurred into silence, the air caught in her lungs, and even the frantic pounding of her heart seemed to falter beneath the weight of what she had just heard.
Y/N stared. “What?”
“He lives,” The maid was smiling now. “The prince lives.”
For a moment Y/N simply stood there.
Then she ran.
There was no thought of composure or dignity as she broke into a run, racing through Dragonstone’s stone corridors and down its winding staircases. Guards and servants alike scrambled out of her way, startled by her urgency, while anyone unfortunate enough to linger in her path was quickly left behind.
Her skirts tangled around her legs as she raced toward the harbor.
Toward the ships.
Toward him.
Please.
Please let it be true.
Please.
The harbor was bustling with activity as sailors unloaded supplies from arriving ships, their voices mingling with the crash of waves against the docks. Above them, the distant roar of dragons echoed through the sky, a reminder that even here, the war was never far away.
And standing at the end of the dock surrounded by soldiers was a familiar figure.
Alive.
Gods.
Alive.
Jacaerys.
His dark curls had grown longer, falling untidily around a face marked by exhaustion. Damaged armor hung heavily from his frame, a bandage wrapped around one shoulder while bruises darkened his jaw. He looked worn and battered by battle, but most importantly, he was unmistakably alive.
Y/N stopped running.
A sob escaped her lips.
Jacaerys turned as if he had felt her presence.
The moment his eyes found hers, everything else seemed to fade into the background. The soldiers surrounding him, the bustling harbor, the crashing sea, and even the war itself ceased to matter as his entire focus settled on her.
Only her remained.
“Y/N,” His breath caught. “My love.”
Her eyes immediately filled with tears. “You idiot.”
A smile appeared on his face. A weak but beautiful one.
Then she was running again.
Jacaerys barely had time to brace himself before she crashed into him.
His arms wrapped around her instantly.
Holding her.
Clinging to her, almost desperately.
As if letting go would somehow make her disappear.
Y/N buried her face into his chest.
“You stupid, stupid idiot,” Her voice broke. “I thought you were dead.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to feel her warmth against him and the steady beat of her heart. After days of uncertainty and survival, the simple reality that she was truly there in his arms felt almost unbelievable.
“I know.”
“I hated you.”
A laugh escaped him. “You did not.”
“I did.”
“You love me.”
She pulled back just enough to glare at him through tears. “I hate you right now.”
He laughed again.
Gods, even laughing hurt.
But hearing her voice was worth every ache.
His fingers brushed tears from her cheeks. “You cried.”
“Do not sound pleased about it.”
“A little.”
She smacked his arm.
Jacaerys immediately winced.
The smile vanished from her face. “Oh Gods.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.”
“I’m alive.”
“You look terrible.”
He grinned. “You always know exactly what to say.”
For the first time since hearing he lived, Y/N laughed.
A watery, trembling laugh.
Jacaerys stared at her.
Gods.
How many times during the battle had he thought of this?
Of her?
When arrows darkened the sky, when ships burned around him, and when Vermax’s cries echoed through the chaos, her face had remained at the forefront of his mind. Even in the moments when death felt inevitable, thoughts of her were what he clung to most.
He had pictured her face.
Over and over.
The one thing keeping him from surrendering to fear.
Now she stood before him.
Real. Alive.
Beautiful.
More beautiful than memory.
His hand rose to her cheek.
The harbor around them had grown strangely quiet.
Everyone watched but neither noticed nor cared.
His voice came out softer than intended. “I thought I would never see you again.”
The pain in her eyes struck harder than any blade.
Slowly, he pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers. “I am here.”
The words were almost a whisper.
“I came back.”
“You nearly didn’t.”
“I know.”
Silence lingered.
Eventually Y/N spoke. “Did you think of me?”
Jacaerys stared then laughed softly. “Every moment.”
She looked up. “Truly?”
His thumb gently traced her cheek as a soft smile touched his lips. “Every moment,” he murmured before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “When the battle began.” Another kiss followed near her temple. “When our ships were burning.” His gaze softened as he brushed a kiss against her trembling cheek. “And when I thought I might die, you were all I could think about.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
Jacaerys smiled gently before pressing another kiss against her skin. “I was not thinking of glory,” he said softly. “Nor victory.” His voice lowered as he rested his forehead against hers. “I was thinking about the fact that if I died, I would never get to marry you.”
Her eyes widened at the confession. The prince who commanded fleets, who was destined for greatness, and who always seemed fearless now stood before her looking unexpectedly vulnerable. For perhaps the first time, she could see the fear he rarely allowed anyone else to witness, as though the thought of losing her frightened him far more than any battle ever could.
Y/N cupped his face. “Then do not leave me again.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “If I can help it, I never shall.”
“You promise?”
“I swear it.”
“On what?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “On my crown.”
“That is not yours yet.”
“My dragon then.”
Y/N giggled. “Dangerous.”
“My life.”
Y/N immediately shook her head. “No.”
His expression softened. “Then I swear it on my love for you.”
Neither spoke for several moments.
Because some promises felt too sacred to interrupt.
Finally, Jacaerys leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers once more.
The harbor had vanished again.
The war had vanished.
Only the two of them existed.
And after days of fear, grief, and uncertainty, Y/N finally allowed herself to believe the truth.
He was alive, and he had returned to her at last. In that moment, she did not see a prince, a warrior, or the future heir to a kingdom; she saw only the man she loved standing before her.
And as Jacaerys held her against his chest, feeling her heartbeat beneath his hands, he realized something that no battle had ever taught him.
The storm didn't stay on the simulated set. By the time you called it a night, the real world felt just as suffocating.
The studio had managed to finish the rain scene, but a cold war had officially settled over the production. Jasper left the second his shift ended without saying a single word to you, and Drew had been kept at a distance by his management team, who were suddenly hyper-aware of the extra eyes on him. You had spent the remaining hours of the shoot ignoring the burning, lingering weight of Drew's gaze from across the room.
By 10:00 PM, the studio was finally empty. Your head was throbbing from staring at editing monitors, and your shoulders felt like blocks of ice. Exhausted, you slumped back into your director's chair, closing your eyes just for a moment to escape the pounding in your temples.
You didn't mean to fall asleep.
But when you finally blinked your eyes open forty minutes later, the harsh studio lights had been dimmed to a soft, ambient glow. The chill in the room was gone. You blinked, looking down, and realized you were completely wrapped in a heavy, familiar black denim jacket. You pulled the lapel up slightly—the faint, unmistakable scent of expensive cologne and cedarwood filled your senses.
Drew’s jacket.
Right next to your monitor script, a fresh, steaming cup of chamomile tea was waiting, a little sticky note pressed against the ceramic. In messy, hurried handwriting, it read: You look tiny when you're stressed. Drink this. Don't walk home alone.
A soft, helpless smile tugged at your lips, your heart doing a dizzying little flutter against your ribs. You wrapped the jacket tighter around your shoulders, packed your bag, and headed out into the cool night air.
But the moment you stepped past the studio gates, the illusion of safety shattered.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
"Director! Over here! Are the rumors about you and Drew true?"
"Is it true you're dating Drew Starkey?"
"How long has this been going on?"
The blinding white light of camera lenses pierced the darkness. A small crowd of three or four aggressive paparazzi, tipped off by the viral TikTok, had been lurking by the exit. They swarmed you instantly, thrusting microphones and cameras directly into your face.
You froze, completely blindsided, your breath trapping in your throat. You held up your clipboard to shield your eyes, backing away, but they kept pressing closer, cornering you against the brick wall of the studio. The panic was immediate, a cold sweat breaking out on your skin.
Honk!
The sharp, deafening sound of a car horn pierced through the chaotic shouting. Tires screeched violently as a sleek, dark SUV pulled right up to the curb, effectively cutting off the paparazzi.
The passenger door swung open from the inside.
"Get in! Now!" a voice commanded.
Through the glare of the streetlights, you saw Drew. He was leaning across the console, his cap pulled low, his jaw set in a hard, furious line as he glared at the photographers outside.
You didn't hesitate. You dove into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. The second your seatbelt clicked, Drew hit the gas, the SUV roaring away from the curb and leaving the flashing cameras in a cloud of exhaust.
The silence inside the car was deafening, save for the heavy sound of your own erratic breathing. You leaned your head against the headrest, your hands trembling as the adrenaline slowly began to fade.
Drew kept his eyes locked on the dark road ahead, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The muscles in his jaw were ticking fiercely. He looked angry—angrier than he had been with Jasper earlier.
"Are you okay?" Drew’s voice broke the silence, rough and tight with a suppressed emotion. "Did they touch you?"
"No," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. "No, I'm okay. Just... caught me off guard."
"Look," Drew said, his voice dropping its teasing edge, becoming serious but still frustratingly detached. "My manager is throwing a fit. If this media shit is going to stress you out and mess up your directing, just tell me. I’ll have my team put out a dry PR statement tomorrow. We’ll tell them the video was a misunderstanding and keep our distance on set. It’s whatever you want."
It’s whatever you want. He said it so casually, as if drawing a line between you two meant absolutely nothing to him.
"I don't want a statement," you said, your voice cutting through the quiet car, raw and stubborn.
Drew didn't move a muscle, but you noticed his fingers tighten slightly against his jaw. His nonchalant mask didn't slip, but his blue eyes darkened, locking onto yours with a sudden, heavy intensity.
"Don't play around," Drew murmured, his voice dropping an octave, sounding dangerously low. "If we don't deny it, the rumors won't stop. People are going to think you're mine. You okay with that?"
Your face instantly flushed a deep crimson. Your heart did a violent flip, but you refused to back down from his stare. "I'm not playing, Drew. I don't regret the coffee shop. And I don't care about the statement."
For a long, agonizing moment, Drew just stared at you. The air in the car became suffocatingly hot. His nonchalant attitude was struggling against the raw tension vibrating between you two. Slowly, he reached out, his hand hovering over the console. For a second, you thought he was going to touch your face, but instead, his index finger just lazily tapped the edge of your clipboard, a faint, hidden smirk finally tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Bold words, Director," Drew whispered, his voice dripping with a slow, agonizing heat that sent shivers down your spine. "Let's see if you can keep that same energy on set tomorrow."
Without waiting for your reply, he shifted the car back into drive and pulled back onto the main road. He didn't try to hold your hand, and he didn't say anything sweet. But as he drove you home, he turned up the car heater, making sure you were warm, while his left hand stayed tightly clenched on the wheel—the only giveaway that he wasn't nearly as indifferent as he pretended to be.
The next morning, you walked into the studio fully expecting the aftermath of last night to catch up with you. You were bracing yourself for more whispers, another lecture from Jasper, or worse—Drew acting like nothing happened.
And honestly? Drew did act like nothing happened.
When he arrived on set, he didn't look at you. He walked straight past your director’s chair, holding his usual iced coffee, completely ignoring the way the crew’s eyes darted between the two of you. He sat in his holding area, casually scrolling through his phone with his ankles crossed, looking every bit the nonchalant, detached actor he always was.
It was infuriating. Your heart had been doing flips all morning, and he looked like he had just woken up from a peaceful eight-hour sleep.
"He’s doing it on purpose, you know."
You flinched, turning around to see Jasper standing behind you. Jasper looked exhausted, the tension from yesterday still heavy in his posture, but the hot anger had burned out, replaced by a cold, bitter reality.
"Doing what?" you asked, trying to keep your voice level as you adjusted the monitor settings.
"Playing it cool," Jasper muttered, crossing his arms as he stared across the room at Drew. "He knows exactly what he’s doing. He creates a mess, leaves you to deal with the fallout, and then acts like he’s untouchable. You're getting distracted, and it's going to ruin the edit."
"Jasper, I’m fine. The movie is fine," you said quietly, a bit of sharpness creeping into your tone. "Let's just work."
Jasper let out a heavy breath, shaking his head. "Right. Work."
The scene for today was a sharp contrast to yesterday’s heavy rain climax. It was a fast-paced, witty dialogue scene in a crowded bar where Drew's character was supposed to get jealous seeing the female lead talk to another man. It required Drew to look irritated, sharp, and possessive.
"Alright, rolling!" you called out, sitting back in your chair. "And... action!"
The cameras moved, the background actors started their fake chatter, and Drew delivered his lines. He was good. His acting was always effortless. But as the scene progressed, you noticed something missing. His 'jealousy' felt too rehearsed. It lacked the raw, dangerous edge it needed to make the audience gasp.
