Summary: Leaving something at Alex's house after your break up results in you having to go back. And going back might not just mean going back to his home.
Warnings: you're Alex's ex (or are you?), talk about cheating, arguing, crying and yelling, things turning heated, heavy make-out session, alussions to smut, but nothing happens, Alex losing it completely, Alex having a breakdown (kind of), showing emotions through music, Alex playing the cello, not proofread
Word count: 5k
You hate all of this.
The whole craziness around moving out and settling in to a different place. The hustle that followed with unpacking every box. And the fact that it all happened because of one man. A man you never want to see ever again.
Alex Serian.
The man you once loved with your whole heart. Who you trusted like no one before. And all that so he could go out one night and cheat on you with a stranger. A woman whose name he couldn’t even recall.
You never asked him why he did it. And if his cellist buddy wouldn’t have told you, then Alex probably would have never admitted the truth to you. The moment you found out you did what your heart dictated, packing up a bag and leaving your house as fast as you could because you couldn’t bear the thought of breathing the same oxygen as him any more.
It is technically his house, but early in your relationship he declared it yours too. A shelter where you could go any time, his open arms waiting behind the thick wooden door.
The second you stepped out that door for the last time, you promised yourself you won’t ever come back, and still….
You’re here in front of that same white house now.
It has been weeks since you left, but nothing changed. The small flowers are still blooming beautifully in the front yard, the small lamp hanging on the wall painting the porch in dim light as you climb the steps to his door.
In the first week at your new apartment you realized that you left your necklace here. And while you can easily get your hands on another one, memories are attached to the older one, providing an emotional comfort when you need it the most.
You stop in front of the door, paying down your next actions in your mind. You knock, he opens the door, you greet him, go in for your jewelry and you are out of here. You won’t waste your time for small talk when it isn’t necessary. You nervously shift your weight from one leg to the other, taking a deep breath as you lift your hand to knock, but before your knuckles can make contact with the sturdy wood, the door flies open.
You taka a step back when you see Alex in the doorway, and he is seemingly surprised too to find you here.
He didn’t change a bit either. Maybe he looks a bit more exhausted, but it’s the same man standing in front of you who lied about his feelings and love. Hair combed back, one unruly curl falling into his forehead. The creases between his eyebrows that hold hundreds of your kisses. His dark eyes now looking sadder than ever. Plush lips that you once whispered against all of your secrets in the middle of the night, the softness of them against your mouth still lingering. Beard trimmed neatly, going gray at the sides, memories of you running your hand through it flashing in your mind.
You can tell he didn’t expected any visitors from his casual look. The black T-shirt is pulling tight over his body, matching black sweatpants hanging low on his hips, a pair of slippers on his feet. A garbage bag is hanging in his hand, clearly destined to be thrown into the trash can in front of his house.
You clear your throat as your gaze travels back up to his face, and your mind suddenly goes completely blank. All you can manage is a weak greeting, your plan completely useless at this point. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he says, and you close your eyes for a second at the effect his voice still has on you. “Can I help you?”
He tries to sound composed, but you see through his act, his eyes telling a different story. Before you can get lost in them again you speak up. “I left something here. I only came for that,” you explain, crossing your arms in front of you, feeling more vulnerable than ever under his intense gaze.
You follow him as he steps out and stops beside you. He looks down into your eyes with a sad expression, tilting his head slightly towards the house. “You know the way around.”
You take that as his invitation, stepping away from him and into the house.
The familiar smell hits you immediately, memories flooding your mind, but you try to focus on the task at hand, waking through the living room. Before you turn on the corner, you back, and your heart does a leap when you see Alex still standing where you left him, now staring at you.
When he realizes that you are looking at him, he quickly turns around, walking to throw away the trash in his hand.
With that you walk to the bedroom, at this point already knowing the house’s layout better than the back of your hand. When you step into the bedroom, you immediately make your path towards the small nightstand next to his bed, but when you open the drawer, you only see his stuff, your necklace nowhere in sight.
You move around the room more determined now, looking into every small space, lifting a heavy stack of music sheets from his desk, even going as far as looking into his wardrobe in hopes of noticing the golden jewelry.
In your feverish hunt, you don’t even notice Alex leaning against the doorway, watching you. You only realize he is there when he clears his throat.
You walk up to him, and deep down you know you look like an absolute mess with your hair sticking in every direction and your face flushed from both your previous actions and the fact that he caught you in such a vulnerable moment.
You stop in your tracks when he reaches into his sweats’ pocket, pulling out your necklace and holding it up in the air so you can see it. At the sight of it you let out a relieved sigh, and you are already reaching for it when he pulls his hand back. You look at him with confusion and anger mixing in your eyes, but in this moment the anger is stronger than any of your other feelings.
“I swear to all the gods living above, Alex, if you don’t give it back—”
“I will,” he promises. You narrow your eyes at him, not quite believing his words. With him there is always a but, and it is not different this time either. “After we talk.”
“I don’t have anything to talk about with you. I came for my necklace, not to chat with you,” you spit back, anger filling every part of your body. You make another attempt to take the jewelry from his hold, but with his free hand he gently grips your wrist, pulling you close to him, and you can feel his breath hitting your face, his head just inches away from yours.
“Then I will do the talking and you’ll listen. I just want you to hear what I want to say,” he explains, voice dropping low like he is telling you a secret, and your heart does a leap for the second time this evening.
This close his woody smell fills your nostrils, and it instantly reminds you of those times when he held you close after a hard day, or after you made love in the middle of the night.
You blush at the images filling your mind, scolding yourself for allowing your imagination to wander. “Alright,” you answer, and he finally lets go of your wrist. But you don’t miss the way his eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering there for a second.
Neither of you say anything as he leads you back out into the dining room, nodding towards one of the chairs around the table.
You wordlessly take a seat, getting comfortable as he sits down on the other side of the table, opposite to you. He places the necklace between you on the desk, and you can easily reach for it, but you don’t make any move for it, now getting too interested in what he wants to say.
He leans back in his chair, pursing his lips as he is studying you. “I missed you,” he finally says, and you close your eyes at his sad tone.
“Alex, don’t,” you warn him, shaking your head as you open your eyes again.
“That’s the truth. I fucking missed you,” he lets it out. You watch as he rests his elbows on the table, intertwining his fingers. “I know I fucked up. I did, but I want to make it right,” he pleads, desperation mixing in his voice.
“I don’t need your apology, and I definitely don’t want to hear your explanation, Alex,” you raise your voice, suddenly standing from the table and picking up your necklace, shoving it into your jeans’ back pocket.
His chair scrapes on the floor as he straightens out too, watching how you walk towards the front door. “You’re acting childish right now, you know? Running away because the situation got too uncomfortable for you, right?” he calls after you, and his words make you stop in your tracks.
Something snaps inside you, a cage opening and letting out a behemoth to come and play. You turn on your heels with an impossible quickness, looking him straight in the eye.
“After everything you did you still have the audacity to call me childish?” you snap back, raising your voice further.
“At least I’m not running away from the consequences of my actions,” he answers, his tone becoming angrier too as he gets closer to you. “I was drunk and I fucked that woman, yeah. And I regretted it the second it all sank in. Is that what you want to hear?”
“You are a fucking big asshole, Alex Serian,” you tell him with a disbelieving look on your face, feeling the familiar sting of tears in your eyes.
“Maybe I am, yeah,” he agrees. “But would an asshole want to make things right, huh?”
You ignore his question, your own pain that you carried for weeks, now pouring out of you. “I trusted you. I trusted you with my whole heart, and you broke it,” you start, emphasizing your words with a strong push against his chest. “You promised me honesty,” you remind him with another shove, now letting the tears fall freely down your face. “There were times when I loved you, Alex, but now I don’t feel anything for you beside despise.”
You are hitting his chest over and over again, hoping that with your attacks you would break his heart at least as much as he broke yours. You are sobbing loudly, the taste of your tears on your lips all too familiar at this point.
He stands motionless despite your shoves against his chest, his face completely unreadable as he watches you.
You raise your hand for another hard launch, but his fingers grab your wrist, stopping you, and the next thing you know is that he pulls your body close, wrapping his arm around you like it is the most normal and understandable thing in the world.
You shouldn’t enjoy his sudden proximity. You should push him away, slap him, leave him standing there in the hallway and never look back. But you can’t.
A loud sob tears from your throat, and you bury your face into his chest, breathing in his smell. Your hands that were trapped between your bodies now sneaks around his middle, holding onto him like he is the last thing keeping you afloat, keeping you from drowning in your own pain and anger. Your fingers grip the soft cotton of his shirt tightly, but he doesn’t say anything for a long time.
“It’s okay,” he finally speaks, his own voice strained like he was fighting back his tears too.”You’re okay. I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and you shake your head against his chest. “Hey, look at me.”
When you don’t make a move to raise your head, he places one big palm on you cheek, lifting it gently for you. You purse your lips, trying to keep your tears in, but the moment you see his eyes soften at the sight of you, you break again.
“I was an idiot for doing what I did. For breaking your trust. For being a coward and not telling the truth. For making you hope. I’m sorry for all of these,” he says gently, his thumb gently caressing your cheek, wiping away your tears. “But I want to make it right. Just,” his voice breaks, and he blinks away the tears that are gathered in the corner of his eyes before he continues. “Give me another chance. Please,” he begs, and that’s when reality settles heavy on your body.
You never heard him beg before.
And that is when you know that this man in front of you — this usually tough and cocky man, now turned into a vulnerable mess — means every word from the bottom of his heart.
With one hand you let go his shirt, bringing it forward to wipe your face and then place it over his hand on your cheek. You watch his face — the way his mouth falls open slightly, how his eyebrows furrow, and the way he tries to blink away his tears — and you realize that you can’t let go of this man.
You can’t just walk away like nothing happened. You can’t pretend you hate him, that you don’t feel anything for him anymore. Because you still love him.
Your love is broken, it is true, but maybe…
Maybe together you could fix it and put the pieces back together.
It won’t ever be the same as before his mistake, but maybe it will be close to alright again, and that thought somehow calms your racing heart, chasing away every doubt that you still have.
You pull away your hand from his lifting it to place it on his jaw, fingers playing softly with his beard there. He looks taken aback, but he doesn’t pull away. You get on your toes, your face getting dangerously close to his, but you stop just inches away. You feel his hand tighten around you, and a bittersweet smile stretches across your lips.
It is like a magnet is pulling him closer, but the moment his nose touches yours, he suddenly stops, sighing loudly as he rests his forehead against yours.
“I want to do it right this time. I don’t want to rush anything,” he whispers, seemingly fighting a battle in his mind that you can’t see.
“You won’t,” you reassure him, sneaking your hand to the back of his head, letting your fingers pay with his soft curls at the nape of his neck. You can see the hesitation in his eyes, from the way he inches his mouth closer to yours before stopping out of fear again. But your next words break every wall around him. “I give you another chance, Alex. And you better use it right this time.”
You feel the way his body relaxes under your touch as he finally closes the distance between you, lips connecting timidly. You melt under his hand when he tilts your head back to have a better angle.
You lose track of time, just standing there in the hallway, kissing each other, but the moment your vision starts to blur at the lack of oxygen, you have to pull away. Looking at his face you notice his pupils blown wide, plush lips now having a tint of pinkness to them. You missed seeing him this way.
He is taking in the sight of you too, still not quite believing that you are here in front of him.
You open your mouth to say something, but only a soft gasp leave you as he kisses you again. In this kiss there isn’t any timidness anymore. His lips move against your ones hungrily, practically devouring you. His tongue pushes past your teeth, starting a journey in your mouth like he is kissing you for the first time and wants to explore as much as he can.
You don’t even notice that you are moving until your back hits the wall, his hands moving down your body. He kneads one side of your ass shamefully, and you let out a soft gasp, breaking the kiss and leaning your head back. He moves his mouth down along your jaw, placing soft kisses against your skin until he reaches your neck.
You move your hands to the hem of his T-shirt, tugging on it impatiently. Alex understands what you want immediately, and he pulls away just so he can tug it over his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor.
You also reach to take your shirt off, but he stops you, taking the fabric from your hand, and pulling it off himself.
The moment it hits the floor just like his did, he is on you again, kissing and biting on your lips. You feel his hands travel down your body, stopping at the back of your thighs, and without warning he picks you up, pushing you further against the wall.
You circle your legs around his waist, and in this new position you can feel him hardening against your center. He grinds slowly into you, and he breaks the kiss just so he can look at your face.
“I missed this. Missed you this close to me,” he admits. He sneaks one hand to your front, cupping one of your breasts through your bra, and you moan softly at the sudden shock of desire that the action sends between your thighs.
“Alex,” you murmur. At your voice he looks at you with a puzzled expression, but it quickly fades away. “Bedroom.”
He nods, capturing your lips with his again. He puts his hand that was playing with your breast to the back of your thigh again, holding you securely as he pulls you away from the wall, and carries you across his house into his bedroom.
When he steps through the threshold he paces you on down, your feet hitting the ground again. He pulls back just for a second to take a deep breath before he leans in to kiss you again.
This time he starts walking you both towards his bed, his hands running across your whole body — the rough callouses on his fingertips a strong contrast to his gentle touch.
When the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, you let yourself fall back, breaking the passionate kiss. You finally have time to look at him properly still standing at the end of the bed, his frame towering over you. You see how messy his usually neat curls are, how his eyes trace your body, how flushed his skin are, taking in deep breaths.
You push yourself to your elbows with a soft smile, reaching out to hook one finger in the front of his sweatpants’ waistband, pulling him down to you. He places one knee on the bed between your legs, steadying himself with his hands placed on the mattress on both of your sides, but when you move to kiss him, he turns his head away with a heavy sigh, and your lips only meet his cheek.
You lean back, looking at him confused and worried. “Alex.”
“I can’t,” he whispers, voice strained like it hurts him physically to say out these words. His head falls on your shoulder, and he shakes it slightly. “I want this so much now, but I can’t.”
With that he pushes himself away and stands back up, leaving you there as he starts pacing up and down in his bedroom, not even looking at you once.
You don’t understand anything.
Moments earlier he wanted this just as much as you. You felt it. He was ready to devour you there in the hallway.
And now the same man is pacing in front of you, fingers running through his hair over and over again, murmuring things over and over under his breath like a person who is on the verge of going completely mad. Or they already did and don’t know how to come back to reality.
“Alex, look at me,” you say gently, trying to catch his attention. For a moment his eyes meet yours, but he quickly averts them. shaking his head.
“Don’t do that look.”
“What are you talking about?” you ask, now sitting on the edge of the bed.
“That sad and confused and disappointed one,” he explains, gesturing towards you with his hand without actually looking in your direction.
“Alex, I’m not disappointed. I just want to understand what’s going on,” you try to explain gently.
“No, no,” he shakes his head, stopping beside his desk and finally looking up at you. In his eyes you can see pain and sadness mixing together, and your heart falls to your stomach at the sight. “I made you disappointed again. You wanted this, and I stopped. And you’re going to be mad at me again because I messed up.”
You open your mouth to reassure him that he did nothing wrong, but he turns his back to you, his hand slicing across the air and knocking over the stack of music sheets on his table, the papers flying to the ground slowly. His hands grip the edge of the desk so hard that his knuckles turn white, but he looks unbothered except his heavy breathing.
That is when you know that you need to act. He wouldn’t just do something like that to something so sacred to him as music. Not even when you had bad fights.
You push yourself to stand, waking towards him carefully, tiptoeing across the maze of music sheets on the ground. When you are close enough, you place one hand on his shoulder, and his whole body tenses under your touch.
“Alex, I’m not mad and I’m not disappointed. But I’m scared for you and for what’s playing down in your head now,” you say gently, letting your hand run over his shoulders and back, trying to cam him down.
“I’m fine,” he tries to convince you.
You purse your lips at his lie. With your free hand you reach around his middle, turning him towards you, and when he is finally facing you, you place both of your hands on his face. “I don’t believe that, Alex. And whether you like it or not, I’m going to talk with you now, okay?”
He nods, but doesn’t say anything, and you take it as your cue. You lead him to the edge of the bed, pushing him to sit down, and you step between his legs so you can be as close to him as possible. Your thumb traces the line of his jaw, and at the feeling of your touch he closes his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh.
He suddenly leans his head forward against your sternum, and his arms circle your middle, pulling you closer to him. His actions take you by surprise, but you don’t mind it. Instead, you bury one of your hands between his curls while you place your other one on his his back, caressing the exposed skin there. You lean down to place a soft kiss on the top of his head, and he lets out a content hum.
Moments pass like this with him hugging you before he finally looks up at you with a remorseful expression. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I understand why you stopped, and I respect your decision, alright?” you reassure him, sending him a soft smile. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see how his eyes move behind you, and onto the mess on the floor. “Yeah, I guess we’ll need to gather those before your next concert with the orchestra,” you try to ease the mood.
“There is no next concert,” he murmurs, and your head snaps back to him, your brows furrowing at his words. “I quit two weeks ago. So I won’t need to use those music sheets anymore.”
Your mouth opens in shock, eyes widening like he just told you the most impossible thing in the whole world.
Two weeks.
Two weeks since he gave up the only thing he considered sacred in his life. Two weeks of him not touching his cello. Two weeks in his life without music.
And exactly two weeks since you broke up with him.
“You stopped because I left you,” you give voice to your thoughts, and he nods. “But it was your dream ever since your childhood, Alex,” you exclaim, your hands cradling his face.
“I guess dreams aren’t always achievable,” he laughs bitterly.
The thoughts are running around in your head, and you can’t help, but say something that has been bugging your mind since the moment he told you he quit. “You felt like you needed to punish yourself with something because I left you. You gave up your life. You gave up music and stayed at home, so this way you tortured yourself with feeling more of my absence.”
“It seemed like my best option,” he says bitterly.
You shake your head in disbelief, pulling him close again and holding him tighter than before. “Tell me what are you thinking. Please,” you beg him, stroking his back.
“You know I can’t. I’m bad with—”
“Then show me,” you cut into his words, and he angles his head so he can look at you with confusion behind his lashes. “Show me through your language. Through music.”
“I just told you that I quit,” he shakes his head.
“You quit because I left. But I’m here now, Alex. I’m back,” you reassure him. You lean down to place a kiss on the top of his head before you step away from him. Your eyes scan the room as you turn around, and your gaze soon falls on his cello case that is leant against the wall in the corner. You look back at him for his permission, and when he nods, you swiftly move across the room, carefully picking up the case and bringing it to him.
When you arrive in front of him, he takes it from your hands with an appreciative nod. As he starts to open the case, you sit down beside him scooting further up on the bed as you watch him work. He sets up the fragile instrument, tuning the strings. He then picks up the bow, applying rosin over the hair before he tests it out. The single note he creates echoes across the room, and you let yourself relax.
You see the way his muscles tense in his back before they relax again and in the next moment the room is filled with music.
The soft notes are flying around in the air, and they fill the deepest parts of your body. With every pull of the bow Alex creates notes from his feelings. It is almost like the strings are dripping with sadness and pain. The music doesn’t even register in your brain anymore, replaced by the sound of this beautiful instrument weeping under his touch as he tries to provide you an entrance to his mind.
You immediately connect the melancholic melody to the way he must mave felt while you were gone.
When he hits a point of anger and confusion, you see the way his muscles tense, and without thinking you start scooting closer to him carefully, making sure you don’t disturb him. As gentle as possible, you sit behind him, placing your legs on either side of his ones, and your hands slowly sneak around him, staying low at his stomach so you wouldn’t knock the cello out of his hands.
He tenses for a second, but he quickly realxes again, the music turning into the same melody like in the beginning, but this time louder. It is almost like it helps you show that he finally lets go, showing his sadness and how he is crying inside, transferring it to you through the strings.
Your vision suddenly blurs, and you have to bury your face into the place between his shoulder blades, trying to soothe yourself somehow as he hits the last notes.
When the music finally gets to an end, the room feels suddenly too quiet. After a few seconds you can feel him lower his hand with the bow, placing it on the bed next to you, leaning forward to lay the cello onto its side carefully on the ground too. He straightens again, leaning back into you and placing one hand over yours while his other one falls on your knee next to him.
“You’re crying,” he speaks into the room.
“How do you know?” you ask, your voice faltering as you murmur against his skin.
He brings up one of your hands to his mouth, placing a kiss on the back of it as he answers. “Your tear. It’s running down my back.”
You lean back to examine his back, and your eyes immediately focus in on one sigle stray tear running down the line of his spine. You let out a soft, but bittersweet chuckle, pulling your free hand back to wipe it off.
“I’m sorry. For everything,” he apologizes again. “I’ll make it right. I swear I’ll do,” he promises you, sealing it with another kiss to your hand. You lean forward, hugging him close again as you place a kiss on his back in return. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath, his smell filling your nostrils and calming you down.
“Alright.”
You can listen to what Alex is playing here.
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—TASTE BACK — PART THREE: "Do it, Cowboy" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (ex!husband joel miller x f!reader) MDNI!!
fic masterlist | read on ao3 | capuccinodollupdates
summary: Extremely nervous, you get ready to break the news of your pregnancy to your ex husband, Joel. You can't guess how the night might end. Final part of Taste Back. wc: 17,3k
TW: graphic violence
A/N: Nothing to say, just... I want Joel to be my yearning ex-hubby. Enjoy this last part!
If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment and reblog! I really appreciate feedback<3
With a bad shoulder, you weren't much help with the heavy lifting. But that didn't mean you had to stay home.
Nora had brought her brother to work; Giuliano was a tall, stocky guy who curiously had way too much free time since quitting his job. He was, in his own words, "drifting." And since you needed to rest and avoid lifting anything heavy for a couple more days, he took over the physical labor; hoisting, moving, and handling the heavy tools. Nora took care of the rest.
Frustrated by how little you could contribute, you kept yourself busy with light tasks, serving them coffee, and constantly asking if anyone needed anything. Their answer was usually no.
Two days had passed since your hospital visit. Your frustration probably didn't just stem from not being able to give your all at work, but from the total lack of distractions.
Dean was about to head back to Austin, and you still hadn't figured out how to break the news to him. Cheating on him was one thing, and you could have sidestepped that detail during the breakup; maybe Kat was right, and you could spare him the painful details, even if it wasn't the most honest or respectable route. But things had changed. Monumentally.
He was sensing it, you could tell. Lately, he had started calling and texting more often, likely picking up on something off in your tone. But what could you tell him? Nothing's wrong, really. And that was a flat-out lie.
Meanwhile, Joel kept texting you every day. He could read you a bit better, even over text. When your replies started taking a bit longer than usual, he called you.
"What's wrong? You okay? Is Dean back?"
You did your best to assure him nothing was wrong, that you were just a bit tired. He probably didn't buy it, but didn't ask.
Since yesterday, he hadn't asked about it either. But as you listened to Nora and Giuliano laughing over a tik tok they'd just watched while drinking the coffee you'd poured them, you stared at your phone screen, knowing you had to do it now.
The last message in your chat with Joel was from him. You hadn't replied yet.
[J]: Outlander
[J]: it’s on netflix, have you seen it?
[J]: if you haven't you should
[J]: I only watched the first two eps but i know you’ll like it because it has time travel, it's historical and it has muscular men in kilts
You bit the inside of your cheek. You had read the text two hours ago and had almost replied no, I haven’t seen Outlander. But every message you sent him made you feel more sick to your stomach because of what you weren't telling him.
