Hii, I was thinking about Jim street, from swat, as a big brother, like reader doesn't like him at all, reader was a baby out of marriage from his father's part, so it could be really angst, and she kinda doesn't know about it. So like they making terms of knowing each other. I don't know, I had this idea on my head and I'm really interested to see what your thoughts on it and how you could write it. Thanks byee.
Nothing Like You · Jim Street x Half-Sibling!Reader.
Character: Jim Street (S.W.A.T.)
Pairing: Jim Street x Half-Sibling!Reader (GN or specify)
Format: One-shot, 2nd person POV
Word Count: ~2.2k
Genre: Angst / Family Drama
Warnings: Absent parent, emotional baggage, unresolved family trauma, mild swearing, implied parental neglect, adult themes of identity & resentment, no physical violence
Status: Complete
Summary:
You spent your whole life pretending Jim Street didn’t exist. He shows up the week after your father’s funeral—older, soaking wet, and way too calm. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to feel. But when he tells you he never even knew you were alive, something inside you finally breaks. There’s no happy ending here. Just one rain-drenched night and a few words neither of you can take back.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so grammar gremlins may appear. They mean no harm. Constructive criticism is very welcome—just don’t be mean, or I’ll sic Jim Street on you.
It’s raining like hell. You forgot your umbrella again, but the fury boiling under your skin keeps you warm enough as you stalk up the steps to your apartment building. The plastic grocery bag digs into your fingers, splitting at one corner but you don’t care.
Your key's halfway in the lock when you see the figure in the hallway. Leaning against the wall across from your door, arms crossed, soaked through like a wet dog but standing like he owns the floor. You don’t need a name, you’ve seen that face before—online, in the old family photo your mother kept buried under socks, in your father’s obituary last week.
Jim Street. Half-brother and full-grown mistake.
You pause and don’t blink.
"You're trespassing," you say flatly.
He straightens a little. “Didn’t know where else to find you.”
“You could’ve tried not at all. That would've been a solid option.”
His mouth twitches. You’re not sure if its nerves or that arrogant cop-smirk you’ve seen in those stupid press videos. Either way, you hate it.
“I’m not here to make anything weird,” he says.
You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Then you definitely shouldn’t be standing outside the apartment of the woman your dad cheated on his wife to create.”
That shuts him up for a second. You use the moment to unlock the door and he doesn’t move.
You turn. “Look. I don’t know what kind of sitcom reunion fantasy you’ve got playing in your head, but I’m not interested in finding out how great your childhood was. Or wasn’t. So you can...”
“Wasn’t,” he cuts in.
You blink.
“What?” you say, sharper than intended.
He’s not leaning anymore. Just standing there, hands loose at his sides, rainwater dripping off his jacket.
“It wasn’t great, my childhood. If that’s what you think. I’m not here because I want to play house or whatever.” He shrugs. “I found out about you after he died and I just… I needed to see.”
“You needed to see?” you echo. “What, that I have two eyes and a pulse? That I’m real? Congratulations. Mission accomplished.”
He flinches. Not visibly, but something in his shoulders contracts. You almost feel bad. Almost.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“No.”
“Okay,” he says. “Can I stand here while you yell at me, then?”
You narrow your eyes. You should say no again. Slam the door; leave him there soaking like the dog he is but the storms loud and part of you wants to yell a lot. You push the door open and step aside.
"Five minutes," you mutter. "Don't touch anything."
He steps inside. Rainwater drips from his sleeves onto your hardwood floor but you don’t offer a towel.
You don’t look at him as you kick off your wet shoes and toss your keys onto the counter. The overhead light flickers once before settling into a dim, yellow hum. The kitchen smells faintly like old coffee and the half-eaten Chinese takeout you meant to throw out three days ago. You don't care.
Jim hovers near the door, dripping silently like a broken faucet. You don't tell him where to sit and he doesn’t ask. You drop your grocery bag on the counter; a can of soup rolls out and hits the floor with a dull thud.
“Nice place,” he says after a moment, voice awkward. It lands like a brick between you.
“Don’t small talk me,” you snap. “You don’t get to nice place your way into this.”
He nods, jaw tightening. You watch his eyes scan the apartment, not nosy—just taking it in, like a cop surveying a scene. Like he's trying to figure out where the cracks are.
“You gonna say what you came to say?” you ask. “Or are we just standing in this emotional graveyard you dug?”
He flinches again. That almost makes you feel something, not sympathy—maybe satisfaction.
“I didn’t know about you,” he says.
“Right,” you say. “Classic: nobody ever knows about the bastard kid.”
“It’s true.”
“Maybe it is but doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t.”
You hate that he agrees, you hate how calm he is and you hate how wet he still is. You should’ve made him take off his shoes. He steps forward one careful inch, like you’re a bomb he’s not trained for.
“Look, I’m not here to get something from you. I just thought… if I were you, I’d probably want to know who else he fucked up.”
You cross your arms. “You think this is mutual therapy? What, we compare scars over a bottle of Jack and end with a hug?”
“I don’t drink Jack.”
You stare at him.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter. “You’re such a cop.”
That earns you the tiniest smirk but it dies just as quickly. He sits down on the edge of your couch like he’s afraid it might bite him. You stay standing, arms crossed, a good ten feet of space and a decade of resentment between you.
“I hated him,” Jim says. “Our dad. I need you to know that.”
You tilt your head. “Why?”
There’s a pause, a hard swallow.
“Because he was never really there. And when he was, he wasn’t worth much.”
“Must’ve been nice,” you mutter. “At least you got to hate someone you knew. I had to hate a myth.”
Silence. And then, almost too soft to register: “I’m sorry.”
You don’t answer, not yet. But for the first time since he walked in, your arms drop to your sides.
You let the silence stretch. Let it drag across the room until its sharp enough to cut skin. Jim doesn’t move. You wonder how many suspects he’s sat across from with that same posture—stoic, tense, waiting for something to explode.
Well, here it comes.
“You know what the worst part is?” you say finally, voice brittle. “It’s not that he left. It’s not even that he cheated on your mom. It’s not that he showed up once on my sixth birthday and then disappeared like it was some tragic Marvel cameo.”
Jim doesn’t blink.
“It’s that he chose you.”
You don’t raise your voice, but the air thins all the same. You take a step forward.
“He stayed in your life. Even if it sucked, even if he was crap, even if he was drunk or broke or whatever. He picked you. And me? I got a last name and a few hundred bucks mailed every other year like it was hush money.”
Jim’s eyes drop, but you don’t let him off that easy.
“You know how many times I asked my mom what he was like?” you continue, heat rising in your throat. “And she’d just... freeze. She’d say something vague, or she’d get up and start cleaning something that wasn’t dirty. I spent years wondering if it was me, if I was the reason he left. If maybe he saw me once and decided, No thanks, I’ll stick with the first draft.”
Your voice cracks and you hate it. You swallow and push through.
“And now you’re standing here like some ghost with his nose and his goddamn shoulders and you expect me to what? Forgive him? Through you?”
“No,” Jim says. “I don’t.”
“Well, good because I won’t.”
Your hands are shaking. You shove them into your hoodie pockets before he can see. Your throat burns like you’ve been screaming, but you haven’t even raised your voice. That’s the part that stings the most.
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. Still cautious, still too calm.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “But you deserve to be pissed and you deserve to say all of that. Out loud. And if it helps I can sit here and take it.”
You hate him for saying that and you hate how honest it sounds. You look away, toward the window, where rain’s still tracing uneven lines down the glass.
“I used to wish he’d die,” you whisper. “And then when he did, I didn’t feel anything.”
You glance back at him. “That normal?”
Jim meets your gaze, his eyes don’t flinch.
“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”
You sit. Not because you want to, and not because Jim said anything. You’re just tired, bone-tired. Rage has a half-life, and yours burned too hot for too long. It leaves a hollow behind. Jim doesn't move, doesn’t pounce on the shift like he’s won something. He just shifts slightly to the side, giving you more space on the couch than you’ll use.
You rub your fingers against your eyelids until you see fireworks. They don’t help.
After a while, you ask, “How long have you known?”
“About you?”
You nod.
He exhales slowly. “A few weeks. I was going through his stuff and found an envelope with your name on it. No letter, just legal papers. Birth certificate, a picture from a school play. I guess he kept tabs.”
Your stomach twists. You don’t know if it’s nausea or grief, you don’t want it to be grief. You’ve spent years refusing to let that man take up space inside you.
“You were in the lion costume,” Jim adds, softer. “Third from the left.”
You look at him, startled.
“You were smiling,” he says, like it means something. “You looked happy.”
You bark a laugh before you can stop yourself. “I was six. They gave me juice boxes and cardboard claws. That was my peak.”
A faint smile flickers on his face. Not patronizing, not pitying. Just there.
He lets it fade before he speaks again. “Look, I didn’t come here to make things worse. But I also didn’t want to pretend you didn’t exist. I didn’t think that was fair.”
“To who?” you ask. “To me? Or to you?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“Both,” he says eventually.
You hate that the answer feels right. Your eyes fall to his hands—callused, steady, rough around the knuckles. Not so different from your own, you realize. Different paths, same blunt tools. You wonder if your father had hands like that. Probably.
A silence stretches between you. But it’s not sharp anymore, just heavy. Like rain that’s finally stopped, leaving wet pavement and too many thoughts behind.
“Do you ever wish you didn’t know?” you ask.
Jim looks at you, then past you—toward the wall, like he’s seeing through it.
“Sometimes,” he says. “But not tonight.”
You don’t know what to say to that but, for the first time since he walked into your life, you don’t feel the need to kick him out of it, either. The clock ticks loud in the silence. You’ve never noticed it before.
Jim’s sitting forward now, elbows still on his knees, hands laced. He looks like he’s waiting for a verdict he knows he probably won’t like. You lean back into the couch cushion and stare at the ceiling. There’s a crack running through the plaster in the shape of a crooked Y. You think about pointing it out, but don’t.
He shifts slightly and clears his throat.
“I should probably go,” he says.
You say nothing. He rises slowly, moves like someone trained not to startle wild animals—like one wrong move and you’ll bolt or throw something. Fair assumption.
He’s almost at the door when you say it.
“You really didn’t know?”
He pauses and turns.
“No. I didn’t.”
You believe him. You don’t want to, but you do.
You drag in a breath through your nose. Exhale. “Next time, bring dry clothes. You’re leaking all over my floor.”
Jim blinks. Not a smile, not quite but the corner of his mouth lifts like something’s trying.
“Got it.”
His hand’s on the doorknob. You expect him to leave without looking back, that’s what you’d do. But he turns. Not all the way—just enough.
“I meant what I said,” he tells you. “You deserved better than what he gave. Way better.”
You look at him.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “So did you.”
He opens the door, rain’s still falling, softer now. Just a hush of static. He steps out and you watch him go without getting up. But this time, you don’t feel like the one who was left behind. You feel like maybe someone showed up.
You sit there for a while, not crying or smiling. But you do get up, grab a towel from the bathroom, and wipe the floor where he stood. Not because it matters, just because he was here.
Reader not having much dating experience, with Chris Alonso, and being a little awkward around her. Please, I loved your writing 🫶🫶
Heart Code — A Soft Chris Alonso x OFC (One-Shot)
SUMMARY:
Amelia, a freelance tech contractor with a tendency toward awkward panic and color-coded paperclips, wasn’t expecting much from a youth outreach event—certainly not a connection. But when LAPD’s calm and confident Chris Alonso shows up with an adapter in one hand and a smirk in the other, things short-circuit in more ways than one.
A story about HDMI chaos, mutual flustering, unexpected warmth, and what happens when someone sees you—really sees you—and stays anyway.
📌 DETAILS:
Pairing: Chris Alonso x Female OC (Amelia)
Rating: General (soft romantic tension, no explicit content)
Word Count: ~4.5k
Tone: Warm, humorous, soft slow-burn
Tropes: Meet-cute, awkward girl x confident woman, nerd flirting, unexpected emotional vulnerability, “I see you” energy, mutual pining with banter
The first thing you do is trip over your own laptop bag. It’s not the dramatic kind of trip—the one with flying coffee cups and gasps. It’s worse. It’s the kind where your body jolts like you’ve been caught doing something illegal, and then you try to act like it never happened. Smooth. Very smooth.
You mutter a string of words that aren’t technically curses, just soft guttural regrets, as you crouch beside a tangle of HDMI cables and the world’s most judgmental projector. It's too early in the morning to be this sweaty over input settings.
The outreach event isn’t starting for another hour, but you volunteered to come early. Fewer people mean fewer chances to publicly humiliate yourself. Or so you thought.
“Need a hand?”
The voice is calm, warm, and way too close. You freeze, bent awkwardly with a cord in each hand, as if your brain suddenly forgot the English language. You peek up. Chris Alonso is standing over you, a curious tilt to her head and a half-grin like she’s already two steps ahead of whatever dumb thing you’re about to say.
Of course it's her. You’ve seen her around once or twice, mostly when your freelance work with the city’s tech integration overlapped with LAPD. You remember her in bulletproof gear, talking into radios, casually solving chaos. And now she’s here, in jeans, a gray department t-shirt, arms crossed, like she walked out of a recruitment ad.
You’ve never wanted to disappear into an Ethernet port more.
“Uh—yes,” you say. “I mean—no. I mean—I have hands, two of them.”
Chris lifts one brow, and that smile twitches. “Good to know.”
You scramble up like the cables bit you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—God that sounded weird. I’m Amelia; tech contractor, part-time. Well, freelance mostly. I’m just—uh—setting up a little software demo for the teens. Not surveillance, legal stuff. Like, ethical tech. I'm not spying on you.”
Chris laughs. Not at you, exactly—more like someone enjoying a scene in a movie. “Okay,” she says, nodding slowly. “Not spying on me got it.”
You wince. “This is going really well.”
“It kind of is,” she replies, and you can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or kind.
Probably both.
She moves closer, crouching beside the projector. “Let me guess: wrong cable?”
You offer her a sheepish smile and hold up the HDMI like a limp fish. “I brought the one for my Mac. This is a dinosaur that only speaks VGA. I think it also eats souls.”
Chris peers behind the table, squints at the input. “Lucky for you, I came prepared.” She reaches into the front pocket of her backpack and pulls out a universal adapter like it’s nothing.
You blink. “Why do you carry one of those?”
She shrugs. “I’ve been on enough ride-alongs with Street to know never to trust anything labeled ‘plug-and-play.’”
You laugh—a sharp, honest burst that surprises you both. You quickly bite your lip. “Thanks, seriously.”
“No problem,” Chris says. Her fingers brush yours briefly as she hands you the adapter. Your pulse spikes like it’s been launched into orbit.
You try to focus on plugging things in. You try not to think about how close she is, or how good she smells (clean cotton and something earthy), or how her voice has the kind of calm that makes you want to confess every mistake you've ever made.
You do not succeed. As the screen flickers to life and the startup sequence rolls, you exhale in victory—and embarrassment. “See?” you say, feigning confidence. “I totally had it under control.”
Chris leans one hip against the table, grinning. “No doubt.”
You glance at her, and your brain short-circuits again. You look away quickly, muttering, “I’m not usually this awkward.”
She considers that for a beat. “Sure you are.”
You look up, half-offended.
Chris smirks. “But it’s not a bad thing.”
Your stomach does something weird and fluttery and vaguely illegal. Before you can say something truly regrettable, someone calls Chris’s name from across the room. She straightens.
“I’ll come check out your demo later,” she says, already walking backward. “Unless you plan to short-circuit it before then.”
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Just a high-pitched hmph noise that sounds like a dying printer. Chris laughs again and waves over her shoulder and you’re left holding the universal adapter in your hand like it’s sacred.
You’ve double-checked your setup three times now. Everything works, the HDMI handshake held and the slides advance. The app demo loads without stalling. No sparks, no explosions. Which is why it’s so disconcerting that your palms are sweating like you just defused a bomb.
Chris is still here, it’s been twenty minutes and she’s helped set up two more stations, chatted with a couple of teenagers, and now—without any official reason—she’s leaning casually against your table, sipping iced coffee from a cup she definitely didn’t bring with her. Someone must’ve brought her one.
You haven’t stopped pretending to rearrange things since she got back. You’ve organized pens by color; alphabetized handouts and rewound a cable that was already coiled. Anything to look like you're busy and not in full internal meltdown mode.
Chris notices, of course.
“You know,” she says, tapping the edge of your table with one knuckle, “I think this is the tidiest table here.”
You straighten up. “What can I say? I believe in, uh... presentation.”
She nods slowly. “You’ve color-coded your paperclips.”
You glance down at the tray. “...That might’ve been an accident.”
Chris sips her drink and watches you over the lid. “You're nervous.”
“Nope.”
“You just answered too fast.”
You open your mouth to deny it again and then close it, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you always this good at reading people, or am I just extra readable?”
Chris shrugs, not denying either. “I think you’re honest, that’s rare.”
That should be a compliment. It is a compliment; so why does it make your stomach tie itself into new, increasingly complex knots?
“Well,” you say, desperate to steer into anything resembling safer territory, “you’re not what I expected, either.”
“Oh?” Chris tilts her head.
“I mean...” You wave your hand vaguely. “I saw you once on-site. You had this thing where you shouted across a room and everyone just did what you said, no questions. It was impressive, intimidating and slightly terrifying. You had tactical boss energy.”
She chuckles, a soft sound, like water over warm rocks. “And now?”
“Now you’re making fun of my paperclips.”
Chris flashes a grin. “Character growth.”
Your lips twitch into a smile before you can stop them. It stays a little too long and you’re not sure if she notices, but she doesn’t look away. Her eyes settle on you for a heartbeat longer than casual.
Someone passes between you—a kid chasing his friend, laughing—and the moment breaks like a bubble.
Chris leans back slightly, folding her arms. “You know, these events can be kind of dry. But I think this one might be interesting.”
You’re not sure if she means the coding demo or something else. You also don’t ask, because if she is flirting, you're too terrified to confirm it. Instead, you look down and say the dumbest possible thing:
“You should come try the virtual lock-pick sim. It’s fun and educational; there’s a low chance of tetanus.”
Chris raises both brows, clearly entertained. “That your idea of flirting?”
You blink. “Oh God. Was I flirting?”
“Little bit.”
You groan quietly, covering your face with both hands. “Abort. Abort mission.”
Chris laughs again, and there’s something gentler in her eyes now. Not teasing, not mocking—just a softness that settles in the space between you. A recognition like she’s been where you are, once.
You lower your hands slowly. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to— I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I noticed,” she says, and it’s somehow the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to you.
Before you can formulate any kind of reply, a loud screech of feedback echoes from the mic at the front of the room. A community officer fumbles with the AV setup, clearly panicking.
Chris sighs and gestures toward the chaos. “I should probably go rescue him before he invents a new frequency of human suffering.”
“Good luck,” you say. “Don’t look directly at the projector, it feeds on confidence.”
Chris smirks again, stepping away. “Don’t go organizing any more paperclips without me.”
You exhale only after she’s gone. And when you glance down at the tray again, your fingers are already moving the blue clips into a new stack.
It starts with a flicker. You’re mid-explanation, showing a small group of teenagers how your demo app simulates basic ethical hacking—just enough to teach them how networks can be vulnerable—when the screen freezes, goes black, and then flashes blue.
Blue screen of death. You freeze, finger still hovering mid-air, and let out the softest possible “Oh no,” which comes out sounding more like an accidental prayer. The teens murmur, disappointed and a few start to drift away. You jab at your keyboard, whispering silent, fervent apologies to the laptop gods. It responds by making a gentle, mechanical wheeze—like it’s tired of life and ready to go into the light.
“Need backup?”
You don’t even look up. “Only if it comes with tech skills and snacks.”
There’s a pause.
Then Chris says, “I brought coffee.”
Your eyes snap up. She's standing there again, holding her cup in one hand and a power cable in the other, her brow slightly raised in amused concern.
“I think it overheated,” you mutter. “It wasn’t even doing that much. Just a light load on the CPU, and the fan was running fine, and then—” You exhale. “Okay, I'm spiraling. That’s what I’m doing.”
Chris sets her coffee down and crouches beside you. “Let me guess. You’re about to blame yourself for a hardware failure no one could’ve prevented.”
You glance at her sideways. “You say that like it’s not totally reasonable.”
Chris pulls the laptop closer and checks the connections. “You remind me of Street, honestly.”
You blink. “Is that good?”
She smiles. “He’s the kind of person who takes it personally when his toaster burns bread. But yeah—it’s good.”
You’re trying to formulate a thank-you, or at least something witty involving toasters, when her fingers accidentally brush against yours on the keyboard. You don’t move and neither does she.
It’s just a touch, really. Skin against skin, light as static. But it holds—like a beat of silence in the middle of a sentence—and the air between you seems to pause.
Then, softly:
“You’re not what I expected,” Chris says.
You turn, confused. “I thought you said that.”
She shakes her head. “You said it about me. But I didn’t get to say it back.”
She’s looking at you differently now, less teasing and more open. Curious, almost careful.
“I figured you’d be the quiet type,” she continues, “head down, all code and confidence. But you’re—”
“Weird?” you offer.
Chris smiles. “Unexpected in a good way.”
You sit very still. Not because you’re afraid she’ll stop, but because you’re afraid if you move, the moment will break.
Chris tilts her head. “You okay?”
You nod slowly. “I just... I don’t really know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This. The flirty thing, emotional thing or whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely between you like it’s an invisible science project you're not qualified to touch.
Chris leans in a little. “It doesn’t have to be a ‘thing’ yet.”
You meet her eyes. “But it is something.”
She holds your gaze. “Yeah, I think it is.”
Your laptop lets out a tiny bing—the kind of noise it makes when it's rebooted successfully. But neither of you look at it. Chris glances down at your hand. Not touching anymore, but still close.
Then she stands, slow and steady, offering you the cable. “Try this. If it crashes again, I’ll authorize a ceremonial smashing.”
You take it from her, hand shaking just enough to feel. As you plug it in, the screen springs to life. The demo resets and a teen nearby cheers. You force a smile, wave them back over. But Chris hasn’t moved far. She lingers a moment longer, watching you—not the screen. Not the crowd, you.
Then she says, “Find me after if you want to talk more.”
And she walks away. Not with swagger, not like she knows what she just did. Just calm, steady and real.
You exhale through your teeth and mutter, “What the hell just happened?”
No one answers.
The room’s almost empty now. Plastic chairs are being stacked, leftover pamphlets gathered into sad little piles. A janitor somewhere is vacuuming with enough passive aggression to be considered a form of protest.
