A metaphor for vast physical or emotional distance, used to explore themes of loneliness and longing in an estranged relationship, with the Atlantic Ocean symbolising separation.
Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content
Series Summary:
Jack came back to Boston shattered. His leg was gone, and he was dumped by his girlfriend, who was unable to handle his new reality. Suddenly... he’s alone, grieving the life he thought he’d return to, and wondering if he's even fit to be a doctor anymore. And then he meets you...his annoyingly persistent physical therapist who refuses to let his bad attitude scare you off.
Warnings: Smut (18+MDNI), slow burn, language, mutual pining, flirting, sexual tension, medical trauma, mentions of war, angst, family dysfunction, mentions of infidelity (not between reader and jack), any additional warning will be listed in each chapter
A/N: This idea is stuck in my head. I sort of teased this story when I described how Jack met his wife in this one-shot. I view this as the prequel, and it will be told between two major timelines:
2016 - The "present" time in this story
2006 - When you and Jack meet
□ summary: The world sees Baelor Targaryen as a businessman, a leader, and a man who always has the answers. His wife sees something else entirely. A tired husband coming home after a long day, looking for a moment of peace.
□ word count: 2.8k
□ tropes: just comfort. Lots of comfort for Baelor.
□ warnings: afab reader, cussing, slight 18+, smoking, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader, no beta we die like baelor, can be read as both first/second wife!reader.
□ a/n: This has been sitting in my drafts for a while. I was going to write a normal fic for Baelor, but this picture of Bertie convinced me to write a Modern AU Baelor. Also, Thank you so much for 200 followers. I never knew so many people will enjoy my work enough to follow me.
Discover my other works here
The stars shimmered above the city as Baelor stepped out of the Targaryen headquarters. The night air greeted him immediately, cool against his skin that had spent far too many hours beneath harsh office lights.
Behind him, Maekar emerged from the building with all the grace of a man being marched to his execution.
"Incompetent idiots," his brother muttered, already fishing a cigarette from his pocket. The flame of his lighter briefly illuminated the familiar scowl etched across his scarred face.
Baelor smiled despite his exhaustion. The past few days had been particularly difficult. Board meetings seemed endless. Investors demanded answers to problems that did not yet have solutions. Every department had somehow found a way to create three new issues for every one they solved.
And today had been worse.
A system failure in one of their secure databases had temporarily locked access to several documents related to a new business deal. Nothing truly catastrophic, but it was enough to send half the executives into a panic and force Baelor and Maekar to spend hours untangling the mess.
By the time the issue had been resolved, most of the building had already gone home.
Unfortunately for Maekar, his evening was far from over. Dyanna was visiting her parents for the week, leaving him alone with Daeron and Aerion.
Baelor's smile widened slightly at the thought. He could hardly blame his brother for being sulky.
Truthfully, he was no better. Whenever you travelled for work or spent a few days with your parents, something always felt missing from home.
Everything remained the same, and yet at the same time it was not.
His gaze drifted upward toward the night sky. The hour was late. Earlier that evening he had sent you a message, telling you not to wait for him. To get some sleep and stop worrying.
A pointless request though. Because he knew you always waited.
The thought warmed him more effectively than his coat ever could.
Reaching into his pocket, Baelor pulled out his watch. The silver casing was slightly worn from years of use. It was his wedding gift from you, one of the few possessions he truly treasured.
The hands pointed dangerously close to two, and a tired sigh escaped him as two black cars pulled up to the curb before them, their drivers quickly stepping out to open the doors.
Baelor glanced towards his brother.
"Going home?"
Maekar exhaled smoke through his nose.
"Yes, I would rather not leave Daeron and Aerion unsupervised any longer than necessary."
Baelor laughed softly, "A wise decision."
Maekar grunted, "hardly, just self-preservation."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Maekar flicked the cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it beneath his heel.
"Good night," he paused, "and thank your wife for the sweets."
Baelor raised an eyebrow.
"The children liked them?"
Maekar looked vaguely offended by the question.
"Of course they did."
"I'll tell her," Baelor said smiling.
"Good"
"Good night, brother"
Maekar offered a dismissive wave before climbing into his car. And a few moments later, Baelor settled into the back seat of his own.
The city lights blurred past the window as the car pulled away from the curb. And for the first time all day, silence settled around him.
Baelor leaned his head back against the leather seat and closed his eyes. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, his eyes demanding sleep.
But more than that, he wanted you. The familiar comfort and warmth of your arms around him after a difficult day.
Half an hour later, the car slowed to a stop before the Targaryen estate. The driver hurried around to open the door, and Baelor offered him a grateful smile before stepping out.
Warm light spilled from several windows across the house, you were still awake. Of course you were.
Baelor exhaled softly, shaking his head to himself. He wished you would listen to him every now and then and put your own well-being before his. The hour was late, and you should have been asleep long ago.
Yet, despite the thought, he could not stop the small, selfish smile that tugged at his lips.
The clock in the corner ticked away steadily, its sound the only thing breaking the silence that had long since settled over the manor. Most of the staff had retired for the night, leaving only a handful of lamps lit throughout the house.
Curled up on one end of the couch, a blanket draped across your lap, you absentmindedly stared at the same page you had been trying to read for nearly half an hour.
Your eyes moved across the words, but your mind had refused to follow them.
Instead, it lingered on the clock mounted on the wall, towards the front door of the house and the message Baelor had sent earlier that evening.
Please don't wait up for me, sweetheart.
You smiled softly at the memory, as if that had ever worked.
The past few weeks had been exhausting for him. The strain had been visible in the set of his shoulders whenever he left for work early in the morning and in the tired smiles he offered before climcing into bed each night.
And if waiting up meant stealing even a few moments with him before sleep claimed the both of you, then you would gladly sacrifice a little rest.
A quiet sigh escaped your lips as you closed the book against your chest and glanced towards the clock once more.
Surely they could not keep him much longer.
As if the universe had heard your thoughts, the sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the house. And a smile immediately tugged at your lips.
The book was abandoned on the couch as you pushed yourself to your feet, crossing the room far quicker than necessary. Your blanket slipping from your shoulders and pooling forgotten on the cushions behind you.
Just as you reached the entrance hall, the front door opened, and Baelor stood there.
His coat hung loosely over one arm. The collar of his turtleneck was slightly stretched and crumpled, likely from repeatedly tugging at it throughout the day. His usually neat hair had long since given up any attempt at order. He looked exhausted- bone deep exhausted.
Like a man who had spent the entire day carrying the weight of everyone else's problems. Yet the moment his mismatched eyes found yours, his entire face softened. The tension eased from his shoulders, and corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. As though something heavy had finally been lifted from him.
And then, true to form, the very first words out of his mouth were,
"You should have gone to sleep."
Of course they were. Even now, after what was undoubtedly a terrible day, his first concern was still you. It always had been.
You smiled and stepped forward, taking the coat from his arm.
"I should have," you admitted. "But I didn't want to."
Baelor shook his head, not in disagreement, but because he already knew arguing would be pointless. It always was when it came to this.
You moved to hang his coat while Baelor stepped further inside the house.
A long tired sigh escaped him, and the sound made your chest tighten.
You had heard many versions of your husband over the years of your marriage. But there was something about that tired sigh that always made your heart ache.
"Are the children asleep?" Baelor asked, glancing towards the children's rooms.
"Matarys is asleep. Valarr is spending the night at Kiera's."
Baelor hummed in acknowledgement, and by the time you returned, your hands were already reaching for a glass.
A habit formed over years of marriage.
You filled it with water and offered it to him. Baelor accepted it gratefully and drank the entire thing without pause.
"Have you eaten?" he asked once he finished, his mismatched eyes settling on your face.
You took the empty glass from him.
"Yes. Have you?"
"Maekar and I ate at the office."
"Good."
Baelor hummed, his mismatched eyes lingered on you with so much softness that it made your heart flutter.
His mouth was slightly open, in that way it always was whenever he was thinking something over. Weighing it and deciding whether it was worth saying aloud.
You turned towards the kitchen to put the glass away. But you barely made it three steps, before an arm wrapped around your waist from behind.
You let out a startled sound as you were gently pulled backwards, your back colliding with a broad chest.
Your hands came up to rest over his forearm. And you instantly melted when Baelor's forehead dropped onto your shoulder. A long breath leaving his lips.
The kind of breath a man makes when he has finally reached home. His arms tightened around your waist, as though he needed the reassurance that you were truly there. That after the endless meetings, the endless demands and endless responsibilities-
he could finally stop carrying the world for a little while and simply hold his wife.
The two of you stood there in silence.
Not as Baelor Targaryen, heir to the Targaryen Group and his equally successful wife.
But just as a husband and wife.
The clock ticked softly somewhere in the room as your husband breathed against your neck, his face buried in the crook of it. His breath warm against your skin and the roughness of his beard prickled pleasantly where it brushed your throat.
You sighed and relaxed further into him, one hand lifting to comb through his greying hair.
Baelor made a low sound of approval from contentment.
His arms tightened once more, trying to pull you impossibly closer, as though he wished there was no space left between the two of you at all.
"That bad?" you asked quietly, turning your head slightly towards him.
Baelor pressed a kiss against your shoulder and nodded, his beard rough against your throat.