"Cut," you called out, sighing. You rubbed your temples. "Drew, come here for a second."
Drew lazily detached himself from the bar set, running a hand through his hair as he sauntered over to your monitor. He leaned one hand on the back of your chair, bending down slightly. He was close—so close you could smell the faint scent of his cedarwood cologne, the same one from his jacket last night.
"What's wrong, Director? Thought that was a pretty solid take," he said, his tone entirely casual, his face blank.
"It was fine, but it’s too soft," you said, turning your chair slightly to face him, forcing yourself to match his nonchalant energy. "Your character is supposed to be losing his mind watching her with someone else. You look like you're mildly annoyed because your coffee order got messed up. Give me more intensity. Look at her like you want to tear yourself apart."
Drew didn't answer right away. He just stared down at you, his eyes lazy but incredibly sharp as they scanned your face. A slow, almost unnoticeable smirk played at the edge of his lips.
Before he could speak, Jasper stepped up right next to your chair, intentionally breaking the space between you and Drew.
"If he can't get the motivation, maybe we should change the blocking," Jasper cut in, his voice tight, his eyes locking onto Drew with blatant hostility. He placed a hand on the shoulder of your chair, leaning in. "Or maybe our lead actor is just a bit tired from his late-night drives."
The air between the three of you instantly went rigid.
You froze, looking between Jasper and Drew. Yesterday, Drew had snapped. Yesterday, Drew had raised his voice. But today? Today, Drew’s nonchalant facade didn't even crack. He didn't yell. He didn't look angry.
Instead, Drew slowly straightened up to his full height, towering over Jasper. He slowly took a sip of his iced coffee, his expression completely lempeng, completely bored.
"I have plenty of energy, Jasper," Drew said, his voice a low, indifferent drawl.
Then, without taking his eyes off Jasper, Drew reached down. His large hand casually, deliberately gripped the back of your head—his fingers sliding into your hair just behind your ear, his thumb resting firmly against your jawline. He didn't pull you, but the touch was heavy, solid, and incredibly intimate. He held you there, right beside him, completely marking his territory in front of Jasper and anyone else who was watching.
Your breath completely trapped in your throat. Your entire body went rigid, a massive wave of electricity shooting straight down your spine. Your face burned a furious scarlet, but Drew didn't even blink.
"In fact," Drew continued, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, steady rumble as he looked down at Jasper's hands on your chair, "I think my motivation just kicked in. Let’s shoot it again."
Drew slowly pulled his hand away from your hair, his fingers lingering against your skin for a fraction of a second before he let go. He didn't look down at your bright red face, and he didn't say anything sweet to comfort your obvious panic. He just turned around and strolled back to the set, completely unbothered, as if he hadn't just caused a silent earthquake in the middle of the studio.
Jasper stood there, his face pale, his jaw clenched so hard the bone structure showed, staring at the space Drew had just occupied.
"Back to positions!" Drew called out to the crew himself, his voice ringing with a sudden, dark authority that made everyone scramble. He took his spot at the bar, his posture relaxed, but when he looked toward the camera, his blue eyes were no longer lazy. They were dark, piercing, and absolutely lethal.
You sat frozen in your chair, your hand instinctively rising to touch the spot on your neck where his fingers had just been. The slow burn was officially turning into a wildfire, and Drew Starkey was casually holding the match.
By the time the clock struck 9:00 PM, the atmosphere on set had shifted from high-voltage tension to complete exhaustion. Drew’s second take had been terrifyingly good—the raw, possessive intensity he brought to the scene left the entire crew breathless, and you had barely been able to look him in the eye for the rest of the afternoon.
Jasper had checked out mentally hours ago, leaving the studio the exact minute his contractual hours ended.
You were sitting at your desk, furiously typing out the editing notes for tomorrow’s assembly line, trying to drown out the phantom sensation of Drew’s fingers lingering at the nape of your neck.
Thud.
A plastic takeout container was dropped onto your desk, right next to your laptop.
You flinched, looking up. Drew was standing there, already changed into a clean white t-shirt and dark cargo pants. His baseball cap was turned backward, a few damp blonde strands framing his forehead. He looked completely lempeng, his expression blank as he pulled out the chair across from yours and turned it backward, straddling it.
"You're going to give yourself a migraine staring at that screen," he said casually, leaning his chin on his crossed arms over the backrest of the chair.
You blinked at the container. "What is this?"
"Thai food. Pad See Ew," Drew replied, his tone entirely indifferent. "You didn't eat lunch. Your assistant said you just drank three energy drinks. It's embarrassing, Director."
You let out a dry, exhausted laugh, closing your laptop halfway. "I'm busy, Drew. Some of us actually have to prepare for tomorrow."
"Eat," he commanded, his voice a low, steady rumble. He reached out, his long fingers effortlessly flipping the tabs of the plastic container open for you. He didn't push it toward you; he just left it there, waiting.
Defeated by the smell of garlic and noodles, you picked up the plastic fork and took a bite. Drew watched you eat, his blue eyes lazy but heavy, tracking the movement of your lips before shifting back to his phone. He didn't say anything sweet. He didn't apologize for his bold stunt with Jasper earlier. He just sat there, providing a strange, quiet shield of presence in the empty studio.
After a few minutes of silence, Drew locked his phone and tossed it onto the desk. He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you.
"The wrap party is in two weeks," Drew stated, his voice completely nonchalant.
"I know. I'm the one paying the catering deposit," you muttered, chewing.
"Don't go with Jasper."
You choked slightly on your noodle, coughing into your napkin. You glared at him, your face instantly warming up. "Excuse me?"
Drew didn't even blink. He didn't look jealous; he just looked like he was stating a boring, universal fact. "You heard me. Don't go with him. Go with me."
"Drew, we are literally in the middle of a massive media scandal because of one stupid TikTok video," you whispered harshly, leaning across the desk. "And your solution is to show up to the official wrap party—where there will be actual press—as my date?"
"I didn't say the wrap party," Drew corrected calmly. He stood up, towering over your desk, his hands sinking into his pockets. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but his voice dropped an octave, hitting that dangerous, quiet register that always made your pulse race. "I'm talking about an actual date. This Friday. Seven o'clock."
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. "An actual date?"
"Yeah," Drew murmured, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the very corner of his lips. "The paparazzi already think we're together. The crew thinks we're together. Jasper definitely thinks we're together. Might as well make it accurate."
He said it so casually, as if he was just negotiating a contract detail, but the sudden, intense heat in his eyes told a completely different story. He was giving you a choice, but he was making it impossible to say no.
"And if I say no?" you challenged, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to match his nonchalant energy. "If I say it's unprofessional?"
Drew took a slow step around the desk, stopping right beside your chair. He didn't touch you this time, but he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his clean cedarwood scent completely clouding your judgment.
"You won't," Drew whispered, his voice smooth, confident, and utterly lethal. "Because you're just as tired of hiding it as I am."
He straightened up before you could even form a coherent sentence, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. "I'll pick you up at your place. Wear something nice. Or don't. I don't really care."
He turned on his heel and sauntered toward the exit, his heavy boots echoing in the quiet studio. He didn't look back to check your reaction. He didn't wait for a definitive 'yes'. He just walked out, leaving you sitting there with a box of Thai food, a racing heart, and a weird feeling in your stomach.
summary : a dating rumour with your male lead as a director leads into something real with a little drama with your co-worker.
pairing : Drew Starkey × Young director!reader
warnings: fluff
The studio was a battlefield of chaos, with the crew rushing around to get everything ready. Yet, your focus was entirely on the door, waiting for one specific person: Drew Starkey. He was the male lead of your upcoming film, and he was currently twenty minutes late.
Your staff had been blowing up his phone, but the doorway remained frustratingly empty.
Minutes dragged on until the door finally swung open. In walked Drew, looking completely unbothered, with a coffee cup in hand.
"For fuck's sake," you muttered under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. "A coffee, Starkey?"
A smug smile flashed across Drew’s face, knowing exactly how much he was testing your patience. "Sorry, had to grab this on the drive over," he said smoothly.
You let out a frustrated huff. "Put that down and get moving. We have a schedule to keep."
He set the cup on your desk with a wink, then casually sauntered over to the others, breaking into easy conversation as if he owned the place.
The shoot was supposed to take two hours, but Drew was making it feel like an eternity. He was constantly acting up—smirking at the wrong times, delivering his lines with a playful wink that wasn't in the script, and completely ruining the romantic tension of the scene.
"Cut! Drew, you're supposed to look smitten, not like you just stole a cookie from the jar!" you yelled through the megaphone, rubbing your temples.
Drew just chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "My bad, Director. Let's go again."
After the fifth consecutive blunder, your patience was wearing dangerously thin. The entire crew could feel the radiant heat of your frustration. Gritting your teeth, you finally called for a thirty-minute break. Everyone let out a collective sigh of relief.
Seeking a moment of peace, you grabbed the script, flipping through the pages to see how you could tweak the next scene to make it click. You were so absorbed in the lines, pacing down the narrow corridor of the studio, that you didn't notice the shadow looming ahead.
Thump.
"Oh, shit—"
Before you could even look up, a wave of warmth soaked through the front of your shirt. You gasped, taking a step back as the dark brown liquid stained your clothes. You looked down in absolute horror, then looked up.
It was Drew. Again. Holding a now half-empty coffee cup.
"I am so, so sorry," Drew said, his eyes widening in genuine panic for the first time today. He reached out, his hands hovering over your shoulders as if he wanted to help but didn't know how. "I didn't see you turning the corner—"
Something inside you finally snapped. You crashed out.
"Are you kidding me right now, Drew?!" you raised your voice, your face flushing with pure rage. The entire hallway went dead silent. Crew members froze in their tracks, actively trying to become invisible. "First, you show up late. Then, you spend the last two hours completely messing up every single take. And now this?! What is wrong with you today? Are you deliberately trying to ruin my movie?!"
Drew’s playful demeanor instantly vanished. He looked genuinely stung, his jaw tightening as he stared at you, speechless.
Before he could answer, Jasper, your co-director and best friend, rushed over. He immediately stepped between you and Drew, placing a comforting hand on your back.
"Hey, hey, breathe," Jasper said softly, gently guiding you away. "Go to the breakroom. I’ll handle the set, okay? Don't worry about it."
You let out a shaky breath, nodding gratefully at Jasper. As Jasper patted your shoulder and whispered a reassuring joke to make you smile, you didn't notice Drew’s eyes narrowing. He watched Jasper’s hand on your back, his posture stiffening, suddenly looking incredibly brooding and irritated.
For the rest of the break and the remaining scenes, Drew’s attitude shifted. He wasn't playful anymore; he was intensely focused, nailing every take with a sharp, magnetic energy—though he kept throwing subtle, glaring looks at Jasper whenever you two stood too close.
By the time you called a final "Wrap!", you were exhausted. The crew was packing up, and you just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the day.
As you walked out of the studio into the cool evening air, a hand suddenly caught your wrist. You flinched, turning around to see Drew. He had his jacket over his shoulder, looking down at you with a soft, almost nervous expression.
"Hey," Drew said quietly, not letting go of your wrist just yet. "Let me buy you a coffee. A proper treat. To make up for... well, everything today."
You pulled your hand back, crossing your arms and looking at him dryly. "Are you serious? Drew, look at me. My shirt is literally ruined, stuck to my skin, and smells like a stale latte. How am I supposed to go anywhere like this?"
Drew blinked, then a small, sheepish smile broken across his face. "Right. Hold on."
He unzipped his large duffel bag—the one he practically lived out of—and pulled out a clean, oversized grey hoodie. It looked incredibly soft and smelled faintly of his expensive cologne. He handed it to you. "Here. I always carry spares. Change into this."
You stared at the hoodie, then at him. Defeated and cold, you snatched it. "Fine. Wait here."
When you came out of the dressing room, the hoodie engulfed your frame, the sleeves covering your hands. Drew took one look at you, and his eyes softened completely, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "Suits you better than me, honestly."
"Shut up," you muttered, though a blush crept up your neck.
The tension completely melted away once you both sat down in a cozy, dimly lit 24-hour coffee shop down the street. Away from the pressure of the cameras, Drew was a completely different person. He wasn't the arrogant male lead; he was just... Drew.