You’re kneeling by your table, coiling cables like they’re sacred artifacts, when you hear boots. You know it’s her before you look up. Chris approaches slowly, holding a second cup of iced coffee. It’s got your name written on the side in marker—misspelled. You're weirdly touched by that and she offers it wordlessly.
You take it with a murmured “Thanks,” though you’re not sure if you're thanking her for the drink, for coming back, or for everything she hasn’t said yet.
She sits on the edge of your table, feet not quite touching the floor, elbows resting on her knees. You continue packing just to have something to do with your hands.
“So,” she says after a beat. “You survived.”
“Barely,” you say. “The laptop came back from the dead, but it’s holding a grudge.”
Chris chuckles, then watches you for a long second.
"You’re quiet again,” she says.
You nod, eyes still on a bundle of zip ties. “Yeah, it’s my default setting.”
“I like your default.”
That makes you look up. You regret it instantly—her expression is too open, too sincere. You’re not used to people looking at you like that.
“I’m not really someone people flirt with,” you say.
Chris arches a brow. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’m awkward, a little intense and I make things weird.”
“I like weird.”
You try to laugh but it gets stuck halfway.
Chris waits a moment, then shifts forward, hands folded loosely in her lap. “Can I ask you something?”
You nod cautiously.
“Do I make you nervous?”
“Yes,” you say immediately. Then wince. “Sorry, that was blunt.”
Chris grins. “I appreciate blunt.”
“I mean—you’re... You. You’re confident and calm and actually intimidating. You’ve seen real danger. I panic when Wi-Fi goes down.”
Chris leans in, elbows on her knees. “Can I tell you a secret?”
You nod, surprised.
“I’d take someone honest and awkward over someone smooth any day. Especially now.” Her eyes soften. “After everything with Kira and Ty, I’m not looking for polished. I’m looking for real.”
That hits something deep inside your chest. You try to swallow past it.
Chris continues, voice lower now. “You’re not awkward because you’re unsure. You’re awkward because you care.”
You blink. “That’s actually the nicest thing anyone’s said to me.”
Chris smiles, just a little. “You said you don’t know how to do this. That’s fine. I don’t need you to know how; I just want to know if you want to.”
You meet her eyes. The room seems quieter suddenly. The moment stretches: warm, tense, a little terrifying.
“I do,” you say. “I just I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”
Chris stands. Not looming—just present and steady with a hand on the table beside yours.
“Then mess it up,” she says. “I’ll still be here.”
Your eyes sting, suddenly and stupidly. You look down, laughing under your breath. “That’s not fair.”
“What isn’t?”
“You saying stuff like that. You’re really good at this.”
Chris smiles again. “No. I’m just being honest.”
You look up. She’s closer now, not touching you but close enough. And for once, you don’t pull away.
You're not breathing. Or if you are, it's shallow and awkward—like your lungs forgot how to do their job now that she's standing this close. Chris doesn’t move; she doesn’t lean in, doesn’t pull away. She just waits, calm and patient; letting the silence settle around you like soft static.
And maybe that’s what does it.
You blurt, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Chris raises one brow, but says nothing.
You rush on, words tumbling too fast to catch. “I mean, with you and with this. I haven’t had—this kind of thing before. Not really, not with someone like you. Someone who’s real and solid. And terrifyingly calm while I’m out here spiraling about HDMI ports and misspelled coffee cups.”
Chris blinks. “My coffee was spelled right.”
You point at yours. “Mine says ‘Emoola.’ I don’t even know how that happens.”
She laughs, sharp and surprised. You press your lips together, embarrassed—but you see it: that flicker of joy behind her eyes. It’s unforced and entirely because of you. You inhale and let it out slow.
“I guess I’m saying,” you murmur, quieter now, “that I like you a lot and it’s scary because you see things. You see me and I don’t always like being seen.”
Chris studies you.
“Tough. I see you anyway.”
You laugh, and it’s raw this time. Real. She moves then—just a step forward. Her hand grazes the table again, the edge of your elbow. Not claiming, just grounding.
“I don’t need perfect,” Chris says. “I need honest. And you’ve been that since the minute you panicked over paperclips.”
You wince. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
There’s a beat. The space between you hums. You look up at her and she meets your gaze. Steady and open.
You speak before you overthink it: “Can I see you again?”
Chris nods with no hesitation.
“You’re seeing me now,” she says.
You smile. It's small but it feels huge.
Then, in a whisper like a promise: “I want to keep seeing you.”
Chris leans in—not for a kiss. Not yet. But she rests her forehead lightly against yours. A moment, a breath.
“Yes,” she murmurs.
✏️ AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Hi and thank you so much for reading! 💻✨
This little story was written from a soft, nerdy place in my heart—and it means a lot if you made it all the way here. Just a small heads-up: English isn’t my first language, so there may be the occasional odd phrasing or grammar quirk. I’m always open to kind and constructive feedback—especially if it helps me grow as a writer.
Summary: When SWAT goes undercover at an exclusive Beverly Hills charity gala to catch a wealthy criminal, the youngest member of 20-Squad is paired with Deacon Kay to pose as an engaged couple. What starts as a simple cover story quickly becomes complicated as fake smiles, stolen dances, and convincing affection begin to feel a little too real.💘
Thank you to @thecranberrypineapple who requested it! Loved writing it! Hope you enjoy it! So sorry for the delay in getting to it and disappearing
Everyone underestimated you because you were twenty. It happened at every crime scene. Every briefing. Every arrest. Until they watched you kick down a door better than half the academy graduates. Still...
The Beverly Hills elite weren't exactly expecting SWAT. Which made you and Deacon the perfect undercover pair. "You've got to be kidding." Hondo grinned. "Nope." He tossed Deacon a velvet invitation before looking at you. "Congratulations. You're engaged."
Your eyebrows nearly disappeared into your hairline. "...Excuse me?" Tan burst into laughter. "It's the cover." Chris leaned against the table with crossed arms. "Rich investors. Been together three years. Looking to donate to the charity auction." Street immediately smirked. "Oh this is gonna be fun."
You shot him a glare. "I'm literally twenty." "And?" Luca laughed. "You look twenty-five in a dress." You blinked. "...I don't know whether to take that as a compliment."
💎💎💎💎
The mansion looked like something straight out of a movie. Crystal chandeliers. Live orchestra. Champagne fountains. People wearing watches worth more than your yearly salary. You adjusted the emerald-green evening gown while staring at yourself in the mirror. It hugged your figure just enough to feel dangerous.
"Ready?" You turned. And promptly forgot how breathing worked. Deacon stood in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. Bow tie. Polished shoes. Hair slicked back. He looked… Illegal. He caught you staring. "What?" "...Nothing." "You hesitated."
"I absolutely did not." "You absolutely did." You rolled your eyes dramatically. "I was simply appreciating that you clean up well." A tiny smile tugged at his lips. "So do you."
Heat flooded your cheeks. "...Thanks."
💎💎💎💎
The first problem came almost immediately. The host greeted you both with a smile. "There they are!" Before you could react— An arm wrapped around your waist. Warm. Solid. Comfortable. Deacon.
He leaned down just enough to whisper, "Play along." Your heart immediately forgot how to function. "Oh, believe me..." You whispered back. "I'm trying."
For two hours… You danced. Laughed. Held hands. Pretended to know each other's favorite wines. Pretended you had met in Florence. Pretended you'd adopted a golden retriever named Winston. Pretended your wedding venue was already booked. The lies came easier than expected.
Mostly because… You were having fun. Too much fun.
Then the suspect appeared. The billionaire collector SWAT had been tracking. He glanced at you. Then at Deacon. "You two are newly engaged?" Your pulse skipped. Deacon didn't even blink. "I finally convinced her."
The man laughed. "What took so long?" Without missing a beat— Deacon looked directly at you. "I was waiting until I knew she wasn't going anywhere." Your stomach flipped. That… Wasn't in the briefing.
You looked at him. His expression never changed. Professional. Calm. Completely committed to the cover.
Still...Your heart refused to believe it was entirely fake.
💎💎💎💎
The mission fell apart twenty minutes later. Gunshots. Guests screaming. The suspect bolted through the gardens.
"LAPD SWAT!"
Everything happened at once. You kicked off your heels. Deacon drew his pistol. Tan and Street crashed through the hedges from the opposite side.
Within sixty seconds… The suspect was in cuffs.
Mission complete.
💎💎💎💎
Later… Long after statements were finished… Long after the ballroom emptied… You stood alone on one of the mansion balconies. The city lights glittered below.
"You okay?" Deacon stepped beside you. "Yeah." Silence settled between you. Then you laughed. "What?" "I can't believe Winston doesn't exist." He chuckled. "He was a good dog." "The best."
Another quiet moment. Then… "I liked pretending." The words escaped before you could stop them. "...What?" You stared out at the skyline. "The cover." Your voice softened. "It felt..."
Real.
You immediately regretted saying it. "You don't have to—" "I liked it too." You looked at him. His eyes never left yours. "I know it's inappropriate." He spoke carefully. "And complicated." "Very."
"And there's an age difference." "There is." "But every time we worked together..." He smiled. "I kept finding reasons to choose you as my partner." Your heart nearly exploded.
"...Seriously?" "You notice everything." He laughed quietly. "I was hoping eventually you'd notice me." You stepped closer. "So..."
He mirrored the movement. "So."
"We're technically not engaged anymore." "I checked." "The paperwork cleared?" He grinned. "Pretty sure." You laughed.
"I guess..." Your voice became barely above a whisper. "You'll have to ask me for real."
He stared at you for one long second. Then reached into his tuxedo pocket. Your eyes widened. "No way." He pulled out… A cheap plastic ring from the charity auction prize bags. "I was saving this."
You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over. "You are not proposing with a toy ring." "I absolutely am." He knelt anyway. "Will you go on a real date with me?" You covered your face, still laughing. "That was so unbelievably cheesy." "I've been told."
You slipped the plastic ring onto your finger. "Then yes." He stood. "So..." "So?" "Our first real date." "No fake fiancé cover?" "Nope." "No billionaires?" "I hope not." "No gunfire?" "Definitely not." You smiled. "I'd like that." "So would I." For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then, gently—giving you every chance to pull away—Deacon cupped your cheek. "You sure?" Instead of answering… You rose onto your toes. And kissed him. Soft. Sweet. The kind of kiss that promised there would be many more once they weren't pretending anymore.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling. "I think this beats fake engagement." You smiled back. "Yeah." "It really does."
Imagine: You'd never thought that you'd end up divorced, but here you were. This was your first day shift in quite some time, only to bump into your ex-husband.
Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, Post Divorce healing
Pairings: Michael Robinavitch x Reader
Word count: 2,598 words
Universe: The Pitt
Reader gender: Female
Part 1 of 5
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i was inspired to write this after reading @youvebeenlivingfictional Mrs R Part One and Two and @bi-bard Thanks For Holding on So Long; Sorry Love Sucks
A stack of documents was all that existed between your past and your future, but you couldn’t bring yourself to sign on the dotted line. It would mean that you conceded, admitting that you had failed. That your marriage had broken down most fundamentally when communication had gone quiet.
So here you were, stiffly sitting in your lawyer’s office, staring down at the dreaded blank signature line, where you could sign away everything with one quick signature. Yet your mind swirled with indecision and doubt; you didn’t want this. This hadn’t been your choice. It had been his. He had been the one to file, to serve you these very documents.
You should have seen this coming after he had become a virtual stranger in your life, passing by like ships in the night as he took on another long shift after he had already worked three in a row. He would claim that they needed him, that they were short-staffed, and that COVID had left them stretched thin.
The trauma, the pain he had hidden behind a mask of professionalism, he had started to use in your presence. He began to hold you at a distance that had never been there before. You had tried to reach out, but there had been pushback. You had mistakenly believed it had been the first sign of burnout, but he had fought back.
You tried to take a step closer, tried to be there, but that only caused a chill to settle between the two of you. An iciness that you had never experienced before as he took another step, inching further out of the door.
Without speaking, you picked up the pen and swiftly signed your name. Your heart was pounding loudly in your ears, and tears would come as soon as you were standing in the middle of your newly leased apartment across town. Only then would you openly grieve for what had been. For all that you had lost in slow motion, as the grains of sand had slipped through your grasp.
You had seemingly fallen off your hamster wheel, as you stared up, stunned, the world had begun to move on without you. Numbed by your own experience, as the love of your life had silently chosen to end the life you two had built together. You were left with the building blocks you brought into the townhouse that he undoubtedly still lived in.
The fight in you still lingered, wanting nothing more than to shout and scream until your voice became hoarse, but what good would that do now? You had given in, raising your white flag as you surrendered to his demands.
This was your new future, one without him. He had chosen to walk this path, never explaining why he had pushed you aside. Had there been someone else? Had he fallen out of love with you? Your questions would go unanswered as you pushed the papers across the desk towards the unsmiling face of your two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour attorney.
Before she could offer her condolences, you spoke for the first time since sitting down at her desk. “File this as soon as you are able; I just want to try and move forward.” You gritted your teeth, forcing out the bitter-tasting words.
“I’m not planning on changing my name, so don’t worry about getting the necessary forms.” This was the one decision you were holding steadfast to; it was the only piece of him that you couldn’t be forced to let go of. For now, it was still yours until you were truly ready to move on.
You would tell your friends, family, co-workers, and anyone who would dare to ask the same practised line. “Oh, it’s such a hassle, too many forms to fill out and it's just a name after all.”
A name, oh, it was so much more than that. It was a scar that wore on your battered heart, a band-aid barely holding you together.
Eighteen Months Later
When the ink had dried, this had been your sign to jump headfirst into work, to try and forget the ever-lingering pain that thoughts of your now ex-husband wrought. You loved your job, and your boss had been more than understanding that you had needed time to find your footing once again.
Your shoebox of an apartment, which had once been one box short of a fort, was now furnished and decorated. All it had taken was one too many glasses of wine and doomscrolling through Netflix’s entire back catalogue for the third time for you to finally decide to unpack your life.
Now, only one box remained left in the far back corner of your wardrobe. The photographs of happier times, of your wedding day. It was heartbreaking to even glance in their direction, so they had become buried under fallen clothes. You knew they were hidden below, but it hurt just a little less. One day you would have the courage to face those joyful moments frozen in time, but that day wasn’t today.
This was only the first step back out into the world, pulling your thick jacket with your surname Robinavitch emblazoned on the front, ready to head out. Your fingers lingered over the stitching for a second longer.
This was going to be a long shift, your first early in quite some time. The boss had been giving you the night shift to avoid any awkward interactions, but you couldn’t avoid him forever. You had opted for this early shift when your colleague had used their vacation days. You had made the choice.
There was a chance that you would run into Robby when you were handing over your patient. You were at the very start of your journey as a paramedic, and he was the next stop along the way as an Emergency Medicine A&E Doctor.
Dr Michael "Robby" Robinavitch had been your safe harbour after long, stressful shifts, a friend long before becoming your lover, partner, and eventually husband. Now, ex-husband, you had to internally correct yourself with that small fact. Those two little letters at the front made such a difference, forever reminding you of your new reality. You still struggled to move past that fact; it hung on like a thread, refusing to snap when pulled too tightly. It held on by the smallest of fibers, taking on all the weight.
“I can do this,” You muttered softly again and again, your mantra to see you through the next twelve hours, as you raced against the clock to get back to the apartment, which didn’t feel quite like a home just yet.
The first five hours of your shift had raced by, as job after job came over the radio. Sending you from one end of the city, right back to the other. There was always another patient; it kept your mind occupied as you focused on delivering the highest quality of care.
It didn’t matter the degree of injury or ailment; each patient was treated with the same degree of kindness as you listened, assessed, and delivered the appropriate treatment before transporting them to the nearest hospital. That is what had led to this particular moment in time, as you were now standing in the middle of a familiar accident and emergency department, fondly known as The Pitt.
Upon entering with the patient, your coworker Frankie noticed you hadn’t spoken and quickly took charge, taking the spotlight off of you. You stood frozen at the nurse base whilst your co-worker reeled off the details and nature of your patient’s injury and important medical history to Charge Nurse Dana Evans. She was the ringleader of the department, whom every doctor, nurse, and intern respected. If she asked you to do something, you did it then and there.
A slight, yet warm smile tugged at her lips when you first approached her domain. It was a welcome back, and you have been missed, all wrapped up in the smallest facial expression. It was difficult enough for you to cross over the threshold of the ambulance bay after realizing which hospital your rig had pulled up to, so it was a pleasant surprise to see an old friend. Unfortunately, the likelihood of bumping into your ex-husband rose with each passing second. You tried your hardest not to let your eyes wander around. You would not, nor could you, act as anything other than professional.
The longer you stood in the Pitt, the less likely the odds were in your favour. You were acting akin to some of the student medics who had ridden along, like a deer in headlights when they first saw a gushing head wound or a broken limb. As you took a few deep breaths and calmed yourself, your radio sparked into life as the voice of dispatch filtered over the airwaves. Another job was on the horizon; it was time to depart.
Suddenly, regardless of the countless sounds, the beeping of machines and yells of pain, agony, and life, you turned your head out of instinct in the direction of his voice. Old habits die hard, as all other sounds are drowned out, becoming white noise. Your focus was on the sound of him as it dragged you and your heart back under.
You watched as his head turned away from his patient, only to catch your gaze. You two were caught in a stand-off, waiting to see which one of you would move first. His lips moved, speaking words that you couldn’t hear.
It was the feeling of a gentle touch on your shoulder that dragged you back to reality, shifting your eyes away from his. Releasing the pressure that held you still as you turned to face your fellow paramedic.
“I lost you there for a second. Are you alright?” Frankie asked, the concern playing upon her features as she started to move in the direction of the ambulance bay doors. “Yeah,” you started as you moved, matching her stride to be able to walk and talk.
“I’m good, I didn’t…” For a moment, you were lost on what to say. You were preoccupied with making your escape from this hospital, from the memories that it was trying to invoke, and from Michael.
“You don’t need to explain it, but it will get easier. Just take one day at a time,” she said, smiling through her words as you crossed over the threshold back out in the early afternoon. “I’ll handle the checks before we hit the road,” she continued. “You don’t need to do that,” you replied, not wanting to leave her to handle it alone, as you knew that it would take half the time if you did it as a team. You watched as Frankie motioned with a nod to turn around.
Turning, you find yourself face to face with your ex-husband, with Michael. Now you understand her intentions. “Michael-” Your voice was softer, quieter than you had thought possible as his name slipped from between your lips.
Your gaze darted downwards, looking anywhere but at him. This was far from what you had wanted; you wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you to avoid any awkward small talk, yet here you were.
His ex-wife hadn’t been on his bingo card of what he had expected to encounter during his shift. He knew that there was always a chance, given the nature of her profession, which worked in tandem with his own. It had been how they had met nearly a decade before.
Ten years ago, they had been friends, two years after that, he had been proposing, and now they were nearly two years past their divorce. Regardless of how amicable it had been, this was always going to be awkward. Regardless of how his heart still seemed to skip a beat whenever his eyes found hers.
He had been the one to break under the weight, as he chose to shut the pain out, to close himself off from anyone and everyone. His former wife had been the one to bear the brunt of it as he abruptly threw up a glass wall between the two of them. Trying to take on the emotional, mental, and physical strain upon himself instead of sharing the load with her. She had been out in the thick of it as much as he had been.
She had seen as many of the horrors of COVID as he had. But in the moment, he hadn’t considered that each time he returned, shift after shift utterly drained. He had simply gone through the motions, barely engaging as she spoke of her day. In the beginning, he had tried to give her the attention and affection she deserved, but as the months dragged on, that had petered off. How long had it been since he had last held her in his arms?
How long had it been since his lips had lightly brushed against hers? Michael couldn’t say, but the ache pulled him out here. As he had spoken her name, it felt heavy in his mouth, but he continued to speak. “How are you doing?” He had truly been curious. If they were ever going to be comfortable working alongside one another again, then he had to be the one to reach out. To begin the dialogue.
He couldn’t help but offer up a soft smile, trying to see if he could heal some of the damage that he had brought into her world. Michael might not be ready to face the source of his trauma, but he could try with her. He still loved her; he always would.
“You know, I’ve had good days and bad days, but working keeps me busy,” she replied after what felt like a lifetime of silence. He understood that it wasn’t easy for her; this was just like starting over. They were almost strangers, but there was a history between them that should have been handled better.
Before he could get another word out, her colleague hollered out from the back of the ambulance. “We’ve got another job, Robinavitch!” That was something he hadn't expected. She still had his last name; she hadn’t filled out the paperwork to go back to her maiden name. It shocked him; he tried to process this new piece of information.
“I’ve got to go, but I’d like to talk.” She spoke clearly for the first time, looking over her shoulder at the rig before returning to meet his gaze. “I still have the same number, if you have it.” All Michael could do was nod.
“I still have your number; we do need to talk.” There had been moments when her birthday had come and gone or when he had been working through the holidays, that he'd considered reaching out. He never had, but he had wanted to. “Be safe out there.” It was the least he could say, smiling through his words as a small piece of himself snapped back into place. “Be safe too,” she replied, giving him a small wave as she rushed off.
Michael stood there for a moment, watching as the ambulance left the hospital, merging into traffic and disappearing. Feeling slightly lighter than he had when he awoke this morning, he turned on his heel and re-entered the department ready to save lives.
Summary: Luca's team is concerned about his relationship with you. He suggests that you break the ice with them and you learn more about his family.
Warnings: minor angst, major fluff, 20 Squad being a family, spoilers about Street and his mom
Word Count: 1.7k+ words
Masterlist Directory | Luca Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List
“Are you coming out with us tonight, Luca?” Street asks before he closes his locker.
“Not tonight,” Luca answers. “Maybe next time.”
Hondo and Deacon slow their movements before they turn to look at Luca.
“You have another date?” Deacon inquires.
“Same girl?” Hondo adds.
“That is how it tends to work when you have a girlfriend,” Luca jokes. When he sees their concerned expression, he sighs and closes his locker. “Why don’t you like her?”
“It’s not that we don’t like her,” Deacon explains, “but we haven’t met her. We don’t know what to think.”
“Nobody wants to see you get hurt again, man,” Hondo adds.
“How do you expect us to be sure of her, or think anything at all, without meeting her? You tell us about her…” He shrugs and adds, “Hard to form an opinion without knowing about her character, like if she’s the kind of girl that will break your heart and make you crash with one of us again.”
“Street!” Hondo yells.
“He didn’t mean that,” Deacon defends.
“Yes, he did,” Luca replies. “And I get it. You may not believe it, but I do. It won’t end like that. When the time is right, I’ll introduce her.”