The admission was silent and honest. The kind he only ever allowed himself in the privacy of your company.
You waited in silence. Because after all these years, you knew Baelor well enough to understand that when he was truly exhausted, words came slowly.
"The investors are unhappy."
Another kiss against your shoulder.
"The board is panicking."
A sigh followed by nuzzle to your neck.
"Maekar threatened to fire three people."
You laughed softly, "Only three?"
That earned a tired huff against your skin.
"Fournately."
The tension in his shoulders eased ever so slightly as he buried his face deeper into your neck.
"I am tired, sweetheart."
The confession was so simple, and it made your heart ache. Because Baelor rarely allowed himself to be tired, and even rarely ever allowed himself to admit it.
Everyone leaned on him- from his employees to his children, even the board members who were twice his age.- Baelor was the steady and dependable one. The man everyone expected to have an answer.
But here, in the quiet warmth of your home, he could simply be your husband.
You turned within his arms and immediately reached up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing beneath his tired eyes.
The exhaustion of the day sat plainly across his features now. In the faint creases on his forehead, and the heaviness of his gaze.
Baelor leaned into your touch without hesitation. Turning his face, he pressed a lingering kiss to your palm.
Then another.
His hands settled on your hips, warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your nightgown.
Baelor lowered his head and captured your lips in a kiss. The kiss was neither hurried nor demanding.
It was slow and soft.
Each movement of his mouth seemed like he meant to savour rather than take. As though after a day spent giving pieces of himself to everyone else, he simply wanted to exist here with you.
Your arms looped around the back of his neck as he deepened the kiss slightly. One of his hands slid from your hips to your waist, then higher, tracing the curve of your side before settling against the curve of your neck.
You felt him sigh softly into the kiss. The tension that had followed him home finally beginning to unravel.
When you eventually pulled back, Baelor made a quiet sound of protest, and the sight of it made you laugh.
"Let's get you to bed, old man."
"I am not old."
"You complained about your back this morning."
"I sat through six hours of meetings."
"You also made a sound when you stood up."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
Baelor groaned as you pecked the tip of his nose and grabbed his hand and started pulling him towards the bedroom. You could feel him smiling behind you, his gaze lingering on the back of your neck.
You pushed open the door to your bedroom and released his wrist, already making your way towards his wardrobe.
"Go wash up. I'll take out your clothes," you said, glancing over your shoulder with a smile.
Baelor's answering smile was bright enough to make your heart skip.
"Yes, ma'am."
And just like that, he was making his way towards the bathroom.
You shook your head fondly before opening the wardrobe. A pair of light grey trousers would do. You ignored the T-shirts entirely.
Your husband had always preferred sleeping bare chested. Something about his body running too warm and making it impossible for him to sleep comfortably.
Not that you were complaining. Baelor was a rather pleasant sight to look at after all.
A few minutes later, you were already tucked beneath the blankets when the bathroom door opened.
Baelor stepped out, dressed only in his boxers. The tips of his hair were still damp, droplets of water trailing down the side of his neck as he used a towel to dry the rest. The soft glow of the bedside lamp caught on the white and black hair scattered across his chest.
Gods, even exhausted, he looked unfairly handsome.
You were openly staring and drooling over your husband now. And judging by the amusement beginning to creep into Baelor's expression, your husband was fully aware of it.
"Staring is not a good habit, sweet wife."
Your cheeks warmed immediately at being caught. But instead of looking away, you lifted your chin.
"Is it wrong to stare at something that belongs to me?"
The corner of Baelor's mouth twitched upwards.
"No," he said as he picked up the trousers you had left out for him. "No, I suppose it isn't."
"That's what I thought."
You crossed your arms triumphantly, and Baelor chuckled under his breath as he pulled on the trousers.
A few moments later, he slipped beneath the blankets beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
And before you could say anything, his arms were wrapping around you once more, pulling you closer. His cheek settled against your chest as he nuzzled comfortably against you, making himself entirely at home.
A quiet giggle escaped you, and one of your hands settled on his shoulder while the other slipped into his still damp hair.
Baelor immediately made a pleased sound.
"Gods," he murmured, his eyes already drifting shut, "I must be the luckiest man alive."
You carded your fingers through his damp hair.
"Really?"
"Mm."
His answer came instantly.
"You make me coffee every morning."
You laughed at his answer, "That is your reason?"
"It is an excellent reason."
"Anything else?"
Baelor cracked one eye open, staring up at you with a soft expression.
"You wait up for me."
Your chest softened.
"Baelor-"
"You always do."
His hand squeezed your waist gently, his voice growing sleepier with every word.
"No matter how late it is."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Baelor sighed, making a content and sleepy sound. He buried his face further against you, clearly pleased with himself.
"I think," he murmured, "I like this part of the day the most."
"The part where you sleep?"
"The part where I get to come home to you."
You felt your heart squeeze and your fingers continued combing through his hair. And slowly, you felt Baelor growing heavier against you as sleep began to pull at him.
Just before his eyes fully closed, he tilted his head upwards and pressed a sleepy kiss against your collarbone.
"Love you," he mumbled, one arm still wrapped securely around your waist, as though even half asleep he refused to let you go.
You smiled and pressed a kiss against his temple, "I love you too, my darling."
Then, not even a minute later, he was asleep.
Phones would ring tomorrow, and meetings would be held. Investors would complain, and the world would demand more from Baelor Targaryen.
But that could wait until morning. Tonight, he was simply your husband.
tell me how is it possible to find Baelor so absolutely scrumptious and Simon Foster so evil (and also delectable what did you think i was gonna say if i am something that is honest)
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]
PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]
PART FIVE — June 5th
PART SIX — June 10th
PART SEVEN — June 20th
PART EIGHT — June 25th
More chapters TBD
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
summary: Jack begins to notice little things. The way you have trouble reading signs, the squinting, the headaches. In spite of your insistence you don't need glasses, sometimes the doctor knows what's best.
notes: totally self indulgent and kinda rushed. this gal is finally getting glasses!! but low-key, why are all the frame options kinda boring at the doctors. I might invest in a cuter pair later, but for now I'm looking forward to finally being able to drive at night and actually be able to see lol.
He's always the first to notice everything. In that slow, observational way he always carried himself. Eyes flickering across your face, thick fingers twitching.
It was unnerving sometimes. How Jack knew all your tells.
Jack knows shaking hands and short breaths mean you haven't been eating enough. He knows you're ready to go home when you lean into him while he's finishing handoffs, your cheek pressed firmly into his shoulder.
He knows you're feeling under the weather when you stock orange juice in the fridge instead of your usual grape. Jack knows when you're uncomfortable with a patient when you subtly place yourself behind him. He knows when you're feeling great by the speed you pull his scrubs off after stepping through your front door.
Jack notices it all. So how could he not notice the way you were squinting at the patient board, lashes practically touching you were focusing so hard.
"Hey. You okay?" He asks, elbow bumping into yours as he stands beside you. You blink a few times and nod, turning to face him.
"Yeah of course. Why?"
"No reason," Jack shrugs, shaking his head. "Just wanted to check."
You give him a disbelieving smile. Jack never just 'wanted to check.' But you let it be. He'd explain eventually.
"Alright Abbot. Whatever it is you're worried about, I'm fine."
You say this as you squeeze his elbow, picking up a patient file and heading off into the Pitt. Jack notes the way you hold the iPad close to read the case printed on the screen.
He notes lots of things as they occur. A series of symptoms strung along and weaved into his domestic day to day.
There were the headaches. You blamed them on too much caffeine and too little sleep. But they always persisted. Even on your days off where you forced Jack to stay in bed a few extra hours, your leg thrown over his to trap him. The headaches still came when you decided to quit artificial caffeine for a month and stick to natural teas and juices.
They persisted. Irregular. Inconsistant.
At least to you.
But Jack saw.
He saw the way you rubbed your eyes after watching a medical documentary with him. The one you had to read subtitles on because they spoke too fast.
He saw the way you massaged your temples after driving through traffic. The way you leaned forward in the drivers seat, like you had to get even closer to the street sign sitting just a few feet from you. It was worse at night.
There was the time you drove his truck to work, typically a normal occurrence. You often did when Jack was too tired after a double shift or when his leg was bothering him.
"Hon, that was the street. You missed it."
"I did? Shoot I could have sworn the sign said-"
"You couldn't read it?"
"I could! I guess I just wasn't paying attention."
Jack's breaking point is the time he asks you to check the calendar in your kitchen.
You'd both been sitting at the table, breakfast half finished, a sudoku puzzle resting in your lap, his computer out beside his lukewarm coffee. He asked you to check it, just needing you to turn around and read him the date from where the calender was stuck on the wall.
"Sure. For when your conference is?"
"Uh yeah. I just need the... date."
He watched you get up from the kitchen table and walk over, nose pressed close to the wall calendar.
Jack could read it perfectly from where he sat. It was a test. One you failed miserably. And one which confirmed his suspicions.
He finally confronts you one night, bringing up his observations in the quiet of the Pitt.
Not that he'd admit it's quiet. Just a rare lull during the night shift where all there is to do is check in with patients and whisper across the nurses counter. Jack sits at one of the computers, supposedly working on his charting but more busy with staring at you.