It wasn't his reaction that scared you; you could already picture exactly how he'd take it. What terrified you was how fragile everything would become the moment you said the words. Because this changed absolutely everything. This was no longer just about the two of you; it was about something far more vulnerable and precious, something you couldn't afford to ruin. And at the same time, a suffocating fear crept in, making you wonder: What if it's like last time? What if your body can't handle it, if you aren't strong enough?
You were scared. Terrified. You couldn't imagine going through that kind of pain again; you couldn't imagine surviving it. But you clung to the hope that everything happened for a reason, and that if this pregnancy had come right now, in the middle of this chapter of your life, it was meant to stay.
Nora and Giuliano didn't notice when you slipped away from the main workshop area and headed toward the tiny kitchenette in the back. Or maybe they did, but they didn't think much of it. Either way, you shut the door behind you and leaned against the counter, unlocking your phone as your chat with Joel appeared on the screen.
Alright. You can do this. It’s Joel.
Quickly, you tapped the phone icon and brought the receiver to your ear, nervously tapping your chin with your other hand.
Suddenly, your overalls felt incredibly suffocating. The denim was too thick, and it was smudged with paint and—oh, you couldn't be breathing in too much paint, or varnish, or any of that. What were you going to do with all the work you—
"Hey."
Your mouth flew open. "Joel, hi."
"Hey. Was just thinkin' about you."
"Thinking about me?" Your eyebrows shot up, pushing past your nerves to muster a bit of playfulness. "Did you watch Kramer vs. Kramer again?"
A soft, low chuckle rumbled through the receiver. "Nah. Just finished off a blueberry muffin."
Any urge to throw back a witty retort vanished; you just smiled with your cheeks tight.
"You at work?"
"Yeah, in my office. Folks think I'm workin', but I'm mostly just hidin' from a real pushy architect. My assistant told him I was in a meetin'."
"And you're really just in there eating muffins. Uh, that's unfair."
Joel clicked his tongue. "Only for a couple more minutes. I'll get back to bein' a responsible boss once my fictional meetin' wraps up. Won't be long now. What about you? How's work goin'?"
You crossed one foot over the other. "Good. Everything's good. Wasn't really doing anything. Actually, I was calling because I thought... I was thinking, if you're up for it, maybe we could meet up to talk?"
On the other end of the line, there was a brief pause.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, when were you thinkin'?"
Your stomach suddenly fluttered, and you took a quiet breath to steady it.
"I know it seems quick, but does today work? Can you do today? Dean gets back tomorrow and I have to talk to him, and I need to talk to you about a few things before—"
"Everything alright?"
"Yes," you said quickly. "Everything's fine, don't worry. Just... I'd really like to talk to you today. If you can."
"Course I can. I'm off around five, maybe five-thirty. But I can head out early."
You nodded. "Yeah, that's perfect. How does six sound?"
"Sounds good."
"At my place. I'll text you the address."
"Alright. I'll be there."
"Okay," you said, straightening up from the counter. "I'll see you then. I'll leave you to your fictional meeting now. You know I could totally expose you, right? I bet your employees would love to know how you're spending your time."
He laughed. "Hey, I just gave 'em some pretty nice bonuses not too long ago. I'm a real good boss. I think I can pick my battles every now and then."
"I'll let you off the hook, then," you said, resting your palm against your cheek, smiling so hard it hurt. "But only until six."
"Until six." From the way his voice sounded, you knew he was smiling.
Before either of you could say another word, you pulled the phone away and ended the call. An overwhelming wave washed over you, rising through your chest until it finally escaped your lips as a long sigh.
"Okay," you muttered to yourself, running a hand over the back of your neck to steady your nerves.
Slowly, hesitantly, you lowered your hand to your flat stomach, resting your palm right over it.
"What a time to show up, baby."
When Joel heard the line go dead, it took him a few seconds to pull the phone away from his ear. He held it out in front of him, staring at the screen for a moment longer.
On the outside, he looked relaxed. He was kicked back in his chair with his legs stretched out under the desk, crossed at the ankles. In front of him sat a coffee mug and a plate littered with blueberry muffin crumbs. There were crumbs on his black t-shirt, too, and a few caught in his beard.
Suddenly, he felt hyper-aware of it. He brushed a hand down his chin and across his chest, shaking off every last trace of his little feast. He straightened up, pulling his chair closer to the desk.
He checked his watch. It was barely eleven in the morning.
He could handle this today. Say the right words, give you the right silences. Above all, he just couldn't ruin things.
Joel knew your relationship with Dean wasn't officially over yet, and that he would need to keep his distance until you gave him the green light. He didn't have any guarantees with you either; just a fresh chance to get close again, and he couldn't afford to screw it up.
But to be completely honest, he didn't give a damn about Dean. He didn't care if the guy was good, or ideal, or any of the things he'd heard over the last few months. He probably wasn't anyway, and Joel knew it. Even if he was, it didn't change a thing. He didn't care.
After tonight, if things changed, Joel had everything ready to offer when the time was right. He knew you too well to think this would be a quick fix, and he knew himself well enough to know that, if it were up to him, he’d be putting a ring back on your finger the second the nearest church opened tomorrow morning.
Two years he’d spent without you. Two years of waking up lonely and miserable in a king-sized bed, in an apartment that felt way too big and entirely useless. Every single day since the last time he’d seen you had been pure torture, a constant reminder that he’d lost the most important person in his life.
He didn’t blame you—he truly didn’t. And he knew that no matter how much he’d hurt right alongside you, no matter how much he wanted to understand, he’d never truly know what it was like to be in your shoes. He’d watched your body suffer, watched you nearly slip away, and saw the raw pain in your eyes every single day afterward as you tried to piece yourself back together. That memory had chased him all this time, a brutal reminder that he’d been completely helpless to stop it.
But when he saw you in Maui, he knew instantly: it wasn’t over. Your eyes had always been dead giveaways, and Joel knew that even with another man in your life, there was still hope for him.
You weren’t the same person you were two years ago, and neither was he. The grief was still there, just as heavy and close to the surface as ever if you dared to reach out and touch it. But things were different now; he hadn't doubted for a second that he was ready to try and win you back. And if luck was on his side, you’d look at him again with those eyes that told him everything with just one glance.
Tonight. He just had to wait until tonight.
Three sharp knocks on the door made him look up startled.
"Yeah? Maggie?"
The door swung open immediately. Maggie poked her head in, tilting her chin down to peer at him over her glasses. It reminded Joel of the silent, scolding looks his mom used to give him.
"Di Palma just left."
He nodded. "Alright."
"Can I officially wrap up your fictional meeting, then?"
"Please do," he said, tilting his head.
Maggie shook her head, but he caught the brief smile she tried to hide before she turned and walked out.
No matter how many times you scrubbed, it still didn’t feel right. And you thought of it as a feeling rather than a sight because, logically, you could see the place was spotless, but it just didn’t feel clean.
Your apartment wasn’t too big, nor was it too small. It fell right into that average comfortable sweet spot. In your living room, you had a cozy, nice navy blue sofa and walls lined with frames full of photos of the people you loved. The television across from the coffee table was on, the evening news murmuring in the background entirely ignored. The place smelled clean; actually, the whole apartment did, mixed with the sweet scent of the vanilla candle you’d lit ten minutes ago.
Joel would be here any second now. You knew he was punctual, and it was already twenty to six. It was only a matter of time before the buzzer went off and he was standing right there with you.
That was when you realized you had to be quick.
He could read you so well. He always had. If he showed up and looked you in the eyes for even a second, he’d know something was up.
It was a childish idea, but you wanted to beat him to the punch, to catch him off guard before he could do the same to you. You wanted to see just how long it would take him to figure it out.
You deserved to have a little fun with this, didn't you?
Okay, you gave up. You had officially polished every single surface in the place, and you were well aware that your nerves were making you act a little irrational. If you scrubbed the floor one more time, you’d be able to see your own reflection right where you stood.
With a sigh, you sat down on the sofa, cradling a warm mug of tea, and checked your phone. 5:48 PM.
Oh, God, please just let him get here.
You’d sent him your address a few hours ago, and he hadn't texted back—he’d just reacted to the message. You weren’t sure if that was his way of trying to play it cool or what, but it definitely wasn't helping your anxiety.
You were being incredibly restless today.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. And then, your phone buzzed in your lap.
You snatched it up and stared at the screen.
It was Dean.
Your eyes traced the letters of his name two, three times, debating whether or not to pick up. But before you could make up your mind, the call cut out.
[Dean]: heyy, you there?
The text popped up a few seconds later. You decided the best move, at least for now, was to ignore it.
Tomorrow you’d have to face him anyway, with no way out.
At exactly 5:55 PM, the buzzer rang. Punctual as usual.
You quickly got up from the sofa and stood frozen for a second, catching your breath before you could actually open the door.
This was it. The first time you were going to see each other since Maui.
You pulled the door open, and there he was.
Your eyes lingered on his face, unable to look away and silently acknowledging how handsome he looked. Tall and broad-shouldered, Joel stood in your doorway, his curls looking neatly styled but perfectly messy at the same time. He was wearing a black cotton t-shirt with a small company logo on the chest, paired with black dress pants and his black boots. It was a strange outfit on anyone else, but on him, it looked fucking good.
The look in his eyes said only one thing. He was mirroring your own thoughts.
But Joel didn't say a word about it. Instead, he just smiled softly, tilting his head slightly. "You don't live too far from me."
You smiled back. "Oh, really?"
He shook his head. "No. And I've never run into you once. Where've you been hidin'?"
You laughed and stepped aside, letting him into the apartment before shutting the door behind him.
"Want something to drink?"
"Uh..." He hesitated, and you immediately caught the quiet wave of nervousness rolling off him. "Sure. Whatever you're havin' is fine."
"Alright," you said, leading the way into the living room.
Joel sat down on the sofa, his eyes wandering curiously around the space. You noticed him clasping his hands together, his fingers fidgeting; a nervous habit he'd always had.
Stepping away, you headed into the kitchen.
"Coffee?" you called out from there.
"Yeah, sure," he replied.
You didn't ask how he took it; you already knew. You poured him a mug of the hot, black coffee that had been ready on the counter for the last ten minutes, and prepared a cup of tea for yourself. You dropped three small spoonfuls of sugar into your mug, stirring for a few seconds as your stomach tightened, your nerves winding tighter and tighter with every swirl of the spoon.
You pressed your lips together. Dozens of ways to break the news flashed through your mind, but unable to pick just one, you picked up both mugs and walked back into the living room.
Joel was sitting very straight, but he squared his shoulders even more the moment he saw you walk in. You set his coffee down on the coffee table, placed your tea right beside it, and sat down next to him.
"How've you been?" he asked. "How's your shoulder? You feelin' any better?"
You nodded. "I think so, yeah."
"Don't go doin' anything you shouldn't be doin' in the meantime. I've been there, and the healing takes a whole lot longer if you push it."
You hummed and smiled, completely unable to find your voice, even for some light silly reply.
Joel picked up his mug and brought it to his lips.
You watched his profile; his nose, his soft lips resting against the warm porcelain, the curve of his eyelashes, and the stray curls partially hiding his ear.
You licked your lips. "Joel, thank you so much for coming today. I know it was really sudden."
He looked at you immediately, shaking his head. "Not at all. You don't have to thank me for anything. You know I wanted to see you."
You swallowed hard and nodded, lowering your eyes to your hands resting in your lap. "Well, I wanted to see you too. A lot," you confessed, lifting your gaze back to his. "I've been thinking so much, though there wasn't really all that much to think about, to be honest."
He offered a soft lopsided smile. "No?"
You shook your head slowly. Your eyes locked with his, and for a long, heavy moment, neither of you looked away. The quiet space between you felt intense; there was no wall anymore, nothing to stop yourself from spilling everything you hadn't said over the last two years.
Joel set his mug back down on the coffee table. He paused for a split second before turning fully toward you, shifting a little closer.
"Tell me what you want," he said, reaching out and bringing his hand close to yours where they rested in your lap, but he stopped just short of touching you, as if he were afraid to break the spell. "What are you thinkin'?"
You took a slow, deep breath and let it out. Your heart was drumming so hard against your ribs, and every nerve in your body ached to close the distance and just… touch him.
"I'm thinking... I'm thinking that I want you. I want you back," you let the words rush out. "Because I need you, and... and because I can't help it, and I don't want to help it either." You shook your head slowly, keeping your eyes locked on his. "But most of all, Joel, because I love you."
It felt so good to finally get those words out of your chest. And looking at Joel, the way his eyes grew glassed over, his expression seemingly shattering and piecing itself back together all at once; you knew he felt the weight of them too.
He sat completely still, frozen by the sudden rush of it all.
You swallowed hard, waiting.
"I want you back, too," he said, as he nodded slowly. "I've never wanted anything else. My feelings are the exact same as they were in Maui, and the same as they were years ago. I'm always gonna regret a lot of things, mostly not fightin' harder for us back then, but I'll never regret choosin' us over and over again. Because I love you, I'll always love you."
Your throat tightened just as a sudden ache bloomed in your chest as the urge to cry threatened to spill over. You swallowed past the lump, trying to hold it in. Words failed you completely, so you didn't even try to speak.
Instead, your body just leaned forward, your hands reaching up to wrap around his broad shoulders.
The second you moved, Joel was already matching you, his large arms locking around you and pulling you flush against his chest; his mouth found yours in a desperate, breathless kiss, one that tasted of salt as the tears you'd tried so hard to hold back finally slipped down your cheeks.
This wasn't like Maui. This wasn't desperate and built on need; now Joel kissed you with tenderness, with all the time in the world in his hands while they traced your back and kept you close to him.
As he held you steady, you slid your hand up to his face, cradling his cheek. Your thumb swept over his damp skin, and only then did you notice the few warm tears trailing down his face.
You had to tell him now.
Softly, you pulled your mouth away from his; he sought it again.
"Joel, wait."
He barely nodded, his nose brushed yours. "Yeah."
"I need to talk to you about one more thing."
"That about Dean?"
You licked your lips and shook your head, his hands still tracing quiet patterns along your spine. "No. It's not about Dean."
"Oh."
Your hand slid down his neck, resting on his shoulder. "Wait here."
Carefully, you pulled away and stood up from the couch. His hand lingered until the very last second, his fingertips brushing yours right before you stepped out of reach.
You walked to your bedroom and straight to the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer to retrieve the white envelope you'd hidden there two days ago. You gripped it tight, your fingertips pinching the paper as if it might slip away, and headed back to the living room. Joel was waiting exactly where you'd left him, sitting in the same spot.
Sitting back down beside him, you instinctively shielded the envelope under your palm.
Joel's eyes caught it instantly. He looked at the white paper, then at your trembling hands resting over it, before his gaze drifted back up to meet yours.
"I didn't tell you everything the other day," you started, and his brow furrowed right away. "When I went to the hospital, it wasn't just 'cause I got hurt working. Actually, for the last couple of weeks, I've been gettin' dizzy. That's how I got hurt. I fell—"
"You alright?"
He sat really still.
You nodded quickly to reassure him. "Yeah, I'm okay. Don't worry about that. The doctor told me everything was fine; my bloodwork, the X-ray, absolutely everything. I'm healthy."
Joel let out a long breath of relief, his gaze dropping to your feet.
You were doing this so terribly.
You took a breath. "I'm okay. And I'm..."
He raised his eyes back to yours.
"I'm… I'm pregnant."
Instantly, the worry on Joel's face shifted into complete, silent shock. His brows lifted slightly, and his mouth pulled into that soft frown he made whenever something was just too much to take in.
Without a word, you reached out and offered him the paper envelope. He took it automatically, quietly, his breathing picking up noticeably even as he kept his composure. His fingers opened the unsealed flap, and he pulled the paper out. He unfolded it, held it up, and read.
Meanwhile, you read every single micro-expression on his face.
His eyes welled up, and he brought his hand up to cover his mouth, trying to steady himself. A muscle twitched in his brow as his eyes traced every single word printed on the paper.
"Is it…" He looked up at you, his gaze completely melting you. "Is it… mine?"
"It's yours," you nodded, tears blurring your vision. "It's ours. Dean… Dean can't. And we use protection anyway."
Joel nodded, and whatever was keeping him together shattered right then. A smile broke across his face, wide and radiant, contrasting with the fresh tears spilling over his lashes. He reached out and grabbed you by the waist, and you immediately crawled into his lap, burying yourself in an embrace you'd been starving for.
You hid your face in the crook of his neck, finally feeling the reality of it sink in.
"I love you so much," he breathed, his warm breath brushing against your shoulder. "You make me so happy."
"I love you too, Joel, so much," you wept.
With your eyes closed, all you could feel was his warm body against yours; his hands, one of them moving up your back to the nape of your neck, where he tangled his fingers gently into the hair there; his arms holding you firmly by your sides; his scent, which you had longed for so much and that now completely invaded you as you buried your nose in his neck.
It felt so good to have told him, to finally have lifted from your chest the small secret that had been with you for just two days.
"I promise you, baby, I'm gonna make it up to you. Everything."
A sob escaped you. "I missed you so much. I'm so sorry I pushed you away. I never wanted to do that."
"I know, is okay. You don't have to say sorry," he murmured, his thumb pressing softly against your neck. "I should have done things different."
"No," you lifted your head and looked straight at him, shaking your head; your hand took his chin. "You did what you could. I know you were scared, and how much it hurt you. It was your baby too. You deserved support too, Joel, and I couldn't give it to you."
He shook his head gently. "Was not your fault, none of it."
Suddenly, a very subtle pain appeared on his face. To anyone else, it might be almost imperceptible, but it pierced right through your chest.
"We are gonna do better this time," he added, his lips curving into a smile that still held a trace of sadness.
Nodding, you brushed your thumb against his lower lip, pulling it down slightly as you leaned in to kiss him.
Softly, at first; a strange sensation washed over you. A sudden mix of lingering pain, relief, and an aching desire. The different emotions blurred together until they became just one thing: pure necessity.
The softness melted away as the kiss deepened, growing more desperate. When you parted your lips and slid your tongue into his mouth, Joel let out a low breath, tightening his grip around your waist. His hand slid back up to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling firmly into your hair. He pulled back just enough to tilt your head, changing the angle to take your mouth exactly the way he wanted.
A small, breathless moan escaped the back of your throat, and that single sound broke whatever restraint he had left.
His pace turned urgent, his mouth devouring yours as if he were trying to make up for every second you've been apart. You couldn't get close enough; your hands gripped his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt to pull him even closer.
"Need you," he muttered against your lips. "I need you right now."
"Bedroom," you managed to breathe out between kisses.
Holding you tightly by the hips, Joel stood up from the sofa with you still wrapped around his waist. Your feet touched the floor as your hands kept searching, tracking the lines of his back and shoulders, while his arms remained locked around you, lifting you slightly off your feet whenever the distance became too much.
Every step toward the door was a messy rush of breathless gasps. Joel pressed your back against the corridor wall for a fleeting second, his mouth dropping down to bruise your jawline and the soft skin of your neck, making you arch into him with a gasp.
Look at him. His body was so warm and solid, a mountain of need and beauty. And before you could even catch your breath, he caught your lips again, carrying you forward until you finally crossed the threshold into the bedroom.
Once inside, you finally broke the kiss, but the desperation took over completely. You scrambled backward a step, your hands tearing at the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head and tossing it blindly aside.
Joel was already mirroring you; his thick fingers gripped the edge of his shirt and ripped it down his arms, exposing his broad chest to the dim warm light in your room. Your heart started beating so fast at the sight, you felt your cheeks boiling hot.
You kicked off your shoes and pushed your jeans down your legs, stepping out of them until you were left only in your underwear. Joel’s shirt hit the floor, and his hands immediately went to his belt, unbuckling it. But the need inside you was too loud to wait.
Dropping to your knees right there in front of him, you reached out and gripped his hips, pulling him firmly toward you. Joel let out a ragged breath, his hands coming down to rest on your shoulders for balance as you reached for his trousers. You undid the button, slid the zipper down, and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down together.
His length freed itself, heavy and fully aroused, standing thick and rigid right before your face. The sight of him, so ready for you, made your mouth water.
You leaned in, breathing your warm air against the sensitive skin of his tip before you ever touched him. Joel’s thighs flexed, and a quiet hiss escaped through his teeth.
Slowly, you extended your tongue, licking from the base all the way up to the crown.
"Ah... god," Joel groaned, his head tilting back as his fingers tangled into your hair. His grip wasn't harsh, but it was firm enough as you swirled your tongue around the ridge.
A moment later, you parted your lips and took him inside.
You started slow, letting your lips coat him as you drew him into the wet heat of your mouth, moving your head in a steady, rhythmic slide, using your hands on his thighs to pull him deeper, and deeper, and tasting him fully.
Joel's groans grew thicker; he began to budge his hips forward, a desperate instinct taking over, but he caught himself, his hands gently framing your face instead.
"Baby... look at me," he strained out.
You looked up, your eyes watering slightly as you swallowed him deeper, taking the full length of him until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his groin.
His thumb stroked your cheekbone, his blown out dark eyes filled with a profound feeling that went far beyond just physical release.
"I missed you so much," he breathed, trembling a confession. "Every single day. Was tearing me apart."
The emotion in his voice, mixed with the friction of your throat around him, sent a wave of heat straight to your core. You gave him a few more deep sucking strokes, swirling your tongue over the sensitive underside of his shaft until he whimpered.
But it wasn't enough. The ache between your own thighs was turning into an unbearable demanding throb.
You pulled back, letting him slip from your lips with a gasp.
"No more," you whispered, your voice trembling as you stood up, hands immediately sliding up his bare chest to his neck. "I need you."
"C'mere."
His skin was so incredibly soft under your palms, a total contrast to how rough and heavy the rest of him felt as you dragged your hands all over his chest.
Joel leaned into you, his mouth capturing yours in a consuming kiss that blurred everything together. And lips locked to yours, he slowly crowded you backward until the edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees.
You let yourself fall back onto the sheets, watching him while he stripped out of his trousers and boxers. And there, standing fully bare at the edge of the bed, his dick was thick, rigid, and glistening in the dim light from your saliva, pointing directly at you.
Your breath hitched. Reaching behind your back, you unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, baring your chest to him.
Joel climbed onto the bed. He crawled over you, his body settling perfectly between your thighs. And with steady hands, he hooked his fingers into the sides of your underwear and slid them down your legs, discarding them completely.
Like a good man, he didn't make you wait. Shifting his weight down, his hands slid under your thighs to open you up, and buried his face between your legs.
The first stroke of his tongue against your aching pussy made your eyes roll back, your eyelids fluttering shut as an intense wave of pleasure tore through you, instantly relieving that desperate need. He ate you out with ravenous hunger, deep and slow as he lapped up your slick heat.
Feelin you, Joel let out a muffled groan against your skin, tasting you like a dying man finally drinking water after a long moment of thirst; he thoroughly enjoyed it, his thumbs pressing into your inner thighs to steady you while your hips twitched helplessly against his mouth.
"Oh, Joel, yes, yes, yes…" Your hand gripped his hair. "You do it so good."
Joel and you had so many beautiful, special things in your relationship. And one of them had always been… this.