“Be careful,” Hondo encourages.
“Yeah, I got it. Maybe tell Street instead, though.”
Luca sighs as he sits across the table from you. You’ve been dating for several months, you love him and can see a future with him, so whatever is bothering him concerns you, too.
“Do you need a raincheck?” you ask.
“No, no!” Luca answers quickly, taking your hand. “It’s not you, not this date. I’m sorry.”
“Then what is it?”
“My team, they’re protective and think… They think you’re going to break my heart and then they’ll have to deal with me again.”
You frown, your hand relaxing in Luca’s hold. This isn’t the first time he has mentioned his team and their mixed feelings about you. It bothers you. Not that they want to meet you or that they’re protective of Luca, but how it affects Luca. Moreover, you don’t want anyone to think you are willing or capable of leaving Luca.
“Wait,” Luca murmurs, gently squeezing your hand.
You look up quickly and shift your grip. “Sorry, just thinking about the insane idea that I could ever break your heart. It would be the other way around.”
Luca’s brow furrows before he sees your playful smile, and then he shakes his head and chuckles. “What if you meet the guys this weekend? Deacon and I were going to look at a few apartments I may be interested in, but I bet we could change the plans.”
“Break the ice,” you add, nodding. “Have you considered what might happen if they still don’t like me?”
Luca leans forward, his smile widening as he whispers, “I don’t think that’s possible.”
You match his position, and your nose bumps Luca’s. “Let’s hope we don’t find out.”
After a quick kiss, Luca sits back and asks, “Would me cooking improve our chances?”
“No,” you answer immediately. “I can’t eat and compliment your talents at the same time.”
“Something you and Street already have in common.”
Luca raises his arm and grabs your hip before you can pace past him again. He pulls you to his side on the short brick wall outside the restaurant.
“It’s going to be fine,” he assures you, brushing his fingers over your cheek.
“I’m not nervous,” you explain softly, leaning against Luca as you look into his gorgeous blue eyes. “Luca, I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life.”
“But?” he presses.
“They’re your family.”
Luca’s eyes flit away from you quickly. “They’re also here.”
You step back and drop your hands away from Luca to press them against your sides. One of the men waves at you, and you smile as Luca stands and steps to your side.
“Do I have to start this? The silence is killing me,” the one who waved whispers. “When does the interrogation start?”
“Who let you out this morning?” the man closest to him replies.
“I’m Daniel Harrelson,” the one nearest you introduces, shaking your hand. “Everybody calls me Hondo.”
“Nice to meet you,” you reply before turning to shake another hand.
“I’m Deacon Kay,” he says. “You’ve already heard Street and Tan.”
Street narrows his eyes and grips your hand as he shakes it. You return his tight hand placement and hold his stare. When he steps back, he nods to Hondo, who rolls his eyes.
“One question you have to answer before we go in,” Hondo says.
“About my intentions with Luca?” you guess.
“We’ll get to that,” Deacon interjects.
“Where’s the best pizza place in LA?” Hondo asks.
“Trick question,” you reply. “If Luca isn’t making it, I have to go to Santa Monica for a decent pie.”
Hondo purses his lips and hesitates. “Man, she’s good. You’re good.”
An hour later, you’re laughing over a shared dessert as Luca tells the story of your disastrous first date. You spilled a drink all over Luca, his watch got caught in your hair, and your car wouldn’t start when the evening was supposed to be over. The fact that you kept going out after that seems enough to convince his team that you’re serious about your relationship with Luca.
“What about your second date?” Street asks.
“Streeter, we don’t need a play-by-play of their relationship,” Hondo points out.
“You actually interrupted our second date,” you reply. “I got to ride the ferris wheel on the pier by myself while you dealt with a hostage situation. And I won a teddy bear for the cutest kid in the world.”
“You just haven’t seen my baby pictures,” Street brags.
“Place and time,” you answer.
When you leave the restaurant nearly three hours after arriving, you sit in Luca’s passenger seat and smile.
“So, did they like me as much as I like them?” you inquire.
“Are you kidding?” Luca replies. “They loved you. And don’t start liking them too much, this family-“
“Puts the fun in dysfunctional?” you finish, quoting something Luca said after a long day of Street and Hondo arguing.
Luca laughs and kisses your hand. “Something like that.”
“Yet you let me give Street my number,” you muse.
“That was purely for my entertainment.”
“I was thinking for date night this week, we’d go to a cooking class then watch the sunset at the beach,” you suggest. “What do you think?”
“Bit simple,” Street points out.
“Good thing it’s not your date,” Tan argues. “Luca will love it.”
“Does he need a cooking class?” Hondo interjects.
“Of course not,” you answer with a smile. “He can make everyone feel inferior.”
Deacon laughs and shakes his head before you say, “It’s an Italian chef teaching it. Ales… I don’t remember his name, but Luca really likes him.”
“Then it’s perfect!” Deacon says. “He’ll have an amazing time with him no matter what you do.”
“You didn’t always think that,” you point out.
“Are you ever going to let us forget that?” Hondo asks, bumping your shoulder.
“Not likely. Luca is everything I’ve ever wanted, and you doubted that, so I get rights to use it however and whenever I want.”
“Personally, I had total faith in your relationship,” Street tells you.
“No, he didn’t,” the rest of his team mumbles.
Your engagement ring sparkles when you enter SWAT HQ with a cake box in your hands months after meeting the 20 David Squad. The man you’ve come in search of is nowhere to be seen, so you settle for someone else.
“Luca!” you call. He looks at you but doesn’t respond, so you add, “Luca, my darling fiancé.”
“Oh, hello!” he replies, jogging toward you. “If it isn’t my beautiful wife-to-be. What brings you here?” He rises to his tiptoes and peeks into the box.
“It’s not for you,” you say, turning away from him. “I need to see Street.”
“He told you?” Luca inquires.
“Of course he did. We’ve been talking about it for a while.”
“He’s in the kitchen. Hondo tried to get through to him, but he’s shutting us out a little bit.”
“He’ll be okay,” you assure him. “This will help.”
“Traitor,” Luca murmurs before he kisses your temple.
“Love you too,” you call over your shoulder. When you enter the kitchen, you ask, “Street, do you have a minute?”
He stands quickly and smiles. “Only if there’s sugar in the box.”
“Lots of sugar,” you reply. “I’m sorry about everything.”
“I had to send her back to jail. It just… she needs it.”
“No, Street, I’m not sorry for what she did or the consequence, I’m sorry for everything she put you through and the things you had to realize.”
“Why did it take me so long to see it?” he asks, trying to be sneaky as he looks into the cake box.
You flip open the lid and read the icing decorations on top: “Congrats on realizing your mom is a narcissist.”
“A custom cake? You do love me as much as I love you!” Street exclaims as he wraps his arms around your shoulders.
“Custom?” you repeat. “There’s a bakery downtown that makes nothing but mommy and daddy issue designs.”
“Really?” Luca asks.
You turn quickly, smiling as you see Luca walking toward you.
“That looks big enough for the team, Street.”
“Who realized that their mom is a narcissist?” Street challenges, scooping icing off the side of the cake.
“Whose fiancée bought the cake?” Luca replies.
“Whose team thought that the fiancée would break Luca’s heart?” you interject.
“Still stuck on that?” Tan inquires as he enters. “Is that cake?”
“Not for you!” Street replies. “I’m her favorite, we can all admit that.”
“Regret agreeing to meet us yet?” Deacon asks you.
You take Luca’s hand in yours and shake your head. “Family, Deacon.”
He nods and gently pushes Street’s cake box away as he passes.
“Speaking of family,” Luca begins, looking at you.
“We chose a date,” you finish.
Luca’s team begins cheering, and as they turn to one another, Luca kisses you. Through the applause and arguments over who Luca will choose as best man, you hear Tan say, “He’ll never home invade us again!”
Bonus:
“What about when they fight?” Street points out.
“We’re giving her refuge,” Hondo answers with a laugh.
⋯ SUMMARY ; with the annual police verses fire department tournament just around the corner, you catch luca teeter on the edge of his stress // @b-uckyreadss
⋯ PROMPT ; [ fictional couples 1 ] taking each other’s hands during a stressful situation, instantly reliveing the pressure of the situation
you watch from afar as luca strapped his knuckles for what seemed like the twentieth that week – all in preparation of the police verses fire department tournament that he had long been looking froward to since it was announced.
it had also been something he had talked about non-stop. and seeing as he was placed to arm wrestle one of the firefighters from the 126, it seemed to only heighten the intensity of the match set to play out.
Requested by anonymous: "Alright, could you write Luca with a younger reader (25-28 yes old). She's super sweet and bubbly, basically just a sunny disposition. People think she's too young for him/he's too old for her, like especially her family. She grew up really seeking their approval, like she has a problem trying to make other people happy even if it leaves her exhausted, sad, or uncomfortable. but she won't compromise her happiness this time for anyone because she really loves Luca. Sorry if that's too much. I really love your writing" AND a request that I lost about Luca meeting his shy/innocent girlfriend on the beach and keeping their relationship private
Pairing: Dominique Luca x younger!fem!reader
Summary: You're sweet, bubbly, and perfect for Luca. When people begin judging your relationship because of the age gap, you decide that you, Luca, and the love between you are all that matters.
Warnings: age gap, fluff, brief angst, parental judgement
Word Count: 2.0k+ words
A/N: Thanks for the kind words, anon! And sorry to the other anon whose ask I lost; I hope I remembered the gist of it. :)
“What’d you think of that one, sweetheart?”
Luca looks up from his surfboard when he hears the question. It sounds wrong like the man in the wetsuit is calling someone sweetheart when he shouldn’t be. The word is dripping in condescension, and Luca is prepared to stand up for the woman being addressed with the sarcastic and likely uninvited pet name.
“It was really good!” you reply, smiling brightly.
Immediately, Luca regrets turning his attention away from his board. He’s quickly convinced he can never get it back from you. You playfully shove the surfer, who grips his arm like he’s in incredible pain. At least she’s okay, Luca thinks as he tries to focus on prepping his board for his morning surf.
“Peters was looking at you again,” the man with you complains.
“Why?” you inquire, using your heel to trace a shape in the sand.
With a sigh, he replies, “Don’t worry about it. I’m going back in. Pay attention long enough to give me some honest feedback?”
“You’re always good,” you assure him. “But I’ll try.”
Luca stands and lifts his board while your friend runs into the surf again.
“Good morning,” you greet as he nears you.
“Morning,” Luca replies with a smile. “How’s the surf look today?”
Nodding, you look at the water and say, “Good. Offshore breeze should help, water’s glassier than it was yesterday, and the wave shapes have been nice.”
“You know your stuff.”
You look down at the sand, and Luca decides then he’d love to get to know you.
“I’m Luca,” he says, dropping the end of his board to shake your hand.
“Luca!” your friend calls as he returns from a wave you didn’t witness. “I thought I recognized that board.”
“And I should have recognized the hair,” Luca replies, fist-bumping him.
“How do you two know each other?” you inquire.
They both look pointedly at their boards, and you roll your eyes.
“Better question is, how do you two know each other?” Luca questions.
“He’s my neighbor,” you explain. “He’s trying to ‘get me out of my shell.’ His words.”
“It’s working!” he defends. “You wouldn’t have talked to a stranger on the beach six months ago.”
You lower your voice to confide in Luca, “That’s true.”
“Excuse me,” your neighbor asks, marching toward a surfer you recognize: Peters.
“He doesn’t like Peters looking at you?” Luca deduces.
“I don’t know why,” you say with a shrug. “Good luck surfing. Or have fun, whatever the right phrase is for non-competitive wave riding.”
“Either works. And between you and me, it’s because you deserve better than Peters.”
You look down again, but you’re smiling, so Luca decides to use this opportunity like a perfect wave and ride it for as long as possible.
“Would you like to get dinner with me?” he proposes.
Looking up, you answer, “I’d love to.”
That evening, Luca glances at his watch while Street and Tan argue about which restaurant makes better cheesecake. He needs to leave now, or he’ll be late to your first date, and while you seem incredibly sweet and would probably understand, that isn’t how he wants to start a relationship with you.
“Guys, I’m gonna head out!” he calls, pointing over his shoulder.
“What? Why?” Street inquires. “We’re going to your favorite place!”
“You don’t know what my favorite place is, Streeter. And the waves are going to be perfect in the morning, so I need some rest. Have fun!”
After he leaves his team, he meets you at an oceanside restaurant and takes your hand as you’re led to a table on the deck. The more you talk and open up, Luca realizes that you’re not only sweet, you’re downright bubbly, and possess a sunny disposition about everything in the world. Yes, you’re innocent and can be shy, but you open up to Luca. He knows he was right this morning, and he needs to know everything about you.
Four Months Later
“Pretty dress,” your mother compliments at family dinner.
“Thank you! Luca got it for me,” you reply, holding the skirt as you look down at the dainty details lining the top.
“You’re still with him?” your father inquires. “Sweetheart, I’m glad you’re happy but you are too young for him.”
Your mom lays her hand on his arm as she amends, “He’s quite a bit older than you.”
You swallow harshly, fighting the urge to do something that will regain their approval. You’ve been trying to make them happy your entire life, and when they continuously bring up the age difference between you and Luca, it makes you sad.
“Why don’t you go out with that neighbor of yours?” your mother suggests. “The surfer with the pretty hair?”
Because then you’d complain there’s too much sand in my house. Rather than voicing that opinion, you remind her, “He has a fiancé. And she’s one of my best friends.”
“Maybe I can set you up with a son of one of my buddies,” your father says.
You nod, picking at the appetizer on your plate with no trace of your usual smile. Being aware that you’re a people pleaser doesn’t make dealing with the emotions of disappointing someone any easier.
“I’m happy,” you say softly.
“For now,” your father grumbles.
You decide to change the topic, and as the night goes on, the heaviness in your stomach seems to weigh you down. When you return home, you’re inexplicably exhausted, sad with yourself and your parents, and uncomfortable. You never feel like this with Luca because he accepts you for who you are and doesn’t take advantage of your tendencies to do all you can and more for others. It’s one of the many reasons you love him.
As you lie awake in bed, you make a decision. Your happiness is the only thing that matters. And starting now, you will not compromise your happiness or relationship for anyone. You’ll do it for yourself and for Luca.
“How’d your dinner go?” Luca inquires, brushing a stray hair from your face.
You shrug, and Luca brushes his lips against your temple.
“I don’t want to disappoint them,” you admit. “But I don’t want to put us at risk to do that.”
“Do you care about the age gap?”
“Of course not!”
“Then that’s what’s important. Everything is up to you. I know it’s not easy to hear and even harder to put it into practice but doing what makes you happy is the only way you’ll get what you deserve. You’re sacrificing yourself for others.”
“I just don’t understand why they can’t accept that you make me happy. They don’t care that I love you.”
Luca’s brows raise as he smiles. You realize what you admitted but can’t ask if he’s okay with you saying it before Luca pulls you into a hug that makes all your worries and discomfort disappear.
Luca’s phone buzzes during a sparring match. When he remembers that you are one of the few people who can reach him while he’s at the station, he calls timeout. Ignoring Street’s protests, he lifts his phone and reads the message.
“I gotta go,” he tells his team. “Family thing.”
“You’ve been having a lot of family things,” Deacon says.
“Just tell us what’s going on, man,” Hondo invites. “You know we’re here for you. Don’t have to keep sneakin’ off if you let us help.”
“I…” Luca hesitates, then says, “I don’t know if you can help me get my future in-laws to like me.”
Deacon and Hondo’s jaws drop, and Street snatches Luca’s truck keys out of his hand.
“We’re meeting her right now,” he declares. “Wasn’t a question either, and I can beat you if you try to take these keys back.”
“She’s not feeling great right now,” Luca argues. “Next time.”
Tan pulls Luca’s phone from his hand and taps the message. Luca tries to get his phone back, but Hondo reaches it first. Lifting it to his ear, he raises his hand toward Luca and says, “It’s ringing.”
Luca stops. He’s almost sure you will hang up when you realize it isn’t him calling, but Hondo has a way of disarming people, and you already see the best in everyone you meet.
“Hi,” Hondo greets. “My name is Daniel Harrelson; I work with Luca.” He smiles and holds Luca’s gaze as he says, “Yes, I am Hondo. And Luca is fine. My team and I just wanted to ask if we can finally meet you. Luca hasn’t said a word about you.”
Hondo ends the call a moment later and returns Luca’s phone without a word.
“She said she’ll have coffee and desserts ready when we get there.”
“Watch him,” Deacon warns Luca.
“Alright,” Luca says. He chuckles and shakes his head before inviting his team to follow him to your house. He doesn’t mention that you’re young, sunny, or nearly perfect, but he’s sure they’ll realize quickly. If they disapprove of the relationship, Luca may have to make the hardest decision of his life.
Hondo, Deacon, Street, and Tan watch as you greet Luca at the door. They realize imediately that Luca is in love. Not like the love he’s claimed to be in before, but really, truly, madly in love. What makes Deacon smile is that you are, too. Three of the four men on your walkway don’t notice that you’re younger than Luca, at least not right away. The fourth notices, but only to make well-meaning jokes and take jabs at Luca while they bicker.
“Nice to meet you all,” you say after introductions. “Luca’s told me a lot about you.”
Luca cuts in before Hondo can remind you that they haven’t heard about the relationship.
“We kept the relationship private,” he explains.
“He means he decided to keep me from any possible judgement,” you explain. “I’m getting enough grief from my parents about the age gap without inviting more people to comment on it.”
“I mean I wasn’t going to say anything,” Street begins.
“Then don’t,” Deacon interjects. “He’s kidding.”
Tilting your head, you look at Street, then say, “You’re funny.”
“If you ever get tired of Luca or he throws his back out surfing or something, I’m right here.”
“And you said I’d have to worry about Hondo,” Luca murmurs to Deacon.
“What is that wonderful smell?” Hondo inquires.
“Maybe it’s both of them,” Deacon replies.
“I made some scones, chocolate chip muffins, and brownie bites this morning,” you remember excitedly. “There’s also fresh-brewed coffee. Follow me.”
Luca watches as his team gets to know you. They support the relationship - which they ensure they voice to Luca upon returning to the station - and clearly appreciate your sweet and bright personality. It’s a welcome light in their sometimes dim day-to-day lives.
“So, what are you doing about the parents?” Street inquires as he reaches for another brownie. “If you decide to cut them loose, Deacon and Annie would probably adopt you.”
You look to Deacon, smiling as you expect a deadpanned response that will make you laugh.
“Annie’s going to love you,” he begins. “So, I actually don’t have a response to that because it probably would happen.”
“I think you should just introduce Luca to your parents,” Hondo says, breaking a muffin into smaller pieces. “If we can see how happy the two of you are together, anyone can.”
You look to Luca and decide to do just that. It won’t be an overnight change, but if they see that you love him, they’ll grow to accept him. You and Luca are the only people that matter in your relationship, and you’re happy with him and him alone.
“When’s your birthday?” Tan asks. “We’ll add it to the calendar.”
“What calendar?” you ask.
“The family calendar,” Luca tells you. “I wasn’t kidding when I said if they like you you’re stuck with them.”
Smiling, you ask, “What else is on the calendar?”
“Not your parents’ birthdays!” Street exclaims from the living room, looking at your pictures.
Summary: It's (Y/n)'s first week back to work after maternity leave. But it goes to a bad start when an accident happens and (Y/n) ends up hurt and in danger on a mission.
Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A quiet tune hummed at the back of Luca's throat in a vain attempt to try and keep himself awake, but he could feel his eyelids flagging and his view of the bathroom was starting to blur and become obscured.
He let out a small grunt before he went back to humming and looked down at the little girl in his arms. Every few seconds, he jostled his arms up and down, moving Lottie up and down while he kissed the back of her head and hummed into her hair.
He trailed his lips down to kiss her cheek and tilted his neck so he could check and see if she was still awake or not. She had suddenly gone rather quiet in his arms.
It had to be sometime around one in the morning.
It seemed like fate that this was the week (Y/n) was finally going to go back to work after her maternity leave, and now Lottie had a cold. The nine month old had been coughing and croaking for two days now and she had been sick rather a lot today.
Luca didn't care that he and (Y/n) had to be up at seven and it was well past midnight already. He didn't care that he had been in the bathroom for what felt like an eternity but what was probably half an hour now. All he cared about was making sure his little girl was settled and going back to sleep.
He and (Y/n) had managed an hour or two of sleep before Lottie woke them up, again, as she was clearly disgruntled and in pain.
She had been crying and coughing so Luca had given her some medicine but she suddenly started to croak and wheeze and while she was like that, there was no chance of her going to sleep. He had resorted to the bathroom to try something new.
Luca filled the sink with boiling water, put some vapour drops in the water, lathered Lottie in vapour cream to try and clear her airways. And now he was holding her over the sink, getting her to breathe in the steam to clear her chest.
He thought she would scream at him and wriggle and sob, but the steam seemed to help straight away. Her coughing got worse but in a good way, it was deeper and allowed her to take proper breaths.
Almost half an hour Luca had been doubled over the sink with his daughter in his arms, and he felt like he could sleep standing up. But she was keeping him awake on his toes, if he stopped bouncing her in his arms for more than ten seconds, she would whine and bat at his hand to make him continue.
"That's it babygirl." He spoke quietly, grinning when he realised she was asleep. Her head lolled onto his bicep and she snuffled, croaking as she dozed off in his arms.
Her chubby cheek pressed into his arm and her small hands flopped over Luca's arm that was bound around her middle while his other arm was beneath her legs and bum to keep her in a sitting position, hovered over the sink. She had been kicking her legs out for a while like she had been trying her best to stay awake, but she had finally settled down.
He could feel each croaky breath she took beginning to even out against his arm and her runny nose trickled onto his bicep. Her small, thin wisps of hair tickled Luca's upper arm but he didn't mind.
His body seemed to have locked in place and his arms had gone numb from how long he had been holding Lottie.
Since the moment she had been born, all Luca wanted to do was hold her and never let her go. He cradled her in the dead of night even after she had fallen to sleep. He picked her up as soon as he came home from work and he barely set her back down.
All of Luca's life, only two things had been set in stone. He wanted to follow his father and grandfather's tradition and make it into Swat. And he wanted a family.
Part of him never believed he would get the family he'd always dreamed of, no one ever seemed to stick by him long enough and he never met anyone who managed to make his heart feel full. Just when he thought his luck was running out, (Y/n) came into his life.