"I really am sorry about earlier," he said, swirling the ice in his drink, looking genuinely apologetic. "I think I was just nervous. It's your first big project, and I wanted to be perfect, but I ended up overcompensating and acting like an idiot."
You laughed softly, hiding your face in the oversized sleeves of his hoodie. "An idiot is an understatement, Starkey. But... apology accepted."
For the next two hours, you lost track of time. You talked about everything—clumsy childhood memories, your favorite movies, and how much you both actually loved the script. Drew hung onto your every word, leaning in closer across the table, his deep laughter echoing softly in the quiet cafe. He was attentive, charming, and looked at you with a warmth that made your heart do flips.
True to his word, he drove you home, making sure you walked safely to your door before waving goodbye with a soft, "See you tomorrow, Director."
You went to sleep with a smile on your face, feeling a flutter in your chest.
...Until your phone practically exploded the next morning.
You woke up to 99+ notifications. Rubbing your eyes, you opened TikTok, and the very first video on your For You Page made your heart stop.
It was a blurry, candid video taken through the coffee shop window last night, already sitting at 1.5 million views. The caption read:
"Spotted: Drew Starkey looking absolutely whipped on a late-night coffee date with his gorgeous 20-something director! Look at how he looks at her! 😭💔 #DrewStarkey #CelebNews #DirectorRomance"
The comment section was in a literal meltdown, and the top comment, with 6k likes, read: “Wait, isn't she wearing his hoodie?! Oh, they are DEFINITELY dating.”
You buried your face in your pillow, screaming out of a mix of sheer panic and a strange, undeniable burst of excitement. The sequel on set today was going to be interesting.
Walking onto the set the next morning felt like walking through a minefield of whispers. The studio, usually a chaotic symphony of clanking equipment and shouting crew members, fell into a sudden, awkward hush the moment you stepped through the doors. Every single pair of eyes followed you—specifically watching how hard you were trying to act like nothing had happened last night.
You let out a quiet breath, tightening your grip on the clipboard in your hands, desperately trying to focus. But before you could even call out your first instruction, a hand firmly but gently caught your upper arm, pulling you away from the crowd and into a quieter corner behind the sets.
It was Jasper. His face was tightly drawn, a deep, frustrated crease settling between his brows.
"Have you seen the internet today?" Jasper asked without missing a beat, his voice a harsh, strained whisper. "Everyone on set—even the producers—is talking about you and Drew."
You rolled your eyes, forcing your voice to sound as nonchalant as possible. "Yes, Jas. My phone practically melted this morning. What about it?"
"What about it?!" Jasper stared at you in sheer disbelief, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second before he let go. "You’re the director, and he’s your male lead. A rumor like this can completely derail the focus of the entire production. You need to put out an official statement through PR right now stating that there is absolutely nothing going on between you two. Otherwise, this is going to keep escalating, and you have to see him and work with him every single day."
You waved your hand, dismissing the idea instantly. "Why bother? It’s completely unnecessary. I don't care about what some strangers on TikTok say. Just leave it alone. The moment some other celebrity drama drops, people will forget all about it."
Your casual response only caused Jasper’s jaw to clench tighter. His eyes locked onto yours with a sudden, dark intensity—a messy mix of professionalism, irritation, and... something that looked dangerously like suppressed jealousy.
"People will forget?" Jasper’s voice cracked slightly before he forced it back down. "Are you underestimating the internet, or... do you actually secretly enjoy the rumor?"
Before you could even process his words, let alone protest the accusation, the heavy studio doors swung open. Drew Starkey walked in.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Drew strolled in with an effortless, easy grace, his leather jacket slung casually over one shoulder. The exact moment his eyes found you, a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Drew had definitely seen the news. And seeing the way you immediately flustered under his gaze, he didn’t think you were bothered at all—he thought you were just being shy because your "secret date" had been caught.
Anxious to break the suffocating tension, you ripped your gaze away from Drew and turned sharply toward the set.
"Alright, everyone! Stop slacking off! Back to your positions!" you shouted, your voice echoing a bit too loudly as you tried to drown out your own racing heart. You glanced toward Drew, who was already standing in his spot, his eyes still gleaming with a teasing, playful light. "Drew, focus! Come on, hurry up... Action!"
Unlike yesterday, Drew’s acting today was flawless. He delivered every single rom-com line with a breathtaking sincerity, making the chemistry between his character and the camera feel ten times more intense. But that was exactly the problem—it made your chest tighten and your pulse race with every take.
The second the lunch bell rang, you practically fled to a secluded corner of the set, hiding behind a small monitor and pretending to intensely review the storyboards.
"Wow. Someone’s putting on an Oscar-winning performance of looking busy."
A deep, devastatingly familiar voice spoke from right behind you. You turned around to find Drew leaning casually against the studio wall, his hands tucked into his pockets.
"Drew. Don't start," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued to your papers because you didn't trust yourself to look at him.
Drew chuckled softly, taking a slow step forward until the distance between you completely evaporated. "I’m serious. You’ve been actively avoiding eye contact with me all morning. Is it because of the TikTok video?"
You let out a defeated sigh, finally lowering your script. "Aren't you panicked at all? Your name is literally trending everywhere because you were spotted with a 'gorgeous 20-something director'."
Drew went quiet for a moment. He looked down at you, his blue eyes searching your face, reading the exhaustion and faint stress lines caused by Jasper and the crew's heavy stares earlier. The playful smirk on his face slowly melted away, replaced by an expression that was incredibly soft, almost protective.
"Hey," Drew said quietly, his voice dropping to a gentle register that made your heart skip a beat. "If it genuinely makes you uncomfortable, or if you feel embarrassed by the rumors... I can call my PR team right now. I'll have them scrub the internet and pull the articles down. Just say the word."
There was so much genuine care in his offer that it left you momentarily speechless. He actually cared about your peace of mind.
But the memory of Jasper’s angry face from this morning, combined with your own stubborn pride, made you shake your head. You forced a small, reassuring smile.
"No, don't," you said softly. "Denying it or making a big statement will just make people more curious. Let it be. They’ll get bored and forget about it eventually."
Drew tilted his head, a faint brow arching in surprise at your response. Then, slowly, that signature, devastatingly charming smirk crept back onto his lips. He took one more step closer, bending his head down slightly so his face was level with yours.
"Oh," Drew whispered, his voice dripping with a playful, teasing warmth that sent shivers down your spine. "So you don't mind people thinking you’re mine?"
"T-that’s not what I meant!" your face exploded into a vibrant crimson blush, and you quickly pressed your hands against his chest, pushing him back a few inches.
Drew threw his head back and laughed freely. The rich, melodic sound echoed in the quiet corner, drawing a few curious glances from the crew nearby. Across the room, near the camera rigs, Jasper stood with his arms crossed, watching the two of you with a tense, rigid posture.
"Okay, okay, my bad," Drew said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes were still flashing with absolute victory. "Let’s get back to shooting, Director. I’d hate to keep my girl—sorry, my director—waiting."
You could only let out a frustrated huff, biting your inner cheek to hide the massive smile tugging at your lips as Drew walked back to the center of the stage with a much lighter step. Day two of shooting had barely begun, but you knew the professional lines between you two hadn't just been blurred—they were completely gone.
summary: thinking about Aerion having a pet snake instead of dragons.
pairing : Aerion × twinsister!reader
The Kingswood was heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. To the rest of House Targaryen, it was a place for royal hunts. To Aerion and his twin sister, it was a graveyard of ghosts.
"There are no dragons here, Aerion," you murmured, pulling your riding cloak tighter around your shoulders. "There haven't been for a hundred years."
"They are not gone," Aerion snapped, his violet eyes wild and scanning the thick canopy above. He hacked at a dangling vine with his silver-hilted dagger. "The blood of Valyria doesn't just forget how to command. If the sky will not give me a mount, the earth will yield something else."
You sighed, following him deeper into a sunless ravine where the court septons warned never to tread. The air grew intensely cold, and a heavy, suffocating silence fell over the forest. Even the birds had stopped singing.
Suddenly, a low, rasping hiss echoed from the limestone caves ahead.
Aerion froze. A slow, manic smile crept onto his face. "Do you hear that, sister? That is the sound of scales."
You didn't answer. Your eyes were drawn to a hollowed-out weirwood root nearby. Something was moving within the pale, blood-red bark. You stepped away from Aerion, drawn by a strange, hypnotic pull.
From the shadows of the root, a creature slid into the dim light. It was a serpent, but unlike any common adder. Its scales were a flawless, blinding white, gleaming like polished ivory. When it raised its head, its eyes locked onto yours—two brilliant, burning rubies.
You should have felt fear. Instead, you felt a profound, chilling familiarity. It was the color of Ghost Grass. The color of old Valyria.
"Beautiful..." you breathed, extending a gloved hand.
"Look out!" Aerion shouted, but he wasn't looking at your serpent.
From a dark crevice in the rocks above, a massive shadow detached itself. A second snake, easily twice the size of yours, dropped to the forest floor with a heavy thud. It was the color of a moonless night, its black scales absorbing what little light remained in the ravine. Its eyes were a piercing, cruel gold, and it immediately coiled, ready to strike at Aerion's throat.
Aerion didn't flinch. He dropped his dagger into the dirt, stepping right into the black serpent's striking range.
"Strike me, then!" Aerion challenged, his voice rising in a feverish frenzy. "Bite the dragon, worm! See if my blood does not burn you from the inside out!"
The black snake hissed, its jaws snapping open to reveal dripping fangs. But as Aerion stared it down with unblinking, mad intensity, the serpent hesitated. The golden eyes met the violet ones. Slowly, the tension left its massive body. It lowered its head, sliding forward to test Aerion’s leather boot with its dark, split tongue.
Aerion let out a breathless, triumphant laugh. He reached down, boldly scooping the heavy black beast into his arms. It began to coil around his torso, a heavy cloak of living shadow. "Vorgar," Aerion whispered, his eyes gleaming. "You shall be my Vorgar."
You turned back to the white serpent. It had already crawled out of the weirwood root, gliding effortlessly toward you. It didn't strike. It merely slid up your riding boot, its cool, smooth body wrapping around your waist, then your shoulders, until its heavy head rested right beside your cheek. It felt like wearing a necklace of winter ice.
"And you," you whispered as the ruby eyes stared into your own, "are Sirona."
Aerion walked over to you, the massive black snake resting on his shoulders like a conqueror's mantle. He looked at you, then at the white creature cradled against your neck.
"They are not dragons," Aerion murmured, his face shifting into an expression of fierce, terrifying pride. "But they are ours. Let our brothers rule the skies in their dreams, sister. We will rule the shadows under their feet."
Your private solar was dimly lit, suffocatingly warm, and smelled faintly of sulfur and copper. Aerion had insisted on keeping the hearth roaring, claiming his "shadow dragon" required the heat of the Fourteen Flames.
In the center of the room, a small wooden crate sat on the rug. Inside, a fat field rat scrambled frantically against the slats.
Aerion stood over it like a conqueror, his violet eyes wide and unblinking. Vorgar was coiled on the floor at his feet, his golden eyes fixed on the scratching sounds inside the crate.
"Watch closely, sister," Aerion commanded, drawing himself up to his full height. He took a deep breath, pointing a sharp, ringed finger at the crate. "Dracarys!" he shouted, the High Valyrian word echoing off the stone walls.
Vorgar didn't move. He merely blinked his golden eyes, completely unmoved by the command to breathe fire.
Aerion’s jaw clenched. He adjusted his stance, lowering his voice into a harsh, commanding rasp. "Dracarys, Vorgar! Syz nãni!" The black snake let out a bored hiss and turned its head away, settling its heavy coils deeper into the rug.
Sitting on the divan across the room, you couldn't help but let out a soft, mocking laugh. Sirona was woven intricately between your fingers, her smooth, ivory body sliding lazily over your knuckles as you stroked her head. She was perfectly content, her ruby eyes reflecting the firelight.
"He is not a dragon, Aerion," you said smoothly, not even looking up from your white companion. "You can shout at him until your throat bleeds, but he has no fire in his belly. He is a worm of the earth. He does not know the old tongue."
"He is a dragon!" Aerion roared, turning on you, his face flushing with rage. "The blood of Valyria commands all scales! He feels it, he just... he is testing me."