You're standing on the other side of the counter, hunched over a patient file you were going over once more. Jack finally sighs, leaving his chair and moving to stand next to you. His heart tugs slightly at the smile you give him when you glance up, your hip bumping gently his.
"Hey handsome. What's up."
"Hon," Jack starts his hand resting on the base of your neck, mouth quirking into a nervous line. "I think you need glasses."
He says it point blank. No trying to sugar coat it or prepare you. You blink up at him, a bewildered look written on your face. And then you laugh.
The sound carries through the Pitt and Jack glances around, looking back to you with wide eyes.
"Glasses? Wha- I don't think so Jack. I can see just fine."
"You sure?" Jack raises a brow. You smile, looking up at his face.
"Of course. I can tell you right now I'm staring at that little crinkle on your forehead. The one you get when you're annoyed." Jack rolls his eyes, rubbing his hand over his face.
"Okay," Jack reaches out and clasps your shoulders, turning you toward the patient board. You give him a strange look, confused. "What patient is on the third line?"
You look up at the board, immediately moving to step forward. Jack pulls the back of your scrubs gently, keeping you flush against his broad frame.
"From here hon."
You frown and stare up at the patient description. Jack watches you swallow, eyes flickering across the board, lashes fluttering as you squint. He smiles.
Got you.
You shake your head, glancing back at him. You laugh nervously.
"Okay, this is silly."
"What's the patient's name," he smiles smugly. You narrow your eyes, huffing.
"Jack I don't need glasses."
"I think you're in denial."
"I think you worry too much," you say as you press a quick kiss to his cheek. "I can see fine Jack."
"Alright," Jack gives you a look. "We'll see." Or in this case, you'd squint.
A week goes by. Jack doesn't say anything else about it. But he doesn't stop noticing. The way you now frown every time you watch tv, brows drawn together.
The way you catch yourself squinting at street names or staring a little too long at menu boards of your favorite coffee shops. Like you were just realizing how much trouble you were having seeing.
You make it a point to avoid Jack when he's wearing his readers, trying to do anything but acknowledge the fact that Jack was very likely (definitely) right about your vision.
You finally trudge up behind him in the quiet of your shared home one morning. Jack was finishing up the dishes from your breakfast, hands covered in soap suds, as he rinsed out the sink.
He feels your forehead press into the bare flesh of his back, your damp hair cool against his skin. Your arms wrap around his thick waist, and Jack smiles to himself.
"Everything okay?"
"Jack..." He frowns as you mumble into his back. He doesn't quite catch what you say.
"Huh?" You huff, moving your cheek to speak clearer.
"I said, 'I think I need glasses.'"
Jack pauses, glancing over his shoulder to look at you. Your ears are red, an embarrassed frown etched into your face.
"That's not a bad thing. Lots of people need them." You wrinkle your nose.
"I'm going to look a grandma."
"You are not. I don't look like a grandpa when I wear mine, do I?" You hesitate for a second longer than Jack likes. He sighs and turns to face you fully. "You know what, don't answer that."
"I just hate the idea of wearing glasses all the time."
"Maybe it won't be that bad. You can still see pretty good, right?" You nod. Jack pulls you into him, your pajama clad frame melting into his body without a fight. "Maybe you'll just need them for TV and stuff. Not for all the time."
"Maybe." You nod against him. "I just hate going to the doctor."
Jack laughs. "We literally work in a hospital sunshine."
"Consider it poetic irony."
Jack is there when you finally get an appointment with the optometrist booked. He sits with you in the waiting room, looking around at the various framed pictures lining the wall. All pictures of glamorous looking people modeling various glasses and frames.
You're nervous. Jack can tell.
He reaches over and grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
"It won't be that bad." You give him a small smile, knee bouncing against the waiting room chair.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Jack makes sure to squeeze your hand reassuringly when you finally get called back, keeping his eye on you till you disappear behind the curtained hall.
When you finally come back into the waiting room, the look on your face says it all.
"Let me see your prescription."
"No."
"No? Oh come on, give me the paper." You move past him towards the display wall of frames. You shake your head, trying to dodge his hand. But Jack is too fast. He snatches the paper, reading your prescription.
He grins.
"I don't want to hear it Jack."
"I'm not saying anything," He laughs.
"Oh please," You sigh. "You don't have to. You've got that smug grin on your face. The one you always wear when you beat me at Catan." Jack chuckles
"I'm sorry, but did you see these numbers-"
"Jack!"
"Sorry sorry. I won't say anything else." You huff, turning away from him. Jack glances down at your prescription, the negative numbers confirming what he had observed. You needed glasses. Jack can't help but smile again. "I did tell you though-"
He lets out a grunt as you elbow his side, moving towards another section of frame options.
"I can't even with you right now."
"Oh come on hon."
"Help me pick out a pair of frames, old man. Consider it your penance."
Pretty tortoise shell frames, perfectly complimenting the shape of your face and illuminating your eyes.
God. You looked beautiful with them.
Not that you weren't beautiful before. But now?
Jack shifts in his recliner, a familiar feeling pooling in the pit of his belly.
Sometimes he really hated noticing things. Especially now, when he couldn't help the way his eyes kept drifting from the article Shen had sent him and up to your face. The tv glows across the glasses sitting on the bridge of your nose, lights painting you in hues of blue and purple.
Jack takes a deep breath, just watching. Robby had been making a point to make fun of him at work.
"Jack. Buddy. You're gonna give yourself a heart palpitation if you keep staring at her."
They really did suit you. Not grandma esque at all. More like... hot secretary. Or cute receptionist.
You'd probably kill him if you ever found out he had thoughts like that-
"Jack."
"Hmm," He hums, looking up embarrassed. You're smiling at him knowingly, lashes fluttering behind your glasses.
"You're staring again." He flushes.
"Am not." You laugh, shaking your head.
"You're such a bad liar."
"I'm just admiring your new look." You laugh again, but Jack notices the way you blush.
"You really like them?" He nods.
"Very much."
You glance down at his lap, eyes flickering back up to his face quickly. You hum thoughtfully. Jack's heart is practically beating out of his chest when you push yourself off the couch, sliding yourself onto his lap. Jack's hands come to rest on your waist, his gaze never leaving your face as you lean in close.
"You want to show me how much you like them?"
Let's just say, you don't mind having to wear glasses so much anymore.
Image Management (President!Baelor x Reader) - Series Masterlist
Synopsis: After receiving the job offer of a lifetime, you find yourself working in the media/PR team for the President of Westeros: Baelor Targaryen. Doing the job is the easy part, being in the President's proximity is the real challenge...
( modern au!post accident. memory loss ，but he's finding his way back ，even if he had to take a different path. [reader] and baelor are around the same age ，plus valarr and matarys <3 )
After a devastating accident leaves Baelor Targaryen in a six-week coma, he awakens to discover that the last twenty years of his life have vanished from memory. Struggling to reconcile the man he remembers with the husband, father, and leader everyone insists he became, Baelor is forced to navigate a world that moved forward without him. As his devoted wife quietly guides him through recovery, and his family learns to love him without demanding he remember them, Baelor begins piecing together the life he lost—not through memories, but through the people who never stopped waiting for him.
Word Count: 9.6k
[Chapter 1/?]
When consciousness finally returned, it did so reluctantly.
The first thing Baelor became aware of was sound. A steady electronic rhythm pulsed somewhere nearby, its measured cadence cutting through the darkness that still clung stubbornly to his mind. Beneath it lingered quieter noises—the soft hum of air conditioning, the distant squeak of wheels crossing polished floors, the muted murmur of voices beyond a closed door. The sounds reached him long before understanding did, drifting through the fog of unconsciousness until they gradually pulled him toward wakefulness.
For a long time, he remained suspended between sleep and awareness. Thought itself felt heavy, as though his mind were struggling through deep water. His body seemed impossibly distant. He registered discomfort before he registered anything else: stiffness in his limbs, pressure in his chest, soreness that appeared to exist everywhere at once. Even breathing required more effort than it should have. Slowly, relentlessly, the sensations drew him upward until remaining asleep was no longer possible.
His eyelids felt weighted when he finally forced them open.
Light flooded his vision. For several seconds the world remained frustratingly blurred. Shapes existed without definition, colors without edges. Gradually, however, his eyesight adjusted, and details began emerging from the haze.
The ceiling appeared first. Dark wooden beams crossed warm cream-colored panels fitted with recessed lighting that cast a soft golden glow throughout the room. It was not the sterile white ceiling he would have expected from a hospital.
His gaze drifted lower. An entire wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Morning sunlight poured through the glass, spilling across polished hardwood floors and illuminating the skyline beyond. Towering buildings stretched toward the horizon, their windows catching the pale gold of early morning. The view suggested considerable height, the sort reserved for penthouses and executive suites rather than ordinary hospital rooms.
The room itself looked less like a medical facility and more like a luxury hotel suite.
A sitting area occupied one corner, furnished with cream-colored sofas and armchairs arranged around a low wooden coffee table. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall, filled with carefully selected volumes that looked more decorative than practical. Fresh flowers stood throughout the room in elegant arrangements, introducing subtle bursts of color against the neutral palette. A large television had been mounted opposite the bed, while an open doorway revealed what appeared to be a private office beyond—a proper office, complete with a desk, monitors, and filing cabinets.