They worked together in Swat, Luca finally had a partner who understood the job and how hard it made life and how to balance life and work. And now they had Lottie, and Luca didn't want to waste a single moment or miss any aspect of her life. Even the sickness and sleepless nights.
"Okay baby, here we go." He spoke more to himself than to Lottie as he carefully straightened up and lifted her with him so they both weren't doubled over the sink anymore.
He turned Lottie around in his arms until she was facing him and he leaned back, clicking his spine into place as he settled Lottie on his chest. Her head fell just beneath his chin and she slumped against his upper chest with her palm pressed over his collar bone. Her little legs curled up until her knees were imbedded in Luca's stomach and pressed up against her own tummy and her other hand moved until she had her thumb tucked into her mouth.
Luca made quick work of draining the sink and turning the light off before he trudged out of the bathroom. It was time for them to get some sleep.
"You can stay with me," He kissed the top of her head and made his way to his and (Y/n)'s room. They had a crib attached to the side of the bed so they could tend to Lottie during the night and feed her rather than having to get up and go to the nursery to settle her, where she would be once she was sleeping through the night.
But Luca wasn't going to bother settling her in the crib, she could stay tucked up in his arms for now. He didn't want to put her down and have her crying out for that sense of comfort again. And it would be easier to have her on his chest if she didn't manage to settle for the rest of the night. He could easily soothe her this way.
When Luca padded back into his room, he carefully eased himself back down onto the bed, making sure Lottie stayed motionless against his chest. He laid out on his back next to (Y/n), inhaling slowly to adjust to the new weight on his chest. Lottie snuggled up until her head was pressed right beneath his chin near his Adam's apple and her small fingers started to scratch over his collar bone like she was making sure he wasn't about to set her down.
He could hear each snuffly, croaky breath she took as her breaths fanned against his bare chest. Usually he would have given her a pacifier but when she wasn't breathing well and her nose was blocked, that didn't seem like a good idea.
A smile worked its way onto his face when (Y/n) pressed her face up into his shoulder and draped her leg over his, rubbing her foot against his lower leg. And her arm looped over his frame until her hand settled on Lottie's back and she slowly began rubbing circles on their daughter's back to keep her settled.
"She sounds better." (Y/n) murmured into Luca's shoulder that felt blistering hot from the vapour steam he and Lottie had been standing over. Luca felt like he had been stood in a sauna, but it seemed to have done the trick in clearing Lottie's chest.
"I think it worked. You should be asleep, you know."
"So should you."
"S'not my first day back in the morning, it's yours." He turned his head to the left so he could merge his lips with (Y/n)'s temple.
Luca wasn't the one going back to work after almost ten months of maternity leave. He wasn't the one who was going to feel strange for going back to disorganised shift patterns and long hours and the routine of extra training. He knew (Y/n) had been training for a while now to get ready for when she came back to work, but training at swat was different to training at the gym.
(Y/n) nodded against his shoulder, peppering a few soft kisses towards his neck as she inched closer to him until she was almost lying on top of him like Lottie was.
She was ready to go back to work. Being with Lottie had been a beautiful change, but (Y/n) knew she was ready to get back to work. Back to her team and the job that made her feel like she was making a big difference.
Both she and Luca would have to work out how to balance work and family life when before, work had been their main and only priority other than each other. It also meant they would have to be careful when they were on shift. They were always cautious, always played by the rules just like everyone else, but they had someone who needed them now. Someone else to come home to and look after.
"Are you ready to work with me again?" There was a slight tone of teasing in (Y/n)'s otherwise sleepy voice and she felt Luca smiling into the top of her head as he chuckled.
"It hasn't been the same without you."
***
"All clear this side Hondo."
A smile fluttered across (Y/n)'s lips when she heard Luca's voice through the ear piece. There was something about the gritty edge to his voice that always made (Y/n) want to smile, especially if he were stood right in front of her and she could see how serious he looked.
It was always strange to see how serious and in control Luca was when they were at work, compared to how laid back and relaxed he became when they were at home.
(Y/n)'s fingers began to drum against the belt strapped around her waist where her gun was holstered. After so long of being home with Lottie and not even thinking about her gun, it was strange to have one back and be carrying one around with her again. It didn't give (Y/n) a sense of comfort, but it did come with a feeling of familiarity that was soothing, like being back with an old friend.
"Nothing over here yet." (Y/n) spoke quietly with her head angled down and her fingers continuing to drum along her belt to the tune playing in the back of her mind.
They were at a conference event, looking after a young woman called Arina. She had given a speech about the ordeals she had gone through and now she was talking to the crowds and meeting fans and signing releases of her book which had just been published.
The team were dotted around the building at various points and stages to try and cover all angles. With the threats Arina had been receiving, they needed to make sure no one was going to try and approach her or risk attacking her here in such a public setting where there could be multiple casualties.
"So, how's Lottie?" Chris nudged her shoulder into (Y/n)'s, earning a smile as the pair of them stood to one side with their backs against the wall and their eyes scanning the large conference room for possible suspects.
"Good, finally getting over her cold I think."
"That's great, and we're still on for Friday right?"
"Oh yeah." (Y/n) nodded, feeling a wave of ease washing over her as she thought about their plans.
With this being her first week back at work (Y/n) and Luca had asked if the team wanted to come over on Friday. They were going to have a few drinks as they all hadn't hung out together since before (Y/n) had Lottie. And Chris had been asking when she could come over again to see her Goddaughter. Chris was one of Luca's closest friends at Swat, they were more like siblings so it was only fitting that she be Godmother to Lottie.
And this had been one Hell of a week to come back to work. (Y/n) was ready to relax on Friday and let loose and be around the team without having to worry or be on their guard all the time.
When she heard Chris murmur "It's good to have you back," it was hard for (Y/n) to contain her smile and remain professional. She discreetly nudged her arm into Chris as a way of thanks.
(Y/n) had been worried when she went on maternity leave. Her and Chris were the only women at Swat, they worked incredibly hard to get where they were now and (Y/n) didn't want that to change or to give that up for a chance at a family. She wanted to do both but she worried when they brought in a temporary replacement that somehow, she might be pushed out and her replacement made permanent.
Being back calmed those worries for (Y/n) and she had found over the last three days that she had gelled back in with the team as if she had never left. It was such a relief.
"Guy at ten o'clock, brown coat." (Y/n) straightened up off the wall as she spoke and leaned in towards Chris. There was someone trying to get away from the crowds rather than get closer which in itself was a suspicious and strange thing to do. Especially when Arina was heading their way now that her conference was over.
The pair of them advanced towards the man, keeping their steps light and steady and (Y/n) poised her hand near her gun on her hip, just in case.
"Tan, a man's coming out the front towards your position, brown coat buzzed haircut. Keep an eye out."
Both (Y/n) and Chris looked around the area the man had been waiting at, glancing to the floor, making sure there were no discarded bags with potential bombs or hazardous substances in them. He hadn't left anything and walked away which was a relief, but to see him leave right before Arina came out was a red flag.
They wandered round a little more, keeping their steps light and controlled and their eyes peeled until they heard Hondo through the radio.
"We're coming out now."
(Y/n) took a deep breath and led the way back towards the front of the crowds. She could just about see Hondo and Street trying to guide Arina out of the conference room and support her through the throng of people trying to gain autographs.
She and Chris did their best to hold people at bay, but it was hard when they were constantly pushing and shouting to try and be seen and heard. There were lots of pens and books being held out to get Arina to autograph them as if she were an octopus with eight hands to use at once.
This was where Luca would of been a good help. (Y/n) knew her husband was a bulky, muscular man and people wouldn't be able to move around him quite as much as they could the rest of the Swat team. Trying to move Luca was like trying to shift a mountain. Once he planted his feet and squared his shoulders, nothing was getting past him.
When someone tried to push into (Y/n), she gritted her teeth and ground her jaw with a deep sigh. Her right arm held out beside her and she shoved the man back behind the black rope that kept the crowd at bay. Trying to push his way to the front wasn't going to work here.
"Get back."
After a few moments, (Y/n) looked across at Hondo and they both shared the same look and the same thought. This was starting to get out of their control with people pushing, shoving, shouting and generally getting in the way when they shouldn't. And a situation not in their control was a bad situation indeed.
"Alright Arina, I think it's time to go now." Hondo rested his hand on her shoulder and tried to incline her to keep moving forwards but she seemed very put out at the implication to stop signing autographs.
When (Y/n) heard Chris muttering something about someone looking shady, she glanced to the left to see Chris was heading towards who she thought looked suspicious. Both her and Street were aiming for the same person, clearly they were going to assess whether he was a threat and escort him out as well.
With the pair of them in that direction, (Y/n) moved forward and stepped beside Arina while Hondo was still trying to make sure no one reached out for her or tried to follow behind them.
It looked like they would have to sandwich her between them to ensure no one grabbed her or made an uncertain move in her direction.
(Y/n)'s left hand rested on Arina's arm while her right hand hovered over the gun strapped to her waist. She tried to keep moving forwards, guiding Arina along with them as they were now close to the exit. All they had to do was get her out and drive her to the hotel where she was staying, then they could all keep her much safer from a secure hotel room.
All the threats that Arina had been receiving didn't seem to have amounted to anything. Whatever group had sent those threats and promised to hurt her hadn't followed through on those promises, which made Swats life easier.
"Hondo we think they're using pens to hide the gas." Luca pressed his hand to his ear piece to try and wait for Hondo's reply as he and Deacon stood with their backs to the doors. Making sure no one got in or out of the building without their say so.
They had been on the phone to the Commander back at headquarters as he and Jess were trying to pin down the group that had been sending the threats.
At those words, Hondo snapped his head forward to look for Arina. He had been so focused on stopping people from getting too close to her that he stopped standing right behind her.
His eyes widened and he surged forward, his eyes locked on the pen that the man in front of her was holding towards her. Nobody held a pen with the nib aimed towards the person they were asking to autograph their things, and the man's thumb was hovering over the clicker. He had the chemical in that pen, Hondo could just feel it.
"Arina don't touch that pen!"
Hondo's words felt like a shock to (Y/n)'s system as she reached her hand out for Arina and tried to pull her back and push her behind her so she wasn't in the way. Her fingers dug into Arina's arm and she shoved her back but it wasn't enough. She couldn't keep Arina from harm and try to stop the assailant at the same time.
The pen in his hand clicked and thrust in (Y/n)'s direction before she could take one step back or hold her breath.
It burned.
Her eyes snapped closed and her body tensed and pulled inwards as it felt like boiling hot water had been poured onto her face. She wanted to scream but the air in her lungs tasted burned somehow and she couldn't make a sound. She couldn't even breathe in, all (Y/n) could do was exhale a cough as her body started to shake and she stumbled to her knees.
"(Y/n)!" Hondo's voice cracked through the air but it sounded strangely fuzzy and distant to (Y/n)'s ringing ears.
Trembling took over her body as she tried to take a deep breath but her chest felt like it was convulsing and her face was still blistering. She could barely open her eyes and her right eye was stinging. Knives were cutting into her eye socket. Nails were scratching up and down her face, marring her skin that was blistering and peeling like dried paint.
Her body crashed to the carpeted floor and her hands immediately moved to grasp at her throat that was tightening by the second.
A strangled sound left her chapped, swelling lips as she tried to suck in a deep breath just as Hondo appeared beside her.
He hovered over her, his hands on her shoulder and the side of her face as he was all she could see like an angel or an omen right before her eyes. He held onto her to stop her from shaking her head from side to side and his eyes narrowed as he snarled, trying to assess the damage.
"Ca- oh- can't-" Each syllable was croaked and hoarse and (Y/n) scratched her short nails into her throat to try and get her panicked point across.
She couldn't breathe.
Tiny molecules of air were scraping past her throat and into her lungs, but it wasn't enough. She couldn't inflate her lungs. Her chest felt like it was tightening and tingling and her body was starting to twinge with the need for oxygen that she couldn't get.
Her eyes went wide as she stared up at Hondo with tears trickling down her blistered skin from the pain and the struggle to open her burning eyes.
"I have a code 3! Repeat, code 3 officer down, exposed to biological substance."
(Y/n) didn't like hearing those words, especially when she knew they were about her. This was her first week back, she couldn't be going off again with illness or getting hurt on shift. This wasn't supposed to happen, they were always careful, always in control.
"(Y/n), (Y/n) look at me." Hondo gripped her chin when she tried to close her eyes and a silent whimper morphed from her lips as she looked up at him through bleary vision.
Her hands didn't move away from her throat, if anything, (Y/n) gripped tighter and scratched at her chest as she writhed in horrible agony. She needed him to do something. She needed someone to make the pain stop or at least give her the ability to breathe. She was going to suffocate.
"Luca, Deak I need the med pack from black betty. Now!"
A rendition of "No, no no!" burst past Luca's lips as he and Deacon set off into a sprint towards the truck.
This couldn't be happening.
He heard Hondo calling out (Y/n)'s name. He said they had an officer down; that could only mean one thing. It was (Y/n). It was Luca's wife who was the officer in jeopardy.
She had been back to work all of three days. This shouldn't be happening. The worst (Y/n) had ever suffered on shift was a broken arm. What had happened to her in there? How had (Y/n) ended up being exposed to biological substances? Had someone managed to smuggle a pen into the building with those chemicals in like the commander had told them about?
Luca slammed the door shut behind him once he climbed up into the truck. His hands were at the point of shaking as he reached out for the wheel and put the keys in the ignition. He didn't like this. Why wasn't he near (Y/n)? Why hadn't he been stationed near her instead of all the way out here with Deacon? He should be there with her right now.
He glanced his eyes to the right, watching as Deacon hurried to find the medical box they always kept in here for emergencies.
"We've got some atripine Hondo." Deacon's hands were almost shaking as he rummaged around in the box and found a pre-filled needle containing the medical antidote that worked for allergic reactions and to counteract hazardous substance intakes.
"We'll be there in ten." Luca spat through gritted teeth as the engine roared to life and he pulled off the curb.
He flicked his hand out, switching on the siren and the lights to make sure people knew to get out of his way. He wasn't slowing down for anything. Luca wouldn't risk losing his wife. He needed to get to her, he needed to get this antidote to her and save her.
"Make it eight."
Those words made the fire inside Luca ignite brighter and he slammed his hand down on the wheel so suddenly that Deacon jumped.
If it weren't for the fact that he was driving, Luca's legs would have been jittering up and down in panic. He seemed to be rocking back and forth in his seat, unable to sit still as if all the thoughts running through his mind were making him vibrate.
His fingers twitched against the steering wheel and he reached out to shift up into a higher gear, almost wrenching the gear stick out of place with his force.
"Come on! Come on move!"
Deacon reached his right hand out and grabbed the door handle to try and brace himself in his seat. They were all used to Luca's driving, he was speedy but cautious and careful, he knew how to beat a time limit without putting anyone in danger. But he was becoming reckless tonight.
He was weaving in and out of the cars on the road, almost nudging bumpers and clipping doors to try and overtake.
No one was moving out of his way fast enough. He had the sirens on and the red and blue lights flashing, if that wasn't enough to get people out of his way then Luca would have to resort to using the speakers and telling them to shift. They had to pull over or slow down and let him pass, he had an emergency and he wasn't going to risk (Y/n)'s life because no one here knew how to move out of the way for the police.
"Luca-"
"I can't lose her, Deak. I can't- fuck, Lottie needs her."
Tears welled up in Luca's eyes as he reached a hand up to wrench the goggles off his eyes and set them back on his helmet. He didn't need them on to blurr his vision that was already struggling with the tears mounting up behind his eyes.
Luca needed (Y/n). He wouldn't be himself anymore if anything happened to her. She was his wife, his world, his everything. He couldn't bring up Lottie without her, he couldn't be a single father. He couldn't continue with this job, this life, if he didn't have (Y/n).
Luca's world was pointless if (Y/n) and Lottie weren't in it.
"Hey, we're not gonna let that happen. Let's get this antidote to her."
"(Y/n) just stay with me okay? Look at me." Hondo's voice was authoritiative and somewhat in control and the gritty, harsh tone to his words made (Y/n) want to comply. Closing her eyes felt like she was going against a direct order so she did everything within her power to keep her eyes open. But it was hard.
Her right eye wanted to close so badly, tears were drenching her face in a vain attempt to get the substance out of her eye and soothe the burning skin on her face. Looking up at Hondo was hard when her eyes were tired and her body was shaking and she was ready to curl up and disappear.
Keeping her eyes open was a hard task to focus on when (Y/n) could feel her body starting to struggle.
Her hands scratched into her throat, leaving small bloodied marks in the process as she tried in vain to somehow scratch her throat into opening up and taking a deep breath.
Her body writhed up and down on the floor and the heel of her boots scraped into the floor to try and steady herself or move or just gain some help and attention. She wasn't breathing well, she was barely breathing at all and it was making her mind cloud over and making every muscle within her body tighten up in panic.
"Alright (Y/n), let's go."
Hondo's sharp words confused her and she let her eyes roll to the back of her head when Hondo started to move her.
He looped her arm over the front of his neck, gripping her wrist as he swiftly rolled over her and pushed up onto his feet, hoisting (Y/n) up onto his shoulder in the process.
Her head hung over Hondo's shoulder and her arms hung limp over his chest and back. One wrist gripped tight in his gloved hand while his other hand held onto the back of her thigh to make sure she was secured over his shoulder. A choked, gasping sound emitted from (Y/n)'s lips as Hondo's shoulder jammed into her chest and jostled a small ounce of air into her system, but it wasn't enough.
"Luca we'll meet you out front. I need that antidote now."
"It's coming!" Luca spat back through the radio as his upper lip curled and he rammed his fist down against the door until his knuckles burned.
Did he think Luca was taking the long way round? Did he think he was idly doing twenty miles an hour in the inside lane? Luca was ramming his foot down against the gas pedal, making Black Betty speed down the highway as fast as the engine would go without overheating or causing him to skid across the road. He was doing everything within his power to get to his wife. It wasn't his fault that he and Deacon had been stationed ten minutes away from the rest of their team in a vain attempt to cover every possibility and angle.
He was doing his best, but if his best wasn't good enough then Luca would never forgive himself.
As soon as he burst out the doors, Hondo quickly dropped to his knees and eased (Y/n) off his shoulders and onto her back on the pavement. They were in plain view of the road so whenever Luca pulled up, they could help (Y/n) immediately.
"Where's Street?" Hondo snapped when he watched Chris run out the doors and skid to her knees to be beside (Y/n).
"Getting the runner. (Y/n), come on you stay with me now, yeah?" Deep, stuttering breaths left Chris's lips as she reached down and grabbed one of (Y/n)'s hands in hers. She held tight until she was almost squeezing all the blood out of (Y/n)'s fingers.
She needed her friend to be okay. The team weren't a proper team without her. Chris couldn't have a life without one of her best friends. She couldn't go through each day not being able to speak or joke around with (Y/n). She couldn't watch Luca drown in heartache that would surely kill him or see Lottie grow up with a broken father and no mother in her life.
(Y/n) did her best to squeeze and pull on Chris's hand but she couldn't find much energy left in her body with how little she was actually breathing.
She couldn't stop her eyes from closing and her head lolled to the left as her breaths became tiny puffs of air that barely made her chest move at all.
"Hondo." The panic in Chris's voice was evident as her free hand moved down to try and turn (Y/n)'s chin and stimulate her, but it didn't do anything.
Her wide, watering eyes watched as Hondo leaned over and started to pull and undo the protective vest (Y/n) was wearing. He tore it open and did the same with her shirt to they had access to her throat and chest which had stopped moving.
"(Y/n) don't do this to us."
No sooner had the words left Hondo's lips that flashing blue lights and a wailing siren caught their attention.
Luca didn't like what he saw. Crowds of people gathered around the front of the conference building. Flashing lights signalling that people were trying to take pictures or record the scene. Hondo and Chris, knelt down on the black carpet on the pavement with panic flooding their eyes and terror written across their usually stoic expressions.
He barely pulled on the brake before he flung the door open and jumped down, swinging the door shut behind him as he pelted across the path with Deacon right behind him. A chorus of "We've got it!" and "Move!" left their lips as they barged through towards the scene.
Luca couldn't feel his knees when they collided with the pavement and he could barely control his trembling hands when he reached out for his wife. She wasn't moving. Her chest wasn't rising and falling with any breath. The inside of her parted lips were starting to turn blue from lack of oxygen. Her skin was bubbling up like heated paint and blisters were forming down the right side of her face and all down her neck.
"Oh God." Luca ran his hand up and down his face before he twisted to face Deacon and promptly took the pre-filled needle from his hands with a gruff "Give it here."
He tore the blue cap from the end and tossed it somewhere on the floor while he did his best to steady his trembling hands. No one else was touching his wife. He would do this. He would help her.
"Straight into the heart."
He didn't need the instruction but he didn't say anything when Deacon pointed as if Luca didn't know where his own wife's heart was situated. With a deep, shuddering breath, Luca punctured the needle through (Y/n)'s chest, trying not to cringe as he felt it pierce through her skin and he jammed his thumb down on the end to get all the antidote into her system.
This had to work. Luca wouldn't know what to do with himself if this didn't help. She wasn't breathing. They would have to start CPR on her until an ambulance could get here and that might not work with this strange toxin running through her veins.
"Come on… please…"
Luca's entire frame cringed and coiled inwards when (Y/n)'s chest jerked and suddenly expanded. A croaky sound emitted from her lips and her lungs managed to take in a deep breath as her throat looked like it was inflating as her muscles finally relaxed and stopped closing up.
She was breathing. It worked.
Dropping the needle somewhere at his side, Luca doubled forward with both hands reaching down to cup (Y/n)'s face as her bleary eyes tried to blink into focus.
"Oh baby," A deep sigh rumbled past Luca's lips before he arched over and pressed a shaky kiss to her temple. His thumbs traced along her cheeks and his nose nudged against her hair as he breathed in her scent and tried to calm himself down.
He wasn't sure which of the team it was who was patting his shoulder, but he didn't particularly care. All he cared about was the fact that his wife was back breathing again.
When he tilted his head down so their temples were pressed together, Luca could feel his lips pulling into a frown that threatened to implement tears when he saw the pain bubbling up in (Y/n)'s eyes. He could see the agony written across her face and when a small whimper left her lips, Luca couldn't stop the tears.
And a shaky breath escaped his chapped lips when he heard (Y/n) muttering his name with a broken tone. He could feel her shaking hand curling around his wrist as she leaned into his touch and tried to calm herself down as much as possible.
"Don't scare me like that again."
Those words made (Y/n) want to sob and she heard Chris muttering something of the same nature while she bound (Y/n)'s hand to her chest as if reassuring herself that her friend was truly breathing again and going to be okay.