"He is ignoring you," you corrected with a smirk, letting Sirona rest her head in the palm of your hand. "Accept reality, brother. We cannot fly, and our beasts cannot burn."
Aerion’s chest heaved. He hated being doubted, most of all by you. He turned back to the black serpent, his expression shifting from blind rage to a terrifying, quiet focus. The chaotic mania left his eyes, replaced by a cold, sharp intensity that made even the room feel smaller.
He knelt down in the dirt, inches away from the serpent's face. He didn't shout this time. Instead, he reached out and gripped Vorgar gently but firmly right below the jaw, forcing the snake to look into his violet eyes.
"Kelmã, Vorgar," Aerion whispered, his voice dangerously soft. Listen. He released his grip and pointed slowly at the wooden crate. He didn't ask for fire this time. He asked for what the snake actually was: a killer in the dark.
"Iprajã," Aerion hissed, the High Valyrian command for strike slipping past his teeth like poison.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, with a terrifying, whip-like speed that made you freeze, Vorgar lunged. The black snake slammed into the wooden crate, his powerful coils shattering the flimsy slats in an instant. Before the rat could even squeak, Vorgar’s jaws snapped shut around it, his fangs sinking deep. Within seconds, the rodent was crushed and swallowed whole.
The room fell dead silent, save for the crackle of the hearth.
Aerion slowly stood up, wiping a stray speck of dust from his tunic. He didn't look angry anymore. He looked entirely smug. He turned his head toward you, a slow, wicked smile creeping onto his lips as Vorgar slithered back to his side, licking his scales.
"He might not burn them, sister," Aerion murmured, his violet eyes locking onto yours with triumphant pride. "But he obeys. The blood commands."
Aerion chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound as he watched Vorgar finish his meal. The black snake seemed thicker now, more lethal, basking in the praise of its master.
Aerion turned his sharp violet eyes back to you, a challenging glint in his gaze. He reached into a second, smaller leather sack tied to his belt, pulling out a twitching, fat forest mouse by its tail. It squeaked in terror, its tiny paws clawing at the empty air.
He held it out toward you and Sirona, a smug smirk on his face.
"Try it, sister," Aerion urged, his voice dropping into that smooth, coaxing tone he used when he wanted to drag you into his chaos. "I have another prey to use. Let us see if the white beast speaks High Valyria, or if she is just a pretty ribbon around your neck. Command her. Iprajã."
You immediately pulled Sirona closer to your chest, your arms wrapping around her ivory coils protectively. You glared at your twin, your nose crinkling in pure distaste.
"No!" you shot back, slipping into your stubborn, defensive tone. "My snake is not an attacker! She is my friend!"
To emphasize your point, you gently stroked the top of Sirona’s smooth white head. The albino python let out a soft, rhythmic hiss, resting her chin comfortably on your shoulder, her ruby eyes staring blankly at Aerion as if she completely agreed with you. She had absolutely zero interest in the twitching mouse.
Aerion blinked, looking genuinely offended by your refusal. "A friend? She is a reptile, sister, not a doll! She is meant to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies, to bleed those who mock us!"
"She strikes fear just by looking magnificent," you countered smoothly, lifting your chin with royal haughtiness. "Vorgar can be your mindless executioner all he wants. Sirona enjoys the finer things. Like the warmth of my pillows and not eating dirty rodents on my rugs."
Aerion groaned, tossing the mouse back into the sack with an exasperated sigh. "You are wasting her potential. A dragon of ivory, reduced to a lady's lap-dog."
"A lap-snake," you corrected with a sweet, mocking smile, kissing the top of Sirona's white head. "And she is perfect just the way she is."
★ summary ★ : In the middle of a brutal war, they found a love that didn't need rules. Then, a bomb took her memories, leaving him to grieve a ghost who was still breathing. She remembers his name. She remembers his rank. But she forgot them. This is the story of a possessive soldier, a stubborn nurse, and a love that rebuilds its empire from the ashes.
★ CW ★ : angst ★ war themes ★ violence ★ explosion ★ selective amnesia ★ PTSD ★ kind of slow burn? ★ dark themes ★ possession ★ slight dark romance ★ Tom is a muggle in this fic ★
word count : 8,5k
A/n : a reminder that in this fic, Tom Riddle never touched any magic or going to hogwarts. this fic is inspired by Ethel & Ernest.
The first time Tom noticed her, they were standing in the suffocating heat of the courtyard, forced into rigid lines for the mandatory base orientation. The commander was barking orders about rules and perimeters, but Tom’s dark eyes had already drifted.
She was standing across the yard, neatly lined up with the newly arrived medical recruits. Amidst the gray, grim backdrop of the military base, she stood out. Her posture was straight, her dark hair tucked away, and there was a quiet, soft resilience in her features.
Pretty, Tom thought, his expression remaining entirely blank. He watched as the medical line was dismissed first, her small figure leading the way toward the nurse’s quarters. He didn't know her name yet, but his mind had already cataloged her face.
A week later, Tom returned from his first actual skirmish on the battlefield. It wasn't a major injury—just a deep, jagged laceration across his forearm from a rusted piece of barbed wire—but the sergeant had ordered him to the medical tent anyway.
As fate would have it, she was the one assigned to his cot.
"I don't need this," Tom muttered, his voice cold and sharp as he tried to pull his arm back. His jaw was clenched, his stubborn military pride flaring up. "It's just a scratch. I've had worse. Leave it."
Ellaine didn't blink. She firmly caught his wrist, preventing him from pulling away. "If you leave it like this, Corporal, it will fester by morning. The rust will get into your bloodstream, and they'll have to amputate your arm before the week ends. Now sit still."
Tom stared at her. Nobody in this camp dared to speak to him with such quiet authority. Her boldness caught him off guard, and with a subtle, reluctant grunt, he finally relaxed his arm, allowing her to work.
As she carefully dabbed the antiseptic onto his skin, Tom found himself focusing entirely on her touch. Her hands were incredibly soft—a stark, jarring contrast to the rough, calloused world of the trenches. They were gentle, deliberate, and remarkably warm against his cold skin. For a moment, the stinging pain of the medicine completely vanished, replaced by the mesmerizing warmth of her fingers.
When she finished wrapping the clean white gauze around his arm, she looked up, offering a small, polite nod. "Keep it dry, Corporal Riddle."
"Thank you, Nurse," Tom murmured, his eyes lingering on her hands before he walked out into the cold.
Later that night, Tom was assigned to the late-night sentry patrol. The camp was dead silent, swallowed by the pitch-black shadows of the wilderness. But as his boots crunched against the gravel near the medical ward, he noticed a faint, warm glow slipping through the canvas slit.
Curiosity, a trait Tom rarely indulged for others, pulled him inside.
The tent was quiet, save for the low, crackling static of a radio in the corner playing the latest war news from the front lines. Ellaine was sitting at a small wooden desk, a single oil lamp illuminating her face as she meticulously took notes from a thick medical textbook.
"You should be sleeping, Nurse," Tom’s low, private rasp cut through the silence.
Ellaine jolted slightly, turning around to see Tom standing near the entrance, his hands resting on his utility belt. She let out a soft breath, a small smile playing on her lips. "I still have a few chapters to finish, Corporal. The doctors are expecting us to know the new triage protocols by tomorrow."
"The radio says the shelling is moving west. You'll need your strength for tomorrow's casualties," Tom reasoned, stepping a bit closer, his eyes dropping to the neat handwriting in her journal. "Go to bed."
"I can't. Not yet," she insisted softly, her brown eyes meeting his dark ones with that same stubborn determination he had witnessed earlier. "There is still too much to do."
Tom looked at her for a long moment. He was used to forcing his way, to taking what he wanted, but with her, he felt a strange, protective reluctance. He didn't want to disrupt her peace.
"Don't stay up too late then," Tom murmured quietly.
Before he turned to leave, he reached out, his hand hovering for a split second before he gently adjusted the glass shade of her oil lamp, dimming the light just enough so it wouldn't strain her eyes. It was a tiny, wordless gesture, but as Ellaine watched him walk back out into the freezing night patrol, her heart did a strange, nervous flip.
From that night on, the back of the medical tent became Tom’s unspoken priority. He began trading his extra ration cigarettes and canned meat to the other sentries, paying them off to take his shifting spots so he could slip away from his patrol duty undetected. He didn’t care about the risk; he only cared about the warm lamp light waiting for him.
Every midnight, he would sit in the shadows of the tent, quietly watching the way her brows furrowed as she took notes or listened to the low crackle of the war news on the radio.
During their third night together, the silence between them felt different—softer, more familiar. Tom watched her flip a page before he finally spoke, his voice a low rasp.
"What is your name?" Tom asked.
She looked up from her book, surprised, but a warm, genuine smile slowly broke across her face. "Ellaine. But the others usually call me Ellie, or Elle."
Tom tested the words on his tongue, his voice dropping an octave as he murmured, "Ellaine. Ellie. Okay."
Ellaine let out a soft, amused laugh, her shoulders relaxing.h
For weeks, those stolen hours were their sanctuary. But in a place as rigid as a military base, secrets don't last forever. One rainy night, the heavy canvas flap was thrown open, and the cold glare of the Captain caught them. Tom was caught red-handed abandoning his post, and Ellaine was reprimanded for harboring a soldier in the ward.
The punishment was severe. Ellaine was given double shifts, tasked with managing the influx of wounded men under the strict eyes of the head nurse. Tom, on the other hand, was sentenced to brutal, back-breaking extra labor on the front-line trenches.
But the Captain had underestimated Tom Riddle.
Instead of breaking him, the extra labor only showcased Tom’s terrifying efficiency and strategic brilliance under pressure. He worked twice as hard, commanded the men around him with ruthless precision, and practically ran the trenches single-handedly. Within a month, his "punishment" turned into a mandatory promotion. He wasn't just a corporal anymore. He was Sergeant Riddle.
The very first night after his promotion ceremony, Tom didn't celebrate with the other soldiers. He immediately headed toward the edge of the perimeter, his heart beating with a rare, restless anticipation.
He found her waiting for him near the old concrete bunker—their secret spot. The weeks of exhausting, separate labor had left them both tired, but the moment their eyes met under the cold starlight, the distance between them vanished.
Tom didn't say a word. He walked straight up to her, his large hands reaching out to pull her firmly against his chest, wrapping his arms around her as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Happy promotion, Sergeant," Ellaine teased softly, her voice trembling slightly with relief as she leaned into his warmth.
Tom looked down at her, his dark eyes locking onto her lips, completely consumed by the realization that he could never let this girl go. "You're the only part of this miserable place that I care to keep," he whispered. And before the wind could blow her reply away, he leaned down and kissed her—hard, desperate, and possessive—sealing their fate right as the distant thunder of war rumbled on the horizon.
The afternoon was dragging on with a suffocating, tense quiet, the kind that usually preceded a heavy storm on the front lines. Tom had just finished inspecting the perimeter layout when he caught sight of Ellaine carrying a heavy crate of medical supplies toward the back storage room.
He didn't hesitate. Stepping away from his squad, Tom followed her inside, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind him, cutting off the noise of the bustling camp.
Ellaine set the crate down on a dusty shelf with a soft huff, wiping a stray lock of hair from her forehead. When she turned around and saw Tom leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest and a rare, amused smirk playing on his lips, her face instantly brightened.
"Sergeant Riddle," she teased, her voice dropping into a playful whisper as she walked closer to him. "Are you slacking off on your duties, or are you just here to make my job harder?"
"I'm merely ensuring the safety of our medical staff, Nurse," Tom countered smoothly. He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a crumpled silver pack and sliding a single cigarette out. He caught her eye, tilting his head toward the back corner of the room behind a stack of canvas tents. "Come here. Take a break."
Ellaine smiled, her heart doing that familiar, happy flip. "Only for five minutes, Tom. The head nurse thinks I'm organizing the surgical gauze."
They slid into the narrow, hidden space between the crates. Tom struck a match, the small flame illuminating his sharp jawline and the dark intensity of his eyes. He lit the cigarette, took a slow drag, and then offered it to her. Ellaine took it from his fingers, taking a small, practiced puff—a habit she had only picked up because of him—before handing it back.
"You look exhausted," she murmured softly, her small, warm hand reaching out to gently touch the crisp collar of his uniform. "Did the Captain give you trouble again?"