The entire space had clearly been designed to disguise its true purpose.
Yet despite the luxury, signs of its function remained impossible to ignore. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered beneath the fragrance of flowers. Medical monitors stood beside his bed. An IV line disappeared beneath the sleeve of his hospital gown. Equipment occupied discreet positions throughout the room, concealed as carefully as possible without ceasing to be functional.
Hospital, indeed.
The realization settled heavily inside him. His brow furrowed as he searched for an explanation, only for movement near one of the cabinets to draw his attention away from the question.
Until that moment, he had not realized anyone else was present. A woman stood near a wardrobe, quietly organizing several pieces of clothing. Several overnight bags sat open on a nearby table. Folded sweaters had been arranged into neat stacks. Books rested beside charging cables, paperwork, notebooks, and an assortment of personal belongings that had clearly accumulated over time. She appeared to be returning a folded cardigan to one of the bags when she noticed his eyes were open.
Everything stopped.
The cardigan remained suspended in her hands.
For a second, she simply stared. Then all color drained from her face. The word escaped her like a breath. "You're awake!"
Baelor attempted to respond, but his throat felt impossibly dry. The effort produced nothing more than a rough sound.
The woman was moving before he could try again.
What struck him immediately was the efficiency of her actions. She crossed the room quickly but without panic, setting aside the cardigan before reaching the bedside. Her hand moved automatically toward the controls attached to the bed, raising him slightly. She retrieved a glass of water from the table beside him, guided the straw toward his mouth, and steadied him when a sharp flash of pain crossed his expression.
"Don't talk yet," she said quietly. Though her voice trembled, her movements did not. "I'll get the doctor."
A doctor.
Less than a minute later, the door opened, and several nurses entered, followed closely by a doctor carrying a tablet.
"When did he wake up?" one of the nurses asked. The question was directed toward the woman.
"About a minute ago."
The nurse nodded without hesitation, as though the answer came from a source she trusted completely. Another nurse glanced toward the far corner of the room and sighed. "You still haven't gone home? Or did you get here early?"
The woman offered only a tired smile.
Following the nurse's gaze, Baelor finally noticed what he had overlooked before.
The office area wasn't merely part of the room. It belonged to her.
An open laptop sat on the desk beside several neatly stacked folders. Handwritten notes covered a notebook lying open beside the keyboard. A charger snaked across the floor toward an outlet. Two empty coffee cups occupied one corner of the desk. A folded blanket had been draped over the back of a nearby chair.
Whoever this woman was, she had not been visiting occasionally. She had been living here.
The realization sharpened when he observed the nurses interacting with her. They did not speak to her with the politeness reserved for visitors. They spoke to her like someone they saw every day. Someone who belonged here almost as much as the staff themselves.
Doctor Mallister eventually approached the bedside and introduced himself. His demeanor was calm and reassuring, the confidence of someone who had spent decades guiding patients through difficult situations. He began with simple questions. Baelor's name. His date of birth. Basic details that required little effort to answer.
The doctor appeared encouraged by the responses.
"What year is it?"
Baelor answered automatically.
The silence that followed immediately caught his attention. Doctor Mallister exchanged a glance with one of the nurses. Then he asked another question.
"Who is the current chairman of Targaryen Holdings?"
"My grandfather."
Again, silence.
This time, the doctor slowly lowered his tablet. Doctor Mallister studied him for a moment before asking the next question. "Baelor, what is the last thing you remember?"
The answer came immediately. "A board meeting one evening."
The doctor nodded. "Can you tell me about it?"
"My father was there."
Fragments of the memory surfaced with surprising clarity. Baelor could still picture the conference room, the polished table, the reports spread across its surface.
"We were discussing expansion plans."
The doctor's expression remained carefully neutral.
"And after that?"
Baelor frowned.
The answer should have existed.
A drive home. A phone call. Dinner. Something.
Anything.
Instead, he found himself staring into a blank space where memory ought to have been.
The harder he searched, the more obvious the absence became. "I don't know."
Silence settled briefly over the room.
Doctor Mallister did not immediately move on. Instead, he asked another question. Then another. Names. Dates. Events. People. Some seemed ordinary. Others felt increasingly strange. Baelor answered each one as best he could.
With every response, however, he became more aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere around him.
The nurses exchanged occasional glances. The woman near the windows had stopped pretending to organize paperwork.
Even Doctor Mallister's expression seemed to grow more serious with each passing minute.
Eventually, the doctor lowered his tablet. Rather than continuing the assessment, he pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down. The gesture alone made Baelor uneasy.
"Baelor," he began carefully, "you were involved in a serious accident. You've been unconscious for six weeks."
Six weeks?
His last memory felt recent enough to touch. It certainly did not feel six weeks old. Yet despite the significance of the revelation, Baelor found himself distracted by something else.
Doctor Mallister wasn't finished. The concern visible on the man's face suggested the coma itself was not the primary issue.
"There is something else we need to discuss."
The room seemed quieter suddenly. The steady rhythm of the monitors felt louder.
"Based on your responses today, your memory appears to be anchored approximately twenty years in the past."
Baelor simply stared at him.
Twenty years?
The words made no sense. His mind rejected them immediately.
Twenty years?
That wasn't possible.
Doctor Mallister continued speaking, explaining observations, memory assessments, and neurological trauma, but the details blurred together before Baelor could fully process them.
His attention had shifted elsewhere. To the woman standing near the windows, perhaps. She had gone completely still.
One hand remained resting on the edge of the desk she had been using. The other hung motionless at her side. Her face revealed almost nothing, yet there was something in her posture that caught his attention immediately.
She looked as though she had been expecting bad news. As though she had already understood what the doctor was about to say before he said it.
The realization unsettled him for reasons he couldn't explain. The assessment continued for nearly another twenty minutes. Additional questions followed. More examinations. More observations. Eventually, Doctor Mallister seemed satisfied that further discussion would accomplish little for the moment. He rose from his chair.
"We can discuss everything further later."
His gaze shifted toward the woman.
"Mrs. Targaryen, may I speak with you outside for a moment?"
The title caught Baelor's attention instantly. Mrs. Targaryen?
Almost without thinking, Baelor's gaze drifted downward to his left hand. A simple wedding band rested there, the metal worn smooth from years of use. The sight of it felt strangely intimate. This wasn't a ring that had been purchased recently or worn out of obligation. It carried the subtle marks left behind by time itself, evidence of countless ordinary days spent on his finger. For several moments he stared at it before slowly lifting his head again.
His eyes found the woman standing near the windows.
His wife?
There was no flicker of recognition. No forgotten memory suddenly returning. She remained, in every practical sense, a stranger. He knew her name only because others had spoken it. He knew she was his wife only because the doctor had addressed her as Mrs. Targaryen. Yet somehow this stranger seems to occupy the most important role in his life.
The contradiction left him speechless.
Across the room, she met his gaze. Whatever she saw in his expression seemed to tell her everything she needed to know. She offered a small, composed nod before following Doctor Mallister toward the door without protest. Neither of them spoke as they left. A moment later the door closed softly behind them, leaving Baelor alone with a growing sense of unease he couldn't quite explain.
Outside, the conversation proved far less straightforward.
Doctor Mallister guided her toward a quiet consultation room a short distance down the corridor before explaining the situation as gently as possible. The extent of Baelor's memory loss remained unclear. The brain was unpredictable, particularly after severe trauma. Some patients recovered memories gradually over weeks or months. Others experienced only partial recovery. Some never regained what had been lost at all. There were therapies available, specialists who focused specifically on memory rehabilitation, treatment plans that could be explored once Baelor's condition stabilized further. Yet every possible path led back to the same unavoidable truth.
She listened because she knew she had to. She nodded when appropriate. She asked questions when necessary. Yet the doctor's voice seemed increasingly distant, as though it were coming from the far end of a long tunnel.
Because only one thought kept repeating itself inside her head.
Twenty years.
Twenty years ago, Baelor hadn't known her.
Twenty years ago, she had never attended that charity gala. They had never shared awkward conversations over stolen desserts in a hotel kitchen. They had never become friends. Never fallen in love. Never built a life together one year at a time.
Twenty years ago, she did not exist in his world.
Neither did their marriage.
Neither did their family.
Neither did their sons.
To him, everything that mattered most to her had simply disappeared.
By the time Doctor Mallister finished speaking, tears were already sliding silently down her cheeks. She hadn't even realized she was crying until she felt them reach her jaw. For six weeks she had prayed for this exact moment. She had sat through endless consultations, memorized medical terminology she never wanted to learn, signed forms she barely remembered reading, and spent countless nights sleeping in an armchair beside his bed. Every difficult day had been endured with a single goal in mind.
Wake up.
Just wake up.
She had convinced herself that nothing else mattered.
Now she realized she had never prepared for the possibility that he would wake up and not remember any of it. "He won't remember me?"
The words emerged quietly, broken by emotion she could no longer contain. Doctor Mallister remained silent for a moment, because there was no comforting answer available. There is no reassurance capable of undoing what had happened, even after years of practicing medicine.
She pressed a trembling hand against her mouth, fighting unsuccessfully to maintain her composure.
"He won't remember our boys?"