It went way beyond the simple act of sex; Joel made you feel a way no one else ever could match. His hands knew exactly how to touch you, his mouth how to taste you, his teeth when to bite. The weight of his body was just what yours needed on top of you and inside you, fitting together so perfectly there was no way you weren't made for each other.
No man could compete with that.
As he kept pushing into you, the tension tightened until you couldn't take it anymore: arching your back, your fingers tangled into his hair and gave it a hard tug, your breath hitching as your body completely gave in.
Your hips twitched helplessly against his mouth as the waves crashed over you, your vision blurring as you squeezed your eyes shut. Every muscle in your body tightened so hard it hurt, and a broken moan escaped your lips while your fingers dug tightly into his hair, pulling him closer, and closer, and closer.
It felt like a total release of all the tension you’d been carrying for days, for weeks. A throbbing ache that melted away into unbearable pleasure as Joel kept his tongue pressed firmly against you, drinking you in and riding out the storm until your body finally went soft.
Your fingers tangled, clumsy and heavy, in the hair just above his ear as your eyelids grew too weighted to keep open. Joel started to move up, pressing one last kiss against your center before trailing his lips over your hip and stopping just above, right against the flat of your lower stomach.
He kissed you right there, and let out a long, shaky breath, his forehead resting against your belly for a beat before he looked up at you.
"Please," he choked out. "Please tell me this means I get to come home. Don't make me leave you again."
A shaky exhale left your lips as you tangled your fingers tighter in his hair.
"Then come up here," you murmured. "Don't just stay down there. Come back to me."
He didn’t need to be told twice. Joel moved up the length of your body, and when his lips met yours, it wasn't frantic or rough; it was a deep kiss full of a soft, sweet desperate hunger.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down against you, your fingers anchoring into the short hairs at the nape of his neck just as you were feeling him right at your entrance.
He groaned low in his throat as his large hands slid up to frame your face, holding you there as if you might vanish if he let go. Every bit of the grief and the distance between you seemed to bleed out into the press of his mouth.
Without breaking the kiss, Joel tilted his hips and pushed forward, sliding smoothly and completely inside you.
He didn't rush; he felt massive, a blunt and crowding heat that stretched you open so easily, filling the empty spaces that had belonged to him all along.
He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting his weight settle completely as your body adjusted to the size of him.
His mouth left yours, breaking the kiss just enough so he could look down at you.
When your eyes met, the emotion in your chest felt almost suffocating, swelling so large and heavy it hurt. You loved him so much it felt like your ribs could barely hold it all in.
Holding your gaze, his dark eyes burning into yours, Joel began to move.
The first few strokes were deep and soft as he slid out and sank back in, testing your limits. But the restraint didn't last. The friction caught, and the pace began to shift, his thrusts gaining a hard, commanding speed that had your hips tilting up to meet him.
A soft gasp broke from your throat, your entire body bathed in electric pleasure that made your eyelids flutter shut.
"Keep 'em open. Look at me," Joel growled.
Your eyes snapped open instantly, locking onto his.
He kept up the pace, driving into you with a force that felt agonizing; a deep ache that hit every single right spot until you were completely breathless. You couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't do anything else but feel it. And the intensity of it combined with the unwavering stare he pinned you with, had tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
Another choked moan escaped your lips, your head tossing back against the pillows as the overwhelming pleasure threatened to pull you under completely.
The heat between your skin and his became unbearable, filling the room with nothing but the sound of hitched breaths and the constant clash of his skin against yours; a rhythmic tap tap tap that kept picking up speed.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him against you, searching for him as deep as physically possible. And every time he bottomed out completely, your entire body shook; it was too much, and it felt so good.
As you squeezed him tighter, your shoulder flared with pain, reminding you of the fall from just two days ago. Carefully, you lowered your arm to his waist, digging your fingers into his hip instead.
Joel let out a groan against your jaw, losing track of his own strength. He stopped holding your gaze and buried his face straight into the crook of your neck; his breath burned your skin and his beard scraped your collarbone as he let himself go, hitting the exact center of your pleasure with every single thrust, firmer and harder, while his hands slid down to grip your hips, squeezing your thighs to pin you against the mattress and take everything you had to give.
You couldn't help it; your eyes closed again, completely overwhelmed by the sensation rushing up your stomach. You arched your back against the bed, letting out a loud, broken moan that caught in your throat as you clung to him, feeling your walls squeeze tightly around his cock.
"... Joel, please," you begged in a whisper, not really knowing what you were asking for, just needing more of him, needing him not to stop.
"I got you, baby. Right here," he growled against your neck.
He didn't let you go. He pressed you a bit deeper into the pillows, pinning his chest to yours as he kept moving, gaining speed and force, driven by the need to make you completely his again.
And then, the feeling broke you completely for the second time; your hips trembled and your legs opened even wider as Joel crashed into you faster and faster. His rhythm turned broken, hips driving against yours with an unraveled speed that had you clinging to him for dear life. You were completely coming undone beneath him, your pussy gripping him so hard it finally pushed him over the edge.
He lost his rhythm completely, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and a deep low groan tore from his chest as he came inside you.
Hearing him like that made your heart race; you absolutely loved his groans, loved the way his usual control completely shattered whenever he was inside you. And he didn't pull away; he collapsed his weight over you, and you could hear his shaky uneven breathing right against your ear as the aftershocks kept running through both of you.
It was heaven.
After a few minutes, feeling a fierce need to touch him more, you slid your hands up to his head, burying your fingers deep in his messy hair. His cheek brushed against yours, and you pressed your lips right against it.
You kissed the skin there. "I missed you so much since Maui."
Drunk on you, he raised his head and looked down with a spellbound gaze. "Why didn't you tell me? I’d have come right away. You don't know how bad I wanted to see you."
Your hand caressed his temple. "I wanted to do things right. Wait until I broke it off with Dean..." You shook your head. "I guess it doesn't matter now."
He pressed his lips together. "You ain't a bad person."
"Oh, no?" You tilted your head a bit, raising your eyebrows. "My current boyfriend is away on a business trip and I just made love to my ex-husband, who I'm secretly pregnant by."
Joel rolled his eyes and kissed the corner of your mouth. He was still inside you, soft now, but he didn't seem uncomfortable or in any rush to move.
"I'm sorry for the guy. But this is us." He frowned just a bit. "Don't go callin' him your boyfriend."
The sad edge in his voice when he said that made you smile.
"And what should I call him, then?"
Joel shook his head, and carefully moved his hips back, sliding out of you.
He got up from the bed completely naked, and you watched him move across your bedroom, a space entirely foreign to him, until he found the bathroom door and disappeared inside for a few seconds.
"We can talk about that tomorrow," he said after a moment, stepping back out with a damp towel in his hand. "While I make you some breakfast, how's that sound?" He sat on the edge of the mattress beside you, his fingers brushing against your leg.
"Sounds good," you smiled, reaching out to stroke his bare thigh.
Joel gently wiped you down with the damp towel, cleaning you carefully, and a moment later, you got up to use the bathroom yourself.
In the mirror, your eyes looked different. You couldn't quite explain it; it wasn't a physical change, not exactly, but your entire expression just seemed brighter. You tried to ignore how big this felt. Too much for a night.
Once you finished washing up, you wrapped yourself in a robe and walked back out. Joel was sitting on the bed in just his boxers, checking something on his phone. The deep look of concentration on his face reminded you of your own phone, left behind somewhere in the living room.
You hurried out, flipping on the lights as you went. The night had completely swallowed the house, leaving only a dim glimmer of moonlight through the windows. The living room lamp was still burning, though, illuminating your phone right where you left it on the side table by the couch.
Four missed calls from Dean and three text messages stared back at you from the lock screen.
Your heart stopped for a second.
At six-thirty, he had written:
[Dean]: Baby is everything okay? I've been calling you
[Dean]: you home?
[Dean]: you asleep? how's your shoulder doing?
Now, it was already almost eight o'clock. Jesus.
If you already felt like a bad person, reading his worried messages only made it worse. You were going to pay for this somehow, you were sure of it.
[You]: Sorry, I was asleep
You had never lied so fast in your life.
[You]: Everything's fine, my shoulder doesn't hurt that much. Nora didn't let me work too hard today.
[You]: u getting ready to come back tomorrow?
"You want somethin' to eat? You hungry?" Joel's voice startled you.
You looked back; he was walking down the hall, still in just his boxers.
"Yeah, what do you feel like?"
He stepped up to you, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while pressing his lips together.
"Right now, I'm cravin' a steak."
A laugh escaped your mouth. "Check the fridge."
Joel gave a sideways smile and followed the nod of your chin toward the kitchen. As he walked away, you watched him go with a foolish grin plastered across your face.
He opened the refrigerator, leaning down to scan the shelves.
You loved to cook. You were always making lunch and dinner for your friends, and you especially loved Sundays, which was when your mom would come up from San Antonio every other weekend. Nora almost always joined in too, and you would spend the entire morning getting everything ready. Vegetables, fruits, different meats; you kept a well-stocked fridge.
Joel whistled. "Baby, I'm gonna make ya dinner."
It was as if no time had passed at all. As if there had never been any pain between you. Nothing awkward to hold a grudge over, nothing painful to hide.
Joel made steaks with well-seasoned vegetables, showing off by preparing two different sauces. The man was starving, that much was clear, and his appetite only pushed him to cook dinner with a level of care you could taste in the very first bite.
While he cooked, you set the table and kept him company in the kitchen. You had a few bottles of wine you would have loved to open, and this was the perfect occasion, but given the new guest living inside you, you limited yourself to pouring a glass of soda. Joel drank the same out of solidarity.
During dinner, you realized just how much had happened for each of you since you stopped seeing each other. Joel told you about the progress he had made at work; how a major deal last year had allowed them to grow immensely and secure big, long term clients. He told you how much Tommy had improved on the job; he wasn't getting into trouble anymore and had even stopped going out to bars and all that, since he was trying to be a better man. You really missed him too. He told you about his place, an apartment not too far from yours that he'd been renting for a few months, though it was just temporary since he wanted to buy a place of his own. But not once did he pressure you with questions or demands about what you were going to do now.
Tomorrow at breakfast, he had said. And you both respected that, avoiding any complicated topics.
You wanted to get back together with him, and he wanted to get back together with you. That much was clear. But it wasn't as simple as pretending nothing had happened, getting remarried, and moving back in together right away. You had your own independent life and he had his, and you were going to have to find a way to work together to share them again.
But that was a conversation for tomorrow.
After dinner, Joel cleared the table and you washed the dishes. He stayed in the kitchen the whole time, venting his frustration and telling you about Di Palma, the architect he had been avoiding all week. Apparently, the man had zero work ethic. But Joel didn't waste time on long or boring explanations; he just wanted you to understand why he had decided to fake a meeting.
"And I don't normally do things like that," he said, defending his stance as a good boss. "You know how I am."
You believed every word, of course, because you knew him well enough to know that if there was one thing Joel hated, it was people who didn't respect other people's work.
After half an hour of talking, and with no more missed calls or text messages from Dean, sleep caught up with both of you and you decided to head to bed.
Joel wrapped his arms around you the moment you lay down beside him, and you settled your cheek against his bare chest the exact same way you always used to. His hand caressed your back, and the steady sound of his breathing calmed you down. Nothing could really be that bad if it meant having this.
Looking up, you noticed his eyes wide open and shining in the darkness.
"What are you thinking about?" you asked, sliding your hand up his chest.
He sighed. "I'm thinkin' I need to get fit."
"What?" you laughed.
"I'm gonna be a daddy. Need to be in good shape to play and do all kinds of stuff with the baby."
"Mm. I think you're fine. You've always been strong and tough, I'm sure you'll be able to do whatever you want with the baby. I don't think a little kid demands that much."
"And when they turn into a toddler?"
You smiled. "Maybe. Could be."
"Mm. That's what I thought."
In silence, you kept watching him for a few seconds. He frowned slightly.
"You're doin' alright, aren't you?" When he asked, his voice sounded firm, but the worry underneath it was hard to hide. "I mean, this baby… this baby ain't gonna put you at risk? They tell you anything at the hospital?"
"They told me everything was fine. But I have to go get an ultrasound next Monday. Are you coming with me?"
"Course I am. What time?"
"At ten."
"Good, I'll be here early."
Turning toward you, Joel kissed your forehead and wrapped you tight in his arms.
You kissed his chest. "Everything is going to turn out fine, you'll see."
In the dead of night, a harsh thud ripped you from sleep.
THUMP.
A dull, heavy impact echoed through the floorboards.
It took a second for your mind to claw its way out of the fog. The bedroom was drowned in thick shadows, the door left half-ajar, spilling a faint yellow sliver of hallway light across the floor.
Reaching out blindly for warmth beside you, your hand met only cold sheets. Joel was gone.
"Joel?" you rasped.
You sat up, straining your eyes against the dark as a cold prickle of dread crept up your arms. Then, the muffled rumblings in the hall sharpened, turning distinct, and vicious.
"Where the fuck is she?"
"Hey, take it easy—"
"Don't you fucking tell me to take it easy!"
In a single heartbeat, the blood drained straight to your toes. Your stomach dropped so fast it made you sick.
That voice.
No, no, no, no, no, no…
He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow evening. You were supposed to have time. You were supposed to…
Harsh panic hit you like a live wire. Reason vanished. Completely reckless of how incriminating you looked wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and underwear, you scrambled out of bed.
Your bare feet slapped against the ice cold floor as you hurried toward the doorway, chest tight, breath coming in ragged uneven gasps. Rounding the corner into the hall, you dug your heels in and froze.
"Dean."
The name slipped through your lips as a shattered whisper, carrying all the guilt you couldn't put into words.
Right there, under the dim overhead light, the nightmare was laid bare.
Dean stood near the front door, his keys still clutched in a white-knuckled fist and his bag dropped awkwardly onto the floor. His jacket was damp from the midnight rain, and his jaw was set so tight the muscle twitched. But what truly stole the air from your lungs was the figure blocking his path.
Joel.
Joel had his back to you, broad and towering, wearing nothing but his boxers. The faint shadow of old scars traced across his bare chest, and his dark hair was rumpled from hours of pressing against your pillow.
At the sound of your voice, the muscles along Joel’s spine went rigid. He didn't break eye contact with Dean, but he shifted back a fraction of an inch, subtly interposing his frame to shield you.
"What the hell is this?" Dean spat, his voice raspy and trembling with fury. "What the fuck is this guy doing here? Is this why you didn't answer a single damn call yesterday?"
Dean’s eyes darted from Joel’s bare chest down to your exposed legs, the wrinkled t-shirt, and the stark lack of any explanation. Every single detail was a piece of damning evidence, tearing down any lie or excuse before you could even frame the words.
"Dean, please, just let me explain..." You tried to step forward, hands rising slightly, but your knees shook so badly you felt on the verge of collapsing.
"What the fuck do you have to explain?" He took an aggressive step toward you. "I go away for a little while and that's all it takes for you to throw everything we have in the trash? If I hadn't walked in right now, what was gonna happen tomorrow? Were you just gonna pretend everything was fine?"
"No," you shook your head, firm despite the panic. "No, that's not how it is. I was gonna tell you—"
"Bullshit."
"I was gonna tell you before your trip but you left—"
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me—"
"Dean, please, just listen to me," you took a step forward, knowing full well you had no right to demand his attention, let alone expect him to give it. "I know you don't deserve this and I didn't plan for it to happen like this—"
His face was flushed red with fury. "You didn't? You've been cheating on me since before I left for Oslo, and now you wanna play me for a fool?"
"I know but—"
He surged toward you, jabbing a finger in your face. "You're a fuckin' b—"
"Step back," Joel cut in, shoving him back with a single hand. His voice was no longer the soft rumble that had been whispering in your ear all night. "You don't talk to her like that, and you ain't takin' another step into this house."
"She's my girlfriend, asshole!" Dean exploded, taking an aggressive step forward. "Who the fuck do you think you are? Get the fuck out of my way!"
Joel didn't even blink. He adjusted his stance, planting his feet firmly like an unmovable wall.
"I don't give a damn who you are," Joel replied, a terrifying calmness settling over him as the vein in his neck bulged. "You take one more step toward her with that attitude, and I promise you this conversation ends right here."
"Joel," you whimpered, your voice shaking and soaked in tears as you reached out, resting a trembling hand against his back to calm him down. Your eyes spilled over, your face burning hot.
At the sound of the name on your lips, Dean snapped his gaze to you, his glare so intense it felt like it could bore right through your skull.
"Joel?" he repeated. "This is Joel?"
Dean's face shifted drastically; the initial confusion mutated into a cold, sickening contempt as the pieces clicked into place.
In nearly a year together, you had never shown him a photo of Joel, never dug deeper than absolute necessity. You had guarded the ghost of your divorce with a painful secrecy, keeping the past hidden like an open wound. You'd told him about him, of course, about the relationship and the agonizing divorce, but for some reason, you had shielded his face, his identity.
And now, the myth was standing right in front of him, bare-chested in your hallway.
"Ah... you gotta be fucking shittin' me," Dean let out a bitter, humorless laugh. His eyes flicked between Joel and you, shredding you with a single look. "Joel? Joel Miller? The grand tragic love you cried about for so damn long?"
"Dean, please..."
"Shut your mouth!" Dean roared, taking a rabid step forward. He pointed a finger at Joel, his whole hand trembling with rage. "This is the goddamn prick who left you broken? You used me! You used me for months just to fill this asshole's shoes!"
"I told you to calm down," Joel's voice rumbled through the hallway, much lower than Dean’s shouting, but somehow carrying twice the weight. He stepped all the way forward, completely blocking you from view. "Ain't gonna tell you again. Grab your shit and get outta here. Now."
"You're telling me to leave?" Dean let out a scoff of sheer disbelief, closing the distance until he was mere inches from Joel's bare chest. "This is my girlfriend's place, you idiot. What the fuck are you even doing here? Came back to play the dutiful husband again? Or'd you just pop in to collect your pity lay?"
"Dean, shut up, please..." Panic was suffocating you, your face burning with tears as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you.
"No, I ain't shutting up," Dean spat, glaring up at him. "Why don't you tell her what you really are? You're a manipulative piece of trash! You know damn well she's sick over you, and you just take advantage of it to come fuck her whenever you feel like it!"
In a flash of instinct, Joel’s hand shot out and clamped around the collar of Dean's jacket, dragging him back half a meter in one violent jerk.
Dean's body slammed against the hallway wall, rattling a picture frame against the plaster.
"Joel, no!" you screamed, lunging blindly to grab his arm.
"Don't you ever speak about her like you know her," Joel hissed. "You ain't got a damn clue what you're talkin' about, or who the hell I am, or what's gone down between us. You walk out that door this exact second or I swear on whatever memory you hold dear in this life, I will drag you out myself."
Dean shoved against Joel’s bare chest, trying desperately to break free, but it was like trying to shift solid stone. The sheer disparity in strength was overwhelming.
"You're crazy," Dean spat at him, but his eyes locked onto yours over Joel's broad shoulder. "You're fucking out of your mind. Go back to him if you want, you're a piece of shit. Every damn bit of you is a fucking lie."
Joel tightened his grip, lifting Dean an inch or two off the floor. "I warned you."
"Joel, no. Please, let him go!" Your trembling hands clawed desperately at his bare arm, feeling the rock-hard tension in his muscle. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
The words tumbled out of you in a frantic spill, smothered by sobs as tears completely blurred your sight. You felt miserable, small, utterly hollowed out by guilt.
Seeing you break down like that snapped whatever restraint Dean had left, turning his rage into desperation. Eyes bloodshot, he swung a blind fist straight toward Joel's face.
Joel didn't even blink. With clean instinct, he ducked the clumsy punch, caught Dean's wrist mid-air, and instead of throwing a hit back, used Dean's own momentum to drive him brute force into the adjacent wall. The impact rattled straight through the hallway.
"It's fuckin' enough," Joel warned, raising his voice for the first time, pinning Dean against the plaster with a heavy forearm locked across his chest; no intent to hurt him, just keeping him dead in his tracks. "Settle the hell down and think about what you're doin'."
"Let go of me, you fuckin' bastard! Let me go!"
Joel dug his forearm in deeper.
"Joel, please, just leave it... please," you begged, slipping up beside him, resting your hands against Joel's bare chest, feeling his heart pounding like a war drum.
Dean stopped fighting for a fraction of a second. Pinned against the wall, he locked eyes with you. The rage on his face had cracked, revealing a deep, hollow sadness; the bitter grief of someone who just had their heart smashed into a thousand pieces. His bottom lip quivered.
"Nearly a year..." he muttered. "I gave you everything for almost a year. You let me into your life, into your bed... and I was never even there, was I? It was always him. You're a piece of shit, you make me sick."
You stumbled back a step, stifling a pained groan as you covered your mouth.
Joel's face darkened instantly as he saw the words shatter you. He ground his teeth but forced himself to hold back, and eased the pressure of his arm and stepped back, letting Dean go.
"You said your piece," Joel said. "Grab your stuff and get out."
For a split second, it looked like Dean was going to give in. He straightened his jacket, breathing heavily, eyes fixed blindly on the floor. But it was too much. The wounded ego, the humiliation, and the sheer heartbreak clouded his judgment entirely.
Without warning, Dean let out a roar of fury and threw his entire weight straight into Joel.
"You son of a bitch!"
The charge caught Joel off guard just as he turned back toward you, and the impact threw him off balance, both men crashing hard to one side.
Driven by desperate strength, Dean tackled him into the wall, slamming Joel's back violently against the plaster. A framed picture tumbled off the hook, shattering into a thousand pieces with an unbearable crash against the floorboards.
Dean started pounding on Joel with unhinged violence; a solid right caught Joel flush on the cheekbone, followed by another hard blow to the jaw. Joel tried to throw his arms up to guard, but Dean’s weight in the cramped hallway broke his balance, sending him heavily down to his knees.
"No! Dean, no!" you screamed, out of your mind with terror.
Panic wiped out any trace of logic. You lunged toward them, reaching out to grab Dean by the shoulders, desperate to yank him off, to pull him away from Joel. But the second Dean felt your hands on him, jacked up on adrenaline, he spun around on instinct and swung a blind fist backward.
The full force of his knuckles caught you right in the face.
The pain was dull and blinding; it sent you flying backward, completely stealing your balance until you hit the floor hard on your side, and the heavy impact against the wood knocked the breath right out of your lungs.
And in that hallway, a deafening, sickening silence fell for one terrible second.
Joel saw it all from the floor. He saw your body collapse, saw the terror in your eyes, and saw the blood begin to spill.
Every ounce of restraint, every bit of composure he had been desperately holding onto just to protect you and keep things from spiraling, vanished in a single microsecond.
"She's pregnant, you fucking idiot!" Joel roared.
Before Dean could even process the words, Joel launched himself forward with every bit of his two hundred pounds of muscle and built-up fury. He seized Dean by the throat with a single hand, hauling him nearly off his feet, and slammed him flat against the floor with terrifying force. Dean let out a strangled gasp as the wind was knocked clean out of his lungs.
Joel gave him no room to breathe; he pinned him down and unleashed all the brutal strength he’d been holding back. He drove a vicious fist straight into Dean's face, then another, and another, and another. The sickening crunch of bone against flesh echoed through the space, and within seconds, Dean's face was a bloody mess, utterly crushed under Joel's relentless force.