"The Captain is an idiot," Tom replied without a shred of respect, his voice dropping into a low, private rasp. He caught her hand, his large, calloused fingers wrapping around hers, pulling her a step closer until her boots bumped against his. "But I don't care about him. I only wanted to see you."
Ellaine flushed a beautiful, deep crimson, leaning her forehead against his uninjured shoulder. "Flatterer."
"It's the truth," Tom whispered. He carefully placed the cigarette between his lips, using both of his hands to cup her face, his thumbs gently stroking her pale cheeks. He looked down at her with a fierce, possessive tenderness.
For a few beautiful, stolen minutes, the war outside didn't exist. There were no trenches, no casualties, and no marching orders. There was only the scent of tobacco, the dusty warmth of the storage room, and the steady, comforting beat of his heart against her palm.
"Promise me you'll stay inside the bunker if anything happens today," Tom murmured against her hair, his grip tightening just a fraction.
"I promise," she breathed, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding onto him tightly. "I always do."
They shared one last, quiet laugh, Ellaine turning back to the crates to finish organizing the bandages while Tom leaned against the wall,
The air inside the dimly lit storage room was thick with the scent of dust and cheap tobacco, but to Tom, it only smelled like her. Ellaine was standing right in front of him, her small hands neatly folding a stack of clean bandages. There was a quiet comfort in these stolen seconds, a brief escape from the brutal reality of the trenches outside.
Then, the air-raid sirens wailed.
The shrieking howl pierced through the camp, followed by the distant, heavy thumping of anti-aircraft guns. An air strike. Right on top of them.
Instantly, the camp outside erupted into chaos. Orders were being barked, boots pounded against the mud, and the frantic shouting of soldiers echoed through the walls.
"Tom," Ellaine whispered, her brown eyes widening with a sudden, sharp fear. She dropped the bandages, her body stiffening.
"Stay inside," Tom ordered immediately, his voice dropping into that calm, commanding tone he used when the world was ending around them. He grabbed his utility belt, buckling it swiftly. "The sergeants will need help securing the perimeter and the heavy artillery outside. Don't leave the main bunker."
"I have to go to the ward, Tom. There are bedridden patients who can't move on their own," Ellaine countered, her voice trembling but resolute. She was terrified, but her stubborn kindness always won. "They need to be moved to the underground shelter."
Tom wanted to forbid her. He wanted to lock her in a safe room and keep the key in his pocket. But he knew her. He knew she wouldn't leave those helpless men behind.
Before they stepped out into the madness, Tom caught her by the wrist, pulling her firmly against his chest. His hand cupped the back of her neck, tilting her face up, and he kissed her.
It wasn't their usual quiet, lingering kiss. This one was desperate, hard, and fierce—a silent, breathless plea masked as a command. Stay alive. Come back to me. Ellaine melted into him, her fingers clutching the rough fabric of his military jacket, kissing him back with the exact same unspoken dread.
When he pulled away, his dark eyes bore into hers. "Inside the shelter, Ellie. The moment you're done. Do you hear me?"
"I will," she breathed, giving his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. "Be careful out there."
They broke apart, running in opposite directions. Tom charged out into the blinding sunlight and the freezing wind, barking orders at the lower-ranking soldiers, helping his sergeant haul heavy ammunition crates into the reinforced trenches. The sky above was already turning into a canvas of black smoke.
Then, the distinct, terrifying whistle of a falling bomb tore through the air.
Tom's head snapped up. His heart plummeted. The trajectory wasn't aiming for the front lines. It was heading straight for the heart of the base—straight for the medical ward.
"Ellie!" The name ripped from his throat, raw and uncalculated.
He didn't care about the sergeant yelling at him to take cover. He didn't care about the shrapnel or the rules. Tom sprinted. His boots tore through the mud as he ran toward the medical building, his eyes locked on the wooden structure where Ellaine had gone.
He was fast, but the sky was faster.
The bomb impacted the earth just fifty yards ahead of him. The explosion was deafening, a blinding white flash that swallowed the medical ward whole. The shockwave hit Tom like a physical wall, throwing him backward into the dirt. A violent gush of scorching wind and roaring fire ripped through the courtyard, tearing the breath from his lungs.
Through the smoke, Tom tried to crawl forward, his vision blurring, his ears ringing violently. He could see the wreckage of the building burning fiercely in front of him. He had been too late. The fire kept him back, the debris blocked his way, and as the heat scorched his skin, the agonizing realization hit him—he couldn't get to her.
The ringing in Tom’s ears was a deafening, metallic hum, completely detached from the chaotic reality of the makeshift military tent. The stench of iron, cordite, and burning canvas filled his lungs. A sudden mortar strike on the western trench line had thrown him hard against the dirt, leaving a deep, jagged gash across his shoulder and a constellation of brutal bruises blooming along his ribs.
He didn’t care. He could walk. But the frantic medics had forced him onto a stretcher anyway, hauling him into the overcrowded medical ward.
The moment his boots hit the edge of a canvas cot, an unfamiliar nurse rushed over, her hands trembling as she reached for a bottle of antiseptic.
"Get your hands off me," Tom snarled. His voice was a low, dangerous rasp, cutting through the ambient groans of wounded men. He violently wrenched his arm away, completely ignoring the sharp fire that shot up his collarbone.
"Sergeant, you are bleeding through your uniform! Please, let me—"
"Where is Ellaine?" Tom interrupted, his dark eyes shifting wildly, scanning the chaotic room. His chest heaved with shallow, erratic breaths. "I said, where is Ellaine? Get her over here. Now."
In this miserable, godforsaken camp, Ellaine was his only exception. She was the only one allowed to touch his skin, the only one who knew exactly how to treat his stubbornness alongside his wounds. She would always scold him softly for being reckless, her small hands surprisingly warm against his cold skin. He tolerated this hell only because her quiet presence awaited him at the end of every skirmish.
"Nurse Ellaine is occupied, Sergeant —"
"I don't give a damn! Find her—" Tom’s voice died in his throat.
His gaze locked onto a cot across the crowded, blood-stained aisle. There, surrounded by a frantic huddle of two senior doctors, lay a remarkably still figure. The pristine white apron she usually wore—the one she had meticulously mended just two nights ago while sitting on his trunk—was torn and heavily soaked in crimson.
Her face was deathly pale, her long lashes casting soft, unmoving shadows against her cheeks.
It was Ellaine. His Ellie.
For the first time in his life, Tom felt a cold, paralyzing dread claw its way up his throat. The ruthless, calculating composure he was famous for completely shattered. Forgetting his injuries, Tom bolted upright, violently kicking a metal tray of surgical instruments aside. They crashed to the dirt floor with a deafening rattle.
"Ellie?!" Tom roared, his voice cracking with a terrifying mixture of fury and raw panic. He tried to swing his legs over the cot, fighting against the nurses who immediately rushed to pin him down. "What happened to her?! Why is she on that bed?! Answer me!"
"Riddle, stay down! A shrapnel piece caught her during the evacuation!" a male medic yelled, throwing his weight against Tom’s uninjured shoulder. "You're reopening your stitches!"
"Get off me! Ellie!"
Tom violently thrashed, his eyes glued to her pale, quiet face across the room, desperately waiting for her to breathe, to open her eyes, to look at him. He couldn't reach her.
Before he could throw another punch, a sharp, cold sting pierced the meat of his thigh. A nurse had plunged a syringe of heavy sedative straight through his trousers.
Tom stiffened, his dark eyes snapping to the nurse with a look of pure, murderous hatred. But within seconds, the heavy wave of the drug dragged him down. The chaotic noise of the tent faded into a muffled hum. His strength evaporated, and his vision blurred into darkness.
The last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was the contrast of her blood against her white apron, and the desperate, silent prayer that she would still be breathing when he woke up.
The heavy, drug-induced darkness slowly peeled away, leaving behind a throbbing migraine and the sterile, sharp sting of rubbing alcohol. Tom’s eyelids fluttered open. His body felt like lead, his stitched shoulder burning with a dull, persistent ache.
He didn't care about the pain. His mind replayed the explosion in a violent flash—the fire, the smoke, his own boots failing to reach her in time.
Tom instantly bolted upright, a breathless snarl escaping his lips as he prepared to fight off whoever was holding him back. But the expected resistance never came. Instead, the first thing his eyes adjusted to was a pair of pale, familiar hands resting on the cot right next to his.
The head nurse, realizing that keeping Tom away from Ellaine would only result in him tearing the entire ward apart, had moved their beds side by side.
The anger in his chest didn't dissipate; it curdled into a bitter, suffocating knot of resentment. He had been too slow. He was a man who prided himself on absolute control, on being faster, smarter, and more ruthless than anyone else. Yet, when it mattered most, the sky had beaten him. He had failed her.
Moving with a stiffness that had nothing to do with his physical injuries, Tom swung his legs over the edge of his cot. The cold floor bit into his bare feet, but he barely registered it. He shifted over to the side of Ellaine’s bed, his gaze dropping over her quiet form.
She looked devastatingly fragile.
The vibrant, lively girl who had kissed him with such fierce desperation just hours ago was gone, replaced by a ghost. Her usually flushed cheeks were completely hollow and deathly pale, stark against the dark, ugly bruises blooming across her jawline. White gauze was wrapped tightly around her forehead, and tiny, superficial cuts from flying glass peppered her delicate skin.
Tom reached out, his hand visibly trembling—a rare, terrifying display of vulnerability he would never allow anyone else to see.
Carefully, as if she might shatter under his touch, he slid his fingers into hers. Her hand was dangerously cold. A sharp pang of fear pierced his chest, prompting him to squeeze her hand tightly, enveloping her small palm with his larger, calloused one. He used both of his hands to hold hers, bringing her knuckles up to his lips, pressing a fierce, lingering kiss against her skin.
"Open your eyes, Ellie," he whispered, his voice cracking, reduced to a raw, desperate plea that bled into the quiet tent. "Please."
He didn't move. He sat there on the edge of her mattress, anchoring her to the living world with the sheer force of his grip. He watched the faint, agonizingly slow rise and fall of her chest, silently vowing that if she woke up, he would never let her out of his sight again. He would burn the entire front line to the ground before he let anything threaten her safety a second time.
The imagery of him holding her cold hand with both of his really drives home how terrified he is of losing her.
The suffocating darkness finally began to recede, replaced by a pounding, blinding headache that made Ellaine groan in pain. Her eyelids felt heavy, like lead, but she forced them open anyway. The first thing she saw was the drab canvas ceiling of a medical tent, smelling strongly of rubbing alcohol and copper.
Before she could even process the ache in her body, she felt a heavy, burning warmth enveloping her right hand.
Ellaine slowly turned her head. Sitting on the edge of the cot right next to hers was Sergeant Riddle.
He looked completely wrecked. His dark hair was a messy, disheveled tangle, his uniform was rumpled and stained with soot, and a fresh white bandage peeked through his torn sleeve. But it was his face that made her breath hitch. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark, hollow shadows, staring down at her hand with an intensity that bordered on worship. He was holding her hand tightly with both of his, pressing her knuckles against his trembling lips.
"Tom...?" she whispered, her throat dry and raw like sandpaper.
The moment her voice cut through the quiet tent, Tom stiffened. He raised his head instantly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. For a fraction of a second, a wave of pure, unfiltered relief washed over his sharp features—a look so vulnerable, it didn't belong on a soldier.
"Ellie," Tom breathed, his voice cracking, uncharacteristically thick with emotion. He immediately leaned closer, his large hand instinctively reaching up to gently cup her pale, bruised cheek. "You're awake. Thank God, you're awake..."
But instead of leaning into his warm palm, Ellaine blinked in sheer confusion. Her body subtly stiffened under the sheets. She looked at his hand on her cheek, then down at their intertwined fingers, feeling a sudden, awkward wave of discomfort.
Gently but firmly, Ellaine pulled her hand back, slipping it out of his tight grip and resting it against her own chest.
"Sergeant Riddle?" she stammered, her voice small and hesitant. She tried to scoot back against the pillows, her eyes wide with bewilderment. "What... what are you doing? Why are you holding my hand?"
Tom froze. His hand remained suspended in the empty, cold air, his fingers still curved as if he were still holding hers. The profound relief on his face shattered, replaced by a sudden, chilling stillness.
"What did you just call me?" Tom’s voice dropped, turning dangerously quiet.