Valarr was seventeen. Matarys was fifteen. For six weeks, they had visited whenever possible, balancing school, exams, and their own fear while waiting for their father to wake up. They had celebrated every small improvement. They had learned to read medical updates the way other teenagers read weather forecasts. Every day, they had asked the same question.
How is Dad?
And now, after all that waiting, the man they loved would look at them and see two strangers standing in a hospital room. The thought shattered something inside her.
Doctor Mallister allowed her a few moments before speaking again. "We need to take this slowly."
She nodded, though she barely heard the words.
"You may call the family. I'll explain the situation to everyone personally. When the children visit, make sure nobody pressures him. No testing. No overwhelming him. No attempts to force memories. Let him adjust first. Right now, the most important thing is reducing stress and giving him time to orient himself."
Another nod followed automatically. She understood the instructions.
Whether she could emotionally process them was another matter entirely. Drawing a shaky breath, she wiped quickly at her eyes and reached for her phone. There was no time to fall apart. Too many people were waiting for news.
The first call was to his parents.
The second was to each of his siblings.
Every conversation began exactly the same way.
"He's awake."
Relief exploded through the line before she could say anything else. Questions followed almost instantly. Was he conscious? Was he speaking? Was he in pain? Was he recovering? The flood of emotion was so overwhelming that more than once she had to pull the phone slightly away from her ear.
For a few precious moments, every conversation followed the same pattern. The moment she said that Baelor was awake, emotion rushed through the other end of the call so strongly that she often had to pull the phone away from her ear. Questions came immediately afterward, tumbling over one another before she could answer any of them properly.
Each time she reached that part of the conversation, the reaction changed. The relief vanished into stunned silence. She found herself repeating the same words over and over, each repetition making them feel no more believable than the last.
"He thinks it's twenty years ago."
"No, the doctors don't know whether the memories will come back."
"Yes, he remembers who he is."
"No, he doesn't remember..."
She never quite managed to finish that sentence without feeling her throat tighten.
He doesn't remember us.
By the time she ended the final call, the news had already begun spreading throughout the family. She returned to the suite feeling strangely detached from her own body. The room looked exactly as it had an hour earlier. Sunlight still poured through the enormous windows. The city still stretched beyond the glass. Medical equipment still hummed quietly beside Baelor's bed. Yet everything felt different now. The miracle they had all prayed for had arrived, but it had brought something none of them had anticipated.
The first visitors arrived less than an hour later.
His parents came together. She noticed them before they entered the suite itself. Through the partially open door, she caught sight of familiar figures moving quickly down the corridor. His mother reached the room first, abandoning any attempt at composure the moment she crossed the threshold. The older woman's eyes immediately found her.
"Oh, sweetheart … "
The words barely left her mouth before she closed the distance between them.
The embrace nearly shattered what little control she had managed to regain. For a moment, she found herself leaning into it, allowing someone else to carry a fraction of the weight she had been holding alone for weeks. His mother said nothing further. She simply held her tightly, one hand rubbing soothing circles against her back as tears gathered in her own eyes.
His father entered more slowly. At first glance, he appeared composed, every inch the chairman who had spent decades navigating crises without allowing emotion to interfere. His suit remained immaculate despite the obvious haste with which he had arrived. Yet the longer she looked at him, the easier it became to see the strain beneath the surface. His expression was controlled, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.
Doctor Mallister explained the situation again.
The older man listened without interruption, his attention fixed entirely on the doctor. When questions came, they were practical ones. He wanted details about neurological scans, treatment plans, recovery timelines, and specialist consultations. He approached the problem the same way he approached every crisis in life: by gathering information and identifying what could be done next.
His wife approached it differently, just like a mother would. The moment the explanation ended, she asked only one question. "Does he remember his family?"
Doctor Mallister hesitated.
The pause itself provided the answer. Tears immediately filled the older woman's eyes. She looked toward her daughter-in-law and visibly struggled to maintain her composure. Beside her, her husband lowered his gaze briefly. He said nothing, but for a moment his carefully maintained calm seemed to falter.
Eventually, his mother reached for her daughter-in-law's hand and squeezed it gently. There was nothing either of them could say that would make any of this easier.
A short while later, another arrival was announced. Maekar entered first, with Dyanna beside him. They had clearly come directly from wherever they had been when the call arrived. Maekar still wore the expression of a man who had spent the entire drive trying to process information that refused to make sense. Beside him, Dyanna's concern was far less guarded. The moment she saw her sister-in-law, she crossed the room and embraced her without hesitation.
Maekar remained quiet throughout most of the doctor's explanation.
He listened carefully, arms folded loosely across his chest, his attention fixed entirely on the doctor. Outwardly, he appeared composed. Inwardly, however, the news had clearly struck him harder than he wanted anyone to see. Twenty years was not a small gap. Twenty years ago, Baelor had been a different man.
When the explanation finally concluded, Maekar's first concern was immediate. "Can he see visitors?"
Doctor Mallister listened patiently as Maekar asked his question, then folded his hands in front of him and assured the family that visitors would be allowed. The important thing, he explained, was moderation. Baelor was still recovering physically, and the discovery of the memory loss had placed him under considerable emotional strain. Familiar faces could be beneficial, but only if everyone understood that their presence was meant to support him rather than overwhelm him. Too many people at once, too many explanations, or too many emotional conversations could easily do more harm than good at this stage.
Maekar accepted the answer with a quiet nod. He had spent enough time around hospitals during the past six weeks to understand that recovery rarely followed a schedule anyone could control. Beside him, however, Dyanna looked visibly stricken. Her eyes immediately found Baelor's wife across the room before returning to the doctor.
"He doesn't remember the boys either?" she asked softly.
The question seemed to hang in the air.
Doctor Mallister's expression gentled, but he shook his head.
"No. I’m afraid not. Earlier, he stated that his grandfather is still the chairman of the company."
The sadness that crossed Dyanna's face deepened immediately. Her shoulders slumped slightly as she looked down at the floor. Like everyone else, she had spent weeks praying for Baelor to wake up. Now that he finally had, she found herself grieving a loss nobody had anticipated. The thought of Valarr and Matarys walking into that room only to discover that their father no longer remembered them was almost unbearable.
Before anyone could continue the discussion, the sound of approaching voices drifted down the corridor outside. Even through the thick hospital doors, the voices were unmistakable. Someone was clearly speaking too loudly. Someone else interrupted before the first person had finished. A brief laugh followed. Under normal circumstances, the noise would have been reassuring.
Today it felt different. Moments later, the doors opened, and Aerys, Alys, Rhaegel, and Aelinor appeared together. Judging by the fact that they had arrived simultaneously, they had clearly coordinated their schedules and come directly from wherever they had been when they received the news.
The confidence with which they had entered the corridor gave way to something much heavier as they took in the expressions around them. The reality of the situation settled over them immediately.
Aerys was the first to speak. His eyes moved from Doctor Mallister to Baelor's wife and then around the room before settling back on the doctor.
"Is he okay?"
"He is stable. He's awake, responsive, and communicating normally."
Visible relief washed across every face in the room. Though, it lasted only a moment.
Then the doctor began explaining the memory loss. As he spoke, the reactions varied dramatically.
Alys lifted both hands to her mouth, her eyes widening with every sentence. By the time the doctor finished describing the apparent twenty-year gap in Baelor's memory, she looked genuinely stunned.
Aelinor simply stared. She remained perfectly motionless throughout most of the explanation, watching the doctor with an expression that suggested she was still waiting for him to clarify that there had been some misunderstanding.
Rhaegel reacted differently. A quiet curse escaped him under his breath before he dragged a hand through his hair and looked away toward the windows. The movement was brief, but the frustration behind it was obvious.
Only Aerys remained completely still. His face gave away almost nothing. "Twenty years?" The disbelief in his voice echoed what everyone else was already thinking.
Doctor Mallister nodded once.
Then, the questions came from every direction at once.
Did Baelor remember any of them? Did he remember the accident? Did he know where he was? Did he understand how much time had passed? Would he recognize their parents? Would he recognize the state of the company? Could the memories come back? How often did something like this happen? Was there treatment? Therapy? Medication? Anything?
Doctor Mallister answered each question patiently, drawing upon the same calm professionalism that had carried the family through the past six weeks. Unfortunately, his answers contained far fewer certainties than anyone wanted. Every explanation seemed to lead back to the same frustrating reality: nobody could predict what would happen next.
As the discussion continued, a strange atmosphere gradually settled over the room.
The relief remained undeniable. Profound relief.
For six weeks they had lived with uncertainty hanging over every day. Every phone call from the hospital had carried the possibility of devastating news. Every update from the doctors had been analyzed and reanalyzed. Every small improvement had become a reason for cautious hope.
Relationships he had spent years building no longer existed in his memory. Milestones that had once shaped his life were gone. Birthdays, anniversaries, family holidays, arguments, celebrations, achievements, disappointments, victories, failures—the countless ordinary moments that accumulated over twenty years and slowly became a life had been erased.
Everyone else still carried those memories.
Baelor did not.
The realization weighed heavily on every person present. Eventually Doctor Mallister raised a hand, bringing the discussion to a halt before another wave of questions could begin.
"When you see him," he said carefully, looking around the group, "remember what I've already told Mrs. Targaryen."
Every eye turned toward him.
"Don't test him. Don't try to force memories. Don't overwhelm him."