"We need to get her to the hospital." Hondo clasped his hand down on Luca's shoulder and squeezed tightly as if to ensure that he too was okay.
They had gotten (Y/n) breathing again, but they had to get her down to the hospital to be assessed properly and for them to make sure that the toxin wasn't going to cause further damage to her system. The longer they waited the more untold damage could be done.
With a nod of his head, Luca carefully slipped (Y/n)'s arm around the back of her neck and inched his arms beneath her frame so he could scoop her up into his arms. His lips attached to her burning temple and he tried to smile when he felt (Y/n)'s other hand moving to grip the black vest strapped over his chest.
He wasn't waiting around for an ambulance. Someone else could drive Black Betty and take them all down to the hospital now.
"S'alright babe, you're gonna be alright now." Luca could feel the team hurrying behind him towards Black Betty and he was grateful when Hondo swung open the back doors so he could climb inside with (Y/n). Deacon took the liberty of taking place as driver while the rest of them climbed in the back with Luca.
Summary: No one at Swat knows that Luca is dating the Commander's daughter. That is, until she turns up to base and suddenly collapses.
Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A smile worked its way onto Luca's face when he started to wake up, but he kept his eyes shut, wanting to bask in the moment a little longer. He could practically feel the morning sun beating down against his eyelids as it broke through the thin curtains.
His arm lifted a little so he could drag his rough, worn fingertips up and down the back of (Y/n)'s shoulder. His touch light enough to feel like feathers tickling across her skin.
He felt (Y/n)'s lips press into his chest, silently letting him know that she was awake too. It felt strange to wake up before his alarm and without being rudely awoken by an alert from Swat asking the team to come in early. It was rare these days to get a full nights sleep and have a lay in like this.
His left arm felt heavy when he tried to move it and slump his arm over his eyes, further blocking out the light in an attempt to stay relaxed in bed for a little while longer.
But his lips curved into a grin and a flutter of adrenaline sparked through his stomach and livened him up when he felt (Y/n) move.
Wet, hollow kisses pressed up his sternum in a slow trail that had him holding back shivers and doing his best to stay motionless. The feeling of (Y/n)'s lips pressing to his neck made him take in a deep breath but when she grazed her teeth along his skin, his lips curved higher and his hand curled around her shoulder, giving a tight squeeze.
"Morning."
"Morning," Luca slid his arm from covering his eyes so it was slumped behind his head on the pillow. Allowing him to open his eyes, adjust to the light and stare down at the girl laid on top of him.
(Y/n) had her chest pressing against his side and both arms were now folded neatly over Luca's chest with her chin perched on her arms so she could stare up at him with that sweet smile that could get away with murder in Luca's eyes.
Her eyes danced around the room for a moment before settling back on Luca. They didn't always stay at his place, it was usually (Y/n)'s apartment they frequented because Street was staying with Luca. And when no one on the team knew that Luca was dating the Commander's daughter, it was easier to stay at (Y/n)'s place. She didn't have a roommate or a member of the team hanging around to see them.
She moved her arms a little so she could tilt her chin down and attach her lips to Luca's chest, trying not to grin against him when she felt his hand tighten on her shoulder.
Her eyes shot up to look at him and a gasp burst past her lips when his arm slid down from her shoulder to bind tightly around her waist. His palm pressed flat on her lower back and he pushed up so he could flip them over. He rolled her onto her back, muffling her quiet laugh as he moved to hover between her thighs. Luca's hands planted down on the pillow either side of her head, caging her in beneath him while his teeth flashed in a cheesy grin verging on a smirk.
She brought her hands up to cup his face, smoothing her thumbs down over the creases beneath his eyes as he leaned down to press a kiss to her lips.
His hands shifted to hold her sides when he balanced his weight between his knees and his arms that pinned down into the mattress to stop his weight from crushing (Y/n) beneath him. He tilted his head to the left, kissing her cheek first before he made a slow descent down her neck.
His fingers scrunched up in her shirt, about to try his luck with taking it off until he looked down.
"Isn't that mine?" He muttered with a sideways grin. He recognised that pale grey shirt and the fact that he could scrunch it up in one fist and the shirt still looked two sizes two big on his girlfriend gave away the fact it wasn't hers.
He looked back up and the grin she flashed him made his heart jump, especially when her smile was obscured by her teeth puncturing into her lower lip.
"Maybe."
While he took a moment to admire the view in front of him, (Y/n) took her chance to scrape her nails agonisingly slow over his skin, starting from his abdomen and she worked her way up until her hands were curved around his neck. Her fingers tickled the small hairs at the back of his neck and she sat up to meet him in the middle, moulding her chest against his before she pulled his lips down to hers.
(Y/n) could feel the fever behind his kiss and the way his fingertips dug bruisingly into her hips when she pushed her chest up against him just to irritate him and goad him further.
Her lips curved into a smile against his kiss and when she pulled back, (Y/n) sucked Luca's lower lip between her teeth and gave a small tug until she could feel the growl deep within his chest, rumbling through into her own.
"Baby," Luca's groan was deep and the word was a warning. He didn't have a lot of time before he was going to have to get ready for Swat, and she was teasing.
Her fingertips slid away from the back of his neck so she could drape her arms around his neck and tickle her fingers across his shoulders instead. Her plump lips left Luca's and moved towards his jaw and when she could feel his lips forming into a grin, she started to kiss down his neck.
He could feel her teeth grazing against the junction between his neck and shoulder, about to bite down and leave a mark. With a deep breath, Luca pushed forward causing (Y/n) to fall back into the pillows with him on top of her. And the shock did the trick in preventing her from leaving a dark bruise on his skin.
"Don't be marking me up, Street's already been begging to meet my girl and your dad will kill me if Street lets slip."
Luca had done a good job at deflecting any of the team's questions so far when they asked who he was so happy to be texting or where he was heading off to after work. And Street knew he had a girlfriend, it wasn't hard to figure out when Luca spent half his time somewhere else and came back with bright smiles and smelling of perfume.
The first person who had to be told was (Y/n)'s dad, the person they had been trying to hide their relationship from in the first place.
In the beginning it was easier not to tell anyone. (Y/n) knew her dad would interrogate Luca and give him warnings if he knew, therefore none of the team could know in case they told Hicks. But the longer they stayed together, the less willing they were to tell Hicks in case he took the news badly. He didn't want anyone at Swat looking at his daughter, let alone trying to date her.
"Hmm, okay." She murmured softly before snagging his lips in another kiss which stole all of his senses.
Luca let himself lean against her a bit more, but he tried to keep some of his weight pushed back on his legs and his elbows so he didn't crush (Y/n) beneath him. But he could still feel every crevace of her moulded up against him.
And as always, he leaned slightly to the left so he wouldn't touch the small oval plaster patch on the right side of her abdomen.
Her Dexcom.
A small sensor just beneath the skin that took continuous readings of (Y/n)'s glucose levels so she didn't have to prick her finger and check her levels through her blood anymore. Being diabetic had a lot of ups and downs, but her Dexcom was a lot easier than finger pricks for blood readings every day.
It didn't hurt but Luca never wanted to lean too close or press on it just in case he did one day hurt her or damage it.
He was a big guy, it wouldn't take much for Luca to crush (Y/n) beneath his body weight and he would hate to lean on her Dexcom and move it by accident. It had sensors beneath the skin, Luca could only imagine moving that without proper care or attention would cause (Y/n) some pain and grief.
Wet, panting kisses were peppered along her neck and down the middle of her throat so every time she gasped or swallowed, Luca could feel each movement. He let go of her hips and moved his fingertips across her sides and over the dips and curves of her body, trying to wind her up because he knew how ticklish she could be.
He paused his administrations when one of their phones on the bedside table pinged.
"Damn." Luca leaned down and buried his face in the crook of (Y/n)'s neck, feeling her shudder against him when he sank his teeth down into the soft flesh and tugged.
He felt (Y/n) hiss into his hair when his teeth released from her neck and it made him grin. His thumb traced across her jaw and he pressed a sloppy kiss to her cheek before he reached across and grabbed his phone. His eyes squinted at the brightness and he flicked through the notifications before he realised it hadn't been his phone that had gone off.
Switching out for (Y/n)'s phone, he looked at the newest notification before setting her phone back down again. His left hand stayed on her hip, his thumb tracing over her hipbone while his right hand rummaged around in his top drawer for something.
Once his fingers found the bag of sweets tucked beneath loose change and multiple chargers, Luca tossed them down on the pillow next to (Y/n).
He relished the way (Y/n)'s eyes widened and followed his movements to see what he had gotten from the drawer.
"Your sugar's dropping. Eat a few of those, babe." With a lasting kiss to her lips, Luca grinned against her mouth and gave her a squeeze before he slowly shifted to kneel between her thighs. He sank back on his heels and stretched his arms above his head while (Y/n) popped two jelly babies into her mouth.
Her Dexcom was connected to her phone, it sent alerts and notifications to tell her if her levels were okay, too low or too high. It gave recommendations on what was the best things to eat or drink and suggested eating dinner or getting a snack. It was great because (Y/n) didn't always know her levels were dropping until she started to feel the effects. The app let her know with some advanced warning.
It was also good for letting her know during the night. Sometimes (Y/n) didn't always wake up if she was having a hypo during the night. But with the notifications, it woke her and with Luca being a light sleeper, if he heard the notification he would wake up and help.
They had been together for long enough now that Luca had a stash of sweets in his car, glucose sachets in his backpack he took around with him. And he had put some in his bedside drawer on the off chance they stayed here rather than at (Y/n)'s place. Jelly babies happened to be his weakness and he knew they were good to boost (Y/n)'s levels if she ever needed them.
"Are these a midnight snack?" There was a little bit of hope in (Y/n)'s voice. Hope that these weren't just in Luca's drawer because he could get peckish during the night, but because he wanted them here in case she stayed over.
The soft look that flooded his eyes made (Y/n)'s stomach flip as she reached into the packet for another sweet.
Her eyes followed Luca as he dropped his arms from stretching above his head and cupped her chin so he could lean forward and kiss the powdered sugar from her lips.
"Street's been staying out recently, and I knew if you stayed the night, we might need some sugar close at hand."
"You planned ahead." (Y/n) wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement, but the tenderness in her voice pulled at Luca's heartstrings and had his smile broadening. He kissed her again, softer this time and nudged his nose against hers.
"I wanted to be prepared, there's a pack in the car too."
At the risk of sounding corny, (Y/n) mumbled a quiet but loving "You're sweet," as her hands moved to cup his face, bringing him in for a lasting kiss before he climbed off the bed. He needed to get ready for work.
Luca pulled a shirt over his head and turned to look back at (Y/n) when he heard her moving to get up off the bed. The smile on his face began to fade when he watched (Y/n) wobble on unsteady feet, and when her eyes started to roll, Luca pushed forward.
He looped his arms around her waist, letting her slump forward into his chest just as her knees began to cave.
"Wow, hey you okay?" He pecked her temple and moved one hand to tilt her head back so she was looking up at him. His eyes narrowed, watching the way her eyes took a few seconds to come back into focus and her hands felt like they were shaking when she reached out for his arms.
She managed a small smile and nodded her head when the dizziness began to fade and the spots in front of her eyes faded back to full vision again.
"I'm good, j-just the sugar, probably."
Luca hummed in that quiet way that told her he wasn't inclined to believe her, but he wouldn't press the matter. He turned her and helped her sit back down on the side of the bed as his eyes looked her up and down just to reassure himself that she was alright.
Her levels had dipped, she probably just needed to wait for them to even back out again.
***
A grin spread across (Y/n)'s lips when she walked past the gym and clocked her eyes onto a familiar set of blond hair spiked up at the front. She could feel her visitor's badge tapping away on the waistband of her jeans and she began to tap her finger against the badge, stopping it from making such a noise.
Her eyes stayed focused on Luca who was staring down at the tablet in his hands, clearly going through some notes or files for a new case.
It took a few seconds for him to finally lift his eyes and look ahead of him. He knew this place like the back of his hand, he was used to roaming around without needing to look where he was going.
When he lifted his eyes, they seemed to light up the moment they latched onto (Y/n). He scoured around the gym, making sure no one was nearby as he and (Y/n) went to cross paths. He was aiming for the computer room, although Luca wasn't sure where (Y/n) was going or why she was here.
When they came close, Luca moved the tablet into his right hand so he could reach his other hand out. He wormed his arm in front of (Y/n) and gave her hip a tight squeeze as they passed, and he took the opportunity to press a kiss to her temple since no one was around.
He didn't like having to let go of her, but they couldn't afford for anyone to see their interaction and catch onto what was happening between them.
(Y/n) smiled to herself and tilted her head down when Luca passed her. She kept her pace and aimed for the stairs at the back of the base. She was here to see her dad, they were heading out for lunch together.
Shifting her hand up, (Y/n) rubbed at her temple to try and rid herself of the headache beginning to form behind her eyes. She hadn't felt amazing since her low sugar level this morning, but her levels had evened out since then.
Her head was pounding and she wasn't sure if she was going to have much of an apetite once she and her dad went out, but (Y/n) knew she would have to eat something. Skipping meals wasn't an option for her, it screwed with her diabetes. Regular meals, controlled carbohydrates and sugar intake all helped to keep her stable.
She continued to rub at her temple but a gasp tumbled past her lips and she came to an abrupt stop when she turned towards the stairs and almost barelled into someone.
"(Y/n), hey. What're you doing here?"
A forced smile wormed onto her lips and she looped her arms around Deacon, pulling him in for a hug. It had been a while since she had seen almost anyone from Swat, excluding Luca of course. She always managed to have some banter with Deacon and have a good joke around.
"Meeting dad, for lunch. How are you?" It took a moment to get the words out properly and in the correct order, and she was sure Deacon sensed that she wasn't feeling her best right now.
Her nose crinkled when she felt her blood pulsing through her head like a boombox and she could of groaned when she felt how warm it was in here. She felt like she was burning up, God they had the heating on a lot round here.
"I'm good, we miss you round here, you know." He patted his hand on (Y/n)'s arm, but his smile started to fade.
Deacon moved his hands to his hips and tilted his head to one side when (Y/n) leaned back into the wall just beside the stairs. She didn't look too good. (Y/n) ran her hand around the back of her neck while she pressed her lips together. Her mouth felt dry. How long had it been since she'd had a drink? Was that why she had a headache, because she needed a drink?
"I- I uh, I need to find dad." She did her best to smile, but she knew it didn't fool him.
Her hand trailed along the wall as she turned towards the stairs and tried to get herself to move. Whatever Deacon said went in one ear and out the other as (Y/n) forced her numb legs to lift and move up the stairs. But three steps up had her feeling like someone had pressed a pause button on her.
"Oh, God." Deacon surged forward and reached out for (Y/n) when her body landed on the stairs with a thud that echoed in his ears and made him cringe.
His hands grasped her waist and he carefully reeled her up off the stairs, taking a few steps back to ease her down to the floor. He couldn't have her laid passed out on the stairs like that, she could hurt herself.
"(Y/n)? (Y/n), are you with me?"
His hands moved to lay her on her back as he crouched down beside her and gently cupped her neck. He tilted her head to the side and felt her pulse whilst also making sure she was still breathing properly.
"Deak?"
Deacon tilted ihs head back at the sound of Hondo's voice, seeing the Sargent stood at the top of the stairs. "Go get Hicks."
"Deak, hey Deak what happened?"
Panic struck a chord in Luca's chest and sent twinges rolling throughout his nervous system like he was about to have a heart attack. He dumped the tablet down on the bench at his side before he jogged over towards the stairs. What was he doing? Why was (Y/n) passed out on the floor?
"This is (Y/n), Hick's daughter. She didn't look too good and she passed out, Hondo's gone to get him."
Luca resisted the urge to say he knew who she was. Of course he knew, he'd been seeing her for the last few months, but none of the team needed to know that yet. He crouched down beside (Y/n), watching intently as Deacon tried to lift her eyelid and see if she was conscious, but her eyes had rolled tot he back of her head.
Before he could think better of it, he moved round for the bag that had slid off (Y/n)'s arm in the struggle. He unzipped her bag and fumbled around until he found her phone. He had to know if her levels had dropped and if this was anything to do with her diabetes or not.
"Uh, Luca, what are you doing?" Deacon kept his hands on (Y/n)'s neck, still trying to rouse her. But he rose a brow when he watched his friend find (Y/n)'s phone. Deacon doubted calling anyone or checking her phone was going to make much of a difference right now.
"Checking her sugar levels… Dexcom?"
When Deacon just gave him an uncertain look, Luca reached down for (Y/n)'s shirt and pulled it up to expose her abdomen. He pointed to the square Dexcom stuck to the left side of her abdomen which caused Deacon to raise a brow. He didn't know (Y/n) was diabetic, but then again, it wasn't something she would broadcast to everyone at Swat.
Which begged the question, how did Luca know about it?
"She's a diabetic, and her levels are really low." Luca opened the app and set the phone down near (Y/n)'s shoulder so Deacon could see just how low her glucose levels had dropped to.
"Alright, what happened?" Hicks voice boomed through the air and his boots clammered against the stairs as he rushed down to the commotion.
He nodded when Deacon pushed up and stepped back so that Hicks could take his place beside (Y/n). He brushed his thumb across the side of her jaw and tried to bring her back around but it was clear she wasn't about to wake up anytime soon.
"(Y/n), honey can you hear me?" He clicked his tongue when he didn't gain a response, but when he realised (Y/n)'s Dexcom app was open on her phone, his eyes snapped over to Luca. "How'd you know about that?"
"I saw the Dexcom last time she was here, figured she had to have the app too."
He shrugged his shoulders and leaned back on his heels while he started to run his hands up and down his thighs. He didn't like this. (Y/n) hadn't been feeling great this morning and now she had passed out, and Luca knew it wasn't because she had skipped a meal because he saw her have breakfast. The jelly babies this morning should have boosted her levels and eating should have kept them up to a normal state.
And he really didn't like the fact that this happened here, at work, where Luca couldn't try and hold her or move her or bring her round himself. He couldn't do anything without seeming inappropriate or letting slip how much she meant to him.
When his hands continued to glide up and down his trousers, a sudden thought hit him and he looked down.
Glucose powder sachets. Luca had them in the car and in his backpack, and these were an old pair of trousers. He slid his hand into his pocket, feeling his heart go haywire with five extra beats when he felt the familiar silver foil packet between his fingers. He had a sachet on him. That would help to boost her system.
He slowly reached out for her bag and set it on his lap, pretending to rummage through and slid the sachet between his fingers.
"Will this help?" He sheepishly handed the sachet over to Hicks who had a visible wave of relief wash over him.
"Yeah, give it here. Someone call an ambulance, I want her taken to hospital with levels this low. Here we go, sweetheart."
Hicks ripped the sachet and carefully pulled (Y/n)'s jaw down so he could rub the powder on the inside of her cheek. It was a quick way to get glucose into her system by adding powder onto her cheeks so her saliva would break it down. They had to get her levels to rise quickly and it had been a long time since Hicks had needed to help (Y/n) through a hypo like this.
He wanted her to get checked out by a doctor, it wasn't normal for (Y/n) to go into hypos and he had to know if there was a reason for this. And if she didn't pick up soon, she would need to be hospitalised to get her levels back up to where they should be.
***
"Dad, I'm fine-"
"You are not fine now sit back down." The stern tone in her dad's voice made (Y/n) bow her head and although she huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, she gave in.
She sat back down on the bed and when her dad pointed at her legs and clicked his fingers, she grumbled but swung them back onto the bed. She crossed her legs beneath her and moved her hands to fiddle with the few rings on her fingers, twisting them round out of nervous habit.
Her eyes glanced up at her dad, watching the way he began to roll his cuffs up towards his elbows before his hands clamped down on his hips. He wasn't about to let (Y/n) try and discharge herself. They were waiting for the doctor and they weren't leaving until (Y/n) had been checked out and cleared.
"Do you know how long its been since I had to administer glucose to you, since I had to call an ambulance for you?" His tone softened a little with each word, but Hicks still didn't sound his usual self. His voice was gruff and his expression was dark.
He'd had enough scares in the past with (Y/n)'s health, and after losing her mother, Hicks couldn't bear the thought of anything else happening to anyone in his family. He wanted confirmation that she was alright or they weren't going anywhere.
"I'm sorry." Reaching out, (Y/n) took one of his hands in hers and gave a little shake to try and make him smile.
"I don't want you to be sorry, you haven't done anything wrong, I just- I just want to know that you're okay."
(Y/n) smiled and squeezed his hand before a knock at the door broke them out of their little moment together. She could feel a wave of relief washing over her when the nurse came in. They had been waiting for discharge papers.
She had come around in the ambulance on the way here and she'd had bloods taken, an IV on and insulin on tap when she needed it. She felt better and her levels had risen back to normal and were being monitored. (Y/n) didn't want to waste anymore of anyone's time, she just wanted to go back home. She felt much better even though she did feel horrid about the fact that Hondo's team were all in the waiting room to make sure she was okay.
They had better, more important things to do than hang around here after the small scare (Y/n) had given them.
"Can I go now?" (Y/n) winced and looked down when her dad squeezed her hand and gave her a certain look.
"Is she okay?"
The smile on the nurse's face was comforting and she began tapping her fingers against the papers in her hand which (Y/n) prayed were discharge papers. She shouldn't have been admitted in the first place, she should have stayed in the emergency room and then gone home once her levels evened out.
"We did a few tests when you arrived, and the results have come back… am I okay to tell you, or would you prefer to talk in private?"
A frown pulled on (Y/n)'s face and she suddenly found herself gripping her dad's hand tighter. Was that a bad thing? Was she about to be given bad news that she might want to hear alone? What kind of tests had they done that would give strange results like this?
"I'm her dad, you can talk in front of me, right?" Hicks looked from the nurse back to (Y/n) who quickly nodded. If this was bad news then she didn't want to hear it alone.
"Okay, well you had some blood screened when you came in, and after looking at the hormone levels we did a few more tests. You're pregnant, congratulations."
(Y/n) felt her stomach twisting itself into knots and she shivered when her dad tightened his hand around hers until she could barely feel her fingers anymore.
That was technically good news, that wasn't anything bad or horrible or life-threatening. (Y/n) wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but she thought it would be something bad with the way the nurse spoke at first. That was good news. She was going to have a baby. Hicks was going to be a grandad. (Y/n) and Luca were about to have a baby together.
Oh.
Now she was going to have to tell her dad about her and Luca. Her dad had found out about the baby before Luca, that wasn't exactly the right way to go about things.