"Sergeant," Ellaine repeated, wincing slightly as a sharp pain throbbed in her temple. She looked at him with polite, professional concern, treating him like a stranger who had crossed a line. "You shouldn't be sitting on a nurse's bed like this. If the Captain or the head nurse walks in, you'll get court-martialed for improper conduct. Did... did you get hurt in the blast too? Is that why you're here?"
Every word she spoke felt like a physical blow to his chest. Tom stared at her, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched. He searched her eyes desperately, looking for the girl who had kissed him fiercely in the storage room, the girl who had clung to his jacket and called him Tom just hours ago.
But there was nothing. Her eyes were completely clear, polite, and entirely devoid of the love they had built in the shadows of this war. She remembered his name, she remembered his rank, but she had forgotten them.
"Ellie, look at me," Tom demanded softly, though there was a terrifying tremor of panic underneath his words. He leaned closer, his dark gaze locking onto hers. "Think about this afternoon. Before the sirens. In the storage room. What do you remember?"
Ellaine furrowed her brows, trying to grasp the fading memories. "I... I remember organizing the surgical gauze. Then the air-raid sirens wailed, and I ran to the ward to evacuate the bedridden patients. The roof collapsed, and... and then I woke up here." She looked at him, completely oblivious to his inner torture. "Why? Did I miss something, Sergeant?"
The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. Tom let out a slow, shaky breath through his nose, his gaze dropping to the empty space on the sheets where her hand used to be. The cruel reality of the war hit him all over again: he had saved her life, but the blast had stolen the only version of her that belonged to him.
Slowly, Tom withdrew his hands, tucking them into his pockets as his expression masked itself back into a cold, unreadable military facade.
"No," Tom murmured, his voice dead and hollow as he stood up from her bed, stepping back into the shadows. "You didn't miss anything, Nurse. Just get some rest."
Life in the camp moved on, indifferent to the hearts it broke. Weeks passed since the bombing, and the wreckage of the medical ward was replaced by new canvas tents. Ellaine’s physical wounds eventually healed, leaving only faint, silvery scars on her skin and a complete blank space in her memory regarding the months before the blast.
To her, the war was exactly as it had always been. But to Tom, it was a living hell.
As they returned to their daily routines, Ellaine couldn’t shake the heavy, unsettling feeling that followed her everywhere. Whenever she crossed the courtyard, or when she was distributing rations, she would catch Sergeant Riddle staring at her.
He didn't look at her with his usual cold, military indifference. Instead, his dark eyes were filled with a raw, suffocating mixture of profound disappointment and quiet devastation. It was the look of a man grieving a ghost that was still breathing right in front of him.
One afternoon, while organizing the fresh medicine crates in the new storage room, Ellaine finally voiced her confusion to Sarah, her closest friend and fellow nurse.
"Sarah, can I ask you something?" Ellaine murmured, slowing her hands. "Sergeant Riddle... why does he look at me like that? Every time our eyes meet, he looks so... heartbroken. And when I woke up after the bombing, they told me he refused to leave my side until the sedative knocked him out. Why would a Sergeant care so much about a regular nurse?"
Sarah froze. The medical chart in her hands trembled slightly, and she completely avoided Ellaine’s gaze. Sarah knew everything. She was the only one Ellaine used to whisper to late at night, gushing about the stolen midnights, the shared blanket on the bunker, and how deeply she had fallen for the cold Sergeant.
Fearing that forcing the truth onto Ellaine’s fragile mind would cause another relapse or severe panic, Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to laugh it off, though her voice sounded incredibly nervous.
"Oh, you know how soldiers are, Ellie," Sarah stammered, awkwardly rearranging a bottle of antiseptic. "The war makes people cling to whatever familiarity they have. He... he probably just has a bit of a crush on you. You're the only nurse brave enough to fix his stubborn wounds, remember? Don't look too deep into it."
"A crush?" Ellaine repeated, looking out the dusty window.
Across the yard, she could see Tom standing with the Captain, his jaw clenched, his posture rigid. But the exact moment she looked at him, as if he could feel her gaze, Tom turned his head. His intense, dark eyes locked onto hers through the glass.
There was no warmth. Just that same hollow, aching distance.
Ellaine placed a hand over her chest, feeling a strange, phantom ache right beneath her ribs. She didn't remember loving him. She didn't remember his lips or his whispered promises. But as she watched him turn away back into the cold wind of the base, she couldn't help but feel that she had forgotten something incredibly important.
As the weeks bled into months, the military base fell into a tense, agonizing routine. To Ellaine, Sergeant Riddle had returned to being exactly what he was in the beginning—a cold, untouchable enigma who only spoke to her when his wounds required stitches. But to the rest of the camp, Tom Riddle had become something far more terrifying.
He had become a predator keeping watch over his marked territory.
Because Ellaine didn't remember their past, she naturally interacted with the other soldiers like any regular, kind-hearted nurse would. And that was Tom’s personal purgatory.
The tipping point happened on a rainy Thursday afternoon. A young, charismatic Corporal named Miller from the infantry division had been brought into the ward with a minor sprain. Ellaine was treating him, her face lighting up with a soft, polite laugh at a joke Miller had made. Miller, emboldened by her kindness, reached out and gently patted her hand, lingering just a second too long.
"You have remarkably soft hands for a war nurse, Ellie," Miller had smiled.
From the dark corner of the tent, Tom witnessed the entire exchange. His jaw clenched so hard the bone ached. The silver lighter in his pocket was gripped so tightly his knuckles turned stark white. Ellie. That was his name for her. That laugh belonged to him. Those soft hands had held him through the darkest nights of this war.
The next night, Corporal Miller was assigned to the late-night supply patrol near the edge of the woods. The camp was pitch black, swallowed by a thick, freezing fog.
Miller was adjusting his rifle when a sudden, iron grip clamped around his collar from behind. Before he could cry out, he was violently slammed against the cold, concrete wall of an old bunker. The wind was knocked clean out of his lungs.
Miller blinked through the darkness, his heart plummeting as the dim moonlight caught the sharp, deadly contours of Sergeant Riddle’s face. Tom was standing dangerously close, his eyes completely devoid of any human warmth—pitch black and filled with a silent, murderous promise.
"S-Sergeant Riddle?" Miller stammered, his boots barely touching the ground as Tom held him pinned. "What is the meaning of—"
"Listen to me very carefully, Corporal," Tom whispered. His voice wasn't loud; it was a low, terrifying hiss that cut straight through the freezing wind. He leaned in, his breath hot against Miller’s ear. "If I ever see you looking at Nurse Ellaine again, if you so much as utter her name, or let your filthy hands touch her skin... I will personally ensure your next deployment is straight into the enemy's active minefield. Do you understand me?"
"S-Sir, she's just a nurse—"
Tom slammed him against the wall again, harder this time, making Miller’s teeth rattle. "She is not just anything. She is out of your league, and she is entirely off-limits. If you value your life, you will stay away from her ward."
With a cold sneer, Tom violently shoved Miller away, letting the trembling Corporal stumble back into the mud. Tom didn't look back as he walked away into the shadows, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets, his rigid military composure perfectly restored.
By the next morning, a strange rumor had spread through the barracks. Nobody knew exactly why, but suddenly, every single male soldier in the camp treated Nurse Ellaine with absolute, rigid formality. They wouldn't make eye contact, they wouldn't crack jokes, and they practically fled the tent the moment their bandages were wrapped.
Ellaine stood in the middle of the empty ward, completely baffled.
"Did I do something wrong, Sarah?" Ellaine asked, turning to her friend. "Why is everyone acting like I'm made of glass today? Even Corporal Miller looked terrified when I offered him some tea earlier."
Sarah swallowed hard, her eyes darting nervously toward the tent exit where she could see the tall, dark silhouette of Sergeant Riddle standing guard in the distance. Sarah knew exactly what had happened.
"I... I have no idea, Ellie," Sarah lied softly, shivering under the invisible, heavy shadow of the Sergeant’s obsession. "Maybe they're just finally learning some manners."
The unnatural silence in the medical ward was driving Ellaine lose her mind. For three days, not a single soldier had dared to look her in the eye. They treated her like a ghost, speaking only in clipped, terrified murmurs before fleeing her presence.
And every single time she looked out the window, he was there. Sergeant Riddle, standing like a dark sentinel, his intense gaze tracking anyone who even breathed in her direction.
Ellaine wasn't stupid. She knew there was only one man in this entire camp who possessed that kind of terrifying, silent authority.
Late that night, when the camp was swallowed by a heavy fog, Ellaine didn't go to her barracks. Instead, driven by a strange, magnetic pull she couldn't explain, her boots led her back to the ruined concrete bunker at the edge of the perimeter. She didn't know why, but this place always made the hollow ache in her chest feel a little less empty.
She expected to be alone. But as she stepped onto the cold concrete roof, the faint orange ember of a cigarette glowed in the dark.
"You shouldn't be out here, Nurse. The freezing wind isn't good for your lungs," Tom’s low, private rasp cut through the darkness. He didn't turn around, his back rigid against the night sky.
"What did you do, Tom?" Ellaine asked, her voice trembling but resolute. She didn't call him Sergeant this time; the name Tom just spilled from her lips naturally, like a buried reflex.
Tom froze at the sound of his name. He slowly turned around, dropping the cigarette and crushing it beneath his heavy combat boot. In the dim starlight, his eyes were pitch black, swimming with a dangerous, unstable emotion. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me! Every soldier in the barracks is terrified of me. Corporal Miller won't even walk on the same side of the road as me anymore!" Ellaine took a step closer, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "You threatened them, didn't you? Why? Why do you care so much about who talks to me?!"
"Because they don't deserve to look at you!" Tom suddenly snapped. His usual calm, calculating mask completely shattered. He closed the distance between them in three long, predatory strides, towering over her, his breath hot in the freezing air. "Because their filthy hands have no right to touch you. You are mine, Ellaine. You have always been mine."
Ellaine stumbled back a step, her breath catching in her throat, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. "What... what are you saying? We’re just—you're a Sergeant, I'm just a nurse—"
"No, damn it, look at me!" Tom growled, his large hands coming up to grip her shoulders firmly, pulling her flush against his chest. His hands were shaking—the same terrifying vulnerability she had forgotten. "Look at my face, Ellie. You don't remember, do you? The blast took it all from you."
"Remember what?" she whispered, tears of confusion and sudden overwhelm pricking her eyes.
"Us," Tom breathed, his voice cracking as he leaned down, his forehead pressing against hers, forcing her to look into his devastated eyes. "Before the sky fell, we were together. In the storage room, every single midnight, I used to bribe the guards just to sit in the dark and watch you read. You used to scold me for my wounds, and I only let your hands touch my skin."
Ellaine’s eyes widened, a sudden, sharp pain throbbing behind her temples as his words echoed in her mind. A faint, blurry image of an amber oil lamp and the scent of cheap tobacco flashed across her consciousness, but it slipped away too fast.
"No, that's... we couldn't have..."
"We did," Tom interrupted, his voice dropping into a desperate, heartbreaking plea as he slid his hands down to cup her face, his thumbs gently wiping away a tear that had escaped her eye. "On this exact bunker, weeks ago, I saved my ration tea just to give it to you. You smiled at me. You held my hand because it was freezing. And right before the bombs dropped, you kissed me in the storage room and promised me you'd stay safe inside the shelter."
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke, his breath shaking. "Your mind might have forgotten me, Ellie, but your heart hasn't. Please... tell me you can still feel it."
Ellaine stood frozen in his embrace, her hands resting flat against his chest. Beneath her palms, she could feel the frantic, heavy thumping of his heart—a rhythm that felt terrifyingly familiar, like a melody she had known in another life. She didn't remember the words he spoke, but as she looked into his desperate, broken eyes, the cold wall around her heart completely dissolved, leaving her breathless in the arms of the man she had forgotten.
The freezing fog didn’t lift the next day, nor did the invisible weight that had settled between them. Ellaine spent the morning staring at her hands, still feeling the phantom warmth of Tom’s desperate grip. She hadn't pulled away from him on the bunker. She hadn't denied his words. Because deep down, in a quiet place her amnesia couldn't touch, she knew he was telling the truth.
That afternoon, she made a choice. She waited until the head nurse left the ward, then stepped out into the muddy courtyard. It didn't take long to find him; Tom was cleaning his service rifle near the armory, looking as cold and unapproachable as a winter sky.