His gaze moved deliberately from one family member to the next, ensuring that each person understood the importance of what he was saying.
"If he asks questions, answer them honestly. If he wants information, provide it. Let him decide what he's ready for and what he isn't. Right now, our priority is helping him feel safe, supported, and oriented. The more pressure he feels, the more difficult this adjustment will become."
The family exchanged glances.
Under ordinary circumstances, a room filled with Targaryens would have produced at least three competing opinions and a lengthy argument within minutes.
This time nobody objected. The situation was too fragile for pride and too serious for stubbornness.
One by one, they nodded their understanding.
Baelor was awake, everything else could wait. For now, simply having him back felt like enough.
And so, as the first shock gradually settled into a new reality, the days that followed began to establish a strange and uncertain rhythm of their own.
Every morning began the same way. Baelor would wake beneath crisp white sheets and spend a few moments staring at the unfamiliar ceiling overhead while reality slowly reassembled itself around him. The floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated one side of the suite would already be glowing with early sunlight, illuminating the city skyline beyond. The luxury of the room remained startling even after several days. Nothing about it resembled the hospitals he remembered. The polished hardwood floors, the carefully curated artwork, the sitting area arranged with expensive furniture, and the private office tucked beyond the main room all combined to create an illusion of normalcy. Only the medical equipment surrounding his bed prevented him from forgetting where he was.
Yet no matter how beautiful the room appeared, the confusion remained.
Every day brought new reminders that the world had continued moving without him. Conversations frequently referenced events he couldn't remember. Relationships had evolved. People had aged. Entire lives had unfolded beyond the reach of his memory. Sometimes the realization struck unexpectedly, leaving him momentarily disoriented. Other times it arrived in quieter ways, such as watching his father interact with his siblings or listening to family stories that seemed to belong to someone else's life.
Despite it all, however, Baelor remained remarkably patient.
Frustration visited him often, particularly during physical therapy sessions or moments when missing memories became impossible to ignore, but it never seemed to linger for long. There was an inherent gentleness to him that even the accident had failed to erase. Whenever someone explained something he had forgotten, he listened attentively. When people accidentally referenced memories he no longer possessed, he apologized for not remembering rather than becoming irritated by the reminder. More often than not, curiosity eventually overcame frustration.
He wanted to understand.
If he could not remember the missing years, then perhaps he could learn about them. And increasingly, he found himself trying to learn about the woman who was apparently his wife. At first, his curiosity stemmed largely from observation.
She was impossible not to notice.
The suite bore evidence of her presence everywhere. Over the course of several days, Baelor gradually realized that she had not merely been staying in the room—she had effectively moved into it. The corner near the windows had transformed into a functioning workspace. A sleek laptop sat permanently on the desk alongside neatly organized folders, legal documents, company reports, notebooks filled with handwritten notes, and an ever-changing collection of coffee cups. A cardigan was almost always draped across the back of one chair. Chargers occupied several outlets. A blanket remained folded on the sofa, suggesting she occasionally slept there despite the availability of far more comfortable accommodations elsewhere.
The arrangement fascinated him because it contradicted the image he had unconsciously formed of her.
From the outside, she seemed composed. The room revealed how much effort composure likely required.
Doctors visited several times a day, and Baelor quickly noticed that many of them addressed updates to her first. Treatment adjustments, medication schedules, rehabilitation plans, specialist consultations—she seemed to know everything. She carried a notebook with her almost constantly, recording details with meticulous precision. Entire pages were devoted to medications alone. Dates, dosages, instructions, side effects, follow-up appointments. The organization bordered on astonishing.
What impressed him even more was that she never appeared overwhelmed by any of it.
When nurses entered the room, they greeted her with the familiarity reserved for someone they saw every day. Family members routinely checked plans with her before arranging visits. His parents often asked her opinion regarding practical matters. Even employees from the family company occasionally appeared carrying documents that required her review or approval.
Everyone trusted her.
The pattern repeated so consistently that Baelor eventually stopped viewing it as a coincidence.
She occupied an important position in the family. Not simply because she was married to him. Because people genuinely relied on her. The realization made him increasingly curious.
One afternoon, after a particularly exhausting physical therapy session, he found her seated near the windows reviewing a thick folder while participating in a video conference through an earpiece. Sunlight streamed through the glass behind her, illuminating the city skyline and casting a warm glow across the room. Her attention remained fixed on whatever discussion was taking place on her laptop, yet she still somehow noticed when he shifted uncomfortably in bed.
Without interrupting the meeting, she reached for the water glass beside him and handed it over.
Only after he had taken a drink did she return her full attention to the screen. The movement was so automatic that it startled him. She hadn't even needed to think about it. The meeting concluded several minutes later. Once she closed the laptop, she immediately reached for another document.
Baelor watched her for a moment before speaking. "You work a lot."
She looked up, appearing mildly surprised by the observation. A small smile touched her lips. "Sometimes."
The answer made him laugh softly. "That's not a convincing lie."
Her smile widened slightly. For a moment, she seemed younger somehow. "You caught me."
The conversation should have ended there. Instead, Baelor found himself continuing. "What do you actually do?"
That question earned a genuine pause. She set the document aside before answering.
The explanation that followed lasted considerably longer than he expected. She described her role within the family company within Public Relations, ongoing projects, responsibilities, departments she supervised, and decisions she regularly handled. Within the gaps of her tasks, she also vaguely explains the past events that Baelor had missed. The more she spoke, the more impressed he became.
By the end, he was staring. "That's a ridiculous amount of work. For PR, you are certainly busy."
A quiet laugh escaped her. "Some weeks are worse than others."
"And you've been doing all of that while living in a hospital room?"
Her expression softened. "I've had help."
The answer felt suspiciously incomplete.
Baelor suspected she had carried far more responsibility than she admitted. That realization lingered long after the conversation ended. As the days passed, he found himself seeking out opportunities to talk to her.
Not because he felt obligated. Because he genuinely wanted to.
She never volunteered information about their marriage. Never tried to convince him of feelings he couldn't remember. If anything, she would simply try to slip in more information about the global events, just to paint a clearer picture of the world Baelor missed. She never placed expectations on him. In many ways, she treated him with the same patience one might offer a stranger recovering from a serious injury.
The restraint only made him more curious. One evening, after most visitors had gone home and the room had settled into some quietness, he found her seated in the armchair near the windows. The city beyond the glass glittered beneath the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the skyline like stars.
She was reading through paperwork when he finally spoke.
"Can I ask you something?"
She immediately set the folder aside. "Of course."
Baelor hesitated for a few seconds. Not because he feared the answer, but because he wasn't entirely certain how to phrase the question.
"How … when did we meet?"
For a moment, she didn't answer. Her hand paused over one of the tea tins.
Then a smile appeared. If anything, it seemed unexpectedly fond.
"You really want to know?" A soft laugh escaped her. "It was a Targaryen Foundation charity gala."
Baelor groaned immediately. "Oh, no."
She laughed again. "What?"
"My favorite time of the year. It was awful."
"I spent most of the evening trying to leave."
That caught his attention. "You were invited to a charity gala and spent the evening trying to escape it?"
"I wasn't invited. My manager was, and I was working."
The kettle clicked softly behind her. She poured hot water into two cups before continuing.
"Our department had been helping organize part of the event for weeks. I'd spent three straight days dealing with seating charts, donor requests, last-minute sponsorship changes, and people who apparently believed the world would end if their names weren't printed in exactly the right font size."
Baelor laughed.
She carried one of the mugs toward him before settling into the armchair beside the bed. "By the time the event actually started, I was already in a bad mood."
"You were in a bad mood the first time you met me?"
"I was in a terrible mood before I met you."
He looked genuinely delighted by that.
She shook her head, smiling into her tea. "I'd spent the entire evening listening to people talk about themselves. Every conversation sounded exactly the same. Everyone was trying to impress everyone else."
"And then I arrived?"
"No, prince charming, you were already there." The smile in her eyes deepened. "The problem was that nobody could find you."
Baelor blinked. "What do you mean nobody could find me?"
"I mean, your father was looking for you. Your grandfather was looking for you."
His expression immediately became more concerned.
She took a sip of tea before continuing. "Three board members were looking for you. Two donors were looking for you. Somebody from the press wanted a quote."
"And where was I?"
The smile she had been trying to suppress finally escaped. "In the kitchen."
Baelor stared. "The kitchen?"
Baelor's disbelief was immediate. He shifted slightly against the raised hospital bed, the movement prompting a faint wince before he reached down to readjust the blanket over his lap. His wife, meanwhile, sat comfortably in the armchair beside him, one leg tucked beneath her as she cradled her tea between both hands. The steam curled lazily upward, catching the warm glow from the floor lamp positioned nearby.
"The kitchen. With Maekar."
His eyebrows climbed higher.
"I don't believe you."
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. She lowered her gaze briefly to her cup, clearly revisiting the memory in her mind before looking back up at him.
"I found you standing beside a dessert cart with a pastry chef asking if you two can keep ‘just a few’ for yourselves."
For several seconds, he simply stared at her. Then he laughed. The sound filled the room unexpectedly, rich and genuine and completely unrestrained. It was the first time in days she had heard him laugh quite like that. His head tipped back slightly against the pillows as amusement overtook him.