He was gonna kill him. He was one hit away from beating him to death.
But then, Joel froze his fist mid-air. He was breathing through his mouth, his bare chest heaving violently, slick with sweat and splatters of blood. He stared down at the wrecked man beneath him, released his hold on his throat, and spat in a deadpan, deadly voice:
"You better watch real fuckin' close what you do next."
Joel sprang to his feet, abandoning Dean completely, and rushed straight over to you.
You were trying to push yourself up off the floor, your hands shaking against the wood. Your shoulder hurt like hell, your face felt like it was on fire, your nose was bleeding heavily, and your mouth tasted like copper from a split lip.
"Look at me, look at me..." Joel's voice shifted instantly, turning frantic and soft as his hands gently took you by the arms to help you up. His gaze darted frantically from your bloodied face to your stomach, then back to the door, keeping a sharp eye out in case Dean tried anything. "Let me see you, baby, let me look at you."
"I'm okay... I'm okay..." you managed to choke out between sobs, trying to wipe the blood with the sleeve of your shirt while Joel's face crumpled with raw guilt and agony, his thumb tracing your cheek with tenderness.
A few feet away, a agonizing groan sliced through the air.
Dean, bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth, one eye swelling shut at a terrifying speed, dragged himself up off the floor against the wall.
He was beaten to a pulp, battered and humiliated, but his bloodshot, tear filled eyes weren't locked on Joel. They were fixed on you. On Joel's hands wrapped around you. On the confession he heard minutes ago.
"Are you... are you pregnant?"
Unable to hold his gaze for more than a second, you simply nodded, letting your head drop as a fresh wave of tears burned down your cheeks.
"When?" he demanded to know.
You swallowed hard, feeling your throat close up.
"Maui," you confessed. "It was just one time. I was planning on tellin' you when you picked me up at the airport... but you were so happy about Oslo. I couldn't bring myself to do it."
Dean nodded. A broken laugh escaped his chest as tears cut clean tracks through the blood on his cheeks.
"I didn't tell anyone yet, just Nora," you continued, pleading in a choked whisper. "I only found out three days ago. And Joel found out last night. Before that, we hadn't seen each other, Dean... I mean it. I wanted to tell you."
"But you couldn't wait just one day for me to get home, could you?" he scoffed, shaking his head as he took in the scene: you half bare, Joel standing over you like a protective shield, his skin flushed, his cheek bruised from the fight, and his lip bleeding. The picture-perfect image of a family piecing itself back together over the ruins of his own heart.
"I'm sorry."
Dean shook his head once more, turning away with a defeated sigh.
"You know what? Save it."
He winced as he crouched down, letting out a groan of pain as he scooped his bag off the floor. He grabbed the handle and yanked the front door wide open, letting the cold air from the hallway rush in.
Right before stepping over the threshold, he froze.
He didn't turn around, but his voice sounded hauntingly hollow, worn down to nothing:
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. Please forgive me for that."
He cast one last look at Joel, then let his eyes rest on you for a fleeting second before stepping out and slamming the door shut.
The silence that followed the slam of the door was deafening, so intense it hurt your ears.
Joel looked at you immediately, and the moment his eyes met yours, the air left your lungs completely and you broke down, crying so hard your whole chest heaved with gut-wrenching sobs. He didn't hesitate for a single second; he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his bare chest.
"It's okay... it's over now, it's okay," he murmured against your hair.
You wept uncontrollably, but why?
It wasn't the end of your time with Dean that was tearing you apart inside. You didn't feel the loss of that relationship; what suffocated you was that it had gone down in this... this way. So violent, so unfair, so grotesque and aggressive. Because Dean didn't deserve this; nobody deserved that kind of surprise. Every blow Joel and Dean had traded burned in your mind, the sound of flesh against bone echoing in the memory of your ears, and your own body ached from the hit you'd taken in the crossfire.
Joel loosened his hold just enough to frame your face in his large hands. His thumbs gently wiped away the thin trails of blood running down your skin.
"He hit you real hard. We gotta go to the hospital."
"No, Joel, I'm okay," you shook your head quickly, though the motion sent a spike of pain through your temple. "Seriously, it was just... it was just one hit."
"You took a hard fall. And you're pregnant. Best we make sure you're alright. I ain't takin' any chances."
"And what're we supposed to tell them there?"
"The truth. What else?"
Your eyes drifted across Joel's face: the split brow, the nasty scrape across his cheek, and his bleeding lip.
"You need a doctor way more than I do," you whispered, carefully reaching up to touch near his split lip.
"Well, then let's go for me, and we'll get you checked out while we're at it, if that works as an excuse for ya," he replied, raising his brows, though he winced right after; the movement agitated the eye that was already turning dark purple. "I ain't takin' no for an answer. You're still bleedin'."
The firmness in his voice was the exact anchor you needed to keep from completely falling apart. Without another word, you threw yourself against his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist with every ounce of strength you had left.
You felt Joel's hand glide up into your hair, tangling his fingers in your strands and stroking it softly, keeping you safe from the world amid the ruins of that night.
The harsh stench of antiseptic and the glaring fluorescent lights made everything feel far too cold. You had hated places like this for as long as you could remember. But after spending so much time wandering their halls, after collecting so many horrible painful memories in every hospital and clinic across Austin, being here now felt infinitely worse.
Yet Joel, sitting right beside you, made it bearable.
Over two hours had slipped by in the middle of a storm of paperwork, signatures, and suspicious stares. Arriving in the dead of night with battered faces and split skin meant the hospital’s safety protocols kicked in immediately. The nursing staff and the ER physician asked probing questions, pulling each of you aside to rule out domestic abuse or immediate danger. You both had to tread carefully, repeating time and again that it had just been a blowout at your place with your ex, that you didn't want any trouble, desperate to keep the paperwork from turning into a full police report that would only complicate things further.
They cleaned Joel's cuts, closed the split above his brow with a few neat stitches, and handed him a heavy-duty prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatories; 800 mg ibuprofen and tramadol for the throbbing ache in his bruised ribs. His left eye was now angry purple, swollen and almost completely shut.
From the gurney where they kept you under observation, you couldn't take your eyes off him. And as you traced every bruise on his face, it was impossible to keep your mind from drifting to Dean.
No matter how guilty you felt, no matter how certain you were that what you had with Joel was forever, you couldn't just switch off your empathy overnight. You had shared nearly a year of your life with Dean. He had been good to you—attentive, patient... and knowing the state he was left in, after taking blows three times more brutal than Joel's, made your stomach churn.
You felt like utter trash for how everything had played out, but right now, that mountain of guilt had to be set aside.
There was something far more urgent to worry about.
Even though the general physical exam showed that the hit to your face and the fall hadn't caused any serious trauma, Joel remained completely unyielding. Driven by that protective stubbornness of his, he didn't rest until the ER doctor authorized an ultrasound just to be safe.
They had you lie back on the gurney and exposed your stomach. The cold gel hitting your skin made you shiver, but your entire focus locked onto the dark monitor beside you.
At one month along, the risks after a fall are small but still very real due to the raw impact and severe stress, even if the embryo is no larger than a tiny seed protected inside the gestational sac.
You knew all about loss; you knew every single risk that came with each gestational month. You had studied them relentlessly years ago, and neither the knowledge nor the terror ever truly left your mind.
The doctor glided the transducer over your abdomen and flipped on the monitor. You squeezed your eyes shut right then, completely unable to look. Joel squeezed your hand back tight.
"It's alright, baby."
The sonographer moved the device across your belly for a moment.
"There it is," he said after a few seconds, and your eyes snapped open instantly. He pointed toward the screen. "The gestational sac is fully intact and well implanted. No signs of detachment or hemorrhaging. Everything is right where it should be."
On the black and white screen, nestled among shadows and soft gray tones, a small dark cavity appeared, and inside it, a tiny white dot.
A ragged gasp escaped your chest as an entire mountain of weight lifted off your shoulders.
Turning your head, you looked up at Joel. He stood beside the gurney, his good eye fixed on the screen, his mouth parted slightly.
Despite the blackened eye, the neat row of stitches over his brow, and the faint smears of dried blood still staining his neck, his face transformed entirely. All the harshness, the fury, and thetension of the night melted away in an instant, replaced by a deep almost childlike wonder.
Joel took a step closer, unable to tear his eyes away from that tiny dot on the monitor. He raised a trembling hand, tracing the screen with his fingertips as if trying to touch the image itself.
"It's... it's so small," he murmured. For the first time all night, a single clean tear slipped down his cheek, cutting a path through the scrapes on his face. "Look at 'em... they're alright. Right there."
Seeing him like that, the crushing weight in your chest finally broke. A soft smile touched your lips, shattering the last remnants of the night’s horror, and you tightened your grip on his hand, weaving your fingers through his.
At your touch, Joel pulled his gaze from the screen and turned to you. His features, battered and worn thin by exhaustion, softened completely. He leaned over the gurney with tender care, closing the space between you, and found your lips.
He kissed you softly, a sweet, unhurried press of his mouth. Then came another kiss at the corner of your lips, and another against your cheek; a succession of tender pecks that pulled an airy, honest laugh from your chest despite how tired you were.
Joel smiled, and that grin lit up his entire face. His eyes shone with an overwhelming brightness; filled with hope, with a devotion that left no room for regret.
"Worst of it's over now," he whispered against your lips.
And looking at him right there, with his hand wrapped firmly in yours and the tiny yet monumental presence of the baby resting on the monitor, you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was right.
The worst was finally behind you.
4 months later.
"Mmm. A little more to the left, looks a bit crooked from here."
Nora shifted the frame a few millimeters against the exposed brick wall and immediately glanced back over her shoulder at you. "Like this?"
"Yeah, yeah," you raised a thumb with a smile. "Perfect."
She grinned, pleased with her work, and tilted her chin up. "Always a pleasure, ma'am."
In the frame, a woman from the Old West was looking forward with her hand raised, dressed as an outlaw, while holding a water gun. Beside her, a speech bubble said, 'Do it, cowboy!'
You watched her step down nimbly from the wooden stool she’d been perched on.
"By the way," Nora said, dusting off her hands against her work apron, "Crane called early. Giuliano’s swingin' by at two this afternoon to pick up the bookshelf for the delivery."
You nodded. Giuliano had joined the workshop full-time two months back to help out with logistics and the heavier hauls; an addition that had lifted an enormous weight off both your shoulders.
"Awesome. It’s all wrapped up and ready in the back," you said, leaning back against the workbench. "So... you gonna spill the tea on how last night went, or are you gonna keep playin' mysterious?"
Nora let out a choked laugh, a bright flush instantly staining her cheeks.
The whole thing with Mr. Harrison had started in the most unexpected way: two weeks ago, he’d ordered a custom desk purely as an excuse to get close to her, confessing the truth the second it was delivered. Sure, he’d actually needed the furniture at first, but he’d fallen for Nora, too.
Ha, told ya!
Even though Nora had been "caught off guard" at first and hesitated to say yes, she had finally caved and agreed to a first date.
"It was... incredible," Nora confessed, sinking into one of the shop chairs with a dramatic sigh and a bright sparkle in her eyes. "Honest to God. He took me to that Italian place by the lake I've been dyin' to try, but the food wasn't even the best part. He's charming, attentive, funny as hell... We talked for four straight hours without stoppin'. Swear I haven't felt this good about someone in years. It ain't weird, is it?"
You laughed out loud, loving how giddy she looked. "Why on earth would it be weird? It's awesome."
"Ehh, I don't know, you know... he's older, and I just—"
"Doesn't matter one bit," you waved a hand dismissively. "Besides, works out great for us if things go well between you two. That way he'll keep buyin' furniture from us."
Nora cracked up. "Look at you, such an opportunist! You're right, though."
Before you could say anything else, the shop door chime chimed, announcing a visitor.
Spring had rolled into Austin a month ago, painting the city green, flooding the streets with warm breezes and golden sunlight. Everything looked infinitely prettier this season... and your boyfriend was no exception.
Joel pushed the door open and stepped inside the workshop, looking ridiculously handsome.
He wore a soft white button-down tailored neatly at the shoulders with the top few buttons undone, paired with black trousers and black shoes. His hair had grown out a bit more over these past few months, just enough for a few unruly strands to tuck loosely behind his ears.
"Afternoon, ladies," Joel greeted, stepping up to Nora first and planting a warm kiss on her cheek. "Nora."
"Joel. Look at you, right on time," she teased with a grin.
"Am I? How's Mr. Harrison treatin' you?"
Nora let out a theatrical sigh. "I'm tellin' you all about it later!"
Laughing, Joel walked straight to you.
Without a second thought, he slid a hand gently around your waist, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips that stole your breath for a beat.
"Look at you, darlin'," he murmured, pulling back just an inch or two. His palm slid down right away to rest against your stomach, seeking the warmth of your skin.
At five months along, your bump was still small but undeniably visible, highlighted by your outfit: a skirt sweeping down from your hips to your ankles with a slight slit on the side, and a white crop top that left just a small glimpse of your belly bare and uncovered.
Joel traced the curve of your bump with his thumb, his face softening with that tender warmth that was all yours now.
"You ready?" he asked.
"More than ready," you smiled, giving his hand one last squeeze.
You turned back to your partner, who was watching the two of you with a sweet expression.
"I'm outta here, Nor. See you tomorrow."
"Go on, have fun," Nora waved you off. "I'll lock up."
You laced your fingers through Joel's, letting him lead you toward the exit you knew by heart.
It had become a ritual. Every Friday for months, Joel would pick you up at the shop just before closing for date night. There was no need for elaborate planning; the routine you had built was perfect, centered around a few favorite local spots.
Some nights, you managed to snag a table in a quiet corner of Genoveva's for a delicious meal. Other times, you would stroll leisurely down South Congress, enjoying the glow of the streetlights, sharing ice cream, browsing through antique shops, and grabbing a bite from the food trucks along the avenue. On simpler evenings, you would just pick up takeout tacos and sit near the lake, watching the evening fade over the Austin water.
It was the perfect way to close out the week and ease into the weekend, which almost always found you both at home, cooking together and setting the table to host Sunday dinners, as though no time had passed at all.
That you and Joel had gotten back together didn't surprise anyone because it was outrageous, but rather because of how sudden it had all been. The change in him was immediate, and the person most thrilled by the news was, without a doubt, Tommy.
To him, his brother had spent years living as a shadow of himself, and he never missed an opportunity to remind you, or anyone else willing to listen.
"I told him, didn't I?" Tommy said one afternoon, popping the cap off an ice-cold beer as you hung out in his sunny backyard. "I kept tellin' him to quit messin' around and go get you back once and for all."
Tommy was a completely different man from the boy you had first met. You had watched him grow over fifteen, almost sixteen years; from a rebellious teenager into the man he was today.
You were family, plain and simple. Tommy had always been there to witness every major chapter of your life, and this new stage was no exception: he was right by your side when you finally reached the three-month pregnancy mark.
The pregnancy was proving to be a strangely beautiful experience. You barely had any symptoms; nausea was minimal, and against all odds, your body felt stronger, healthier, and more full of life than ever.
Even so, with all the good news on your side, you and Joel had decided to keep the secret and wait patiently to hit the first-trimester mark before sharing the news with family.
During the last ultrasound, the obstetrician confirmed that the baby was perfectly healthy and growing strong. When she asked if you wanted to know the gender, you decided to wait until the birth.
Time to tell everyone; when you finally told them, it felt as though the world around you settled right into place.
Tommy was overjoyed. But your mom's reaction was no less intense: the very day after learning you were back with Joel, she had caught a bus from San Antonio to Austin just to wrap her arms around you. And the moment she found out a grandkid was on the way, she didn't hesitate for a second and began packing up her life to move to the city for good.
"I ain't gonna make the mistake of bein' far away, not like last time. I'd never forgive myself," she told you, her voice breaking as she squeezed your hands tight.
You knew all too well the weight she carried in her chest for not having been there the night everything crumbled. But you had never blamed her. How could she have known? Nobody knew.
Life, however, seemed ready to offer everyone a fresh start, and this new beginning with Joel felt warmer, brighter, and more hopeful than anything you could have imagined.
A healthy baby on the way, a peaceful pregnancy, and the man you had loved since you were nothing more than a girl, back by your side.
The car glided smoothly through the streets as Billy Joel played softly over the speakers. You had the window rolled down, letting the warm spring air rush in, carrying the delicious scent from this time of year: a sweet blend of damp earth, oak trees, and the first blossoms of the season opening under the sun.
Joel kept one hand on the wheel while the other rested comfortably near the gear shift. You had asked him at least three times where you were going, but all you got in return was a sly smirk and the exact same evasive answer.
According to him, it was a surprise, and he had no intention of spilling the beans no matter how much you begged. He knew your curiosity was bottomless, and he seemed to enjoy every second of your mild frustration.
As you drove further, the city landscape began to blur away. The massive downtown structures, heavy traffic, and towering buildings faded into the distance, giving way to broader streets lined with one-story homes, lush lawns, and a far more tranquil suburban stretch.
"Where are you takin' me?" you asked again, letting out a soft laugh and leaning slightly toward his side to try and read his face.
Joel clicked his tongue without taking his eyes off the road, though the corner of his lips tugged upward.
"You'll find out soon enough, don't be impatient," he murmured, reaching out with his free hand just to give your knee an affectionate squeeze before settling back into place.
You turned back to look out the window, crossing your arms as you scrutinized every passing corner. You tried to get your bearings, guessing the name of some hidden restaurant, a park, or any familiar spot. The route felt vaguely recognizable; you knew you’d been around this area years ago. Yet no matter how much you mapped it out in your head, you couldn't quite connect the dots on what Joel might have planned this time.
The car kept rolling for a few more minutes, heading down a street shaded by a massive canopy of trees, until Joel flipped on the blinker and came to a smooth stop by the curb.
The moment the engine cut off, you looked up.
Standing before you was a warm fronted café and resto-bar, complete with string lights glowing on the porch and a handful of small tables scattered outside. The original structure was still there, but the place looked completely different from how you remembered it. Even so, muscle memory kicked in, and you recognized the corner in a heartbeat.
You froze for a second. Then you turned to look at him, your heart doing a sudden flip in your chest as an inevitable smile spread across your face.
Fifteen years ago.
The memory rushed back instantly. You remembered a younger version of yourself, lying in bed, exhausted and crushed under a cloud of bad mood after a miserable week at a dead-end job that drained your life away and kept you from focusing on your studies. One of your best friends back then, and still today (your precious Kat) had practically forced you to get dressed and leave the house to clear your head.
She had brought you right to this very place: a simple, noisy, cozy neighborhood bar that was always packed with college students.
You remembered sitting at a low table, drinking cheap beer and eating bacon fries, trying to drown out your frustration while your friends talked. But the beer wasn't enough; you needed something stronger to turn off the noise in your head.
You got up, walked to the wooden bar, ordered a stiff drink, and stood there waiting; staring into space with a furrowed brow, wondering what the hell you were supposed to do with your life. You weren't feeling particularly optimistic.
That was when he showed up.
You saw him first: a young stranger with a gentle face, a slightly lanky posture, and the most intense, expressive eyes you had ever seen. He walked right up beside you and, without pretense or hesitation, looked you dead in the eye.
"You alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," you replied, dropping your head with an awkward slightly embarrassed smile for being so transparent in your misery.
But Joel, even as little more than a boy, had that innate ability to read you like an open book, even without knowing you. He hadn't bought your answer for a single second.
"Tell me what happened," he said.
And just like that, without you even realizing it, the entire night slipped through your fingers. What began as a cautious conversation with a total stranger turned into hours of laughter, whispers, and knowing glances across the bar.
By the time the sun started peeking over the horizon, that stranger had already claimed a piece of your life.
Today, the noisy weathered bar of your youth was gone; in its place stood this warm, renovated restaurant. But the corner was the exact same.
Joel got out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened the door, extending a hand to you. He helped you out gently and, without letting go, guided you toward the entrance.
As he pushed open the heavy wooden door, the faint chime above the entrance announced your arrival, but the Friday evening bustle you expected was nowhere to be found. The space was completely empty, just for the two of you.
A peaceful quiet enveloped the space, where the only sound was soft music drifting from small speakers hidden somewhere out of sight. There were no patrons at the bar, no murmur of background chatter; it was just the two of you, along with two impeccably dressed servers standing in a welcoming posture beside a small table prepared in the middle of the room.
The lighting throughout the space was gorgeous: dozens of tiny warm lights, strung together like delicate garland alongside exposed filament bulbs, hung from dark wooden beams, bathing everything in a golden glow. The tables shimmered beneath that radiance, and at the exact center of the room, the table set for you was covered in a linen cloth, two crystal glasses catching the light, a simple floral arrangement, and a single candle whose flame flickered softly.
You turned completely toward him, a smile spreading across your face as a deep warmth filled your chest.
"Joel, what is all this?"
Without waiting for an answer, you raised your hands to cup his face, feeling the rough texture of his beard against your palms, and leaned in to kiss him. Joel didn't hesitate for a second: his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you in gently as he deepened the kiss.
"This is where we met," you murmured against his lips, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, feeling his warm breath mingling with yours.
"Bar's gone," he said, gesturing with a slight nod toward a corner of the room where a row of tall windows now stood, "but it was right there. You remember?"
"Of course I remember. How could I ever forget?"
You looked around once more, taking in every single detail. Meeting the eyes of the servers, you offered them a grateful smile; they returned the gesture with polite nods and, sensing the intimacy of the moment, quietly slipped into an adjoining room.
Then Joel took both of your hands in his, lacing his fingers through yours, and guided you toward the center of the room, right beside the candlelit table.
He stopped in front of you, looking down at your joined hands for a moment before lifting his eyes back to yours. A faintly shy smile curved his lips as he shook his head.
"I was gonna wait till we finished dinner," he confessed, letting out a small, nervous chuckle. "But I can't. I truly can't wait no longer."
You said nothing; you simply met his gaze, letting the smile spreading across your lips speak for you.
Joel’s expression shifted. His face turned serious for a fleeting moment, weighted with a almost childish nervousness that sparked a swell of tenderness in your chest. It instantly brought back the Joel from your first dates; the jovial yet clumsy man who adjusted his shirt every few seconds and weighed every single word because he was terrified of messing up. Of course you noticed.
"These past few months with you... baby, you got no idea how happy I've been," he broke the silence. "Just as happy as I was before, maybe even more so. I know I say it all the time, but you truly ain't got a clue how much I love you."
Your smile widened as you raised a hand, tracing your fingertips along the warm skin of his cheek.
"I love you so much too, Joel. More than you know."
He caught your hand in his, tilting his head to press a soft, lingering kiss right in the middle of your palm.
"You're the love of my life. And being without you all that time... it was a nightmare, you know that?"
Of course you knew.
Joel’s words brought a wave of unearthed memories crashing over you; you remembered the endless nights when your subconscious betrayed you, bringing dreams of the warmth of his embrace, the sound of his laughter, or the familiar weight of his arm over your waist, only to wake in the dead of night to the icy emptiness of a lonely bed. You remembered that bitter ache, the heavy tightness in your chest upon realizing you were no longer together, that the "us" had broken.