Ellaine walked up to him, her heart thumping against her ribs. "Sergeant Riddle."
Tom’s hands paused. He slowly lifted his dark eyes, his expression completely guarded, masking the devastation from the night before. "Nurse. You shouldn't be wandering around the armory."
"I'm not wandering," she murmured, taking a tentative step closer until she was standing right in front of his wooden bench. She swallowed the lump in her throat, her brown eyes meeting his dark ones with that familiar, stubborn determination. "I don't remember the storage room, Tom. I don't remember the shared blanket or the words we said before the bombs fell. My mind is still completely blank."
A harsh, bitter shadow crossed Tom’s face, and he began to look away.
"But," Ellaine caught his wrist, her soft fingers wrapping around his pulse point. Tom stiffened, his entire body freezing at her touch. "When you held me last night... my heart remembered you. I didn't feel afraid. I felt safe. So, if you're willing... I want to try again. Show me who we were."
Tom stared at her hand on his wrist, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The sheer, calculated control he usually possessed entirely melted away, replaced by a quiet, fierce hope. "You're asking for trouble, Ellie. I am not a patient man."
"I am a very patient nurse, Sergeant," she offered a small, tentative smile—the first real smile she had given him since the blast. "Start by coming to the medical tent tonight. After the midnight patrol."
And so, they began to rebuild their empire from the ashes.
That night, the heavy canvas flap opened at precisely midnight. Tom stepped inside, the cold wind following him. He didn't sit on her desk or pull her into his arms this time; he kept a respectful, agonizing distance, sitting on the edge of the nearest empty cot. He pulled out his pack, lighting a cigarette in the dim, amber glow of the oil lamp.
Ellaine closed her textbook, watching him. "You're sitting too far away."
Tom took a slow drag, his dark eyes tracking her every movement through the smoke. "I don't want to force you into something you don't remember."
"You aren't forcing me," she whispered. She stood up, picking up her wool blanket from her chair, and walked over to his cot. Quietly, she sat down right beside him, their shoulders pressing together. The familiar scent of him—cheap tobacco, cedar, and gunpowder—swirled around her, and this time, her mind didn't panic. It felt like coming home.
Tom let out a low, shaky breath. He carefully placed the cigarette between his lips, and with a hesitation that was entirely uncharacteristic of him, he raised his large, calloused hand. He waited, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on her soft cheekbone.
"We used to sit like this for hours," Tom murmured, his voice dropping into that low, private rasp meant only for her. "You would complain about the war news on the radio, and I would tell you how useless the commanders are."
Ellaine let out a soft, genuine laugh, leaning her head tentatively against his shoulder. "That sounds exactly like us."
"It was," Tom whispered, his grip tightening as he finally allowed his arm to wrap around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. He rested his chin against the top of her head, closing his eyes as a profound sense of peace washed over him for the first time in months.
They didn't have their old memories back, and the war was still raging just beyond the barbed wire. But as Ellaine rested her palm against his chest, listening to the steady, frantic thumping of his heart, she knew it didn't matter. She was falling in love with Tom Riddle all over again, right in the middle of the dark.
The day the armistice was signed, the camp didn't erupt into cheers. Instead, a heavy, disbelieving silence fell over the trenches. The engines of the transport trucks died, the radios buzzed with static rather than casualty reports, and the constant, rhythmic thumping of artillery on the horizon finally stopped.
The war was over, but the wreckage it left behind remained.
For Ellaine, the scars weren't just the silver lines on her skin; they were the invisible triggers buried deep in her mind. Her memories of their first romance never fully returned, but it didn't matter anymore. They had built a new foundation in the mud of the pangkalan, stronger and more resilient than before. Tom had kept his promise—he had guided her back to him, wrapped her in his protective shadow, and never let her go.
Two years after the final troops were demobilized, they found their sanctuary.
It was a small, secluded cottage nestled at the edge of a quiet coastal town, miles away from the bleak barracks and barbed-wire fences. The house had thick stone walls, a small garden where Ellaine could plant lavender, and a large wooden porch that looked out over the calm, blue sea. It was a place made of wood and sunlight, entirely detached from the world of ash they had escaped.
They had married in a quiet, private ceremony with no guests, just a local magistrate and the steady rhythm of the ocean waves behind them. Tom had slipped a simple, smooth silver band onto her finger—a ring he had forged himself from the melted metal of an old casing he kept from the base.
One stormy afternoon, a sudden, violent crack of thunder echoed right above the cottage.
Inside the kitchen, Ellaine jolted. The ceramic teacup she was holding slipped from her fingers, shattering against the wooden floorboards. The sharp, loud sound resonated through the small room, and instantly, her breath hitched. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, her hands began to tremble, and for a terrifying second, she wasn't in her kitchen anymore—she was back under the collapsing roof of the medical ward, surrounded by smoke.
Before the panic could fully swallow her, a pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped firmly around her waist from behind.
Tom pulled her flush against his broad chest, trapping her hands gently against his own body. He didn't say a word at first. He just held her with that same fierce, possessive tightness that had kept her grounded through the air raids. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his hot breath anchoring her back to reality.
"I've got you, Ellie," Tom murmured, his low, private rasp cutting through the ringing in her ears. "Look around. Look at the window. It's just rain. Only rain."
Ellaine let out a shaky, trembling breath, leaning her entire weight back against him. She focused on the steady, rhythmic thumping of his heart against her shoulder blade—the one rhythm that had never changed, the one sound that her body had always remembered. Slowly, her hands stopped shaking.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice tight as she turned around in his embrace, burying her face in the crisp fabric of his shirt. "The sound... it felt so real for a second."
Tom cupped her face with his large, warm hands, his dark eyes looking down at her with an intense, unwavering tenderness. He used his thumbs to gently brush away the tension from her brow, his silver wedding band cool against her skin.
"You never have to apologize to me," Tom whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss against her forehead. "The sky isn't falling anymore, Ellie. We're home. I'm right here."
Ellaine looked up into his dark eyes, seeing the fierce, protective devotion that had survived the trenches, the promotions, and her own amnesia. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, pulling him down into a quiet, deep kiss that tasted of rain and sweet tea. The storm continued to rage outside their stone walls, but inside, wrapped in his arms, Ellaine knew she would never be lost again.
EPILOUGE
The years slipped by like water, smoothing out the sharp, jagged edges of the past. The small cottage by the sea grew warmer with time; the wood aged into a rich, deep amber, and the lavender Ellaine had planted in the garden now bloomed in vibrant, fragrant rows that caught the coastal breeze.
It was an ordinary Tuesday evening when Tom returned from the town academy, where he now worked as a mathematics and strategy instructor—a quiet, respectable life that allowed him to use his brilliant mind without the cost of bloodshed.
As he stepped onto the porch, he didn't hear the usual clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Instead, the house was perfectly still, washed in the long, golden shadows of the setting sun.
Tom tracked her down by instinct, his heavy footsteps softening as he walked through the glass doors leading to the rear garden.
Ellaine was sitting on the wooden bench they had built together, a thick book resting open on her lap. Her dark hair was loose, catching the warm, golden light of the sunset. She wasn't reading, though. She was looking out over the endless blue horizon, her expression peaceful, her small hand resting comfortably over her stomach.
Tom walked up quietly behind her, his large hands resting gently on her shoulders. Ellaine didn't jolt; she merely tilted her head back, a soft, beautiful smile breaking across her face as she looked up at him.
"You're home early, Sergeant," she teased softly, using the old title like a private endearment.
"The headmaster was tedious today," Tom murmured, his low rasp dropping into that private, gentle tone he reserved only for her. He walked around the bench and sat down beside her, his large frame immediately blocking the chilly sea wind from hitting her side.
Naturally, without a word, Ellaine slid closer, resting her head against his shoulder. Tom reached out, his long, calloused fingers wrapping around her hand, his silver wedding band catching the last rays of the sun.
"What were you thinking about just now?" Tom asked, his eyes tracking the gentle movement of the waves. "You looked far away."
Ellaine quieted for a moment, her thumb lightly tracing the lines on the back of his hand. "I was just thinking about the base. About the rainy afternoon we first arrived on those trucks." She paused, looking up into his dark, intense eyes. "My mind still can't picture the face of the girl who stood in that mud, Tom. I still don't remember her."
Tom’s grip on her hand tightened just a fraction, a quiet, protective instinct flaring up in his chest.
"But it doesn't make me sad anymore," Ellaine continued softly, her smile widening as she reached up to gently touch his sharp jawline. "Because it made me realize something. The war took that girl away, but it gave me this. It gave me a love that didn't need a past to survive. We built this whole life out of nothing but a feeling."
Tom looked down at her, his heart swelling with a profound, terrifyingly beautiful emotion that he never thought a man like him could possess. The war had tried to break him, had tried to tear them apart, but sitting here in the quiet warmth of their garden, he knew they had won the ultimate victory. They had survived.
"We didn't need the past, Ellie," Tom whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed against her forehead, lingering there as the sun finally dipped below the water. "We only ever needed each other."
He pulled her closer, wrapping his arm securely around her waist, holding her as the twilight settled over their home. The sirens were long gone, the trenches were covered in grass, and the only sound left in their world was the steady, comforting rhythm of the tide, and the unbroken peace they had fought so hard to keep.
To the rest of Students, it was just another chilly spring day. The castle grounds were finally shaking off the remnants of a harsh Scottish winter, the first green shoots of bluebells pushing through the damp earth by the Forbidden Forest, and the smell of rain and wet stone heavy in the air. But to you, it was the most important day of the year. It was Theodore Nott’s birthday.
Theo, of course, had tried his absolute best to ignore it. He had spent the entire day walking with his shoulders tense, his jaw tightly set, looking like a thunderstorm contained in a school uniform. In the Nott family, birthdays weren't an occasion for joy; they were a cold reminder of his lineage. They meant formal owl letters from his father, stiff packages containing family heirlooms or dark magic treatises, and heavy lectures about the dark expectations resting on his shoulders.
But tonight, as the clock struck midnight, there was a different kind of magic protecting him. Beneath the heavy fabric of his school robes, the ugly, jagged mark his father had forced onto his left forearm was completely neutralized. It wasn't a symbol of terror tonight; it was still safely trapped under layers of your holographic sapphire stars, hand-placed rhinestones, and silver glitter ink from when you had bedazzled it while he napped in the Room of Requirement.
Knowing exactly where to find your favorite grumpy storm cloud, you sneaked out of the Ravenclaw tower and climbed the winding stone stairs to the Astronomy Tower.
The spring air was crisp and biting, cutting through your robes, but the sky was spectacularly clear. As expected, Theo was leaning against the stone railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the moonlight reflected off the choppy waves of the Black Lake. He looked breathtakingly handsome in the silver light, but his silhouette carried that familiar, lonely weight he always wore when he thought no one was looking.
"Happy birthday, Theo," you chimed softly, stepping out onto the open platform. Your bare feet—clad only in mismatched, thick woolen socks—made no sound against the cold stone.
Theo turned around, and the icy, defensive mask he wore for the rest of the world instantly shattered. The tight line of his jaw softened, his dark eyes melting into something incredibly tender the second they landed on you.
"I told you not to stay up, darling," he muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite. A helpless, breathless smile tugged at his lips as he stepped toward you, his large, warm hand instinctively reaching out to catch yours, pulling you firmly against his side to shield you from the chilly spring wind. "It's freezing up here. It's just another midnight."
"It's not just another midnight. The stars are aligned in a very joyful shape tonight, almost like a giant celestial cake," you said, skipping a little closer until your shoulder brushed his chest. From behind your back, you pulled out a thick, heavy, slightly chaotic-looking book.
It was wrapped in a soft, velvet green ribbon—Slytherin green, because you knew he secretly found comfort in it—but the edges of the pages were bursting with color. There were bits of dried lavender sticking out, loose pieces of parchment, and a very noticeable, shimmering dusting of silver glitter that caught the moonlight, matching the exact shade of the enchanted ink you had used to fix his arm a few weeks ago.
Theo blinked down at the object in his hands, his fingers hovering over the velvet ribbon. "What's this?"
"It’s a memory-keeper," you explained, looking up at him with wide, serene, dreamlike eyes. "A scrapbook. So the heavy thoughts in your head don't accidentally crowd out the happy ones. Every time your mind feels like a rainy dungeon, you can open this and see where the light is."