"I'll let you have a moment for it to sink in, then we can get you discharged and signed on for antenatal appointments."
The amount of information, thoughts and panicked reasonings running through (Y/n)'s mind made her dizzy. And when the nurse left the room, (Y/n) finally let go of her dad's hand so she could look up at him and gage his expression. He looked gaunt and pale and in shock.
He clamped one hand down on his hip while his other hand rubbed at the back of his neck and loosened his collar that now felt like it was constricting his breathing. His daughter was going to have a baby. She was clearly seeing someone or knew someone and he didn't have any idea.
"I didn't know you were getting serious with anyone." His voice was quiet and the way he rose a brow was like he was asking (Y/n) to tell him this was a misunderstanding.
He thought things would go differently. He thought (Y/n) would find someone, introduce them and they would all get along and do things as a family before she settled down. He thought he would walk her down the aisle before he saw her start a family of his own, but then again, Hicks knew he was traditional. She didn't have to get married, but he would of liked some warning first before this kind of news.
"Do I know him?"
(Y/n) rolled her lips together and bit down on her lower lip. She tried to look up at her dad but the panic was written across her face and it made him take a sharp breath when he looked down at her.
"Oh… oh, sweetheart, please don't tell me it's someone on my team?" The gritty tone to his voice made (Y/n) shake and she nodded her head.
She cringed when her dad sighed and tipped his head back. His hands moved to smother his face and he groaned, muttering something incoherent into his palms. Someone under his command had gotten with his daughter and got her pregnant. He didn't want (Y/n) involved with anyone in Swat.
She had enough trouble worrying about him and the work he did without having to worry about another loved one getting hurt on the job. Hicks loved the job, but he had seen how it worried his own wife a lot of the time.
"It's Luca." (Y/n) swung her legs round to get up but she saw the fire burning in her dad's eyes when he listened to her.
"Luca?!"
Out of all the people on his team, Hicks wouldn't have pegged Luca as the kind to do something like this. Luca was devoted to the job and he had a lot of respect. He thought Luca would have been someone who would have come outright to him and explained that he was seeing his daughter, rather than going behind Hicks's back like this.
He thought Luca might have had some decency to stay away from (Y/n). Hicks told everyone not to even look at his daughter, let alone think about dating her.
"I was gonna tell you, I swear…"
(Y/n) cringed and turned to try and fiddle with the IV line strapped to her left hand when her dad silently walked out of the room. She knew the team were waiting outside. She knew they were still here and she didn't want her dad to argue with Luca or start a fight.
A rather dirty look crossed Hicks's face and he swiped his hand along his chin and the back of his neck as he locked his sights on Luca. He made a beeline for the younger man who was sat forward in his chair, hands clasped between his thighs and both feet tapping madly against the floor.
"A word?"
A shiver tore down Luca's spine but he nodded all the same. He pushed up to his feet, running his hands up and down his thighs as he followed the commander away from the rest of the team who were looking at him with confusion and unease lighting up their eyes.
He knew. Luca could feel it. His stomach was tingling with adrenaline and he just instinctively knew that the game was up. Hicks knew he had been seeing his daughter. (Y/n) must have said something and Luca couldn't blame her, but this wasn't how either of them wanted him to find out.
He began pulling his sleeves down and fiddled with them, hooking the sleeves over his hands in an anxious habit. But he held his shoulders straight and stood tall to try and keep himself professional and respectful.
"I would of thought a third generation would of had the decency to tell me he's dating my daughter. Especially when I thought I'd made it clear I didn't want anyone involved with her."
That stung. Luca visibly winced and coiled his arms towards his chest. He was third generation and he was extremely proud of that, but he couldn't help who he fell in love with. All he could help was how Hicks had found out and how they should have told him sooner.
"I'm sorry for not telling you, I really am, we didn't want to cause problems. But I'm not sorry for being with (Y/n)… sir, I really love your daughter."
Luca couldn't help but steal a glance behind him.
He found Street grinning because now he finally knew who his friend had been seeing behind closed doors, and he also knew that this was a big mess up. Street would no longer be the one who people could pick on or make fun of for what he did because Luca would be scrutinised- all in joking manner- for this one.
And he could see Deacon and Chris rolling their lips together, trying their best not to smile or laugh. But the way their heads were inclined together said it all; they were already gossiping about this.
"Hm, you do?" Hicks placed his hands on his hips and bent one knee forward and for a moment, he looked like he was thawing out a little. "Well that's good to hear, Luca. Because not only have I just found out you're dating my daughter, but now you've got her pregnant, too."
A grin formed on Luca's lips which parted, clearly about to laugh until he realised his commander wasn't smiling.
This wasn't a joke.
Hicks wasn't messing with him or trying to wind him up or get a reaction out of him as payback for not telling him sooner. This was real.
Luca couldn't control the smile breaking out on his face again, he tried to pinch himself and bind his arms around his chest, but it did nothing to hide his growing pleasure. He couldn't help but smile because this is what he'd always wanted. Luca loved (Y/n), he loved every bone in her body and he'd always wanted a family of his own and kids someday. Now he was going to have a baby, with (Y/n).
"She- really- oh my God."
"Yeah, really-" Hicks shook his head with a sigh when Luca was already rushing past him and making a beeline for (Y/n)'s room. If that didn't prove to him that Luca loved her, he didn't know what would.
(Y/n) reached her hands out for the bed, about to sit back down quickly until she realised it wasn't her dad coming back into the room. She let her shoulders drop and let go of the IV line she had taken out the back of her hand.
Her eyes followed Luca as he shut the door behind him and hurried over to her. His hands were messing with his sleeves and batting about at his sides and he had his usual black baseball cap sat backwards on his head.
But it was the smile toying about on his lips which made (Y/n)'s stomach ignite with adrenaline and made her breaths catch in her throat.
"Is it true? He's not trying to mess with me or something?"
(Y/n) took a step closer to him as she nodded, unable to look anywhere but at the radiant grin on his face. "I'm pregnant."
She loved the way he practically threw his arms up in the air and jumped on the spot like a child who'd just opened the best Christmas present. Before (Y/n) could say another word, Luca's arms were bound around her waist and he lifted her off her feet.
She gasped, looping her arms around the back of his neck, burrowing her face into the crook of his neck as she giggled against his skin. She could feel his hands squeezing her sides, trying not to hurt her but he couldn't stop the excitement that was radiating through him.
"Oh, this is great, babe." His lips pressed to her cheek and when (Y/n) leaned back, he stole a searing kiss from her lips before he gently set her back down to her feet. Their temples pressed together and (Y/n) ran her hand up and down the back of Luca's neck, feeling tears welling up in her eyes.
Summary: Daemon Targaryen never wanted an arranged marriage, especially not to a Baratheon bride. Cold and distant from the very beginning, he leaves his young wife to navigate Dragonstone alone. But on the night she reveals the heartbreaking truth her father hid from everyone, Daemon realizes she has spent her life surviving cruelty disguised as family.
Determined to become the first person to truly protect her, Daemon vows that no one, not her father, not her jealous sisters, not anyone in the Seven Kingdoms, will ever hurt his wife again.
Warnings: Arranged marriage • References to past sexual assault • Emotional and familial abuse • Hurt/Comfort • Protective Daemon • Healing from trauma • Happy ending • She/Her Reader
note: thank you so much for reading my daemon one shot :) I wrote this one forever ago and you can tell by the writing style lol
masterlist
One shot
Daemon Targaryen had not wanted another political marriage.
He had wanted freedom.
A dragon was never meant to wear chains.
Yet here he stood beneath the vaulted ceilings of Storm’s End’s sept, dressed in black and crimson, listening as a septon bound him to Lord Baratheon’s youngest daughter.
To you.
Pretty.
Soft spoken.
Far too young for the venomous court that surrounded him.
You smiled at him after your vows.
He did not smile back.
⸻
The journey to Dragonstone was quiet.
You tried.
Gods, how you tried.
You asked about Caraxes.
About flying.
About King’s Landing.
About Valyria.
Daemon answered with one word replies, if he answered at all.
Eventually…
You stopped asking.
He noticed.
He simply told himself it made the journey quieter.
⸻
Marriage was no different.
Daemon slept in his own chambers more often than not.
He attended council.
He trained.
He flew.
He disappeared for hours at a time.
Whenever servants mentioned his young wife wandering Dragonstone alone, he shrugged.
She would learn.
Everyone did.
⸻
One evening, he found you sitting alone on the beach.
The tide curled around your slippers.
Your skirts were soaked to the knee.
“You’ll catch cold.”
You startled.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“You weren’t listening.”
“No.”
Your voice was small.
“I wasn’t.”
He looked toward the sea.
“You should return inside.”
You nodded immediately.
“Of course.”
No complaint.
No argument.
Just obedience.
It reminded him uncomfortably of frightened animals.
⸻
The servants adored you.
That should have annoyed him.
Instead…
It puzzled him.
You thanked everyone by name.
Helped elderly maids carry linens.
Remembered birthdays.
Spent afternoons reading to children whose parents worked in the kitchens.
One dragonkeeper told Daemon quietly,
“Her Grace cries when she thinks no one is looking.”
Daemon frowned.
“And?”
The old man hesitated.
“I only thought… perhaps someone should know.”
⸻
The night everything changed should have been their wedding night.
Instead, it happened nearly a fortnight after the ceremony.
Daemon entered your shared chambers intending, finally, to fulfill his duties as a husband.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed still wearing your gown.
The moment you saw him, every color drained from your face.
Your hands began shaking.
Daemon stopped.
“You look as though I mean to execute you.”
Silence.
He took another step.
You flinched.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Enough for a man who had spent his life watching battlefields to recognize genuine fear.
He did not move again.
“…Has someone hurt you?”
Tears immediately filled your eyes.
“No.”
A lie.
An obvious one.
Daemon had heard better lies from drunken squires.
He lowered his voice.
“Tell me.”
You stared at the floor.
“My father lied.”
Daemon frowned.
“About what?”
Another long silence.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it,
“I am not… what he promised.”
Understanding came slowly.
Then all at once.
He remembered Lord Baratheon boasting during negotiations.
“My daughter is untouched. A proper bride for a prince.”
Daemon’s stomach twisted.
He looked at you.
Really looked.
You weren’t frightened of him.
You were frightened of disappointing him.
“My lord…”
Your fingers twisted tightly together.
“I did not know how to tell you.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks.
“My father said no man would want me if they knew.”
Daemon felt something cold settle inside him.
“Who?”
You closed your eyes.
“I cannot.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
He knelt in front of you.
Not as a prince.
Not as a dragon.
Simply so you wouldn’t have to look up at him.
“You are safe.”
The words broke you.
You covered your face as sobs escaped despite your obvious attempts to remain quiet.
Daemon waited.
He had never been particularly patient.
Tonight…
He found he could be.
Eventually, your breathing steadied.
“It was years ago.”
You whispered into your hands.
“My father blamed me.”
Daemon’s jaw clenched.
“He said speaking of it would shame our House.”
Each sentence sharpened his anger.
“My sisters laughed.”
Another blade.
“They said no prince would keep me if he knew.”
The room became terribly quiet.
Daemon stood.
Walked toward the fire.
For one terrible moment, you thought he meant to leave.
Instead, he stood with his back to you.
Trying very hard not to let his rage consume the chamber.
When he finally spoke, his voice was frighteningly calm.
“What are your sisters’ names?”
You blinked.
“…Why?”
“So I know whom never to welcome beneath my roof.”
You stared.
Daemon turned.
His violet eyes were harder than dragonstone.
“You believed I would cast you aside because someone committed violence against you?”
You lowered your gaze.
“My father said—”
“I do not care what your father said.”
His voice softened.
“You were a child.”
A tear slipped free.
“You did nothing.”
Another.
“I am sorry.”
Daemon frowned.
“What are you apologizing for?”
“For not being what you deserved.”
He crossed the room before thinking.
Slowly.
Giving you every chance to pull away.
When you didn’t, he reached up and gently brushed a tear from your cheek.
“I deserved honesty.”
His thumb rested lightly against your skin.
“And you have given me that.”
You searched his face.
“You… are not angry?”
“I am.”
Your shoulders fell.
“But not with you.”
⸻
A raven left Dragonstone before dawn.
Its destination:
Storm’s End.
Its message was painfully brief.
You will not set foot on Dragonstone without my invitation. If you attempt to reclaim or threaten my wife, I will answer as a dragon, not as a son-by-marriage.
—Prince Daemon Targaryen
⸻
When Lord Baratheon arrived anyway two weeks later, furious and demanding his daughter be returned for “correction,” Daemon met him in the courtyard.
You watched from a balcony, hidden behind stone pillars.
“My daughter belongs to House Baratheon.”
Daemon smiled.
“No.”
Lord Baratheon stiffened.
“She belongs to me.”
“No.”
Daemon took one deliberate step closer.
“She belongs to herself.”
The older lord scoffed.
“You’ve grown sentimental.”
“I’ve grown protective.”
Your father sneered.
“She’s weak.”
Daemon laughed.
“You mistake kindness for weakness.”
The prince’s smile vanished.
“I do not.”
Silence fell across the courtyard.
“If you ever raise your voice to my wife again…”
Daemon rested a hand on Dark Sister.
“…pray Caraxes kills you before I do.”
Your father’s confidence finally cracked.
⸻
Your sisters were worse.
They sent letters.
Cruel ones.
They mocked your marriage.
Claimed Daemon would tire of pretending.
Called you damaged.
Broken.
Pathetic.
Daemon found one before you did.
He read it once.
Then tossed it into the fire.
You walked in moments later.
“What was that?”
“Nothing worth reading.”
“It was from home?”
“It was from people who mistake cruelty for wit.”
You looked strangely disappointed.
“They’re still my sisters.”
Daemon walked over to you.
“They failed to be that long before I met you.”
⸻
Slowly…
Life changed.
Daemon still wasn’t particularly gentle with the world.
He still frightened courtiers.
Still argued with kings.
Still laughed during tournaments.
But never with you.
He began inviting you on dragon rides.
At first, you refused.
“I’ve never flown.”
“Then you’ll remember your first time.”
“I’m frightened.”
“So was I.”
“You?”
He smiled faintly.
“Do not tell anyone.”
The first flight changed everything.
You laughed.
Really laughed.
Wind tangled your hair.
Your hands gripped his waist.
When Caraxes landed, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
“I understand now.”
“What?”
“Why you disappear into the sky.”
Daemon looked at you for a long moment.
“So do I.”
⸻
Months passed.
One evening you found him sitting beside the fireplace reading.
“You’ll ruin your eyes.”
He looked up.
“I’ve been told dragons see well in the dark.”
You sat beside him.
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Eventually, you whispered,
“Why are you kind to me?”
Daemon closed his book.
“Because no one else was.”
You shook your head.
“You barely knew me.”
“I know enough.”
“What if I disappoint you one day?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“You are expecting our marriage to fail because you have known too many people who failed you.”
Your eyes filled.
Daemon reached for your hand.
This time, you took his without fear.
“I cannot promise I will always be easy.”
He smiled crookedly.
“I have never wanted easy.”
“I still have nightmares.”
“Wake me.”
“I cry sometimes.”
“I’ve noticed.”
You laughed softly through your tears.
“I am still learning how to feel safe.”
Daemon lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
“Then we shall learn together.”
⸻
Years later, the court would whisper that Prince Daemon Targaryen loved only dragonfire, battle, and ambition.
They were wrong.
Because every evening, before darkness settled over Dragonstone, the Rogue Prince could be found walking the cliffs with his wife.
Always with one hand resting lightly against the small of her back.
Never because he thought she belonged to him.
Only because he wanted her to know that if she ever looked over her shoulder—
Did Everything Right | Dominique Luca x Fem!Reader
Summary: When a victim of a robbery comes to S.W.A.T. for help, the team finally gets to meet Luca's girlfriend. (requested)
CW: reader is the victim of a crime, mentioned robbery at gun point, mentioned gun violence, trauma and tears, angst/comfort, Luca is pissed tf off.
A/N: not proofread.
S.W.A.T. HQ was oddly quiet, which was never a great sign. When things were quiet, it meant that the criminals they were hunting were hiding and scheming. Everyone was working, but they all knew that the calm was merely making way for whatever storm was about to come there way.
They just didn't expect it to walk through the door.
Luca was in the boxing ring, gloved up and throwing punches at Rocker's hands to pass the time between tasks. It was no big deal, they all had to keep in shape and ready to roll whenever a call came in. However, he was quickly distracted when he saw a familiar face walk in with two officers. He immediately dropped everything and got down from the elevated platform to go to you.
Shaking like a leaf, you were looking around the room quickly in search of him. You clutched your bag to your chest, tears falling down your face rapidly. As soon as your eyes landed on him, you called out his name and ran to him.
Upon hearing their teammate's name shouted with such distress, his team came to see what was going on. Only to find you in the strong arms of your boyfriend, crying into his S.W.A.T. issued shirt. He tried to soothe you, rubbing your back and trying to ask you what had happened, but you struggled to get words out.
One of the officers stepped forward and spoke, "She was robbed at gun point. She all but forced us to bring her to you, which we weren't gonna argue with once we heard you were S.W.A.T."
Luca's face hardened as he looked at the officers, then down at you. He cupped you face in his large hands and wiped your tears away, "Hey, hey, babe, breathe, okay. You're okay now."
You calmed down as he breathed with you. He kissed your forehead and nodded to you, a silent signal that you were doing great.
"What happened?"
You took a deep breath. "I went to the- the grocery store to get every- everything to make that ziti, y'know? But when I went to my car... he came up behind me with-with the gun-" you cried out, bringing a hand up to your mouth to try and quiet yourself. He shushed you gently and assured you that it was okay. "He said I needed to get in the car and drive him somewhere, but I wouldn't... I remembered what you told me- to not do that. He got angry and- and shot the gun at the car, then he wanted my keys and all my cash, so I gave it to him."
"He's unstable," Hondo commented from the side, trying to speak lowly so as night to frighten you but you heard it anyway and nodded in agreement.
You looked at you boyfriend's team leader. "He-he hit a bunch of cars getting out of the parking lot and- and drove into oncoming traffic be-before jumping the curb."
Hondo came over and talked to the officers who had brought you in, telling them that they'll take over the investigation into the man and get in contact with their sergeant about it. He thanked them before they left and then turned back to you, seeing you in Luca's arms again and hiccuping as he comforted you. However, he could see the fire in Luca's eyes - he was not happy about this. None of them were, but he was absolutely pissed off.
"We gotta find this guy, Hondo," he said, staring at his friend and teammate, determination in his eyes.
Hondo nodded, the rest of the team coming to their sides. None of them had to say anything about you. It was clear to them that you were important to Luca and that was enough for them.
Deacon put a hand on Luca's shoulder and nodded to him affirmatively. "We're gonna get him, don't worry. Right now, you take care of her."
Luca nodded and led you to a more private room. He held you the whole way, telling and assuring you that you did everything right. He wasn't going to leave you side until he and his team were ready to go bring the man in that had done this to you. But for now, he was just happy that you were alive and safe. That's all he could ask for at the end of the day.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @finnegancosmos & @anitalerina
word count: 15.5k
synopsis: In the cold of Winterfell, a southern princess learns that duty is not always a cage—and that sometimes, the heart’s desires align with the good of the realm.
a/n: I definitely went a little overboard with this one—this might be the longest one-shot I’ve written to date. Also, yes, I refer to reader as a lioness and imply her to be more Lannister than Baratheon, even though she is technically a Baratheon by name. We’re just rolling with it because thematically it fit much better for this story.
warnings: Arranged Marriage, Joffrey being Joffrey, Cersei.
The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.
Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.
Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.
At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.
You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror.
But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.
You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.
As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.
He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.
You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.
The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.
You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.
It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.
You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.
“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.
Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.
Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side.
One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.
Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.
But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.
Robb Stark.
Named after your father’s namesake.
He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.
He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.
His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.
And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.
Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different.
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.
It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him.
For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.
You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.
The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.
You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.
Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.
You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.
It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.
“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”
Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.
You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.
Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.
Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.
“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.
You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.
Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.
The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.
Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”
Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.
Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.
When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.
Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold.
You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants. And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.
As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.
Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.
No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.
The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.
Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.
Steel striking wood.
You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.
There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.
The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.
“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”
He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.
“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”
Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”
Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.
“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”
He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”
Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten.
“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.
He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.
“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”
You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”
That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.
“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”
“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”
Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”
You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”
Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.
You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”
When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”
You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”
Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.
“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness.
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”
Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”
Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.
“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.
At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”
Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.
“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”
Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."
You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”
Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.
“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.
You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”
He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”
“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”
Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him.
When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”
Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.
Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”
You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”
The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”
Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”
You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.
“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”
The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.
Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”
That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”
Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”
When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”
He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”
You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”
Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.
“Jon.”
Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.
“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”
You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”
Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”
He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”
With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.
Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.
He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.
Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”
Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”
Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”
Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”
Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.
Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”
Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”
Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.
“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”
Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”
Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”
“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”
Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.
Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”
That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”
“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”
Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes.
By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.
Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.
Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?
Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?
No one knew which way the coin would fall.
As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.
“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”
“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”
You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.
You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.
At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.
It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.
Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.
You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.
“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”
His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.
“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”
He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”
Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”
Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”
Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.
Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”
Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”
A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.
Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”
Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.
You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.
At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.
Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.
Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.
You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.
You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.
It was harsh—but it was honest.
And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.
When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.
You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.
“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.
“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.
You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”
“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”
You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”
The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.
A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.
“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”
“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”
You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”
The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.
“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”
“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.
Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”
You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”
“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.
Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him. “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.
He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.
“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”
You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.
“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”
You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”
Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”
You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”
“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”
You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”
Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”
The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.
Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”
Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”
You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”
“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”
Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”
A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”
You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”
Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”
You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest.
You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.
“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”
Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”
You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”
“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”
You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”
It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.
Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.
You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.
He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.
There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.
The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming.
Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.
Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.
The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.
And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.
The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.
He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.
He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.
You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.
Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.
“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”
You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.
Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.
He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.
You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.
You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.
He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.
“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”
“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”
You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”
Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”
You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.
“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.
He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”
You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.
You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”
“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”
Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”
You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”
The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”
You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”
He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”
That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.
“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”
Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”
You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.
Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”
“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.
Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”
He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”
You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”
Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”
“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”
Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”
You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”
Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”
You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”
You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.
Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.
“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”
Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.
The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.
“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”
You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.
“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”
For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.
“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”
Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”
You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.
“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”
You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”
He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.
You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”
Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”
For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”
Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”
You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”
You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.
And then—
Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.
You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.
Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”
“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”
You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.
“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”
Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.
“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”
From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.
Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”
Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”
You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”
Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”
Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“
But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.
You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.
Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.
“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”
Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”
You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”
Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”
“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”
You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”
But he did.
The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.
“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”
That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”
In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.
Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.
You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.
For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.
Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.
At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.
Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.
“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”
The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.
She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”
Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”
Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”
But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”
Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.
“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”
“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.
“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”
Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”
You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”
His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”
You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”
He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”
“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”
Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”
And that was when his hand moved.
He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.
But Robb was faster.
He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.
“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”
Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”
Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”
The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.
Yet now there was no denying it.
Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.
The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.
“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.
You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.
He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.
He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.
The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.
Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.
The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.
“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.
You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”
The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.
“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”
You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”
Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”
Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.
“I… I didn’t mean to.”
You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.
“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”
You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”
Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”
You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.
The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.
A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”
Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”
You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”
Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.
As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.
He wanted you to stay.
Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.
And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.
The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.
Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.
Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.
Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.
And behind her, you stood.
Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark.
Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”
Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”
Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch.
Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.
His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.”
Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.
But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.
He imagined a life without you.
You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.
The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.
You were duty, yes. But you were also more.
And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.
Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”
But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.
He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you.
Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.
His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”
Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.
Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.
But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”
The hall went still.
Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”
Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”
All eyes turned to Robb.
The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.
It found you.
Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted.
And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”
The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.
A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.
Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.
Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”
Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.
“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”
Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”
Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.
And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.
You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”
The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.
Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.
For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.
Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”
Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”
The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.
Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.
“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”
Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.
And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.
A strange, unexpected calm.
Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.
You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.
And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.
After reading your pope and jack fic, I was wondering if you could do one where reader is a student doctor at the Pitt but is married to Pope who in this case could be like..jack’s nephew or smth..and he just gives off such Doberman energy when he comes to pick her up at the end of her shift oh and and you best believe he kind of just stares Robby down cos he knows how mean he can be to his wife in shifts.
Also I think Dana would be such a nice person to pope.
A good husband protects without biting
tags: andrew cody x fem!doctor reader, jack abbot x cousin-in-law!reader, jack and andrew are cousins, doberman energy andrew, guard dog andrew, andrew cody doesn't mess around, mean robby, protective jack, the pitt doesn't think andrew exists, 18+ MDNI
notes: thank you @mei-vis for requesting! I hope I did this ask justice! I chose for jack and andrew to be cousins instead of an uncle/nephew since I believe they look a bit too similar for that familial relationship!, like always if you'd like to be added to my permanent tag list, please comment here! please enjoy!
word count: 2.6k words
The end of your shift couldn’t come soon enough.
In the span of twelve hours, you’d been doused in bodily fluids twice, hit on by a creepy old drunk who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, passively dismissed by Robby after he deemed you “too slow” for a trauma (when in reality, the med student next to you was the one who wouldn’t hand you the damn tube), and had your lunch stolen when it clearly had your name written on it—four times might you add.
To top the whole very bad day off, your husband hadn’t responded to the messages you had sent hours ago asking if he’d be back in time to pick you up because the forecast called for rain, and like all bad days had gone, your car basically gave up the ghost the moment you parked it in the employee lot.
So, you were almost scrub-less, uncomfortable, embarrassed, and so starving you almost thought about paying an insane price for a small Uber-ed meal before you also realized that the app hadn’t saved your information and your card was currently sitting on the kitchen counter.
Just what you needed.
The groan, along with the rumbles of your stomach, caused many heads to turn.
“Is there a stampede in here? Or is your stomach in the process of eating itself,” Dana asked, though her eyes didn’t leave the nurses’ board.
Your head landed next to the keyboard with a loud thunk. “I think my stomach tried to eat itself a couple of hours ago before realizing that it was completely empty.”
“I saw you brought lunch. Where’d that go?”
If glares could put someone six feet under, the one you were giving your computer should have imploded it. “Currently being digested in the stomach of a med student.”
“Good Lord. You poor thing.”
“Tell me about it. I’d been dreaming of those leftovers since last night!”
Dana gave you a knowing look. “Did your husband cook it?”
“Yep.” Your chair squeaked as you leaned back. “And I didn’t even get to enjoy it for the second time. He’s going to be pissed.”
“Who’s going to be pissed?” Trinity asked, already leaning on the counter like getting closer to you would make the gossip flow over. “Cause if you’re talking about Dr. Robby, that ship sailed around 2:30.”
You closed your eyes and ran a hand down your face. “Trust me; I already know he’s pissed off at the world. I’ve been on the receiving end of that way too much today.”
She gave you a sympathetic wince. “I heard about that.”
“Who hasn’t,” you muttered with a harsh snort.
That was the other thing that had added to your humiliation. Robby hadn’t just quietly dismissed you or corrected you after the trauma, no, he rather loudly decided to spew his personal thoughts about your work ethic in front of not just your coworkers but also the patient’s family who were there for moral support. Blatant strangers had a front seat to watch your attending rip into you all while it hadn’t even been your fault.
Just thinking about it brought another heated flush up your neck.
“To answer your question, her husband’s the one who’s going to be pissed,” Dana filled her in while rewriting a name. “He’s very particular about who gets to eat his food.”
Another groan rumbled your chest. “Med student didn’t even return the Tupperware. Now he’s going to be extra pissed at that.”
For a small second, Trinity looked almost nervous. “Will you be okay?”
Her concern made a small feeling of comfort and pride bloom in your chest. If there was one person you could count on other than your family and Dana, it was Trinity, never hesitating to step in if she even thought someone didn’t feel safe. You shot her a grateful smile.
“Oh, I’ll be perfectly fine. He’ll be mad sure, but not at me. We’ll just pray that he won’t spot the student that did it.”
“Amen to that,” Dana muttered. “He’s like your personal guard dog.”
“Are we going to add that guy who tried to touch your ass earlier?” Trinity teased, and your eyes widened.
“Definitely.” You nodded along. “Might as well add Robby to it too. My husband isn’t that fond of him already. I just wish he’d respond to my messages.”
Dana gave you a knowing look. “He at work today?”
“Yeah. There was a problem with one of the houses a few hours out, and he left before I was even out of bed. Said there was a contract breach, kissed me good morning, and drove off.”
“That’s oddly sweet,” Trinity added.
You couldn’t help the fond smile that grew on your face. “Even made my coffee for me. I found it with one of those little post-it notes stuck to it.”
“Didn’t know he was into doing stuff like that,” Dana said with a small laugh.
“You know how he is,” you replied. “The man’s love language is acts of service.”
Trinity smiled. “What does he do for work?”
Your fingers found the keyboard again while you answered. “He’s a relator and contractor. Usually, he works from home, but like today, he sometimes has to go out and inspect the houses or make sure the paperwork is in order.”
“Sounds like you got yourself a stay-at-home husband.”
You couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah. He actually really likes to do the house work. Plus, when I’m home, all I’m doing is sleeping.” Your eyes caught your wedding band. “He’s really good to me. Plus, he’s Jack’s—”
“Ladies, if we have time to chat, we have time to work,” Robby’s voice interrupted the conversation, loud and on the very edge of condescending. “Especially you, Dr. Cody. Let’s focus on getting patients in and out instead of sitting around, yes?”
You swallowed down an annoyed sigh, instead choosing to stand up without a word. Hating the way you felt under Robby’s glare almost made you want to put in a two-week notice and move departments. However, emergency medicine was your life; it was the sole reason you met the people who quickly became your family, the reason you met your husband. Your fingers quickly found your wedding band, specially made of the number of diamonds that symbolized how long you and your husband had been dating before he proposed.
Grabbing another tablet quickly, you forced yourself to hold your head up high as you passed him. Robby wasn’t worth your fear or submission. Plus, it wasn’t like he never talked around; you’d caught him and the hospital’s case manager making small talk way too many times to count. The man was a hypocrite that couldn’t see past his own faults and projected them onto his employees.
By the time you rounded the corner, and Robby had vacated the station, Trinity leaned in toward Dana a bit more.
“Is there any way to contact her husband? She mentioned her car died, and it’s raining.” Trinity looked in the direction you had disappeared down. “If I were married and my boss talked to me like that, I’d want my partner to know.”
Dana had already picked up her personal cell after Trinity’s first question. “Oh, I’ll make sure he knows.”
_______________________
When you exited the patient’s room, you paused a few feet into the hallway, rubbed your eyes, and continued to stare at the nurses’ station.
Dana being there with Trintiy and Dennis was nothing out of the ordinary. However, the added presence of Jack Abbot and your husband was. You hastily crossed the gap between you and the station, concern etching itself in your eyebrows and lips.
“Andrew?” you called out. “What are you doing here?”
At the sound of your voice, Andrew Cody turned his head so rapidly that it added another wave of worry that he might have pulled something. He stayed still, even when you stopped in front of him, as your hands gently ran up his arms and stopped at his face all while the small group watched on with small smiles (from Jack and Dana) and genuine curiosity (from Dennis and Trinity).
“You’re supposed to be in Altoona right now. Did you get hurt?” you questioned when your eyes couldn’t find any visible injuries.
He stayed silent while his hands quietly found yours, fingers threading between the gaps and holding you steady.
“I’m fine,” he finally said, hazel eyes boring into yours. “Just missed you.”
A relieved exhale escaped from your lips. “Thank goodness. I was worried there for a second.”
His crooked teeth poked through a smile. “I could tell.”
You softly pushed him before taking his hands again. “Shut up. You went hours without responding and just show up at the end of my shift. God forbid I’m concerned for my husband.”
“See, man, I told you she’d do this,” Jack grumbled, patting Andrew slightly on the shoulder.
“Um, not to interrupt, but did Dr. Cody marry someone who looks exactly like Dr. Abbot?” Dennis squeaked out a question, obviously trying not to step over a boundary.
But like a sister, Trinity nudged him harshly with her elbow. “Use your brain, Huckleberry. It’s obvious they’re related somehow.”
The two continued looking between the Pitt’s night shift attending and your husband who looked like Jack if he were ten years younger.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you early, Trinity,” you said. “My husband is Jack’s cousin on their moms's side. Andrew, this is Dennis and Trinity.”
Andrew didn’t reach out to give them a handshake, but the appreciated nod he gave them was somehow enough. “She talks about you two a lot.”
Trinity looked smug by the news. “All good things I hope.”
“Definitely,” he answered. “I can tell she likes working with you two.”
“Which is more than he can say about Robby,” Dana muttered.
The change in Andrew, just by mentioning Robby, was so visceral that Trinity and Dennis were both shocked.
In the few moments, the two could see how soft this hunking-fridge-of-a-man was for you. They saw it in the way he was quick to hunch over slightly when you looked him over with worry. They noticed it in the way he held onto you when he reassured you that he was only there for her and not because he had gotten hurt. They noted the way his soft smile was only for you and not even for when his cousin jested with him.
Dana’s words from earlier rang in Trinity’s mind as she watched Andrew’s muscles tense beneath his polo.
He’s like your personal guard dog.
Andrew shifted his weight, shoulders now seemingly broader than they had been. “Did something happen today?”
Your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “It was nothing. He’s just being Robby.”
Surprisingly, Andrew’s eyes flitted over to Trinity like he knew she’d tell him exactly what he wanted to know. “What’d he do?”
Trinity looked at you once, and when you looked toward the floor, she answered. “He blamed her for a med student’s slow pace. Practically yelled at and belittled her in front of the other doctors in the trauma room and the patient’s family.”
Even Jack couldn’t hold back the wince splashing across his face at the news, mind already knowing that in five seconds, his cousin might be on a war path for his friend. However, all Andrew seemed to do was take in a deep breath and hold onto your hands like a tether.
“All right,” he finally said, body still tense. “Okay. Anything else I should know?”
“Someone took her lunch,” Dana added, drawing your eyes from the floor to her, hues flooding with betrayal.
Et tu, brute?
“Dana,” you hissed.
Andrew’s grip on your hands tightened.
In an almost attempt to throw more gas onto an already raging fire, Trinity ended with, “And she had a patient try to grope her earlier this morning.”
Andrew’s eyes closed slowly like he was bracing for a fit of rage to overtake his senses, his mind already racing with the fact that you probably hadn’t eaten, because when he stopped by the house to change, he saw your forgotten card. Add in you almost getting assaulted, and he was one wrongly pulled Jenga block from collapsing.
You closed your eyes and braced for impact, already feeling the brunt of the day push down on you. They only fluttered open when Andrew didn’t move, his chest the only thing heaving in an out and in motion. Somehow, that didn’t ease the queasy feeling bubbling beneath your skin. And at that moment, Robby decided to round the corner. Like most men, you guessed that he hadn’t picked up on the tension cloud that was currently circling around the station and—more importantly—Andrew’s head.
When Robby walked into his field of view, you swear you saw the lovely hazel of his eyes darken. It should have scared you how quickly Andrew could go from your sweet and doting husband to a very possessive animal, but instead, the change had you relaxing and relieved. If there was someone you could count on for anything no matter what, that person would always be Andrew.
And maybe (finally) Robby sensed enough tension, because his body went stiff after he looked up from the tablet in his hands and met Andrew’s eyes.
Trinity and Dennis really thought that your husband was going to stalk over there, throw a punch, menacingly bark curse words and insults at Robby (a man who had a few good inches to tower over Andrew), and walk back over like nothing happened. But when he stayed put, only giving a beady stare that never wavered, they realized that he didn’t even have to talk to Robby or punch him for his words to get across.
They knew that Andrew was making Robby uncomfortable by the way Robby shifted, the way he broke eye contact first, and the way he left the station looking like a dog with a tail between its legs.
Jack let out a low whistle. “Damn, that never gets old.”
Dana smirked. “He ever use that on you?”
“All the fucking time.” Jack scoffed. “Do you know how many family gatherings I spent trying to get away from those eyes.”
“We have the same eyes, asshole,” Andrew grumbled.
“But yours are scary as hell,” Jack shot back. “Might be a good time to say that my night shift needs another resident.”
“Fuck no,” Trinity instantly said. “You can’t have her, or we’d be left with him.”
Dennis nodded. “I’m in full agreement.”
Jack looked over at you expectantly but visibly deflated at the apologetic look you were giving him.
“Sorry, Jack, but I enjoy getting to spend my evenings at home.” You paused and smirked. “I know Samira’s been looking for a change of scenery if you want to ask her.”
The small crowd couldn’t help but smile or chuckle at the now vivid flush across Jack’s face as he tried to sputter out an answer.
“All right, get out of here kids before it looks like you’re staging a mutiny,” Dana said with a wave of her hands.
“Aye, aye, captain,” Trinity responded with a salute of her own.
Andrew grinned widely, finally showing the smile around more people than just you. “If we’re turning into pirates, Jack already has the missing-leg thing down.”
“Hey!”
You giggled loudly while Andrew wrapped an arm around your shoulders, bringing you into his side. Your hand gently rested against his chest as you hugged him back. He felt your body melt into his after he pressed a quick kiss to your temple.
“Ready to go home?” he quietly muttered just loud enough for you to hear. “Dana already gave me your bag.”
“Yeah,” you breathily sighed. “Let’s go before a trauma comes in, and I’m stuck in here until I wither away.
Andrew hummed. “We can’t have that now, can we?”
“Absolutely not. I still want to have leftovers at least one more time before I’m buried. And this time, I’m putting a padlock on the container.”
Summary: Because of bad experiences with men, you don't think that someone could actually like you in a romantic way, and because of that, you don't notice how your attending is down so bad for you.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
You were always that friend that men didn't ask out or ask for your number, but they did for your friends. Since high school, you liked a boy and they just approached you to talk about your friends, if they were single, what they liked, or if you thought they would accept going out with them. You wanted to scream every time it happened, but instead you smiled and answered back even if it broke your heart every single time.
So now, as an adult, when a man flirts with you or compliments you, you don't think they are actually flirting or meaning the compliments, because…
Why would they?
It's something that has grown in your head, with time and more men that have dismissed you for someone else or asked to date one of your friends. So when your attending, Jack Abbot, starts to flirt with you very subtly, you actually don't notice because, in your mind, no one would do that and you just thought that it was him being friendly.
How he always knew when you needed coffee at a specific time on your shift and he always got that for you on time when you were just thinking about getting one. How he always got it right, the way you liked your coffee.
Also, Jack could be a little grumpy sometimes, answering a little sharply to anyone but you. He was always sweet and talked to you with a half smile and a shine in his hazel eyes that everybody noticed.
Everyone except you.
And you wouldn't have if it wasn't for Ellis.
She approached you in the middle of your shift as always, you were doing your charts and she probably just wanted to mess around. After some chat, she dropped it, no warning or anesthesia.
“But Abbot is in love with you.” She just said it like it was common knowledge.
You froze, your fingers stopped answering you, you looked at her trying to find out if she's joking and when you saw how totally serious she was, you panicked, that couldn't be true, it wasn't possible, all his gestures were friendly, what would he even look at you for? Definitely not more than friends, you told yourself that you didn't fit with him, he was too handsome.
“You know it, right?” Parker asked after seeing your stunned face.
You just looked at her, wide eyes and red faced.
“Girl… that man is on his knees for you.” She was as stunned as you but for a different reason.
You actually didn't know.
“Have you ever seen him bring coffee to any of us? Let alone get our preferred order right? Give us a soft tone when he's instructing or annoyed. And I can go on and on all night long.”
She left you there because a trauma was coming in. You weren't able to move or think straight. You just repeated to yourself that it wasn't true, that Ellis was messing around with you. But every time you looked at Jack, her words repeated in your mind and you wished they were true and that couldn't happen.
Every time you let yourself have a crush or fall for someone, it ended up with you being rejected, hurt in the most painful way. And when Parker's words wouldn't leave your mind, you started to avoid your attending, running away from every room where he was before he could approach you or direct a single word at you. You presented your cases to Shen or Cruz until it became evident that you were avoiding him.
You didn't leave Jack a choice, not knowing what he did for you to not let him go near you; it was killing him. He made sure to follow every move you made until you grabbed your things and said goodbye to everyone except him. He followed you quickly to the parking lot and didn't give you a chance to run away from him.
“Hey, can we talk?” he stopped you before you could reach your car keys.
“I've got to go…”
“Did I do something?” he asked nervously.
You didn't look at him, trying to stop the butterflies in your stomach and Parker's words repeated in your mind.
“No,” you mumbled.
“Then why are you avoiding me?” he insisted, trying to understand what could have possibly happened to make you avoid just him.
“I’m not,” you whispered, trying not to focus on the warmth of his hand on your arm.
“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.”
The pet name made shivers go down your back and again you tried to convince yourself that he could possibly say that to any other woman.
“I’m not.”
“Did I say something?” he was more desperate this time. “Whatever I said to hurt you, I didn't mean it that way, I–”
“You didn't say anything wrong,” you assured him, stopping his rambling.
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing.” You tried to go away but he didn't let you.
“Please,” he mumbled your name, not knowing how much you loved hearing it coming out of his mouth.
He shifted his weight from leg to leg nervously given your lack of response.
“Did someone say something?” Again you didn't answer but the shift in your expression answered for you.
Jack sighed defeated.
“I’m so sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable–
“It doesn't,” you said so quickly that you realized what you had said after you did it.
Jack frowned, confused. “Then…”
“Do you actually?” you whispered, unable to look him in the eyes, preparing yourself for the rejection.
“What? That I'm in love with you, sweetheart? Because I totally am.” he said it with such confidence and like it was something so obvious.
You looked at him confused.
“Why?”
That caught him off guard, he didn't understand why you were asking, but if that was what you needed to finally believe him.
“Because you're amazing, you're beautiful, smart, kind, the best under pressure, I love all the gestures that you do when you focus on something or you're excited, how you jump to help people that you don't even know, and I can continue all night long.” He kept getting closer to you, watching how your eyes started to tear up.
“I can't believe you,” you mumbled more to yourself than to him but Jack was so close to you by this point that he heard it anyway.
He sighed desperately.
“Why? It's the truth, honey, the real question is why wouldn't I be in love with you?” he whispered, taking one of your rebellious strands of hair and moving it away from your face.
“Because nobody has ever wanted me that way,” you confessed, holding back a sob but he could clearly see it in your eyes.
How you actually believed that.
Jack felt his heart ache and the need to take you away from everything that could hurt you or have made you think that way because, in his mind, you were the most beautiful woman ever and he would feel very lucky if he could ever have you one day. He couldn't stand that you thought about yourself like that.
Before he could say something, you said something more.
“During my whole life, it's never been me, when I was a teenager the boys would be interested just in my friends, they wouldn't care about me. Now it's no different, something is wrong with me, Jack, you don't actually love me." The pain in your voice when you actually believed your own words made Jack want to cry.
How had nobody ever told you how pretty you were?
How had nobody seen in you what he saw?
How did they not see you for who you really were?
He didn't understand but he didn't care either, because he saw it, and he’ll make you see it too even if it takes him years. He'll make sure you know how pretty, intelligent, and beautiful you are. An incredible person that anyone in their life should be grateful to have.
“Then they are dumb as fuck, they don't understand the incredible girl that they are losing.” he cupped your face with his hands and cleaned the tears with his thumbs. “How lucky they could be to have you in their life.”
“You don't mean it,” you whispered, trying to convince yourself, starting to sob in his arms.
“I do, sweetheart. You don't understand how bad I do,” he insisted, looking deep into your eyes with that intensity that only he had. “I know what I want.”
“What do you want?” you mumbled.
“You.”
He leaned into you, nose touching yours, he waited for you to step back, to give him a sign for him to step back, a glimpse from you that told him you didn't want that. And when he didn't find it he pressed his lips into yours, you took your time but you returned his kiss letting yourself go, letting yourself be loved.
When he pulled away you found yourself wanting more.
“Nothing is wrong with you, I truly love you and if you need me to repeat that to you every single day I will, I don't care, sweetheart.” he mumbled, pressing his forehead against yours and brushing his nose against yours.
You smiled at that contact and the way he called you, you loved hearing that word coming out of his mouth. You had started to believe him and he could see it in the way you relaxed under his touch, stopping your tears.
“I love you too, Jack,” you said shyly in a quiet mumble that made his heart warm. “I just… I–”
He captured your lips in another sweet kiss before you could say something that was going to make his heart ache again and the anger for whoever had made you think that you couldn't be loved could crawl into him.