Above all, you remembered the painstaking discipline it had taken not to pick up the phone and dial his number at three in the morning.
"I ain't ever gonna be able to erase what happened," he continued, lowering his voice. "Gonna carry the fact that I let you go once like a fool. But I think I'm the luckiest man alive, 'cause despite my mistakes, life went ahead and brought you right back to me."
He took another step closer, closing the tiny distance remaining between you.
"And I know it was messy, troublesome, and downright questionable dependin' on who you ask... but I'd do it a thousand times over if I had to. Do things a hundred times worse, just to keep you right here with me," Joel raised his brows. "And I know that makes me sound a little bit crazy."
You let out a soft laugh, keeping your eyes locked on his.
"It's the honest truth, though," he added.
Still smiling, you slid your hands up the fabric of his shirt, moving up his firm chest until your fingers laced together behind his neck.
You tilted your head. "Yeah... truth is, you do sound a little crazy sometimes."
Joel offered a lopsided smile his that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I know, what're you gonna do about it?"
You shrugged lightly. "I don't know, Miller... what are you gonna do about it?"
Bringing his face close enough to steal the air between you, Joel rested his forehead against yours.
"I'm gonna get my Mrs. Miller back."
With his eyes locked on yours, Joel began to step back. His hands glided down your arms until he let go, and with a measured movement, he bent one leg and rested a knee upon the floor.
A lighthearted laugh escaped your lips. You immediately brought your fingers to your mouth to muffle it, feeling a warm moisture pooling in your eyes that threatened to overflow at any second.
Joel spoke your name. From his pocket, he pulled out a small pink velvet box, opening it on the palm of his hand as he held it out to you. In the center, set against the pale cushion, a breathtaking ring caught every ray of light in the room: a gorgeous, big, elegant oval-cut center diamond, flanked by a delicate band paved from end to end with tiny sparkling crystals that shimmered at the slightest tilt.
Joel looked up at you. A faint twitch flitted across his brow, betraying the nerves that the solid strength of his words tried to hide.
"Baby, you've been makin' me the happiest man alive since the very first night we met, right here, fifteen years ago. I couldn't ask for a single thing more from life than what it's already given me. But you... you..." He swallowed hard, seeking your gaze behind the veil of tears clouding your eyes. "Will you marry me?" He paused briefly, a flash of mischief peeking through the vulnerability on his face. "... Again?"
You began nodding frantically, a breathless laugh wiping away any other expression as tears finally spilled down your cheeks.
"Yes. Yes, Joel, of course I'll marry you... again!"
Before he could react or even push himself up, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping your hands tightly around his neck.
Joel reacted with his usual reflexes: he caught you mid air, gripping your hips and back firmly to cushion the impact and make sure you didn't get hurt in the slightest.
With a shaky sigh of relief that rumbled in his chest, he pressed you close against his body and, using the strength of his legs, stood up while holding you in his arms.
The moment his feet planted on the floor, you gave him no quarter. You kissed him; desperate, hungry kisses overflowing with a happiness so pure it set your skin ablaze. Your right hand buried itself in the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in the soft texture of his hair, while the other stroked his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw and moving down toward the warmth of his neck.
When you finally pulled apart, breathless and with your foreheads still pressed together, you offered your left hand to him, your fingers trembling slightly.
Taking your hand, he began sliding the sparkling oval diamond down your finger. But right before settling it completely in place, he paused;
"Got somethin' that belongs to you."
With his free hand, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out another small box. He opened it carefully and held it out for you to see.
Your smile softened into a look of absolute awe.
"My rings..."
There, resting against the velvet, was that first delicate ring with the tiny diamond in the center. Your absolute favorite. The very first ring he’d ever given you; the one he’d used to propose in the middle of the living room of his cramped apartment on a rainy night thirteen years ago, back when neither of you had anything to offer but promises. And right behind it lay the second one: larger, more striking, the piece he’d gifted you three years later, born from years of hard work and sacrifice.
"You had them this whole time?"
Joel let out a shaky breath. "They're yours. Always been yours."
Your lips trembled into an inevitable pout. You threw yourself into his arms once more, smothering a sob against his mouth, kissing him, and framed his face with both hands, pressing desperate kisses to his lips, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, his chin. You kissed him again and again, feeling as though no amount of kisses would ever be enough.
Smiling through the blur of your tears, you pulled back just enough to look at him. Joel took your hand again and, with a playful glint in his eyes, began sliding the other two rings onto your finger, fitting them right alongside the gleaming new diamond.
You burst into a laugh at the sight of the stack of jewelry piled up against your knuckle.
"I don't think this looks very good."
Joel huffed, shrugging with a smirk. "Well, you get to choose. They say third time's the charm, don't they?"
You let out a laugh and leaned in to kiss him again, but right as your lips brushed his—
"Oh."
Your head snapped down. Your left hand flew instinctively to your stomach, pressing gently against the fabric of your clothes. You felt a small flutter right there.
"What? What is it?" Joel’s face shifted instantly, alertness flaring in his eyes.
You looked up at him, and the smile that broke across your face was so radiant it lit up Joel’s entire expression.
"The baby just kicked... They just kicked, Joel! Look."
You took his broad warm hand and pressed it firmly against your belly.
Silence fell over the two of you. Joel didn't even breathe; his eyes were glued to the exact spot where his palm touched your skin, his jaw set with anticipation.
And then... Bump!
A small but firm little nudge hit from within, pressing right against Joel’s hand.
"There it is. Did you feel that?" you asked, smothering a giggle.
Joel let out a soft laugh, his eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears.
"Yeah... yeah, I felt it. Good Lord... what're the odds?"
"I don't know," you covered his hand with yours.
Joel kept his palm pinned to your stomach, unmoving, waiting patiently for another little kick, another quiet sign that the baby was not only awake, but completely on board with this latest family decision.
"Think they're tellin' us we gotta go buy a house as soon as possible," he said, breaking the spell with a lopsided smile.
You chuckled softly. "With a big yard."
"And a pool."
"And big windows."
Joel huffed. "Course with big windows."
You fell quiet, watching his face illuminated by the lights of the room, tracing every line on his face, taking in every detail of the man standing right in front of you. Yes. Seeing his hand resting over your belly and feeling the weight of all three rings on your finger, you knew there was no doubt left in your mind.
You would do it all over again, too.
The end!
I might add an epilogue if you guys want, may be nice to know how Joel and reader are doing after a while. Hope you enjoyed this <3
summary: you're wed to ser gwayne hightower in one last desperate attempt to unite the realm; but when the war tears the two of you apart, you're taken prisoner by his cousin, lord ormund hightower, where the line between duty and desire begins to blur. (12k)
contents: targ!reader (no physical descriptions), love triangle, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden love, infidelity, canon divergence, cw for brief mentions of attempted assault and smut 18+ (MDNI): fem receiving oral, unprotected sex, ormund has a scent kink
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
i. DUTY & HONOR
Your last name was, perhaps, your greatest burden. It was the very walls of your prison; the unseen chain cinched perpetually around your throat. You had inherited the dragon’s blood, it seems, but not the dragon’s freedom — and when Rhaenyra’s fleet sailed across the Narrow Sea to wage war over a throne of swords, it forgot to take you with it. The only home you’d ever known was soon filled with ghosts donned in Hightower green and whispers of your leaving.
You were going to die here. That is a truth you learned long ago. Your only wish was that they’d hurry up and get it over with.
They gave you a husband instead.
Your marriage to Ser Gwayne Hightower was heralded as an act of wisdom, the proof that wounds carved by old grievances could yet be stitched together, with silk ribbons tied around the wrists and a few spoken vows declared before the Sept. It was to be the very bridge that united the green and black. But the bridge burned anyway, and left the two of you behind.
“They wed us to prevent a war that had already begun,” you’d scoffed, already deep into your cups at the feasting table, when Maester Orwyle called the fight to come inevitable.
“No…” Gwayne hummed from beside you, still perfectly temperate, though his blue eyes were heavy with a burden too old for a man of his years. “They wed us so that, when the histories of this moment are written, someone might say that they tried.”
You’d laughed then, loud enough to gain the attention of the rest of the courtiers at the long table — because Ser Gwayne was not entirely wrong, to be sure, but he was far too generous for his own good; generous enough to believe that the effort of your marriage actually meant something in the grand scheme of things.
Gwayne Hightower was a sensible man. He was not outwardly affectionate, maybe, but he was no less kind. There was no great love in your union — not like all the songs and fairytales insist, at least — but there was safety. Security. Stability. His presence often found you like the thick walls of an ancient keep, steadfast against the howling winds of a summer storm. You would find no certainty of your future in war, but being Gwayne’s wife meant, at the very least, that you were still alive today.
That unsaid assurance is perhaps a greater gift than any truly loving marriage could’ve been for you. And, perhaps, it was with that unsaid assurance that you came to admire him, without ever realizing you were doing so — always searching for his face in crowds, waiting every night for the familiar sound of his footsteps to walk outside your chamber doors, constantly watching him from a distance (which has become a most embarrassing habit of yours).
You find him now on the western balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, where the moon climbs high over shimmering midnight waters. The salty breeze mixes with the scent of damp stone and dying fires from the lantern light glittering in the city below. Gwayne stands alone with his forearms propped on the pale stone balustrade, having exchanged his armor for a forest-green doublet embroidered with winding gold vines. The fading torchlights gild his silken auburn hair, stirred loose by the sea breeze.
You linger just beneath the archway, hidden in the place where the torchlight turns to shadow, studying the slope of his strong shoulders and how they rise and fall with each breath. He looks lonely; lonely enough for your chest to tighten with the want to close the distance between you and slip in beside him. But your feet refuse to move. And whatever affection was warming in your chest before pierces through you like a sword.
“You’re staring.” The suddenness of his voice startles you.
“…You’re supposed to be watching the sea,” you respond, half-shy. He doesn’t look back at you when you emerge finally from the shadows; slippers scuffing the cobblestones, black skirts fluttering at your feet.
“I was,” Gwayne nods.
“Then how could you possibly notice I was standing there?”
He turns to face you then, as you settle on the balcony just beside him, keeping a few feet of careful distance between you like you always did — as if, in your union, an invisible line had been wedged between you and could not be crossed.
The corner of his mouth lifts slowly into a crooked smile. “Because I notice everything about you,” he answers like it’s simple, like he hadn’t just stolen the breath from your lungs.
Heat crawls up the low neckline of your dress, speckling across your cheeks and the very tip of your ears. You turn away, face screwed in a feigned disgust, and busy your hands with an imaginary wrinkle on your sleeve.
“That,” you murmur. “Is a terrifying thought.”
“Well, it ought to terrify you,” Gwayne quips knowingly, bending softly at the waist to fold his arms along the stone railing. “I’ve seen the way you steal the candied slices off of all your lemon cakes just to leave the sponge untouched, you know? Like an utter madwoman.”
“Well…” you huff, face flaring hot at the acknowledgment of being so openly seen by another. “It seems I made the dreadful mistake of marrying the observant man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“And here I thought that distinction belonged to my cousin,” Gwayne jokes lowly, brows raised to his hairline. “I shall write to Lord Ormund at once and relieve him of the title.”
You laugh quietly through your nose and turn away again. Silence settles comfortably over you once more, filled only by the distant clanging of metal as guards change their shift and the far-off crowing of a caged raven. The night feels impossibly dark, emptier than usual. It feels like an omen of sorts.
“It grows worse, does it not?” you wonder aloud through the breath that catches in your chest, as if you were half scared to even ask.
Gwayne’s thin smile slowly fades. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Aye,” he nods. “I fear it does.”
“I keep… hoping that…” You swallow around the invisible hand tightening around your throat. “That they’ll remember I am your wife before they remember whose blood I carry. I feel it’s the only reason they’ve yet to take my head.”
“Of course, they remember,” he assures you.
“It feels less and less so these days.”
“They’re only frightened—”
“I’m frightened,” you remind him.
The admission lingers between you like the salt water scent hanging in the air. Gwayne studies you for a long moment — he sees the flicker of sincerity flashing across your face right before you turn away from him again, and the way your jaw clenches a second later in regret of saying the words aloud.
He leans an elbow along the parapet to face you fully. And, as if to soothe you, he asks, “If there were no war… No thrones, no dragons—”
“No Hightowers?” you add.
“—If the Stranger himself appeared before you now and offered you another life,” the auburn-haired man continues with a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “What would you do?”
You ponder the question for a moment, eyes zeroed on the navy black horizon ahead as your fingers fidget on the stony barricade. “I should like a farm,” you answer, mouth twitching into an absentminded grin. “Somewhere far away from here. So I could raise chickens—”
“Chickens?” he scoffs a dry laugh, then softens a second later at the sincere look you give him. He swallows hard and nods supportively. “Most ladies would’ve said children, is all…”
“Well, I am not most ladies…” you tell him. “I would have a field of apple trees, and a hundred dogs to protect all my chickens and horses and fluffy cows— you know, the ones that live down in the Reach?”
“Well…” Gwayne croons. “You’ve certainly thought about this, haven’t you?”
“Every day,” you confess. The honesty in your answer strikes him down like a blade; the sorrowful look that heavies your face even more so. The reality of your situation returns to you then, settling over you like gravity’s inevitable weight. You swallow hard before you confess, “I fear they’ll kill me if matters grow worse at Dragonstone.”
“They won’t.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I do,” Gwayne assures you and takes a slow step closer, until the inherent warmth of his skin dulls the bite of the bitter sea wind. He ducks his chin to his chest to chase your gaze, peering down at you with glittering blue eyes. “I swore a vow before gods and men, did I not?”
“So do most men—”
“Well, I am not most men,” he lilts with an air of amusement hanging on the edge of his words. “I actually meant my vows.”
Your eyes soften as they search his face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt in his handsome features. You find no uncertainty there; just the maddening, immovable confidence that seems to be stitched into the very fiber of his making.
“If this castle should fall tomorrow…” you whisper to him, eyes narrowing in skepticism. “Or if your family decides that I have become too great a burden to keep here… What happens then?”
“Then I shall stand in the doorway,” he shrugs.
A shocked laugh sputters from your mouth at his boyish conviction. “And if they mean to come through it?”
“Then…” His lips jut softly. “They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“You are a valiant knight, Ser Gwayne, but you cannot fight an entire army.”
“Perhaps not,” he replies with a sad sort of smile. “But armies are made of men. And every man who wishes to reach you will first have to face me... As I said… I meant my vows.”
Something in his words strikes a deep sadness within you. No one had ever spoken of your being like it possessed any value worth defending, and now the words come from the very family you were meant to despise.
But even still, for the first time since the ravens brought the tidings of war and the dragons took wing against dragon, you believed him. You believed that, should the whole realm come crashing down around you, Ser Gwayne would likely be the only one left standing at your side when the last stone fell.
And, gods, how stupid you were to do so.
ii. OATHS & ASHES
The news of your husband’s leaving came not from your husband himself.
It came, rather, in whispers at court, slithering through the Red Keep like snakes beneath rushes — passing from Gold Cloak to stable boy to serving girl to scullion. “They say Ser Criston and his knights are marching for Harrenhal on the morrow,” says a thick-accented handmaiden. “Lord Hand means to smoke Daemon from the castle. It’ll be Prince Aemond’s before the next moon, no doubt.”
Your stomach dropped so harshly at the whispers that you nearly retched upon the marble. It was not Gwayne’s leaving that frightened you so, but rather what his absence would represent — he might as well throw you to the hounds himself before he goes, because you were as good as dead with him gone.
Your slippers strike the ancient stone in a frantic rhythm as you turn on your heel to storm back the way you came. The harsh echo of the soles catches the attention of surrounding servants, who flatten themselves against the walls as you hurry suddenly past. Your heartbeat pounds like thunder in your ears, far louder than the bells of the Great Sept that toll the evening hour — the combination of both feels like an ominous funeral knell.
You rush up the winding stone staircase with your crimson skirts gathering in your fists. Gwayne’s chambers sit directly opposite yours, and you find the heavy wooden door is cracked ajar. The hinges screechbeneath your palm when you shove it the rest of the way open without warning. The sight you find on the other side hollows you from the inside out — a travel satchel, laid open along the emerald sheets. Inside, a whetstone, riding gloves, a leather-bound prayer book, a sword belt, a flask.
The careful order of it all feels almost cruel. Chaos, at the very least, would suggest some air of hesitation from the man; a faint pause at leaving you behind. This, however, feels far too final.
Gwayne stands at the head of the bed with his back facing you. His pale hands work with a quiet precision to roll a Hightower-green cloak into his bag. He did not need to turn at the sudden intrusion. He learned the sound of your footsteps long ago.
“I wondered how long it might take,” the man croons distantly. The calmness of his voice, the indifference, sets you entirely aflame.
“Why would you not tell me?” you bite in response.
Gwayne glances over his shoulder at you then. The flickering candlelight turns his hair a more golden shade of Hightower-red, and carves the soft edges of his face out in shadow. He was still every inch the striking knight that the whispers purported him to be — broad as an oak tree, handsome as a saint carved into an altar — but there’s a foreign weariness etched into his features now. It darkens the skin beneath his eyes, turns his gaze a duller shade of icy blue.
“Well, I was going to, of course.”
“When?” The sharpness in your voice could draw blood.
“…Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Your laugh splinters the otherwise silent room, sharper than broken glass. You shut the door behind you with an aggressive hand and close the distance between you, dress skirts billowing wildly at your ankles. “When you ride at dawn? And you meant to tell me when your horses were already saddled?”
“Yes,” Gwayne sighs, lowering the folded doublet into its place. “I thought I might spare you one night’s grief—”
“You’re abandoning me,” you tell him then, as if to translate the man’s words back to himself. You linger at his side, eyes darting wildly over his profile when he fails to meet your gaze. “Just like all the rest of them. You do realize that, right?”
“The king has given orders—”
“Well, it wasn’t the king who stood beside me at Blackwater Bay not even a week ago, was it?” Your voice lowers into a faux-masculine tone, trying and failing to mock him. “If anyone comes for you, I shall stand in the doorway—”
Gwayne scoffs. “Surely, I do not sound like that.”
“—They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“Yes… I remember,” he answers through a slow huff of annoyance, stepping back from his travel bag to drag a pair of weary hands down his face. “I was— well into my cups by then, as you well know—”
“Oh, do not cheapen those words now,” you spit, shoving hard at his shoulder. Gwayne’s features twist in offense as his wide eyes glance down at the hand you’d pushed him with, though he doesn’t move an inch. “Don’t dishonor yourself with a coward’s excuse just to make up for the fact that you lied.”
Gwayne’s composure fractures at that. He had spent too much of his life trying to be a good knight, a good man — one that maybe his callous father could be proud of — so he refuses to stomach accusations of otherwise from you.
His icy blue eyes harden into a glacial sort of look, more hurt than truly angry. He lays his cloak into place to face you fully.
“Do you not see that I am leaving to keep the fight from coming here?”
“Do not you see that by leaving me here that I’m as good as dead?” you retort through a jaw clenched tight. “If you do not take me with you, then—”
“Of course I’m not taking you with me!” he scoffs with a crooked smile, like it’s funny to him. “You’d be dead before we made it to the God’s Eye—”
“And I will be dead before this war is won if you leave!” you shout, voice wet and fragile with the unshed tears burning the backs of your eyes. “The fight is already here! The people who wish me dead are in these walls! They pour my wine, they wash my hair, they cook my food, they bow when I walk by and whisper when my back is turned! And if you aren’t here, then…”
You trail off with a ragged breath. Your corset feels suddenly tight against your ribs. You choke back the sob that strangles your throat and blink rapidly to clear the haze of tears blurring at your waterline. You peer up at the man with the sternest gaze you can muster.
“I am… frightened,” you tell him, though your voice cracks into a fragile whisper halfway through.
The anger disappears from Gwayne’s face as quickly as it arrived. His shoulders deflate with a slow huff through his nose as he takes a slow step towards you. His hands release their clenched fists to reach hesitantly for your face. His palms are warm and softly calloused when they cup your cheeks, caressing you with a tenderness he hasn’t shown since your bedding ceremony six or more moons ago.
The quiet half-smile he gives you, then, is weighed down by a palpable sadness.
“To tell you the truth… I have never been more afraid than I am right now,” he confesses in a low murmur, swiping his thumb over the warm apple of your cheek. The softness in his voice threatens to undo you entirely.
“So then don’t go,” you plead in a small voice, grasping at the front of his emerald doublet until the golden vines wrinkle under your grip. “Please.”
“If Harrenhal remains in Rhaenyra’s hold, and if Daemon rallies the Riverland armies, then the war will come here,” Gwayne continues in a painfully steady voice. “I fear I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Everyone has a choice,” you tell him, filled with a girlish sort of rage once more. “But, I suppose you’ve already made yours.”
The man meets your scowl with a tired, slightly heartbroken smile. “Please do not make me spend my last night with my wife quarreling with her,” Gwayne jokes quietly, swiping an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “At least leave me with something to hold onto until my return.”
Your tight chest deflates with a slow sigh from your nose. The rage ebbs evenly into grief. “And what shall I have, hm? Considering tonight is very likely my last one alive and all…”
Gwayne laughs. “You are being… catastrophically dramatic.”
Your chest burns with a mixture of rage and desire. He could never possibly understand you, but somehow, he is the only one with the walls of the Keep who ever has. The contrast is dizzying.
“I hate you,” you hear yourself say.
“Perhaps...” Gwayne hums, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “But not nearly as much as you love me.”
Your first instinct is to strike him for the sarcasm in his words; your second is to weep at the truth of them. He kisses you before you can do either.
He ducks down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss, a mere brushing of your lips. The last time he had done so was beneath the glowing candles of the Sept, following the declaration of your wedding vows. But that was an obligation, a political victory of sorts.
This kiss is far sweeter in comparison. You feel the man heavying against you as he falls deeper into your touch. He opens your mouth with his and flicks the pad of his tongue against yours, like velvet brushing velvet. Your hands tremble as they leave the chest of his doublet to rake through his auburn locks, like silk between your fingers. You sigh against his open mouth at the taste of him — like wine and mint and oranges — sweet enough to get drunk on.
It takes you a long moment to realize his hands have snaked around your waist accordingly. You don’t realize his deft fingers are loosening the tie in your corset until the discomfort in your ribs disappears entirely. Your body acts before your mind, and your arms slither from their sleeves to curl once more around Gwayne’s broad shoulders.
The man folds the top of your dress down until your bare chest is revealed to him. A grumbled moan sounds in the back of his throat as he pulls you back into him with two wide palms along your bare back, pressing your breasts flush against his chest. He thinks, if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the steady thundering of your heart like this.
“Gwayne—” you whisper against his mouth when you feel something hardening against your hip. Your hands drop from his hair to slide between your bodies, headed for the tie in his trousers to release the stiffness growing there.
He twists you round in the meanwhile, shoes scuffing the cobbles, until the bend of your knees meets the edge of the mattress behind you. He lays you down without once taking his mouth off of yours, with one wide palm splayed along your ribcage and his other cradling the back of your neck.
He pulls off of you with a quiet smack to catch his breath. A small whimper sounds in the back of your throat when his warm body leaves yours, rising to reach down for your skirts. Your bare chest heaves as you sit up on your elbows to watch him fumble with your dress. “Gods above, how many skirts are you wearing?” you hear him complain under his breath. “I’ve faced hedge knights with fewer defenses than this.”