Carefully, as if he were handling a fragile piece of ancient magic, his long fingers untied the green ribbon. He opened the first page, and the breath completely caught in his throat.
The book was a masterpiece of beautiful, whimsical chaos. It was a tangible map of your universe together. On the first page, there was a moving wizarding photograph of the two of you sitting by the Black Lake on a windy autumn afternoon. In the photo, Theo was frowning at the camera, but the exact moment you leaned over and pressed a flower against his cheek, his face burst into a brilliant, rare laugh. You had layered the page with cut-out parchment stars, a pressed leaf from that exact day, and lines of your loopy, neat handwriting detailing how his aura looked like "triumphant gold" whenever he felt safe. Every corner was dusted with silver glitter that faintly levitated off the page whenever he breathed on it.
Theo slowly turned the page. The next one featured a crumpled Sugar Quill wrapper and a ticket stub from Honeydukes, surrounded by your hand-drawn doodles of Kneazles and a candid photo of him looking fiercely possessive while holding your heavy bag in Hogsmeade.
He flipped through pages of your library study dates, photos of him sleeping peacefully with a tiny section of his hair secretly braided by you, and even a page dedicated to a Quidditch match where you had pasted a moving drawing of a neon-pink Blibbering Humdinger hat right next to a photo of him looking up at the stands with a completely love-struck expression.
But what made his chest violently tighten, what made his throat go completely dry, was the very last page.
Pasted right in the center was a photo you had taken of him sleeping on the velvet sofa in the Room of Requirement, looking entirely peaceful and free of his burdens. Surrounding the photograph, you had meticulously drawn a galaxy of glittering, majestic dragons and sapphire-eyed skulls, intertwined with real, dried lavender sprigs. Underneath the photo, in your distinct handwriting, it read: *For my favorite knight, who carries the night sky on his sleeve.*
Theo didn't speak. The silence between you stretched out, filled only by the whistling of the spring wind through the stone arches. He just stood there, staring down at the page, his thumb lightly, repeatedly tracing the edges of the photograph. His shoulders were trembling slightly, his throat working hard as he swallowed down an emotion so raw, so overwhelming, it threatened to tear right through his chest.
"Do you... do you not like it?" you asked softly, tilting your head up to look at him, a rare, vulnerable hint of nervousness entering your voice. "The glitter is charmed not to fall off, I promise. I know you like things pristine."
Slowly, Theo closed the book, clutching it securely against his chest with one arm as if it were the most valuable treasure in the entire wizarding world. When he looked down at you, his dark eyes were bright with unshed, fiercely emotional tears.
"I don't care about the mess," Theo whispered, his voice thick and uncharacteristically shaky. He reached out with his free hand, his strong arm wrapping around your waist, and yanked you flush against his chest.
He buried his face deeply into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet, comforting scent of your lavender perfume. You could feel his heart hammering wildly, erratically against your ribs.
"Nobody has ever given me something like this," Theo muttered against your skin, his grip on you tightening until it almost hurt, as if he were trying to pull your very soul into his own body to keep himself grounded. "My father... on my birthdays, he used to give me silver daggers, dark artifacts, and books on blood purity. I thought... I grew up thinking everything in my life was just supposed to be black, heavy, and miserable. I thought that's all I deserved."
You raised your hands, gently rubbing his back, your fingers brushing against the nape of his neck, letting your warmth seep through his sweater. "Your life has so many colors, Theo. You just needed someone to help you collect them. The daggers are just cold metal, but these memories are real."
Theo pulled back just enough to look into your wide, starlit eyes. He let out a soft, wet, breathless laugh, a single tear tracking down his cheek that he quickly brushed away with the back of his hand, looking breathtakingly human and incredibly handsome in the moonlight.
"You are completely mental, you know that?" he murmured, his voice cracking slightly with absolute, boundless affection.
"Probably," you smiled brightly, your star-shaped hairpins spinning slowly in the spring breeze. "But the universe is much more interesting that way."
Theo didn't answer with words. He leaned down, his warm, slightly trembling hands cupping your face, his thumbs wiping the wind-chill from your cheeks, and he kissed you.
It wasn't a quick, hesitant kiss. This one was slow, deep, and filled with a profound, unshakeable devotion. He kissed you with the absolute certainty of a boy who knew his life had been permanently altered. He tasted like the crisp spring night, like safety, and like a sacred promise that no matter how dark or terrifying his future got, no matter what monsters his father threw at him, you and your beautiful, glittering constellation of stars would always be there to hold him together.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cold air. His dark eyes crinkled with a genuine, beautiful smile that reached all the way to his heart.
"Best birthday of my life," Theo whispered against your lips, his fingers tangling in your silver hair. "Thank you, sweetheart."
Hello hello hello, I just became obsessed with the idea of Theo Nott and LovegoodReader and I just want more because your writing is chefs kiss 💋 I have a few ideas but honestly anything with them I would be delighted to see,
1)Theo’s birthday and reader makes him a scrapbook of them together (idk if you’ve seen the ones on pj trust but I’m imagining lots of photos and glitter)
2) Her braiding flowers in his hair
3)him getting her like a niffler or a baby dragon
4)him finding her talking to the stars
5)her comforting him about his dark mark and maybe badazzling it while he naps
No pressure and if you hate all of these that is 100% ok so much love 💕💕💕💕
HII BABE I'm glad you enjoyed my theonott × lovegood reader 💖
I can make some of these really, maybe the first one and the fourth one. I will do soon! stay tuned, everyone 😉😉
𑄝 summary 𑄝 : Princes Daeron and Aerion Targaryen are busy playing their favourite game,'a brave knight saving his princess from dragons' with their younger sister.
The grand library of Summerhall was unusually chaotic today, completely transformed into a makeshift kingdom of imagination.
You sat elegantly on a towering pile of velvet cushions that you all had dragged from the lounges, looking like an absolute princess on her royal throne. To complete the look, you had carefully placed a tall, pointed maiden’s hat with a soft purple veil over your brown hair, calmly resting a heavy, leather-bound storybook on your lap. Even as a young girl, you preferred being the quiet, sweet princess who watched over her kingdom with a gentle, patient smile.
"Halt, vile beast! You shall not lay a finger on the princess!"
A loud, demanding voice echoed through the high-ceilinged room. You looked up from your book to see Daeron stepping forward, looking every bit the noble knight. He wore his grey-and-black tunic proudly, holding up a small wooden shield painted with the red three-headed Targaryen dragon. With a serious, determined look on his young face, his golden-brown hair catching the sunlight from the stained-glass window, he pointed his wooden sword right at the "monster" in front of him.
The monster in question was Aerion, and he was taking his role very seriously.
Aerion was running around in a bright red, scaly dragon cloak, complete with a spiky dragon hood and a long cloth tail trailing behind him on the stone floor. He had been playfully terrorizing the room, knocking over small stools and roaring at the top of his lungs. But now that Daeron had challenged him, Aerion stopped. He dramatically raised his hands like claws, his silver-gold hair peeking out from under the hood as he bared his teeth at his older brother.
"I am the great dragon of the Red Mountains!" Aerion shouted, dramatically lifting one heavy boot as if he was about to stomp right over Daeron's wooden shield. "I will burn this entire castle to ashes and take the princess away to my hidden lair!"
"Not on my watch," Daeron replied, his voice calm and steady, completely contrasting Aerion’s wild, fiery energy. With a swift, calculated movement, Daeron stepped under Aerion's clawed hands and lightly tapped the top of the spiky dragon hood with his wooden sword. Clack.
"Ow! Hey!" Aerion immediately broke character, grumbling as he reached up with both hands to adjust his crumpled dragon hat. He glared at his brother, his dramatic dragon persona completely vanishing into pure childish annoyance. "You hit my head too hard, Daeron! That’s cheating! Knights aren't supposed to aim for the horns!"
You couldn't help but let out a soft, sweet giggle at the ridiculous sight of them. You closed your book slightly, leaning forward over the edge of your cushion throne to get a better look at the bickering princes.
"A noble knight doesn't fight unfairly, Daeron," you chimed in, your voice dipping into a playful sweetness as you decided to side with the grumpy dragon. "And a fierce, terrifying dragon shouldn't complain about a tiny tap from a wooden sword, Aerion. Aren't dragons supposed to be fireproof and indestructible?"
Hearing your soft voice, both boys instantly stopped squabbling and turned their heads to look up at you. Aerion quickly dropped his hands, pouting his bottom lip as he looked up at you with wide, dramatic eyes. Even as kids, your opinion mattered to them more than any royal decree from their father.
"See? The princess says I'm right," Aerion muttered proudly, puffing out his chest and crossing his arms over his scaly red cloak, throwing Daeron a smug look.
Daeron lowered his wooden sword, a rare, soft smile breaking across his usually quiet face as he looked up at you. "I was only defending your honor, my princess. The beast was getting dangerously close to your throne, and I couldn't risk him stealing you away."
"Well, the princess appreciates her knight, but she commands—"
Before you could finish your sentence, you shifted your weight too quickly on the unstable pile of velvet cushions. The top cushion suddenly slid sideways on the polished marble. Your eyes widened in instant shock as you lost your balance completely. The heavy storybook fell from your lap, clattering to the floor, and your tall purple hat slipped from your head as you tumbled forward off the high throne.
"Ah!" a soft gasp escaped your lips as you fell.
"Look out!" Aerion gasped, his eyes widening in pure panic. He completely forgot about his dragon persona and dropped his wooden claws, instinctively rushing forward to reach for you, his long cloth tail tripping over his own feet in his haste.
But Daeron’s reflexes were faster.
The moment he saw you slip, Daeron dropped his wooden sword and shield without a second thought. They clattered loudly against the stone floor as he lunged forward, throwing his arms out just in time.
With a heavy thud, your small frame collided right into Daeron's solid chest. He stumbled backward a step from the impact, his boots scraping against the floor, but he held his ground. His strong arms wrapped tightly and securely around your waist, catching you completely before you could hit the hard, unforgiving stone floor.
For a second, the entire library went dead silent. The only sound was the heavy, panicked breathing of the two princes.
You opened your eyes, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs from the sudden scare. You found yourself looking directly into Daeron's warm eyes, which were filled with an intense, fierce worry you had never seen before. He was holding you so tightly against him that there was absolutely no space between the two of you, his hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline.
"Are you hurt? Did you hit anything?" Daeron asked urgently, his voice cracking slightly as he scanned your face, his hands moving to check your shoulders and arms for any injuries.
Before you could even answer, Aerion dropped to his knees right beside you two, tugging at your gown with frantic, trembling hands. His spiky dragon hood had fallen back, revealing his messy silver hair and a face pale with genuine fright.
"Is she okay?! Daeron, did she break anything?!" Aerion demanded, his usual arrogant tone completely replaced by soft, childish worry. He looked at your face, his eyes searching yours desperately. "Don't die, please! I didn't mean to burn the castle down!"
Seeing Aerion’s terrified face and feeling Daeron’s protective grip around you, the fear completely vanished from your chest. Instead, a sweet, incredibly warm feeling bloomed inside you. You let out a soft, breathless laugh, reaching out to pat Aerion's head gently before resting your other hand against Daeron's chest to calm his racing heart.
"I'm okay, I'm completely fine," you whispered sweetly, smiling warmly at both of them. "Daeron caught me. You saved me, Daeron. Thank you."
Hearing your soft voice and seeing your familiar, sweet smile, both boys let out a massive, simultaneous sigh of relief. The heavy tension in Daeron's shoulders finally dropped, though his arms remained securely wrapped around your waist, completely unwilling to let you go just yet. A soft, relieved smile tugged at his lips.
"I will always catch you," Daeron murmured softly, his gaze locking onto yours with a quiet, fierce devotion that felt way older than his actual age. "I won't ever let you fall."
Aerion pouted, crossing his arms but leaning his head against your knee anyway, his dragon cloak pooling around him on the floor. "Next time, I'll be the one to catch you. Knights are too slow anyway."
You laughed softly, adjusting your messy hair as you sat together on the floor surrounded by fallen toys and scattered cushions. No matter what dangerous storms or royal chaos awaited them in the future of the Seven Kingdoms, right here in this quiet library, you knew you would always be perfectly safe in their arms.
blakekathryn
stormborns
theartofmadeline
areudirty
yousharknotpass
janainaart