I actually didn't like this, but I wanted to publish something 🫠
hiii !! i was wondering if you would do a jack abbot imagine. i saw a tiktok where a group of friends did the trend where they all take a pregnancy test and a couple of them were positive. i was just curious on how jack would react to just witnessing all of this take place. if you aren’t comfortable with writing it, i completely understand
💞Tags/Warnings💞: slight age-gap marriage, protective!Jack Abbot, unplanned pregnancy, fluff, comforting!Jack Abbot, Husband!Jack Abbot in ALL his glory lol
💞Plot💞: Y/N is still writing thank you notes to all that sent a wedding gift to her and Jack. But after a funny little trend reveals life changing news, Y/N heads to the ER to make sure. She just has to keep it from Jack…
💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
💞Title💞: Oh Baby…
💞A/N💞: All good, my love. I don’t mind a Pregnancy AU lol. Hope you enjoy!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
~ ~ ~ One Hour Earlier ~ ~ ~
“I don’t get it.” Y/N laughs as she happily relaxes on the couch. Her group of friends laugh along. It was a crisp Tuesday afternoon, and Y/N was happily in attendance to one of her friend’s baby shower.
“It’s a trend on TikTok!” Jane says simply. “Pregnancy test roulette.” She smirks as she points a playful threatening finger at the other women sitting around the living room.
The party had already died down about an hour ago, but Y/N and the three other girls had stuck around for a silly little ‘after party’ of their own. All five women were just enjoying the leftover cake and conversations.
“Okay, I’ll explain it one more time..” The main girl of the hour, Megan, giggles as she sits up more in her chair, hands resting comfortably on her four month baby bump. “We all take a test, and when the timer is up, we flip em and see who else is spending their summer inside like me.” She jokes.
The others laugh as she playfully pouts. “What?! I want a pregnancy buddy.” She defends jokingly as Sarah gets up and grabs the five tests.
“I’m not playing.” Rachel says as Sarah hands them out. The living room is filled with playful ‘boo’s and Jane even tosses a small throw pillow Rachel’s way. Y/N snickers from her spot on the soft couch.
Rachel laughs, tossing the pillow back. “Hey, I’m trying to save you guys the time. I haven’t gotten some in almost a year!” She explains with a simple shrug. “If I take that test and it’s positive, then I must be the new age Mother Mary…” she snickers as Sarah rolls her eyes playfully before skipping Rachel and holding the test out for Y/N.
“Oh. No.” Y/N giggles shyly. “Jack and I are extremely careful. I’m not gonna give anything juicy to this.” She tries.
“Humor us.” Sarah shrugs and Y/N stares at the box for a moment before carefully grabbing it. She can’t help but fidget with it, absentmindedly really.
Y/N never paid them much mind whenever she did her shopping. It wasn’t that she didn’t want kids, but it was more so the fact of… Not knowing when she’d have them.
For a long part of her life, Y/N went from wanting them to telling herself she didn’t need them, to then wondering when she’d have them.
And then she met Jack.
And he made it so much worse.
Because Jack Abbot would make an amazing dad..
Not only is he soft spoken, patient, and warm. But he’s a loving partner on top of all that. Now it was just a matter of not why or how.
But ‘when’.
More specifically, ‘when it does happen’. Because it would. And until then, there’s no rush..
~ ~ ~ Currently ~ ~ ~
Or… That’s what Y/N thought.
But life can be funny.
Because one minute, you’re buzzing from an amazing honeymoon and trying to juggle being back at work while also sending out ‘thank you’ cards for wedding gifts given by your closest friends and family. And the next… You’re pregnant.
Just so. Fucking. Funny.
Y/N fidgets with her fingers as she catches the eye of Lupe Perez. The older woman smiles warmly at the sight of her. “Hey, Honey. Want me to call for Abbot?” She asks, already going for the walkie talkie.
“No!” Y/N says fast, head still spinning. She stiffens as she realizes that sounds bad. “Uh.. No, that’s okay. He’s.. Probably busy working. I…” Y/N sighs softly as she shifts on her feet. After staring unblinkingly at the positive symbol on her pregnancy test, Y/N had rushed over here.
Was it to see Abbot? Maybe at first.
But, honestly, Y/N needed confirmation. Hard cold confirmation that life was moving fast and she’d have to jump on this train now or get run over by it.
“I just… I have a weird.. Wrist.” Y/N lies. Terribly lies.
How the hell could she be a parent if she couldn’t even lie right?!
Lupe pauses at that, eyeing her. “Huh?” She asks.
“I mean… I think I sprained my wrist.” Y/N finally settles. “I just.. I need to get seen.” She says gently. She had to settle on something. Telling the truth would more than likely end with Jack finding out. And she just wanted to make sure.
“I can get you back there right now..” Lupe assures as she nods at the security guard hanging out behind her to let Y/N into the back.
With a deep breath, Y/N walks in to the ED, eyes moving around the chaos that was her husband’s world.
Dana is first to notice her. The head nurse was in the middle of packing up to go home. All of day shift was. But she stopped her movements when she sees Y/N..
“Well, hello blushin bride.” She jokes as Y/N walks over to the nurses station fast.
“Here for Abbot?” She asks as Y/N opens her mouth, only to have the security guard answer for her.
“Sprained wrist.” He says. Dana pauses in concern.
“It’s not that bad. I uh.. I just needed a doctor to check it out..” Y/N begins and then leans in a bit closer. “A-And maybe get a tes-“ Y/N is cut off from her attempt when she hears her nickname called.
Looking over, she sighs in relief involuntarily.
Even when the plan was to not see Jack, seeing him brought relief to her that made her realize she definitely married her right person..
“What’s going on? You okay?” Jack asks as he walks right over.
“It’s her wrist.” Dana answers for her.
“Your wrist?” Jack asks.
“Her wrist.” The security guard confirms, still standing near her for some reason.
Y/N presses her lips together as she gives the guy a look. He puts up his hands to show he was just trying to help before he walks off back to the front of the hospital.
“I slipped at the party earlier. It feels funny. I just.. I want it checked out.” She assures as Jack eyes her before nodding.
“Okay. I’ll take you.” He assures.
“Oh uh… You can’t.” Y/N tries fast. Jack pauses at that.
“What?” He asks softly.
“I.. You know. HIPAA? All that.. Legal stuff? I’ll get checked by someone else.” Y/N assures before looking around. Who wouldn’t tell? Who wouldn’t tell?
Her eyes land on one Dennis Whitaker.
Perfect.
“He can see me.” She points to him. Dana and Jack look over too and Dana hums.
“Sold. You’re in good hands..” She assures Y/N before calling out to Whitaker. Jack crosses his arms a bit.
“Everything okay?” He asks lowly.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Y/N tries back as she looks at Jack gently.
“Because you aren’t looking me in the eyes..” Jack says, mind already rolling with different possibilities.
“Jack. Honey. I’m fine, but.. wanna get this cleared up.” Y/N assures fast before pecking his cheek just as Whitaker walks over.
“Mrs. Abbot?” He asks politely. “Follow me.” He says as she nods fast. She gives Jack’s bicep one final squeeze of assurance before she leaves with Whitaker to an empty room.
Her breath is faint.
No.
It’s the air in this room.
It’s thin.
She sits on the examination table as Whitaker signs into the computer to begin. “It’s just the wrist, righ-“ Y/N cuts Whitaker off.
“I need a test!”
The statement is rushed out in a wave of panic she’d been holding back for a good 30 minutes or so now..
Whitaker freezes at that moment as he slowly looks up from the computer. A deer caught in headlights.
“A… Test test?” He asks to clarify..
*
*
*
Jack Abbot was a good husband.
The very best, actually.
He took pride in that. In knowing the little things.
Like.. Whenever Y/N was stressed or overly excited or scared. She’d always do something. Give him a sign that made it well known what was going on in her head. And right now, as just watched through the glass door from afar, Y/N was showing all the signs of anticipation.
Fidgeting on the examine table, eyes moving around the room with nothing holding her attention for longer than a few seconds, and not to mention the way she moved her lips. Firmly and then pursing them out before repeating the movement.
Jack’s attention snaps from the scene across the hall from him and instead goes to a power walking Whitaker. Jack gets into step with him.
“Dr. Whitaker. How’s your patient?” He asks as Whitaker keeps his eyes downwards.
“Uh.. I’ve got six of them. You’ve gotta be a little more specific, Dr. Abb-“ Jack cuts him off.
“My wife, Whitaker.” He says firmly. “How’s my wife?” He asks as he somewhat steps in front of him to stop their walking. His hands go behind his back.
“Oh. Uh… She’s okay..” He tries to assure, and Jack hums.
“Yeah? Cause… She came in for a possible sprain, but I haven’t seen her leave to get x-rayed. What’s the hold up with that?” Jack asks.
“Just… You know, making sure we stay by the book.” Whitaker tries. Jack slowly steps a bit closer.
“Dr. Whitaker. I appreciate you taking my wife because I can’t, but… Hey, I’m a husband. I worry.” He chuckles a bit to try and come off lighthearted. “So… If there’s anything I should know…” He trails off, trying to sound nice as he eyes whatever forms are being gripped in Whittaker’s hands now.
“I… Really wish I could help you. But… HIPPA…” Whitaker points out.
Jack slowly nods. “Oh. Okay..” He mumbles as if understanding. Whitaker sighs in relief, trying now to just walk around him only for Jack to get in his way again.
“Give me the fucking order forms, Whitaker.” He states with no aggression or malice in his tone. Just authority. The nice guy act was officially dropped. Whitaker sighs softly, knowing under that order is fear. Fear over not knowing what’s wrong with his wife.
Whitaker looks around the hallway before handing over the order forms so Jack can see what is being done.
It’s silent as Jack sees all the orders being filled out for specific tests. “What’s all of this for?” He asks as he rubs his chin a bit while skimming the paper over and over again. It couldn’t be what was slowly coming to mind. A seed that wanted to plant itself into the forefront of his brain.
“Just… Protocol.” Whitaker tries. “You know before we can do an x-ray we need to make sure all is.. Safe. It’s… necessary.” Whitaker shrugs, but he watches Jack, knowing he’ll get it soon enough.
“Protocol? If she doesn’t remember her last period, protocol is a simple urine test. A blood test too? That’s only needed if…” Jack slows his talking as he lets the seed fully sink in now and grow a garden in his mind..
“She’s not here for her wrist. Is she..” Jack whispers finally as he looks at Whitaker who just watches him with cautious eyes.
“Surprise…” Whitaker tries softly.
*
*
*
The minute Jack walks into her room, Y/N knows he knows. She doesn’t have to even question how. She just lets out a shaky breath that’s contained all her fears and stress as he moves over to hold her.
“What are we thinking? What’s the plan?” Jack whispers as he strokes her hair while she nuzzles into his neck, breathing a bit easier now.
“I just.. I wanted to know before I told you. I know this came out of nowhere, but-“ Jack cuts her off with a soft laugh.
“One thing I learned about life? Everything good usually comes out of nowhere. Meeting you came out of nowhere.” He points out with humor in his eyes. It makes Y/N chuckle a bit as she pulls back to fully face him.
“I’m… So scared.” She admits. He watches her closer, trying to maneuver his way through this conversation.
“Like… You’re not.. Ready..?” He says slowly.
“What? No! No, I want this..” Y/N assures fast and he sighs in relief.
“Thank god.” He mutters before kissing her tenderly. “Because I’m so fucking excited..” He admits finally against her lips. Y/N can’t help but giggle at that, all her panic fading away as she realizes that no matter what the test says, she’s married her best friend. Someone who will always support her and back her up. No matter his personal opinion.
Whitaker walks in at that moment, smiling a bit as he holds the lab results in his hand. “I can.. Let you read them..” He offers Jack gently.
“You know..” Jack begins. “I never get to be on this side of the results.” He jokes. “Go ahead.” He nods at Whitaker to do it. Y/N snuggles more on to Jack’s shoulder and nods for Whitaker to read the results. She focuses on her husband’s smell. His breathing. How warm he is. She doesn’t even hear the results until Jack begins to laugh happily.
She smiles at the joyous laugh. Like a kid realizing they got exactly what they wanted on Christmas morning. He grabs her face and kisses her excitedly. “Thank you, baby…” He whispers, making her blush at the appreciation he has over her positively being pregnant with his child.
“Anytime..” She jokes back against his lips as Whitaker bashfully leaves to give them a minute.
“I’m gonna be a dad!” Jack cheers as Y/N watches on in stunned amusement, laughing as Jack begins to pace a bit. “I’m gonna be a dad!” He repeats a bit louder as she giggles, covering her face as she hears him step outside her room.
“Jack!” She squeals as he announces it.
“NightCrawlers! I’m gonna be a dad! Hoo-Rah!” He says proudly as she groans playfully at that.
Request: It's for pope. Reader is having a bad day at work (unspecified profession) and asks pope for a selfie cause seeing his face would make her feel better. But pope has never taken a selfie and doesn't think he's photogenic so he says no, but he can feel reader got sad (though she tried to be understanding and nice about it) and ends up trying (from multiple angles to see which one is better) and sending one anyway just because he loves her so much
By three-thirty in the afternoon, you were seriously considering homicide.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not even in a particularly emotional way.
Just a calm, exhausted certainty that if one more person interrupted you to ask a question they absolutely could have answered themselves, you might actually climb onto your desk and start throwing office supplies.
Your head hurt.
Your coffee had gone cold two hours ago.
Someone had cc’d the wrong person into an email chain and somehow made it your problem.
Your boss had used the phrase “quick favor” six separate times today, each one somehow translating into at least forty minutes of extra work.
And to make things worse, you missed Andrew.
Which was stupid.
You’d seen him this morning.
Barely.
Half-awake and shirtless in your kitchen, standing in front of the coffee maker with sleepy eyes and messy curls while he silently handed you your favorite mug before you left for work.
You’d kissed him goodbye quickly.
Promised you’d text him later.
Rushed out the door already stressed.
Now it felt like years ago.
You slumped lower in your chair, staring at your computer screen with dead eyes.
Then your phone buzzed beside your keyboard.
Andy: U okay?
Your chest softened instantly.
You smiled despite yourself.
The thing about Andrew Cody was that he always knew.
He noticed tiny shifts in your mood like they were alarms only he could hear.
You could walk into a room pretending everything was fine and Andrew would look at you once and quietly ask what happened.
Sometimes it unsettled you how observant he was.
Mostly it just made you feel loved.
You picked up your phone.
You: rough day
Andy: bad rough or annoying rough
You: annoying rough
You: everyone at work suddenly forgot how to do their jobs apparently
Andy: hm
Andy: want me to come get u
You smiled faintly.
Because he would.
Without hesitation.
Middle of the workday.
No questions asked.
You: no baby im okay
You: just tired
Andy: u eat today
You: pope
Andy: thats not an answer
You: ...half a granola bar
Andy: jesus christ
You laughed quietly under your breath.
The woman in the cubicle beside you glanced over curiously.
You ignored her.
Another message appeared almost immediately.
Andy: i can bring u food
You: i’ll survive
Andy: debatable
Warmth bloomed slowly in your chest.
Andrew wasn’t romantic in obvious ways.
He wasn’t flowers or poetry or grand speeches.
He was remembering how you took your coffee.
Replacing the gas in your car before you noticed it was low.
Standing slightly in front of you in parking lots without even realizing he was doing it.
He loved through action.
Through attention.
Through the quiet certainty that if you needed something, he would handle it.
You stared at your phone for another second before typing impulsively:
You: send me a selfie
Andy: what
You: a picture of u
Andy: why
You: because seeing your face would make me feel better rn
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then nothing.
You frowned slightly.
That was… odd.
Usually Andrew answered quickly when it came to you.
Finally another message came through.
Andy: no
Your face fell before you could stop it.
Not dramatically.
Not because he owed you one.
But something inside you had already pictured it:
Andrew half-scowling at the camera.
Messy hair.
Probably confused about the entire concept of selfies.
You’d wanted that little burst of comfort more than you realized.
You swallowed the disappointment immediately.
Because Andrew sounded uncomfortable.
And the last thing you ever wanted was to push him into something he hated.
You: that’s okay
You: you dont have to
You: sorry lol
Andy: i dont know how
You blinked.
Then immediately softened.
Oh.
You: baby 😭
You: you’ve never taken a selfie?
Andy: no
Andy: feels weird
Andy: and i look bad in pictures
Your heart physically hurt a little.
Because you knew Andrew meant that.
You leaned back in your chair slowly.
Andrew had never understood what people saw when they looked at him.
Even now.
Even after years together.
Even after you loved him openly and stubbornly and repeatedly.
There were still moments where his self-worth vanished into old scars and old wounds.
You typed carefully.
You: you absolutely do not look bad in pictures
You: but it’s okay if you don’t want to
You: i understand
You added a little heart.
Then locked your phone and tried very hard not to feel sad about it.
Back at the apartment, Andrew stared at your messages like they’d personally insulted him.
Not because of anything you said.
Because he could tell you were disappointed.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.
But Andrew noticed every tiny shift in you.
The “it’s okay” came too fast.
The “i understand” too careful.
You were trying not to make him feel guilty.
Which somehow made him feel worse.
Craig wandered through the living room halfway through a protein shake and stopped dead when he saw Andrew glaring at his phone like it owed him money.
“…You good?”
Andrew ignored him.
Craig stepped closer.
“What’re you doing?”
Andrew held the phone out abruptly.
Craig squinted at the screen.
Then barked out a laugh.
“Oh my God. You won’t send her a selfie?”
“I don’t know how.”
“Jesus Christ, old man.”
Andrew frowned harder.
“I look weird in pictures.”
Craig nearly choked.
“No you don’t.”
Andrew looked unconvinced.
Craig snorted.
“She’s literally obsessed with you.”
Andrew's expression softened immediately at that.
Just for a second.
Then he looked back at the phone again.
Your little heart emoji sat at the bottom of the conversation like a bruise.
Craig saw the exact moment Andrew caved.
“Oh no,” Craig grinned. “You’re gonna do it.”
Andrew looked deeply annoyed about it.
“I can make her feel better.”
“By taking a selfie?”
“She asked.”
Craig started laughing harder.
“This I gotta see.”
The first selfie was terrible.
Andrew held the phone too close to his face, accidentally catching himself from below at an angle that made him look vaguely threatening.
He stared at it in horror.
“What the fuck.”
Craig howled from the couch.
“You look like you’re about to interrogate somebody.”
Andrew deleted it immediately.
The second one somehow cut off half his forehead.
The third was blurry.
The fourth was accidentally taken with flash and startled him badly enough that he nearly dropped the phone.
“Jesus Christ.”
Craig was crying laughing now.
Andrew glared at him.
“Shut up.”
“You’re forty years old learning selfies like a grandpa.”
Andrew ignored him and tried again.
This time he leaned back slightly against the kitchen counter.
The lighting was softer there.
His curls were messy from running his hand through them repeatedly.
Gray shirt stretched across broad shoulders.
Expression uncertain but calmer now.
He took the picture.
Looked at it.
Paused.
Craig leaned over.
“…Okay, annoyingly enough, that one’s actually good.”
Andrew frowned suspiciously at the screen.
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
Andrew stared at the photo for another long moment.
Then quietly took three more from different angles just in case.
Craig nearly lost consciousness laughing.
“Oh my God, you’re trying to look pretty for your girlfriend.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“You’re in love.”
Andrew's ears turned slightly pink.
Which only made Craig laugh harder.
Finally Andrew picked one.
Not perfect.
Not polished.
Just him.
Real.
And because he loved you more than he knew what to do with, he sent it immediately before he could overthink it.
Your phone buzzed while you were pretending to listen during a meeting.
You glanced down absently.
Then froze.
A picture message.
From Andrew.
Your heart jumped so hard it hurt.
You opened it immediately.
And there he was.
Messy dark curls.
Serious blue eyes.
That soft, uncertain expression he only got when he was being vulnerable with you.
He looked devastatingly handsome.
Warm.
Safe.
Yours.
Your entire awful day cracked apart instantly.
A second message came through right after it.
Andy: took like 7 tries
Andy: craig wouldn’t stop laughing at me
Andy: this one okay?
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
Because you could see the effort in it.
Andrew hated pictures.
Hated attention.
Hated feeling awkward or exposed.
But you’d been sad.
So he tried anyway.
Just for you.
You stared at the selfie again, zooming in slightly.
You could literally see where his hair stuck up on one side.
God, you loved him.
You answered immediately.
You: baby :(
You: you’re so beautiful
Andy: dont start
You: no seriously
You: this genuinely made my whole day better
You: thank you
Andy: yeah?
You: yeah
You: also tell craig i said thank u for emotional support during your selfie journey
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Andy: he’s being an asshole
You: naturally
Andy: when are u coming home
You: another hour probably
Andy: okay
Pope: ill make dinner
Your chest ached painfully with affection.
Because that was Andrew.
Not loud.
Not showy.
Just steady.
Constant.
Loving in a way that rooted itself deep into your bones.
You spent the rest of the meeting secretly glancing at the selfie whenever nobody was looking.
And every single time, you smiled.
By the time you got home, the apartment smelled like garlic and butter.
You barely got the door shut before Andrew appeared from the kitchen.
His eyes scanned you automatically.
Checking.
Assessing.
“You okay?”
You dropped your bag immediately and walked straight into him.
Andrew caught you without hesitation.
Strong arms wrapping around your waist as you buried your face against his chest.
“You sent me a selfie,” you mumbled.
“I did.”
“You’re cute.”
“I’m literally not.”
You leaned back enough to look up at him.
“You took seven pictures for me.”
Andrew looked mildly defensive now.
“The first ones were bad.”
You started laughing immediately.
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
“There it is,” he murmured quietly.
“What?”
“You laughin’.”
Something in your expression softened instantly.
God.
This man.
You reached up and touched his face gently.
“You know you make everything better, right?”
Andrew looked at you for a long moment.
Like he still didn’t fully understand how someone could love him this much.
But he leaned into your hand anyway.
“You make stuff better too,” he said quietly.
Then, after a small pause:
“I saved the other pictures.”
You blinked.
“…What?”
Andrew looked suddenly embarrassed.
“In case you wanted ‘em.”
Your face broke into absolute delighted disbelief.
“You have multiple Andrew selfies?”
He immediately looked like he regretted admitting that.
You grabbed his shirt, grinning.
“Oh my God. Show me.”
“No.”
“Andrew.”
“They’re bad.”
“I wanna see them.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
“You’re makin’ fun of me.”
“I’m absolutely not.”
“You are.”
You kissed him before he could keep arguing.
Slow.
Warm.
Lingering.
Andrew melted instantly, hands tightening around your waist.
When you pulled back, he looked dazed for a second.
“You’re really pretty,” you informed him seriously.
He stared at you.
Then huffed quietly through his nose, almost embarrassed by the sincerity of it all.
But after a second, he reached into his pocket anyway.
Pulled out his phone.
And showed you every single selfie he took.
Bee
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