You giggle when he finally pushes the layers of your dress up to your hips. Your thighs spread on instinct, exposing yourself to him. Gwayne’s mouth waters at the sight of your silken folds, already glittering in anticipation. Your chest tightens when he falls to his knees before you.
“What are you doing?” you ask on bated breath.
Gwayne flashes you a love-drunk grin and a pair of glassy blue eyes. His warm palms smooth along the velvety skin of your inner thighs to spread them further. “Call it a knight’s act of service, shall we?” he quips.
His auburn head disappears beneath your bunched-up skirts a second later. Your face twists momentarily in confusion before you feel his tongue slotting in the silk folds of your cunt. He licks a fat stripe up the length of it, until his tongue finds something that makes your hips twitch despite yourself. His mouth closes around the sensitive button, suckling at it with a grumbled moan in the back of his throat.
Your head tips back at the feeling. Your lips part as if to moan, but the electric shock in the pit of your stomach knocks all the available air from your lungs. You feel him laughing against you when your thighs clench suddenly around his head, tighter than you realize.
Gwayne pulls off of you with a quick smacking sound. He wears your slick down to his chin as he flashes you a teasing, glassy-eyed look. “I’d quite like to keep my head, dear wife—”
You say nothing in response to his quip. You just dart a head to the crown of his skull and shove his face back between your thighs.
Gwayne complies without complaint, lapping at the honey you leak for him, until the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet chambers. You rock your hips against his face, bracing yourself with the auburn locks you clench in your fist.
His nose nudges the swollen bud that makes you keen, right before he takes it in his mouth again. Your skin buzzes at the foreign feeling.
“Gwayne—” you gasp. A tight feeling settles deep in your stomach, like a fraying knot about to snap. Your back arches off the mattress. Your hand tightens in his hair. Your features screw in a pain look, half-scared at the pleasure welling within you. “I can’t—”
“Mm…” he just keeps moaning against you, letting the vibrations deepen your pleasure. His wide hands smooth up and down your outer thighs when they tremble on either side of his head, clenching around him as your orgasm hits you with a pleasured whine. He laps up every ounce of honey you leak for him, and sighs hard through his nose at the salty-sweet taste of you.
Only when your legs grow finally lax around his jaw does he pull back from your thighs. A smile curls lazily at his rosier, more swollen mouth. The bottom half of his face glitters in the candlelight with a mixture of saliva and cum — you lift your head in time to watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If this truly is my final night alive…” you say through panted breaths, eyes still wide from the shock of your simmering pleasure. “I feel I could finally die a happy woman.”
“I’m glad I could be of service, princess…” Gwayne smiles lazily, grimacing slightly at the ache in his knees as he rises from the unforgiving cobbles. He leans down to lay his warmth back over you. You stop him with a firm hand on his chest.
“I want to be on top this time,” you confess in a breathless whisper, eyes darting back and forth between his.
Gwayne’s brows raise slowly in shock at your sudden display of dominance. The corner of his lip twitches into a smile the same way his cock twitches in his boxers. He nods until the words catch up to him. “As you wish…”
iii. CROWNS & CAGES
You did not weep when they came for you, scarcely a fortnight after your lord husband’s leaving.
Gwayne was gone by first light, perhaps already a league or more away before you stirred awake that morning to the chill of an empty bed. He parted with nothing but a folded scrap of parchment resting where his head had been the night before. In his scrawled handwriting, half-smudged from where his wrist had dragged the ink in haste, he wrote: “Write to me. Don’t die. I’ll build the form for you myself.”
You keep the note tucked safely inside the chest of your corset now, folded so many times that the edges have already begun to soften. You keep it close to your heart like a holy relic, or perhaps, a threat to whatever unlucky son of a bitch kills you first — something to discover on your corpse after they slit your throat, so they’ll know who to answer to upon your husband’s return.
Eventually, the servants ceased asking whether you needed anything, and all your meals came cold. Conversations ceased the moment you entered a room, and doors slammed shut before you could reach them. And then, when word spread that a wild dragon had taken wing not far from here, all eyes of suspicion turned to you — to whom a dragon had never belonged, though the blood in your veins wearied the courtiers all the same. Rhaenyra had already added three new riders to her fleet; she certainly did not need another.
You were no longer a bride, but a prisoner in pretty gowns — it was the Queen Dowager, and your sister by law, who confirmed as much to you.
“I had hoped…” Alicent started slowly, bathed half in sunshine and half in shadow from where she stood before the window in your quarters, watching the distant storm clouds blow in over Blackwater. “That I might never have to ask this of you.”
Her auburn curls swept over her pale shoulder when she turned to face you. Something heavy sat in her round green eyes, as if she wanted you to finish the rest of it for her. But you remained as stoic and silent as ever from where you sat at the small dining table just across from her. Your hands wrung into knots over your skirts, hidden beneath the surface, as you waited for the words of your fate to fall from her lips.
“The council believes that— Should the opportunity present itself, you would attempt to reach the wild beast. The Cannibal, I believe it’s called,” Alicent said. “And through him, Rhaenyra.”
“So…” You sighed, making no attempt to argue the subject. It did not matter whether or not it was true; the possibility was enough to make you a criminal. “The Black Cells, then?”
“No,” Alicent shook her head, half-offended by the suggestion. “Of course not. My cousin, Lord Ormund, he commands the Hightower host. He has agreed to keep you under his… protection for the time being.”
“Protection?” you echoed through a scoff. The word tasted foreign and bitter in your mouth. “What a pleasant name for captivity.”
Alicent’s face flickered with a mother’s sort of sympathy. Her hands wrang together beneath the draping sleeves of her emerald dress.“You will be treated with every courtesy your station deserves, I assure you.”
“If your council means to bargain with me, Your Grace…” you started with a sad smile. “They mistake me for something worth bartering for. Rhaenyra already abandoned e— keeping me hostage will not make her respond to your offered terms.”
“Even still… You would be far safer there than you would be here, whether or not you believe that’s true,” Alicent said. “I know what my brother would wish of me. And Gwayne would never forgive me if I didn’t do everything I could to keep you safe.”
The long journey south smells of wet earth and horse dung. By the time you reach the Hightower encampment — which sprawls across the rolling fields like a second city — your fine silk gown has long surrendered to the dust of the road, and your hands now bear the tenderness of a week spent in the saddle.
Your broad-shouldered escort guides you through the avenue of canvas tents billowing wildly beneath snapping green banners. The air smells of woodsmoke, cooked venison, and salty sweat — the soft breeze carries with it the sound of laughter, barking hounds, clanking chainmail, and shouted commands.
A pair of guards draw back the heavy canvas of the biggest pavilion in the camp. “My lord,” one says to announce your arrival inside, right before the entrance flap closes heavily behind you.
Inside, candles burn despite the lingering daylight, filling the enclosed tent with the smell of beeswax and parchment from the large map covering the long oak table. Pieces carved from ivory and oak mark castles and armies across the whole of Westeros, waiting to be won or maybe burned.
A strange man stands over them with his broad hands planted along the edge, visibly built beneath his ornately decorated armor, and standing several inches taller than the rest of the knights in the room.
Lord Ormund was not pretty like Gwayne, but he was his own kind of handsome, made of sharp edges and strong features. His Hightower-auburn curls are less vivid in color and sheared short. He has his family’s pair of striking blue eyes, too, which feel a little like they’re piercing you when he glances up from his map.
“Leave us,” he commands his guards in a low, melodic voice, keeping his eyes on you as his knights filter out of the tent. Their armor clatters faintly as they go. The man doesn’t say another word until they’re gone.
“So…” he hums, one corner of his mouth lifting upwards. “The infamous dragon bride.”
Your brows bounce at the title. It feels like another chain around your neck. “I suppose I’ve been called worse…” you sigh, studying him with the same curiosity. “You must be Lord Ormund.”
“I must,” the man nods as he rounds the war table at an unhurried pace.
His boots sink into the woven rungs laid across the hard earth with each step. He towers several inches over your head when he plants himself in front of you. He smells of steel and sweat and strongly of incense.
“I expected someone… older.”
His brows raise in amusement. “And here I expected someone taller.”
“Well,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing up at him as your hands clasp behind your back. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Ser.”
“Oh, I’ve endured far worse disappointments, my lady, I assure you.” A ghost of a smile graces his pink lips as his eyes soften slightly around the edges. “I give you my word. While you remain beneath my banners, no harm will come to you.”
You sigh hard through your nose. “Yes… People keep promising me that.”
“I’m sure they have… But I intend to honor it.” The certainty of the man’s words unsettles you. It’s strange, you find, to be looked at like you were something worth protecting. “And if you require anything— anything at all. You need only ask.”
You nod slowly with a deep exhale, considering the offer. “A quill,” you conclude firmly.
Ormund blinks. “A… A quill?”
“Yes,” you say. “And parchment.”
“For… What purpose?” he laughs.
You glance over your shoulder towards the tent’s fluttering entrance, where the last light of the early evening burns gold against a sea of green banners. You wonder, briefly, how many soldiers outside this pavilion would celebrate if they found you dead on the morrow — how many would mourn, how many would care enough to do anything at all.
You think, perhaps, that in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, there is only one person who would weep for you. And he was a hundred leagues away.
“So that I may write to my lord husband,” you answer finally. “And tell him that I was right… And that he still owes me a farm.”
Lord Ormund allows you to write to Gwayne that night, and every seventh day after. It was the only thing you could look forward to, since there was little else to do at camp. He had been gracious enough to give you your own pavilion at the edge of the command encampment, close enough for the sentries to watch but far enough away to force you into solitude.
It was clean and moderately comfortable — with a narrow cot draped in a single wool blanket, a traveling chest for the few dresses you were allowed to bring, a wash basin, and a small writing table tucked beneath the only slit in the canvas that permitted daylight. Inside smelled of candle wax, pressed linen, and lavender soap.
Outside smelled of war — of pressed metal from the blacksmiths, of men cursing over burnt porridge, of stableboys tending to horses who fouled the earth faster than they could shovel it. It was cruel, how the world went on while you could go scarcely a step without an escort. Eventually, you became accustomed to feeling a hundred eyes upon your back — most curious, others suspicious, some outright hateful.
The letters you wrote to Gwayne, at least, gave you the illusion of escape. You tended to each with careful precision — melting the wax, stamping it shut, then tying it off with a ribbon — and watched from afar as one of Ormund’s knights carried them toward the rookery. It was not until the twentieth day at camp, when you wandered further than you were typically allowed, that you noticed that none of your messages had been sent. You watched the knight toss the letter into the fire, flinching slightly when the flames sparked beneath the fresh kindling.
It had been four days since then.
And you haven’t eaten once in protest.
It took roughly half that time for Lord Ormund’s patience to run thin. He’s suffered the endless whispers of your attempts to starve to death with an increasing displeasure. He commands thousands of knights beneath his banners, serves as the leader of his house with grace, and yet — he still cannot seem to manage to command one lady to supper. It was absurd. Humiliating. And worse, it invited doubt. What army will follow a man whom they believe incapable of governing his own household?
On the fifth evening, after your breakfast tray went untouched that morning, Ormund opts to bring you your supper himself. He marches through the crowded camp with his jaw clenched tight like a soldier headed into battle. His chainmail clanks with every step. Avoiding the stares he gets from surrounding knights feels borderline impossible.
He throws open the entrance of your tent without ceremony. The canvas snaps sharply beneath his aggressive hand as he ducks suddenly underneath it. The light of the golden evening pours suddenly inside around his towering silhouette before the flap falls shut behind him once more, trapping the two of you inside.
There, he finds you lying on your cot, staring upward at the slit in the pavilion where one lonely shaft of sunlight spills through. Your fingers drift lazily through the rays, as if you were trying to catch it somehow.
Your head snaps suddenly to the side at the sudden intrusion — your hair is loose and unkempt, because no one ever taught you how to do it yourself, and all of your dresses are now wrinkled and stained with dirt. The thin white nightgown you wear makes you look more sunken, more lifeless.
Ormund grasps your tray with one hand and reaches for your small writing desk with the other. He lectures you through the distant pang of sympathy in his chest.
“I have commanded men twice your size—” His boots are heavy on the thin rug as he carries the desk over to you. “I have started sieges, I have broken sieges. And yet—” He slams the table in front of you with a dull thump. You try not to cower under the icy blue glare he gives you. “I cannot seem to persuade one prisoner— a lady, no less— to eat her supper. And I confess, it does very little for confidence in my command. So eat.”
Ormund slams the tray onto the desk. The broth steaming in a small wooden bowl sloshes over. Next to it, strips of leftover venison and a broken loaf of stale bread. Your empty stomach twists painfully with a mixture of nausea and hunger.
“So…” you start lowly, clearing your throat when your voice comes gravelly. You rise from your supine position on weak limbs. The fabric of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you turn to place your bare feet on the ground — eyes dull when you peer up at the man from beneath your lashes. “You admit it, then? That I am your prisoner here?”
His jaw clenches tight. His nostrils flare through a sharp breath. He no longer finds amusement in your banter. “Your status here depends entirely on your pliancy,” he spits, ripping off a piece of the stale loaf. “Now eat.”
You flinch when his fist rears suddenly towards your face, holding the broken bread just in front of your mouth. You blink wildly up at him, features screwed in offense. “…Excuse me?”
“Eat.”
You swat his hand away; it moves scarcely an inch. “I’m not a child—”
“Well, at present, you are behaving remarkably like one,” Ormund argues through a tight jaw. “Now open your mouth.”
You respond with only a glare.
Fury rages through the man’s chest. He wishes wordlessly for the strength of the Mother and the Warrior engraved upon his armor as he offers bitterly, “Or shall I make you?”
You spend a long moment staring up at him with eyes cold enough to freeze wine. You hold his gaze as your mouth parts slowly to accept the chunk of bread he pinches between his thumb and forefinger. He places it upon your tongue with a surprising gentleness, considering the wrath he’d had moments ago.
“Chew,” he commands, glaring down the bridge of his nose at you. Your jaw moves slowly. Ormund nods in approval. “Swallow.”
Your heart lurches into your throat at his order. But you do as you’re told, throat bobbing as the piece of bread goes down. Another piece follows soon after; this time, your lips part before he asks you to do so. Relief crosses over his strong features as he places the food onto your tongue. His shoulders sag with the exhaled breath that it feels like he’s been holding for days.
He looks almost worried for you; relieved, almost, to have fed you. A warm, foreign feeling settles in your chest accordingly.
“I am trying… Very hard to be kind to you,” Ormund confesses, scarred hands twitching at his sides. “So I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you insist on making this so difficult.”
“My letters,” you tell him. “Why aren’t they being sent?”
“The rookery master feared they could be intercepted,” he answers plainly. “I could not risk one falling into enemy hands. I… meant to tell you.”
“When?” you spit.
“When I found a safer way to deliver them.”
A bitter laugh sputters from your mouth. “What curious men you Hightowers are,” you quip with narrowed eyes. “So fond of deciding what sorrows I ought to be spared.”
His brows lower in confusion. “Is that not a kindness?”
His answer lingers between you for several long moments. There was no cleverness in his words, only an honesty that strikes you like a fist to the stomach.
“Aye. I suppose it is,” you answer, clearing your throat when your voice catches.
A strange emotion strangles you, and burns at the back of your eyes as you look down at your dress. Your dull nails pick at a smudge of mud on the fabric that will likely never come off. An embarrassed sort of laugh tumbles from your mouth.
“Perhaps I… I spent so long waiting for someone to hurt me that I no longer remember what kindness is supposed to feel like.”
Ormund nods through a slow exhale from his nose. He glances to the side and walks the short distance to the stool that the table had knocked over in his rage. Your wet eyes follow his form as he walks away and then back to you, setting the chair on the other side of the table. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, even in the scarce distance between you.
“I’ll admit— A man spends enough time at war, they start to forget that mornings are not meant to begin with fear,” he says, reaching again for the loaf of bread, but this time breaking it in half. “I forget myself, at times, but… if you’ll allow me… I’d very much like to prove to you that I can be kind.”
Your weary features soften around the edges. “Well, I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?” you tell him, with a more sincere smile hinting at the corners of your lips. “I am your prisoner, after all.”
“So you keep insisting,” Ormund quips with his own quiet grin. “But I should rather you thought of yourself as my… responsibility.”
Your heart stumbles a beat. Responsibility felt much safer than hostage, or bargaining piece, or burden. It felt, you’ll admit, like a kindness.
iv. SILK & SWORDS
You fall into a steady routine at the Hightower encampment by the fifth moon of your captivity.
Each morning arrives with the same mournful groan of a warhorn that rolls across the grass green hills before the sun has even broken the horizon. You wake to the distant ringing of hammers against anvils, hounds barking for gristles off the cookfires, and knights shouting for their squires. The first hours were reserved for armorers; the afternoons for drilling knights whose swords cracked together until you could feel them ringing in your skull; and the evenings for songs, laughter, and ale.
Your days, however, remained painfully empty.
Lord Ormund had been kind enough to provide you with greater comforts as the weeks went by — cushioned pillows and heavier woolen blankets for when the nights got colder; sprigs of lavender for your bedside to keep out the stench of man; more parchment and colored ink to busy your hands when the days were especially long. And all of them were especially long. He’d given you his leather-bound prayer book, too, and even though you were not an entirely pious woman, you’d read through it enough times to recite each passage from memory.
The camp has since grown accustomed to your being there, ever since Ormund slackened his metaphorical leash on you — “You’ve had more than ample opportunity to run,” he’d said beneath the scratching of his quill. “Besides, where exactly would you go? No one else would take you.” No one bats an eye when you leave your tent, after three days of relentless rain had finally broken, to pick fresh berries from the brushes along the treeline.
Your crimson silk dress scrubs the dewy evening grass as you collect wild raspberries into a small wooden bowl. The juices stain your fingertips the color of red wine. The sweet scent mixes with the smell of wet earth and mint leaves crushed beneath your slippers. You bend at the waist to parse through tangled brambles, searching for the ripest berries. For the first time in months — years, maybe — you feel almost peaceful.
“Is that a love letter—?”
The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. Your heart lurches into your throat as you jerk to full height again. The small bowl of berries slips from your grasp and rolls through the wet clover like so many drops of scattered blood. Behind you, you find a vaguely familiar hedgeknight, scarcely ten paces away — made of broad shoulders, broken teeth, and greasy hair that falls to his shoulders.
It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to catch your breath.
“I’m sorry,” you say through a tightening chest. “You… You startled me.”
“Did I?” he hums gruffly, in a voice that borders on amusement.
You cower into the hedgerow behind you as he approaches you, reaching you quickly on much longer limbs. He looms close enough for you to smell the sweat and ale and horse piss on his chainmail, close enough for you to lift your chin to meet his gaze.
His eyes never quite reach yours. They linger, instead, on your chest. “Letter from your lord husband, is it?” he asks, motioning with his head.
Your chin ducks to follow his eyes, where the rough edges of parchment nestled against your chest peek out from your corset. Your hands lift to cover it instinctively. “Yes. It’s a… a letter. From home.”
“Mind if I take a look at it?” he asks, taking another daring step closer. You wince at the sour smell of him. “What does Ser Gwayne write his pretty wife, hm?”
“Please, don’t—”
His hand shoots out. Thick, filthy fingers hook beneath the neckline of your gown, hard enough to stretch the fine silk with an audible crack. You react on pure instinct accordingly, lifting your own hand to strike him before your mind could forbid it.
The sound of your palm colliding with his bearded jaw cracks through the hedgerow like a whip.
His head turns slightly under the blow.
Your breath catches in surprise at yourself.
The back of his hand catches you across the cheek before you can blink. A red-hot pain explodes from your ear to your jaw as your world lurches suddenly sideways. You hit the unforgiving earth below with a huff when the air rushes from your lungs. Coppery blood pools thick on your tongue from where your teeth had cut the inside of your cheek.
“You little cunt—” you hear the man say, right before he catches a fistful of your skirts to pull you back towards him. The fabric screams beneath his hand. The cool evening air strikes your legs all at once when the silk rips up to your thighs.
You kick wildly at the man. Your slipper strikes uselessly against his shoulder. Your fingernails claw muddy furrows through the soaked earth.
“I am— Gwayne Hightower’s wife—” You tell him through panted, fearful breaths. He flips you onto your back by your ankle. Your foot burns beneath his grip. Your head strikes the soaked earth. Through the lack of air in your lungs, you heave, “He will have your head for this—”
“Oh, will he?” the hedge knight laughs with a brown-tooth grin. “‘Cause he ain’t here—”
The hand not holding your squirming ankle reaches for the tie in his trousers.
Then, in a blink, steel sings with a clean rasping sound. Warm blood splashes from your right jaw up to your left temple. For a flicker of a moment, you can’t quite comprehend why — not until the hedge knight kneels suddenly before you, with open eyes that have gone strangely distant. He topples suddenly sideways with his neck bent at an awkward angle, head half cut off and spouting bright red blood.
You blink wildly through the haze of death until you find Ormund standing just behind the corpse, chest rising and falling beneath his heavy armor. His longsword drips crimson onto the grass where your raspberries lie.
Sweat from the long day clings to his dark curls, wetting them against his temples and forehead. Flecks of blood dot his jaw like crimson stars. His blue eyes burn with something fierce, but his voice remains remarkably soft.
“My lady…”
You open your mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out.
Only then do you notice how violently your body is shaking, buzzing with a white-hot fear, as you scan the scene surrounding you — your torn skirts, the blood staining your chest, the dead body at your feet. You stare at the hedge knight’s gushing throat without fully understanding the sight of it.
Ormund reaches you in three long strides. He sheaths his sword without a word before dropping carefully to one knee. He slides one arm under your leg and his other behind your back, hoisting you upward with a pair of strong arms. The scent of blood and earth gives way to the smell of leather, incense, and bathing oils as he cradles you to the broad wall of his chest.
Your trembling hands clench a fistful of the green velvet cape draped along his shoulder.
“You’re safe, my lady,” Ormund murmurs as he carries you back to camp. “You’re safe.”
Your face finds the hollow space between his jaw and collarbone. You’re not entirely sure if you believe the words he speaks, but you know now that you do believe in the man who speaks them.
v. SANCTUARY & SIN
The weeks that followed could be divided into two — the days before the attack and all the days after.
For a time, you startled far too easily. A dropped shield sent you into a panic. A knight laughing too loudly made your pulse skyrocket. And if a pair of bootsteps walked too closely behind you, you lost all your breath before your mind had time to remind your body that no one meant you any harm.
Nights proved harder still. You dreamt of nothing but rough hands and torn silk and crushed berries that smelled so sweet the thought alone made you sick. One moment you were suffocating beneath the sweaty body of a hedge knight, and the next, your canvas door was thrown open while you were choking on a scream.
Ormund stood silhouetted before you, barefoot, with a sword in his naked hand. He’d reached you with haste, after having your pavilion packed up and pitched again not quite twenty paces from his following the attack — “It’ll be easier that way,” he assured you. “If another fool decides to trouble you, I’d rather not have to cross half of Westeros to remove his head.”