"This story is getting less and less flattering."
"It wasn't supposed to be flattering."
"I thought wives were meant to make their husbands look good."
"Not when they're caught hiding from their own charity gala."
The smile refused to leave his face. He could see it. Not remember it. That distinction still felt strange.
He couldn't recall the evening itself. He couldn't picture specific details. Yet the version of himself she described felt familiar in an entirely different way. He could almost imagine the scene unfolding before him: a crowded ballroom full of politicians, executives, and donors, while he and his younger brother disappeared into the kitchen to negotiate custody of stolen desserts.
"And you just walked up to me?"
She shifted slightly deeper into the armchair, turning sideways so she faced him more fully. One hand rested around her mug while the other absently smoothed a crease from her trousers.
"I walked up to the kitchen because I was trying to find somewhere quieter."
The memory seemed to draw her further in as she spoke.
"The ballroom was unbearable. The speeches hadn't even started yet, and I already wanted to go home."
Baelor laughed softly. "And instead you found me and my brother trying to pocket some cakes?"
"You immediately offered me one."
"I did?"
"You told the chef that a stranger’s vote could count as double, because ‘she is not influenced by anything but your masterpiece on its own’."
She was smiling openly now.
The amusement in her eyes made it obvious she had replayed this memory many times over the years.
"You were very serious about it."
Baelor rubbed a hand over his face, groaning quietly through a smile. "That actually sounds like something I'd say."
"It sounded very convincing at the time."
"Please tell me the chef didn't believe me."
"He absolutely did not."
The two of them laughed together. The sound lingered warmly within the suite before fading back into the quiet hum of the evening.
"Maekar left after the chef gave up and let you two keep some in a box. But we ended up talking for almost an hour."
As she spoke, Baelor found himself watching her more than listening to the details. There was something captivating about seeing her like this. For days, he had known her primarily as the woman managing medication schedules, speaking with doctors, balancing work calls, and making certain he followed every instruction given to him.
"About what?"
"Everything." She gave a small shrug before taking another sip of tea. "Work. Books. Travel. Family." The smile returned before she even continued. "You spent twenty minutes complaining about a board member who kept trying to introduce you to eligible women."
Baelor nearly choked. The expression that crossed his face was so immediate and horrified that she burst into laughter. "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I'd just met you."
"Exactly." She laughed softly, lowering her cup onto the side table before it could spill. "But it was also the first honest conversation I'd had all evening."
The warmth gradually settled back into silence.
Outside, the city glowed beneath the night sky. The reflections of distant skyscrapers shimmered across the floor-to-ceiling windows while traffic moved like streams of light far below. Inside the suite, the atmosphere felt insulated from the rest of the world. The only sounds were the occasional beep from a monitor and the low hum of the air conditioning drifting through hidden vents.
Baelor found himself watching her. Watching the way her eyes softened whenever she reached a memory she particularly loved. Watching the small smile that appeared before certain stories. Watching the way affection seemed woven through every recollection, without her ever intentionally placing it there.
She wasn't trying to convince him that they had been happy. She didn't need to. It was obvious, even for him.
"So what happened after that?" he asked.
She glanced up. "After the gala?"
He nodded. For the first time, something almost shy crossed her expression. The smile that followed was smaller than the others. "We became friends."
The answer surprised him. For a relationship that had apparently led to marriage and children, he had expected some dramatic story. A whirlwind romance. Some grand gesture.
Instead, she said it with complete certainty.
Friends?
"Just friends?"
"For a while."
He shifted slightly higher against the pillows, and before he could even reach for them, she leaned forward automatically, adjusting one of the cushions behind his shoulders. The gesture was so instinctive that neither of them seemed to notice it until afterward.
"How long is a while?"
The smile widened. "Long enough for everyone around us to become irritated."
Baelor laughed. "Oh, we were those people?"
"You were definitely one of those people."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning everybody knew you liked me except you."
His eyebrows rose immediately.
"That's harsh."
"It's true!"
"I find that difficult to believe."
The look she gave him was so thoroughly unimpressed that Baelor immediately suspected he had lost whatever argument he had been attempting to make.
"Baelor," she said, setting her teacup down on the side table with deliberate care, "you invited me to lunch three times in one week and somehow convinced yourself it was networking simply because I worked at a PR firm."
For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then his entire expression collapsed. The devastation was so genuine, so immediate, that she couldn't help laughing.
The sound filled the room, so warm and familiar, and Baelor found himself smiling despite himself. He leaned back against the pillows, shaking his head as though he had just received deeply disappointing news about a man he happened to share a name with.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
His gaze drifted upward toward the ceiling. The movement was so dramatic that it almost seemed rehearsed. One hand lifted slightly from the blanket, palm upward, as though he were appealing directly to some higher power for assistance.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I thought I'd have a better game. I can't defend that."
For several moments, he remained staring upward, apparently trying to come to terms with the fact that a previous version of himself had apparently spent weeks courting a woman while somehow convincing himself it was a professional networking exercise.
"And you still married me?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it. The humor lingered for only a moment before the conversation naturally quieted. Neither of them immediately looked away. The words themselves had been lighthearted, but the meaning beneath them was not.
The room seemed suddenly smaller, wrapped in the soft golden glow of the lamps that illuminated the suite. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city shimmered beneath the night sky, thousands of lights scattered across the darkness like distant stars. Somewhere in the background, a monitor continued its steady rhythm, while the faint hum of the air conditioning blended into the silence that settled between them.
Baelor found himself watching her.
Really watching her.
Not as his caretaker, and not as the woman who seemed to know every medication schedule, every doctor's instruction, every detail of his recovery, either. But perhaps as the woman he believed he fell in love with.
The title still felt strange in his mind. Every time he thought it, it carried the same sense of disbelief.
His wife? The woman sitting across from him. The woman who had spent six weeks sleeping in hospital chairs. The woman who somehow managed to balance conference calls, company responsibilities, and his recovery without ever appearing resentful. The woman who had spent the past hour telling him stories about a version of himself he could no longer remember.
For a brief moment, the years she carried and he had lost seemed to settle quietly into the space between them.
Eventually, she smiled a smile that was filled with affection that seemed far older than the conversation they were having.
"Of course I did."
Baelor felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. Not memory. He knew what memory felt like now—the constant frustration of reaching for something that should have been there and finding only emptiness.
This wasn't that.
The feeling arrived quietly, without warning, as he sat there looking at her beneath the warm light of the hospital suite. Her tea sat forgotten on the side table beside her chair. Several folders remained stacked near her laptop, abandoned halfway through whatever work she had been doing earlier. Beyond the windows, reflections of the city lights shimmered faintly against the glass behind her.
Baelor realized he still couldn't remember any of it.
He couldn't remember meeting her at a charity gala. He couldn't remember becoming her friend. He couldn't remember falling in love with her. He couldn't remember proposing. He couldn't remember standing beside her at their wedding. He couldn't remember the first apartment they had shared, the birth of their sons, family holidays, anniversaries, arguments, reconciliations, or any of the thousands of moments that had apparently built the life they now shared.
All of it remained beyond his reach.
And yet, as he watched her sitting there across the room, smiling at him with a tenderness that felt entirely unforced, he found himself wishing he could remember. Not because people expected him to. Not because he felt pressured to recover what was missing. Not even because he wanted answers. He wanted those memories because they belonged to her.
Because every story she told seemed to reveal another reason why the man he had once been had chosen her.
And, increasingly, why she had chosen him in return. For the first time since waking up, Baelor realized that wasn't quite the same thing as wanting his memories back. It was something far more personal than that.
The boys arrived on the third day shortly after lunch time on a weekend, entering the suite with the careful composure of people who had spent the entire journey rehearsing how they intended to behave. Their mother had spoken to them beforehand, and although Baelor hadn't been present for the conversation, he suspected he could have repeated it almost word for word. Doctor Mallister had given the same instructions to everyone who came through the doors of his hospital room. No testing. No pressure. No attempts to jog his memory through old stories or photographs. Simply spend time with him. Allow him to adjust. Allow him to find his footing in a world that suddenly seemed to contain two decades he could no longer access.
The older boy entered first.
Baelor's attention settled on him immediately, and for a moment, he found himself staring with such concentration that he almost forgot to greet him. His mother had shown him photographs over the past several days when he asked, and his wife had pointed out faces and names often enough that he knew who the teenager was supposed to be, but photographs had not prepared him for the reality of standing in the same room as him. The resemblance was startling. Not merely a collection of similar features, but something deeper and more instinctive. It felt unnervingly like looking at a reflection distorted by time. Valarr had inherited his height, his build, his eyes, and the same strong lines of his face. Even the way he stood carried echoes of habits Baelor recognized in himself. If someone had shown him a photograph and claimed it was an image of himself at seventeen, he might have believed it.
Only one feature broke the illusion: a striking streak of white ran through the dark hair at Valarr's temple, beginning near his forehead and disappearing into the rest of his hair. The contrast drew the eye immediately. It wasn't the pale coloring of age but the distinctive silver-white that occasionally appeared among Targaryens from birth, a trait that had become something of a family trademark over generations. Rather than looking unusual, it somehow suited him perfectly.
Without realizing it, Baelor continued staring.