His curls were flattened from slumber, his linen shirt unlaced to reveal his broad chest heaving with panic. His sleep-swollen eyes swept every corner of the empty pavilion before they settled finally on you. His steel lowered as he crossed the tent to settle beside you, smoothing a hand up and down your back despite the way your nightgown clung uncomfortably to your sweaty skin.
“We’ll move your bed into my tent,” he’d said. “You’ll sleep there for the time being.”
It was concern disguised as a command. One you could not refuse if you wanted to.
Ormund’s tent was large enough to pass for a modest hall — maps and banners occupied one half, while the other had become something half-resembling living quarters. Your smaller cot was placed opposite his beneath the same sloping canvas roof, separated by little more than a table crowded with candles and books. You would wake occasionally to find Ormund already seated beside the brazier in nothing but a linen shirt, reading dispatches by firelight while occasionally glancing over to see whether you were sleeping soundly.
You pretended that you were, if only to keep on watching him.
But then the late summer storms arrived; and the unforgiving deluge washed over the camp with enough violence to shake the pavilion you slept beneath. Thunder cracked like an explosion closely overhead, and you woke with another frightened gasp before remembering where you were.
Ormund was already awake, as if stirred in knowing that you were scared.
“If you’re frightened…” he murmured from across the darkness. A flash of lightning revealed his blanketed body, and his face half-smushed into his pillow. “I imagine my bed could accommodate two people without either touching the other."
You crossed the space between your cots and climbed beneath his blankets without another word.
You haven’t left his bed since.
The days soon settle into something almost resembling normalcy. Ormund, you find, possesses an absurd fondness for taking care of you — always making sure that you’ve eaten breakfast before he’s started his mornings; delivering his wool blankets to you before you can complain that you’re cold, warming your hands between his calloused palms when he does so; and escorting you through camp with a protective hand splayed along the small of your back.
No one ever cared for you with such deliberate attention before — even Gwayne, as gentle as he was, could only love you from a respectful distance before the war had sent him off. Your husband washed away into memory, into the note left abandoned somewhere on the forest floor.
You did not know whether he still rode beneath banners or if his corpse had been picked clean by crows. You did know, at the very least, that Ormund was here — he was there in the mornings when you woke and each night when old fears crept back into your skin. It was a dangerous thing, you soon realized, to mistake safety for love. Or more dangerous still, to suspect that the two were any different at all.
You watch from Ormund’s bed — freshly bathed beneath your thin ivory slip, with your legs kicking lazily from where you lie on your stomach — as his squire removes pieces of his armor. A sketchbook lies open before you, alongside a collection of colored inks.
“This is what you get for tightening the straps so much,” Ormund hums as Daeron struggles with the final buckle across the man’s broad shoulders.
“Well, you’d like them to remain attached, wouldn’t you?” the boy quips back.
The man smiles despite himself. “You complain more than any squire I've ever met, do you know that?”
“I learned everything from you, did I not?”
When the final piece of armor comes finally free, Ormund dismisses the boy back to his tent. The entrance cover opens and shuts behind the boy, letting in a rush of cool evening air before it closes again. Silence returns to the expansive pavilion, filled only by the crackling of burning candles.
Ormund, left only in his loose dark breeches and a linen undertunic, walks to the round table to pour himself a goblet of wine. “What is occupying you so completely over there?”
“I’m hard at work,” you answer vaguely.
“So I see.” He eyes you carefully over the glugging of the flagon. A faint, unreadable flicker crosses his face. “Writing to Gwayne, are you?”
“No,” you sigh. “I’m drawing you.”
You set the quill into the inkpot and lift the sketchbook to face the man with a girlish grin, which seems to be becoming more and more frequent as the days go by. Ormund’s light eyes squint to study the page. It was unmistakably him drawn in the ink, though perhaps only if one was exceedingly charitable. The proportions are all wrong: his nose is too large, his mouth is too small, one eye sits higher than the other, and he’s missing his left brow.
His eyes flick to meet yours again. “…Is that intended to be me?” he asks, motioning with the goblet in his fist.
“Of course,” you shrug like it’s obvious.
“Well,” he sighs, raising the cup to his mouth. “I had no idea that I resembled that of a rotting turnip.”
You gasp in faux-offense that’s soon overcome by a fit of laughter. “It is not that bad!”
“My lady…” Ormund huffs sympathetically, abandoning his ale to saunter slowly towards the bed. “This could be considered treason— I should confiscate this immediately."
“You shall do no such thing,” you tease.
“Oh really?” he croons, brows raised in amusement.
He lunges for you in an instant. You jerk back onto your haunches with a squeal, cradling the sketchbook to your chest. You dodge each of his attempts to take it with a girlish gracelessness, laughing harder with each of his failed attempts. Ormund smiles at the sound without realizing it, dropping the table of ink to the rug below before clambering onto the bed to follow you.
One final tug sends the book flying across the bed, and the two of you go to reach for it at the same time. The momentum carries you forward until you land clumsily against his chest, knocking the breath out of him as his back hits the mattress, with you squarely on top of him.
It takes you a long moment to realize your precarious position — your chest brushing his beneath your thin slip, noses nearly touching, breaths nearly entwining. Your laughter fades first, but you still do not move. Ormund’s smile flickers, but his hands lift to rest lightly along the arms you use to prop up your weight on top of him.
You can feel each of his warm breaths fan against your chin. You could get drunk on the ale stained on his mouth from the proximity between you alone. Closer by an inch or two and you would taste it on his lips.
“We ought not,” Ormund murmurs lowly, as if he can read your mind.
“Ought what?”
“This,” he answers. His blue eyes flick briefly in the space separating your mouths. “You are another man’s wife. My cousin’s wife.”
You swallow hard at the mention of Gwayne. It had been far easier to forget him, in truth. “I have not seen my husband in nearly a year,” you reply in a small voice. “I do not even know whether he yet lives…”
Pain etches in Ormund's strong features before disappearing behind his usual practiced restraint. His hands tremble with the urge to smooth away the frown between your brows, but he does not allow himself the satisfaction.
“I swore on oath to protect you,” he says. “To serve you in my cousin’s absence.”
You, without possessing a similar self-control, lift a hand to brush a wild curl from his temple. “And do you intend to keep that promise, Lord Ormund?”
He nods against the mattress. “Of course I do.”
“Okay then…” you hum as a smile tugs slowly at one corner of your mouth. “Then serve me.”
You duck down to close the distance between you without a second thought. The tip of your nose grazes the strong bridge of his as you press your lips to his chapped ones, nothing more than an experimental brushing of your mouths. You go to pull away just as quickly as you came, and whatever restraint Ormund had had before vanishes in an instant.
He lifts his head from the tousled blankets to chase your mouth, cradling your neck with a wide hide to draw you back into him again. The second kiss lands with none of the careful uncertainty of the first. This one is slower, deeper, and far more languid. His tongue licks into your mouth, tasting of wine and the mint leaves he always chews after supper. You sigh through your nose to savor it, melting further into his chest.
Your mouths move together with an awkward sort of tenderness, learning one another by the second. Ormund kisses you far rougher than Gwayne ever did — it’s all tongue and teeth and spit, as if he were committing the taste of you to memory: the meat from your supper, the berry from your tea; the guilt from your broken vows, the relief of being found after believing yourself long abandoned.
Your breath catches in your throat when Ormund suddenly takes charge, urging you onto your back with his mouth still on yours. He pulls off you with a quiet smack, wearing your spit on his rosy mouth like gloss.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks with heavy eyes that dart back and forth between your glassy ones.
You shake your head against the cushions beneath you, features twisting with a pained look at the thought of stopping now.
“Do you understand what will follow? What… vows both of us will be breaking?”
Your eyes glisten as they dance between his blue ones. “The war broke those vows,” you tell him, half-breathless. “Not us.”
Ormund nods wordlessly for a moment, pleased with your answer. “Then open,” he says.
Your mouth parts for him on instinct. He lifts his middle and pointer finger to your lips, wetting them on your tongue, before sliding them in between your bodies. His hand disappears beneath the skirt of your slip. Your head tips back when you feel his fingertips sliding between your velvety folds, brushing your clit before sinking into your waiting cunt.
Your sigh fills the quiet tent, accompanied by the low groan in the back of Ormund’s throat.
“You’re softer than I imagined…” he confesses, almost to himself.
“Imagining me a lot, are you?” you tease on bated breath.
“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat. “I dreamt of how your cunt would wrap around me… of how you’d soak the sheets… of what noise you’d make when I moved my fingers like this—”
A whine catches in your throat when he crooks his fingers just so, nestling the fatty part of his palm flat against your clit. Your hips buck into his hand despite yourself. Your exhaled whine is half-drowned beneath his breathy chuckle.
“There it is…” he praises.
“Fuck me,” you plead, face crumpling under the weight of your need. One hand twists in his hair, while your other fists in his thin white tunic to keep him close. You only vaguely realize how little you sound like yourself as you plead: “I need it so bad, Ormund, please, fuck me—”
The man goes dizzy at the sound of your begging, as if he brought you into his camp, his tent, his bed, to do anything other than serve you.
His fingers glitter with your slick when he drags them out of your cunt. He brings them to his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales the scent of your musk upon them. You whine at the sight of it — half-disgusted, half-intrigued. You watch with heavy eyes when he brings the same hand into his trousers to fist his half-hard cock fully stiff for you.
It’s a mess of tangled limbs for a moment, as you drag his shirt gracefully from his torso while he attempts to free himself from his breeches. He’s made of tanned skin, toned muscles, and a dusting of auburn hair from his sternum to his stomach. It grows more dense at the root of his cock — which is not quite as long as Gwayne’s, but thicker still and adorned with more prominent veins.
Ormund works himself hard with his fist; the reddened head of his cock leaks pearly drops every time his hand moves upwards. Your mouth waters for a taste. You let him smear it along the folds of your cunt instead.
You curl your arms under his broad arms to splay your hands along his shoulder blades. They flex slightly under your touch as he leans down over you. You tense on instinct when he pierces you with the tip of his cock. “Shh, shh, shh,” he soothes lowly, fighting back his own grunt as you spread so perfectly around him.
He sinks slowly into you, slow enough for you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as he mounts you until his hips are flush with yours. Your mouth parts. He ducks down to kiss you before a moan tumbles out, swallowing the pretty sound with his mouth.
He stays still against you for several long, agonizing moments. Your hips buck against his in anticipation. “Please move,” you whine, digging crescent shapes into his shoulders with your nails. “I need you so much, please—”
Ormund’s jaw clenches tight. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been inside another woman?”
Your face screws. “I’d rather not hear about your previous exploits at the moment—”
“Don’t,” Ormund spits, shuddering on top of you when you roll your hips into his once more. He grasps your thigh hard enough to dig bruises into the plush skin with the hand not holding himself up beside your head. His light eyes turn glacial in an instant, darting wildly between both of yours. “I won’t… I won’t last…” he confesses.
Your eyes soften around the edges with a faux innocence. “This isn’t going to be the last time you fuck me, is it?”
The crude word falls so effortlessly from your pristine mouth that it makes his cock jerk within your drooling confines. “I don’t want it to be. No,” he answers, half-shy.
“Then I don’t care how long you last,” you assure him with a lazy grin. “You have kept me hostage for nearly a year— Surely, I’m entitled to make some use of my captor while the realm delays the war, am I not?”
Ormund’s resolve crumbles under your permission. He rolls his hips forward and back again, never quite pulling all the way out of you. He groans quietly when you clench around the sensitive head of his cock; and you swallow down a whimper when the coarse hair below his stomach rubs mercilessly along your sensitive clit.
Your head tips back. He falls to the hollow space between your neck and shoulder.
Ormund’s open-mouthed breaths fan warm along your burning skin as he stumbles into a graceless rhythm, thrusting hard enough to make the wooden frame of his bed squeak quietly beneath you.
The pressure on your clit is relentless. You squirm underneath his sweat-slick body, chasing and running from the pleasure all at once. “I know. I know. It’s okay,” you hear him slur against your skin. “Just take it. Just fuckin’ take it— Fuck—” His voice breaks like splintered glass.
He tenses suddenly above you, taut muscles trembling. You hear his breath catch for a moment, right before a foreign warmth pools in the very pit of your stomach. He groans in time with his release, heavying his weight further against you.
You aren’t far behind.
He grinds his hips lazily to ride out his high, smothering your sensitive clit as the warm, wet, sticky feeling continues to bloom inside of you. “Ormund—” you gasp, tensing beneath him.
“There it is…”the man praises as you tremble underneath him, smearing his lips against your jaw until they reach your parted mouth. “There it is— Fuck, that’s it,look at me.”
Your eyes snap open at his command, bleary and heavy-lidded. You ride out the rest of your orgasm with your gaze locked with his glassy one.
The honeyed moment doesn’t last nearly as long as either of you would’ve liked.
“My lord?”
The two of you sober in a flash as the spell between you shatters. Ormund stills suddenly above you, as if pierced by steel. The warmth flees from his features at once, replaced by the hard composure of the commander of House Hightower. You, too, freeze where you lay beneath him — pulse thrumming hard in your throat as the muffled voice drifts once more through the pavilion.
“My lord—”
“Yes, Daeron,” Ormund spits through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes through the rage searing in his chest. “What is it?”
The squire hesitates at his uncle’s harsh tone. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord…” the boy says carefully, hidden behind the covered entrance. “But a messenger arrived from the river road. He bears urgent word from Ser Criston’s camp.”
You feel your stomach sink — or, perhaps, it’s only the mixture of cum seeping out of your still fluttering confines, soaking the sheets beneath you. You feel unspeakably dirty now, and the lack of regret only deepens the feeling.
Ormund remains motionless above you for a moment before sitting back on his haunches. You shiver at the absence of his warmth, and wince slightly when his softening cock slips out of you. “A letter?” he calls to the entrance, brows lowered. “What news?”
“It is sealed, my lord,” Daeron says. “The messenger said it was to be opened by our hand alone.”
Ormund’s confusion deepens. “And who sends it?”
After another brief hesitation, the voice answers solemnly: “Ser Gwayne, my lord.”
BLOOD OF MY BLOOD, KIN OF MY KIN
─── ormund hightower
summary: a glimpse into the years you and ormund raised daeron before the war took its toll, and all the years after. (10k)
characters: ormund hightower / wife!reader, daeron targaryen, alicent hightower, viserys i targaryen, mentions of rhaenyra and daemon
contents: established relationship, found family, domestic bliss, angst, hurt/comfort, protective!ormund, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of pregnancy complications and miscarriages, brief mentions of blood and gore, canon typical manipulation and psychosis from ormund towards the end lol
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
115 A.C. / Oldtown
The bed is still warm from your blood on the morning the babe arrives.
It had not been quite two days since the maester had drawn the small, still shape of your daughter from you and told you, gently enough as not to break you further, that she had never drawn breath at all. You had told none of the household that you had been carrying her at all, save for the maesters and your closest of handmaidens — for you had learned, after the second loss, how courtiers feed on grief like vultures to carrion. So while you wept for days longer than your babe would ever live, the rest of Oldtown simply assumed that their lady had taken ill with a woman’s ailment, and kept to her rooms accordingly.
But today the King is coming, and your mother would surely turn in her early grave if she knew the lady she raised up planned to receive a king from a sickbed — pallid, unlaced, and undone.
“There is no harm in resting, my love,” Ormund coos from across the room, watching with attentive eyes as your handmaiden laces you into a gown of Hightower green. You keep yourself braced on the wooden back of a chair and grit your teeth with every tug, pulling carefully to conceal the subtle bump of your stomach.
The man tilts his head and crosses his arms over the chest of his emerald doublet, in a feeble attempt to extinguish the worry searing between his lungs. “Viserys is a king man. He will understand. Alicent, more than anyone, would understand—”
“And what has Alicent lost?” you argue, sharper than you intended. Your head whips hard to the side in time to find Ormund flinching beneath the bite of your words — a small flicker at the edges of his eyes; a brief lowering of his brows.
You soften with a sigh a moment later and remind yourself that Ormund lost something too, even if the loss was not pulled from his body to claim it.
“Forgive me, I… I only meant that… The Queen has four living children. And she carried each one with grace— There is no part of her that could possibly understand how I feel… And I wouldn’t wish it upon her besides.”
Ormund exhales through his nose and takes a step closer, boots scuffing the cobbles. “Then at least let me tell them that you are unwell—”
“No,” you dismiss with a shake of your stubborn head, eyes shutting briefly when the corset tightens again. “I refuse to be spoken of like some frail, ailing thing while the King sups at our table.”
Your gaze is wet with unshed tears when they open again, snapping to Ormund’s pale ones with a glimmering determination. “I am the Lady Hightower,” you tell him, brows raised and eyes firm. “So I will greet them standing. On my own feet. In my own home.”
Ormund’s chest, still heavy with grief, blooms with a distant sort of pride at your words. Perhaps because a part of him had long understood that you did not always dream of being the Lady Hightower. Your marriage was made of meetings and ledgers and alliances rather than any actual tenderness, as was true in most great marriages in Westeros. He knows, had you had it your way, you would’ve wed that gardener’s boy you grew up with — who you attempted to bring with you to Oldtown upon your betrothal, along with many of your household’s servants.
Ormund had the brawny, olive-skinned boy sent away within a fortnight — the moment he understood what kind of feelings the peasant boy had for you, and you for him. It was perhaps the first mad thing he ever did for you and, by Ormund’s later admission, the first time he realized that he might love you truly. (Though he had not thought it mad at the time, or love until many moons later, when he was struck with the sudden realization that the thought of Oldtown with you in it would be entirely unbearable.)
“Then we shall go,” Ormund nods in acquiescence as he plants himself just ahead of you. His gaze fixes into a sterner look a second later, as he tilts his chin to his chest and ducks into your eyeline. “But know I am not happy about this.”
“And yet Oldtown will remain standing anyway,” you joke in a softer coo. “I have faith that we’ll survive one of your unhappy mornings, my lord.”
The walk from your chambers to the gates of Oldtown is not long, but you feel every stone beneath your slippers as if the journey were some great pilgrimage across the whole of Westeros.
You brace Ormund’s strong arm with both your hands, fingers curling into the fine wool of his coat hard enough to blanche your knuckles. He slows his long stride to match your smaller, more careful one without a word shared between you — a wall of green and muscles at your side, shielding you from the curious eyes of courtiers wondering why their lord and lady moved so slowly. So close.
It’s the first time you’ve tasted fresh air in three days. The breeze smells of the sea from the harbor and fish from the markets — mixing with the sweet citrus of the orange and lemon trees blooming in the gardens. Their white petals scatter like snow along the pale stone with every gust off the bay. You breathe in deeply through your nose, trying hopelessly to clear away the metallic tang of your own blood stubbornly clinging to the inside of your nostrils.
“His Grace, Viserys of House Targaryen,” the herald calls as the royal party files in on fine horses and gilded carriages, black banners snapping in the wind. “First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”
Viserys is the first to exit when the caravan finally stills. He descends the steps a knight places down for him, portlier than you remember from your last journey to King’s Landing, some years before your marriage. His kind face has started to wither from fatigue and age alike. The crown seems heavier upon his head, though perhaps it’s only from where his silver hair has started to thin at the scalp.
Alicent follows out just behind him. She wears a black dress with drooping sleeves and a veil to cover her long auburn curls, fit for a funeral procession. A knight of white armor and long black hair helps her descend the steps as she cradles a small, dark bundle squirming in protest in her arms.
You sink into a curtsy. A white-hot pain swells from the pit of your stomach to the top of your spine — a lightning strike that burns for minutes after. You grip Ormund’s arm until your fingers tremble, though the polite smile on your face remains when you rise again.
“Ormund,” Viserys greets with an easy smile. He clasps your husband’s free arm with a genuine affection while his tired eyes drift along the white stone towers of the city. “My… Oldtown is just as fair as I remember it.”
“I agree, Your Grace, though I confess I am far more partial,” Ormund responds with a dry humor and a knightly smile. “I hear the view improves the longer one is forced to stare at it.”
Viserys laughs while, beside him, Alicent tries and fails to summon her own. Her elegant features are worn from the weeks of travel, many of which you imagine were spent balancing the fussing weight concealed against her chest just now.
“And my lady…” Viserys inclines his silver head towards you, studying your face with a pair of kind eyes. “You look well.”
You feel, in a word, like death dressed in Hightower green. You feel hollowed out and stitched together again, the farthest thing from well. But you nod once and thank the King all the same, profoundly grateful when your voice doesn’t shake.
“Truly. Marriage suits you both well,” Viserys nods. “Though, I admit, I’d hope Daeron might have had a cousin or two near enough in age to grow up beside him here. Once he’s old enough for such things, of course.”
Ormund tenses beside you.
His arm feels very suddenly like holding onto stone. His pale eyes turn glacial in a flicker; a withheld grief that he forces himself to swallow down the second it rises like bile in his throat. You say nothing at all. You just keep smiling and pray to whatever god will hear you that you do not weep in front of the King and all his men.
“But there’s still time— You’ll have one of your own before long, I’m sure of it,” the older man continues, possessing no notion of what had happened behind these walls hardly two days past. If he notices anything amiss, he does not dwell on it, and turns instead to Alicent. “Go on. Let them see the boy.”
Alicent’s arms tighten instinctively around the bundle in her grasp and inhales sharply through her nose. It had been her own decision that Daeron be sent to her family’s ancestral home. Her last child was not quite six months when she counseled her King to send him to ward, far from the chaos of King’s Landing. But she finds herself suddenly plagued by the harsh realization that this will be the last time she will hold this baby as he is now. The next time she’s like to lay eyes on him again, he’ll be an unrecognizable young boy, and not nearly the small thing fussing against her collarbone now.
“He hasn't slept," Alicent warns as she steps closer. Her green eyes are warm and weary when they flit to you. “He didn’t take well to the carriage. Or the ship. He’s cried the whole way from Blackwater, I think. Poor thing…”
“I’m sure we can manage a crying babe, my Queen,” Ormund says gently, though there’s a distant aching in his voice disguised as good humor that only you could recognize. “I grew up with Gwayne, if you remember. I’m more than acquainted with wailing boys by now.”
Alicent musters a small smile and closes the distance between you to settle her son in your arms.
He’s warm — that’s the first thing you notice — he’s a small furnace swaddled in Targaryen black. He stirs briefly at the transfer from one chest to another, round face screwing tight in the prelude to a wail. Your heart clenches to brace yourself for that sound. It never comes.
The babe turns his face into the curve of your throat and settles into stillness with one small fist curled into the fabric of your gown. The tiny sound he makes isn’t a cry, but it isn’t quite a coo either. He sleeps, finally, in your arms — not even two days after you held your daughter between them, who had never awoken at all.
Ormund’s wide hand settles at the small of your back. Even in its steadiness, you feel the subtle tremor of his fingers against your spine. His throat tightens with the sudden urge to cry at the sight — of you, still frail and yet so bravely composed, cradling another woman’s child after laying your own to rest in the sept. He swallows through the hands of grief strangling his throat and feels a warmer feeling settling in its wake.
“Well…” Viserys hums, watching the baby sleep against you with a proud look in his weathered eyes. “It seems the boy’s found his corner of Oldtown already— Isn’t that lovely, Alicent?”
The woman nods, though shock still etches slightly in her pale features and behind the dark green of her eyes. “Of course, Your Grace,” she says and clears her throat, blinking back her tears with a queen’s practiced grace. “Thank you both for taking him.”