Valarr noticed almost immediately. The teenager's hand rose automatically to his hair before he gave him a suspicious look that suggested he had experienced this reaction from strangers his entire life.
"What?"
The question carried enough wariness that Baelor couldn't help smiling.
"I was just looking at your hair."
The younger boy was already grinning as he dropped into one of the armchairs near the bed. Unlike his older brother, Matarys seemed incapable of concealing his emotions for more than a few seconds at a time. Everything appeared openly on his face before he could think to hide it. Nervousness, amusement, curiosity, relief—each feeling flickered across his expression with complete transparency.
"He spends twenty minutes fixing it every morning."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
"I literally don't."
Their argument continued with the rhythm of brothers who had repeated variations of the same conversation hundreds of times before. Baelor found himself listening with growing amusement as Valarr attempted to defend himself while Matarys cheerfully undermined every argument he made. The exchange was familiar in a way that felt strangely comforting. There was no self-consciousness behind it. No careful effort to perform normality for his benefit. They were simply being themselves.
Eventually, Valarr gave up entirely and sank into the chair nearest the window.
Nobody mentioned memory loss. Nobody asked what he remembered or whether certain names sounded familiar. Nobody attempted to fill the missing years with endless explanations. Instead, they spoke about school, friends, football, upcoming exams, teachers they disliked, and countless ordinary details that might have sounded insignificant under different circumstances. Yet as Baelor listened, he found himself increasingly fascinated by all of it. These weren't merely stories. They were glimpses into the lives of two people who, according to everyone around him, were among the most important people in his world.
What struck him most was how different the brothers were despite their similarities. Valarr possessed a steadiness that reminded him strongly of the way his father carried himself. He seemed inclined to think before speaking, often pausing to choose his words carefully before contributing to the conversation. Matarys, meanwhile, appeared incapable of remaining still for longer than thirty seconds. He talked with his hands, interrupted himself midway through stories, jumped between topics with remarkable speed, and possessed energy that seemed to fill every available corner of the room.
Together, they were unexpectedly easy company.
The longer they stayed, the more Baelor found himself relaxing. He asked questions and they answered them. Occasionally, one brother corrected the other. Occasionally, both disagreed entirely about what had happened during a particular event. Their mother intervened only when absolutely necessary, usually from her desk near the windows, where she continued balancing hospital life and work.
At one point, while the boys argued over a football match, neither could seem to remember the same way, Baelor found his attention drifting toward Valarr again.
The resemblance remained difficult to ignore, because he looked so much like him.
There were moments when Valarr laughed or turned his head a certain way that felt almost like catching sight of himself unexpectedly in a mirror. The experience was profoundly strange. This wasn't a younger brother or a cousin. This was his son. A seventeen-year-old young man who had somehow grown up while existing entirely beyond the reach of his memory.
The realization should have felt painful. Instead, what he mostly felt was curiosity.
Curiosity about who Valarr had become.
Curiosity about Matarys.
Curiosity about the countless years he could not remember sharing with them.
By the time they eventually stood to leave, the room felt noticeably quieter than it had only a few hours earlier. His wife accompanied them into the corridor, promising to call later that evening, while Baelor remained where he was, listening to the muffled sounds of their voices through the partially open door.
Baelor had not intended to eavesdrop.
The conversation simply carried through the partially open door.
Visiting hours had ended nearly twenty minutes earlier. Valarr and Matarys had lingered until the nurses began making polite suggestions about letting their father rest, and eventually all three of them had stepped out into the hallway. Baelor had assumed they were saying their goodbyes before heading home for the evening. He had settled back against his pillows with a book resting open in his lap, more interested in the comfort of holding it than actually reading it. The room was quiet apart from the distant hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of the monitors nearby.
Then he heard his wife's voice. The same voice he had heard soothing nurses who looked exhausted after long shifts, reassuring anxious family members, and calmly explaining medical instructions back to him when he inevitably forgot some detail. Somehow, however, it always sounded slightly different when she spoke to their sons.
"I'm serious," she was saying. "Just spend time with him. That's all you need to do."
A dramatic sigh immediately followed.
"Mom," Matarys groaned, drawing out the word with the particular exasperation only teenagers seemed capable of producing. "We've been doing that."
"I know."
"You've told us this every day."
"Because it's important."
Another sigh followed, this one noticeably more restrained.
"We know not to test him," Valarr said.
"I'm just reminding you."
"You remind us every time."
For a moment, there was silence. Baelor could practically picture the expression on his wife's face despite not being able to see her. Whatever look she was giving them seemed to communicate enough on its own because a second later Matarys laughed.
"See? That's the face."
"What face?" she asked.
"The face."
"There is no face."
"There is absolutely a face!" Valarr said.
Baelor found himself smiling before he realized it.
The conversation continued, accompanied by the faint sound of shifting footsteps. He imagined them standing outside the suite near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Valarr was probably leaning against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets. Matarys was almost certainly moving around while he talked. Their mother was likely standing between them with her arms crossed, attempting to maintain authority over two boys who clearly had years of experience ignoring her lectures.
A few moments later, Valarr spoke again. "Are you coming home tonight?"
The question was followed by a brief pause. Baelor lowered the book slightly.
"I don't think so," his wife replied.
"Mom..." The disappointment in Valarr's voice was immediate.
"Tomorrow’s Sunday," Matarys added.
"I know."
"You've been here all week."
"I know."
The silence that followed felt longer this time. Baelor found himself listening more carefully than he intended. Tomorrow's Sunday.
Over the past few days, he had learned enough to understand that Sundays carried significance in their family. Various relatives had mentioned weekly lunches, gatherings at his parents' house, and new traditions that everyone seemed to know by heart except him.
"Grandma said she'd make breakfast tomorrow," Valarr said quietly.
His wife laughed softly. "Your grandmother says that every Sunday."
"Yeah, but she asked if you'd be there."
"If Grandma wants to take over for a few hours, maybe."
"A few hours?" Valarr repeated.
"A few hours."
"That's not the same as coming home."
"You're staying because you don't want Dad to be alone."
Baelor stared down at the unopened book in his hands. Outside, his wife didn't answer immediately. When she finally did, her voice was much softer than before.
"He wakes up confused sometimes."
Neither boy interrupted.
"He doesn't always know where he is straight away. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and needs a few minutes to orient himself."
The explanation was delivered matter-of-factly, but Baelor felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest.
"I know there are nurses here," she continued. "I know the doctors are here. I know he'll be fine."
A brief pause followed. "But?" Matarys prompted.
"But I don't want him waking up alone."
The silence afterward seemed to settle warmly through the hallway.
It wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like understanding.
Eventually, Valarr spoke. "Grandma can stay tomorrow."
His wife's immediate response carried equal parts affection and disbelief. "Valarr—"
"No, seriously. She'll love it."
"Your grandmother has her own life."
"Mom, it's Grandma. It’s Dad’s mom."
The certainty in his voice earned an immediate laugh from Matarys. "He's right. I will bet my lunch money on an immediate ‘yes’."
"Fine."
The reluctant surrender was greeted with immediate celebration. "There we go." "Progress."
"You two are unbelievable!"
"We get it from Dad. You always say that!"
The response came so quickly that all three of them burst into laughter. The sound drifted through the doorway and into the room, warm and effortless. It was not the polite laughter of people trying to make the best of a difficult situation. It was the easy laughter of a family who knew one another completely.
Baelor sat quietly and listened. He couldn't seem to stop.
When the conversation finally moved farther down the corridor and the voices faded from hearing, he remained where he was, staring toward the darkened windows overlooking the city below.
He couldn't remember any of this.
He couldn't remember Sunday breakfasts.
He couldn't remember family traditions.
He couldn't remember teaching Valarr how to drive, helping Matarys with school projects, or sharing ordinary evenings with his wife.
He couldn't remember any of the thousands of moments that had apparently filled the last twenty years of his life.
Yet every day seemed to offer another glimpse into the life he had built.
Summary: You grew up with the Danforths; your father was Chester Danforth’s right hand man. When he passes, his twins Titus and Ursula inherit the hotel and casino resort empire, but the chair of the High Council goes to Titus. There’s one rule for Titus to claim it: he must be married. And his bride… is you.
Warning: Age Gap (No specified), Arranged Marriage/Marriage of Convenience, Swearing,
summary: a struggling pasty chef finally catches a break when you're given a chance to work at 'The Pitt', a popular restaurant in Pittsburgh. you find it difficult to find your confidence, it will be harder with Jack Abbot around. you make it harder for him to remain a good mentor.
tags/description: 18+ MDNI, pastry chef!fem!reader, swearing, NSFW comments, an attempt at slow burn, crack fic, maybe possibly OOC for everyone LOL, me trying to be funny, smut maybe mehehehe, additional tags at the beginning of each chapter
taglist OPEN; comment on this post to be added! (if ur in my existing taglist, please comment to be tagged in this series.)
how I make my smau
** - contains written plot!
chapter 0. prelude chapter 1. employed
chapter 2. blueberries chapter 3. cheesecake
chapter 4. f*ck brenda chapter 5. 12 AM**
chapter 6. red ribbon chapter 7. taste test
chapter 8. $700 chapter 9. market** (COMING MAY 30)
jbbartram-illu
gummygunk
snowghoul
janainaart
izzy806
pixelskylines
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