“He'll want for nothing here," Ormund swears with a firm nod. “You have my word. We'll raise him as if he were our own trueborn son.”
You pull the blanket gently back to peer at the sleeping baby swaddled within it. He’s practically all cheeks, with his mother’s mouth and nose.
You had been certain, two days past, that your life had surely ended with your daughter’s. That there would be nothing more to life than a hollow, vacant silence. But now, there is warmth — and a babe’s slow breath fanning along your collarbone.
You do not yet have a name for the foreign feeling swelling inside of you. It’s not joy, not yet, but it isn’t grief either. Or, at least, not only grief. And for now, that would have to be enough.
127 A.C. / Training Yard
The sound of clashing steel finds you before the sight of it does. The ring and scrape of blade on blade carries across the bustling courtyard, where you’ve gone to look for a young prince who was, as Maester Yorrick informed you with a palpable impatience, nearly an hour late for his lessons. You find the boy exactly where you imagined he would be — sword-training with his uncle, who has since stripped down to a pale tunic now darkened with sweat from the exercise.
Daeron, now thirteen years of age, is all knees and elbows from a sudden growth spurt that had taken him seemingly overnight. He presses a defensive attack upon his uncle with all the fierceness of a knight, but with the gracelessness of a teenage boy. Even you could tell from where you stood that his swing had no hope of landing. Ormund turns the blow aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, no more troublesome than swatting a fly from the air.
“Awful,” you hear the man scold from afar. When Daeron grits his teeth and presses forward once more, Ormund steps back and lets the boy’s momentum carry him a half stride too far. His blade misses his mark by inches. “Gods, that’s even worse—”
Daeron lunges a third time, fuelled now by a boyish rage that twists his freckled features. Ormund steps inside the overextended reach, hooks a boot around the boy’s ankle, and trips him onto the dirt with his blunted blade pressed to his ribs. Daeron hits the ground with a thud, red-faced and breathing heavy. His long auburn tendrils cling to his sweaty temple when he whips his head to glare up at his uncle.
“Dead,” Ormund proclaims from where he stands over the boy, flat but not totally unkind. He raises his brows and tilts his chin to his chest. “If this were a real sword, I’d have had your head before the thought to swing finished forming in that head of yours.”
Daeron twists himself upward and shoves the faux blade away with a boyish scowl. “You always say that,” he grumbles, refusing the hand Ormund extends to help him up. He rises to full height on his own and swipes dirt from his pale palms.
“Yes. I always say it because it's always true. You're thinking with your temper again— I can see it in your shoulders before you’ve even moved,” the older man lectures as he turns on the heel of his boot and walks off a few paces. “Again. And this time, think before you swing. Not after—”
“I think that’s enough for this morning,” you call to them as you step further into the yard, dress skirts rushing around your ankles in the summer breeze. “Maester Yorrick has been waiting all morning. And his patience, unlike yours, my lord, has its limits.”
Daeron nods once, shoulders sagging with an absent relief. “Yes, ma’am—”
“Give us a few more minutes,” Ormund dismisses simultaneously. “He’s close to getting his footwork right. I can feel it.”
You flash the man a look — one slight lift of your brow, one flicker of dullness behind the eyes. Years of marriage have honed that wordless look to a firm edge, one which finds Ormund like a blade. He nods in concession with a heavy exhale through his nose.
“You heard her, boy. Go on,” Ormund says, jerking his chin toward the tower and extending his hand out for the practice sword.
Daeron obeys without question. He passes the dull blade over and crosses the yard to you. You see the sweat and dirt streaked across his freckled face the closer he gets. “Come here to me,” you sigh and catch his round chin between your thumb and forefinger when he plants himself ahead of you. You swipe the filth from his cheeks with the hem of your sleeve like you’ve done since he was small enough to fit in one arm.
“I’m not a child anymore, you know," Daeron reminds you with a childish grimace as he suffers your motherly affections. “I’m a squire now.”
“Oh, a squire, are you?” you croon in response with an obvious air of sarcasm. You smooth wild auburn hair from his temples before pressing a chaste kiss to his hairline. “Go on now— before Maester Yorrick decides to make you study your histories until sundown.”
Daeron nods and ducks past you towards the tower stair, though you catch the corner of his pink mouth twitching upward into a grin before he’s turned away. You watch him leave with an attentive stare as Ormund discards the training swords at their posts. He approaches you in long, slow strides, allowing you to see the mark that training has left upon him — the way the sweat dampens his dark curls and the collar of his tunic, making the fabric stick to his broad shoulders and toned chest.
He smells of sweet wine, musky bathing oils, and salty sweat when he towers just before you. He tips his chin to his chest and raises his brows to his hairline, pale eyes glimmering with an expectant look.
“…Well?”
You blink up at him with a feigned innocence. “Well, what?”
“My kiss,” he answers with a shrug like it’s obvious, like he were a man coming to collect his debts. “You gave the boy his, and I’ve spent half the morning training him— I should think that I’ve earned at least that much.”
“Oh, really?” you squint. “After you told the boy he’s like to lose his head?”
“I told him the truth,” Ormund argues with an unrepentant laugh and takes a slow step closer to you. “Is the truth unkind merely because it stings a little going down?”
His hands splay along your waist, wide and warm along the edges of your corset. It takes everything in you not to cave for him right there, in the full view of the crowded courtyard. You cross your arms over your chest instead. “If you keep being so hard on him, he’ll grow to hate sword training altogether—”
“May be. But he will go on alive a good deal longer for having learned it the hard way now— instead of on a real field, with real steel, without me there to guide him.” Ormund ducks his head to catch your eye, pale gaze glimmering in time the pink smile tugging at his lips. “Surely you are not truly cross with me, my love…” he croons quietly.
You shrug with a raised chin, unwilling to concede so easily. “Perhaps I am.”
“Well, then, it’s hardly my doing,” he chuckles, a sound far warmer than the silver-gold sunshine sprawling over the courtyard. The pads of his thumbs smooth over your ribs in an absentminded affection. “You've gone so soft on the boy that you can scarcely bear to watch him lose a practice bout, without petting his hair over it after."
“Well, someone in this household has to be soft with him," you argue lightly, more teasing now than truly cross. Your slipper scrapes the dirt as you take a short step closer to him. What little distance remained between you closes now in an instant; each rise and fall of his chest brushes your folded arms. “You spend your mornings convincing the poor boy the world means to kill him, and I spend my nights convincing him that he could rule the world entire if he wished... Perhaps he’ll come out well-balanced for it, in the end.”
“Assuming one of us doesn’t kill the other over the method first,” Ormund quips.
“Precisely,” you nod.
“Well, I think it’s a fine system,” the man agrees gravely, drawing you an impossible inch closer by the hands still on your waist. His breath fans warm across your jaw as he leans in closer, still smelling of the mint leaves he’d chewed after breakfast. “And one I certainly intend to go on employing indefinitely… If my wife forgives me long enough to let me kiss her.”
His low voice glitters somewhere in the center of your chest. Your eyes narrow despite the small smile curling hopelessly at your mouth. “I don’t think I’ve yet decided,” you lilt.
“Well, I have,” he croons quietly, and does not wait for your retort before leaning down to press his lips against yours.
His broad nose flattens into the side of yours under the weight of his kiss, a slow and languid thing — as natural as the white waves ebbing and flowing against the pale stone tower of Oldtown. Your hands twist in his pale tunic billowing in the sea breeze, dissolving into the man like salt in water.
There is nothing you would not forgive this man for, you think distantly to yourself. There is no madness he could not lead you toward, not if he kisses you like this the entire way there.
130 A.C. / Ormund’s Solar
The raven arrives like all the rest — unceremoniously, on a sunless grey morning, from the trembling hands of the weathered maester. You tend to your needlework by the crackling hearth, burning low to fight off the morning chill blowing in from the sea, while Daeron reads in the opposite chair with one leg slung over the arm of it — both of you still waking with the early morning.
Across the room, Ormund sits at his desk and breaks the seal with a dull crack. Your gaze drifts to the man as he unrolls the letter, parchment whispering beneath his ringed fingers. You watch his pale eyes flit across the words once, and his brows lower in confusion a moment later. He shifts in his seat and reads it again, slower this time. His spine straightens with a soldier’s subconscious instinct as he draws a deep breath in and forgets to let it go.
The quiet feels loud as it swells within the solar. The popping fire startles you briefly, as you get lost in Ormund’s wordless dread. You feel his silent panic as if it were your own. You rise from your seat and lay your needlework on the cushion behind you, careful not to trouble Daeron’s reading as you stroll to the man’s side.
“Ormund?” you call quietly to him. “Ormund— What does it say?”
He says nothing in response; he just lifts his ringed hand and passes you the parchment curled between his middle and forefinger. His eyes remained fixed on a negligible chip in the cobblestone wall across the room as you pluck the paper from his hand. His silence is not convincing; his silence, as you’ve learned in years of marriage, is far more frightening than any voice he could raise.
Your eyes dart over the scrawled ink thrice over, just as he had, because your mind refuses to process the words on the first two passes.
“By the time this reaches you, the city has already fallen. Rhaenyra Targaryen holds King’s Landing and names herself Queen upon the Iron Throne. She has taken the Queen Dowager prisoner, as well as the King’s wife and last living heir. Send word of your household’s safety. Guard the boy.”
The letters blur and steady and blur again, swimming before your eyes. Your blood runs cold while the glowing hearth simultaneously fills the room with a near-unbearable heat. As your breaths come faster and shallower to you, you hear a small voice call from behind you.
“Is something wrong?” Daeron wonders aloud as he glances up from the heavy novel in his lap. His auburn brows knit low over his green eyes, casting a faint shadow over his freckled cheeks, which are slowly starting to lose the softness of boyhood.
“Go on to your chambers, Daeron,” you tell him in a voice strangely steady compared to how shaken you feel. “It’s time to break your fast. I’ll have the servants fetch it for you.”
“I’m not hungry,” the boy insists as he rises slowly from his chair, setting his book aside and walking slowly from the hearth. His eyes dart back and forth between your profile and Ormund’s when both of you refuse to look at him. His shoulders straighten with a strangling tension. “What’s happened? What does it say—?”
“Daeron,” Ormund snaps, voice cutting through the quiet room like a blade. His eyes are similarly sharp when they snap finally to the boy’s pleading once. “Listen to your mother, boy. Go.”
Mother, he says. The word lingers and hangs in the air for a long moment. Even in his newfound worry, Ormund’s eyes still flicker with a startled awareness at how easily the slip-up had escaped him, though there is little time to dwell on it now.
Daeron's pink mouth parts with some half-formed protest at the ready. Whatever words he could conjure up on such short notice turn to dust on his tongue at the look his uncle gives him, chiseled features hardening into an unfeeling sort of look. Daeron exhales a held breath, gathers his book from his seat, and heads for the door without further argument.
Ormund’s knowing voice follows him out: “And don’t stand outside the door eavesdropping, either. Straight to your chambers. I'll know if you've stopped on the stair."
Only when the door shuts behind the boy with a soft click do your teary eyes lift from the parchment in your trembling hands. You say nothing for a long moment. The muffled sounds of the bustling castle fill the silence — the sounds of an oblivious world still living, though it feels a little like yours has stopped.
“I know," Ormund says before you’ve spoken, before you’ve needed to speak. “I know.”
“Okay,” you nod once. “So what are you going to do?”
He huffs a not-quite laugh. “I’ve only just found out about this. As have you,” he answers, a little sharper than he means to. “I’ll need a moment to think about the problem before you ask me to solve it, my love.”
“A moment is no longer a luxury we have,” you argue, voice rising despite yourself and wavering on every syllable with a palpable fear. “Rhaenyra has dragons, Ormund— she has Daemon and three new bastard riders sworn to her besides. She does not need a moment to bring any of them to our door.”
Your dress skirt spins around your ankles when you turn suddenly in place. Ormund’s pale eyes follow your form as you storm back towards the hearth, ranting the whole way there.
“She will come for him, Ormund— not if, when. She will stop at nothing to silence any claim that challenges her own,” you continue, voice cracking under the weight of your unshed tears. “Daeron is a threat to her! Simply by breathing, he is a threat to her, and she will not leave him idling here out of some… familial courtesy for some half-brother she’s never met.”
The flame crackles quietly when you toss the letter into it. The wax seal blackens and weeps; the ink turns slowly to ash. You’d hoped that destroying those words might, in turn, settle the uneasy feeling they’ve brought you; but to no avail.
“I know that,” Ormund nods with a jaw clenched tight, ringed fingers curling into fists over his thighs beneath the desk.
“Then think!” Your shout bounces off the cobbled walls as you turn to face him once more. His face blurs behind the burning tears clouding your vision. The swelling emotion thickens your voice as you yell to him, half-wild with a preemptive grief. “I have already buried children who never got to draw breath— I will not bury another who has drawn fifteen years of them under this roof! Do not let them take him, Ormund— I don't care what it costs. Do not let them our boy!”
Ormund’s chair scrapes the cobbles as he rises slowly to full height. He crosses the solar in slow, silent strides. Your glassy eyes stay locked with his as he nears. You peer stubbornly up at him from beneath your lashes, clumped with unshed tears; but you do not protest when his palms smooth over the outsides of your elbows to pull you into his arms.
You melt hopelessly against his chest, fisting the back of his doublet in both hands, and trembling slowly as you choke down a sob. Ormund’s wide hands smooth along your back and feels his chest tighten with a striking, familiar ache. He thought once there was no worse sound in the world than hearing your weeping over a lost child; but he knows, now, that there is something equally as troubling: your weeping over a child you fear you’re about to lose and feeling like there is no time yet to stop it.
“I will not let anyone take him,” Ormunds promises evenly, with a distance that suggests he’s already assembling a plan in the depths of his mind. His arms curl tighter, pressing you harder against him. “I swear it to you. By the gods, they will not have our son.”
You pull back from him, just far enough to search his steady gaze with your wearier one. “But how?” you press weakly, more of a demand than a real question.
Ormund ponders for a long moment. The shadow of his adam’s apple rises and falls in his throat as he swallows. And when he speaks again, the words fall from his tongue flat and even, as if he were testing each one the moment they left his mouth.
“No one at court has laid eyes on the boy since he was a babe in arms…” he answers lowly, brows lifting to his hairline. “Alicent hasn’t seen him in years… There is no one outside these walls who would know what he looks like… So if they come— when they come… I suppose Rhaenryra would presume any silver-haired boy as Viserys’ heir.”
Your brows furrow as confusion twists slowly across your face.
“We’d only need enough lye and patience,” Ormund continues with a shrug. “And a boy willing enough to answer to a name that isn’t his, and to go with Rhaenyra, should her dragons come calling.”
You tense within his hold as the words run through you like ice-cold water. “You mean to… to send a different child in his place?”
“Yes,” Ormund answers instantly and without apology. “It isn’t a kind plan, I know. And I won’t pretend that someone else’s son won’t have to suffer for it, if it comes to pass, but… You did not ask me for a kind plan.”
You grieve the heat of his hands when he lifts them from your back, just to smooth his gently calloused palms over your jaw a moment later. He rubs the rough pads of his thumbs along your burning cheeks. You melt into his touch of warm velvet and peer up at him with teary eyes. Ormund’s gaze softens around the edges as his mouth lifts into a sad sort of smile.
“You asked me not to let them take our boy,” he continues lowly. “And however cruel it may be… this is but the only coin I have to buy that promise with.”
You know that a part of you should be horrified. You know what he is describing is a monstrous thing — an innocent boy’s whole life offered as a shield for another’s. You search deep within yourself to find that terror, but cannot seem to locate it. Instead, you find relief, like a crack of sunlight peeking through storm clouds — the very hint of a promise that your family was not long in the dying just yet.
“Do it,” you hear yourself say, shaking your head between his hands. “Whatever it costs… Whoever it costs… Do it.”
Ormund nods with a deep inhale through his nose, leaning forward to press his mouth to your hairline — to seal his promise with a kiss.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Sept
Rhaenyra's dragonriders come for Daeron not nearly a fortnight into the army's march. Ormund sends the son of a merchant in his place — a boy of the right age and the right pale coloring, plucked quietly from Oldtown and dressed in borrowed finery before anyone thought to look twice. “Be brave, young prince," Ormund had said to the blanch-haired boy, only for show, though what he really meant was: “I will have your family hanged if you do not play your part.”
Ormund knelt before Daemon Targaryen and swore his fealty to the Queen, but marched on for Tumbleton the second the dragons took flight, all the shame.
The chaos follows them there, too.
Daeron attempts to seek a momentary refuge in the foreign castle’s candlelit sept. A cramped chamber made of brown stone and hazy smoke from the flickering candles, where Tessarion grumbles in protest of captivity. The lack of sunlight has dulled her fluorescent blue scales, and has made her ill-tempered due to the lack of exercise. Daeron alone she allows close, pressing her great head into the boy’s small neck, and momentarily forgetting about the heavy chains around her throat when he pets her stony scales.
Ormund finds him there. Ormund has a way of finding him anywhere. It is a gift and a curse, perhaps — comforting when Daeron was small and frightened of the dark; but less so now, when Daeron’s every attempt at solitude is interrupted by his uncle, constantly watching him as if he were a traitor to be surveilled and not his kin.
“I have warned you against indulging in affections for the best,” Ormund says as he approaches. The man cradles the boy's freckled cheeks in his wide, calloused palms despite Tessarion's low growl of warning.“You are a good boy,” he says, and in the very same breath, without losing the tender smile on his face: “You have a taint in your blood,” and “You must be king.”
Ormund makes less and less sense to him these days — the throes of war, Daeron supposes, though a part of him is frightened that it began long before that.
Sometimes he thinks Ormund only makes sense when you’re near enough to translate his tangled, wild emotions back into something grounded and real. You’ve always had a way of gentling the man; usually with nothing more than a steady hand along his wrist to calm whatever storm had been moving within him.
Daeron has seen you do it a hundred times over without ever quite understanding how. But he prays now for your swift return from the city, so that you might do it again — so that you might soften whatever unfamiliar thing has taken root in his uncle when he commands his soldiers to drag in the peasant man from earlier that afternoon. The one who broke Ser Garrick’s nose defending against his own wife’s assault; an act any decent lord would have called simple justice.
Ormund draws his sword from its sheath at his hip. The hiss of the steel leaving the leather fills the small stone sept, loud enough to echo off the old walls that have likely seen a great many prayers and, Daeron suspects, not so very many murders. The older man turns the blade and offers the embellished hilt to the boy, pale eyes hardening when he hesitates.
“We have risked much and more to raise you up,” Ormund says, strong features twisting into something resembling offense. “Surely, you do not wish to disappoint us now.”
Us. Daeron is pulled into his uncle’s orbit at that single syllable alone; the unbearable thought of failing the only two people in this world who have ever troubled themselves to love him — one standing before him with a blade held out like a peace offering, and the other somewhere in the depths of the dark city but still steady on his mind all the same.
Daeron lays his palms out flat before his brain has fully comprehended the motion. He prays Ormund doesn’t notice how they tremble when he rests the sword upon them — the weight of the blade cold and heavy upon his fingers.
Daeron’s hands tremble around the ornate leather hilt of Ormund’s sword. His misty eyes find the prisoner kneeling just before him on the cold stone — bloodied and chained for a crime any noble man in Westeros would surely commit with honor — before glancing slowly to where his uncle looms behind him. Candlelight flickers in shades of orange-gold upon the man’s chiseled features, pooling a deep black in the hollows of his eyes.
“What would Mother think of this?” Daeron hears himself ask, voice cracking under the weight of the tears burning hot in the backs of his eyes.
It is his last and most desperate attempt to reach for his uncle, just as he has seen you do, and to pull him back from the dangerous ledge he stands upon. But he knows the man has already made up his mind; and he knows that there is no version of him that walks out of this sept without spilling blood.
Ormund’s face softens slightly, though there is little tenderness in what he asks of the boy now. “Alicent would understand,” he coos in a gentle voice. “War asks difficult things of every great house—”
“I didn’t—” Daeron swallows hard, smaller now than moments before. “I did not mean the Lady Alicent…”
Realization flashes across Ormund’s face — a visible recognition of exactly which woman the boy had meant, and has always meant every time the word slipped accidentally from his mouth and was never corrected for it after. Daeron was not yours by blood, but he was yours in every other way that matters. The small, warm weight of him stopped crying the moment he was placed into your arms fifteen years ago, and never truly stopped being yours since.
Still, Ormund does not soften for it. If anything, something in him hardens further as he takes a slow step closer to the boy.
“Your mother would be proud,” he answers, brows lowered as if the answer was the plainest thing in the world. “Don’t you see? Any strike against this army is a strike against her, against everything she’s built to keep you safe… Any man who raises his fist against our men raises it, in the end, against her… And do you not want to protect her, just as she has spent every day protecting you?”
Daeron swallows hard. The weight of Ormund’s words feels heavy in his throat, heavier than the blade in his hands as his trembling fingers tighten around its hilt. His teary green eyes linger on the steel, flickering shades of gold in the candlelight.
“No, please, I beg you,” the battered prisoner rasps, dried blood matting at his curls from whatever rough handling had brought him here. “I have a family, my lord. Please—”
Daeron’s eyes lift to find the man’s pleading gaze and linger upon him for a long while. He sees your face in the very back of his mind, the only real mother he’s ever truly known, and hears Ormund’s disappointed voice layered over it as he draws the heavy blade back.
Then he strikes.
The cut is not clean. The blade lodges at an off angle in the man’s corded neck and sticks somewhere deep between flesh and bone. The man’s pained shout comes out wet and gargled, bouncing off the cobbled walls and in the depths of Daeron’s mind.
The boy’s body flinches from what his own hand has done as bright crimson blood spouts from the gaping wound and splatters along the old stone.
His face crumples as he removes the blade. It takes a world of strength in his thin arms to wrench it out again. A quiet whimper sounds in his throat when the blade drags against bone and stumbles backward when the man’s limp body collapses at his feet with a dull smack. Dark blood spreads slowly across the stone in a widening, glistening pool that catches the candlelight like moonlight on the bay.
Daeron looks down at the crimson dripping off the steel blade. He does not notice his uncle’s approach until his broader hands are gently guiding the sword from his fingers — fingers that no longer feel like his own.
Ormund wipes the steel clean against the dead man's tunic, one side and then the other, with the methodical care of a man cleaning a hunting knife after a kill. He sheaths the blade back into its hilt and closes the remaining distance between him and the boy.
When Daeron’s mind finally returns to his body — ears still ringing, vision still hazy — his wide eyes snap to his uncle’s face and sees a quiet pride swimming in his features once more. It’s as comforting as it is horrifying. And when Ormund's strong arms wrap around the boy’s shoulders and draw him close to his chest, that feels like a dizzying concoction of the two even more so.
“I am proud of you, boy…” Ormund tells him as he leans in close, pressing his mouth to the boy’s hair in a near-kiss, though he whispers to him instead: “Do not tell your mother of this. Understood?"
Daeron does not answer, though Ormund does not ask him for one now.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Castle
You return to the castle late in the evening, weary down to your bones from the long day.
You had gone into town with what coin and grain the army could spare, and found Lady Kat there among the frightened smallfolk, tending to the smith's wife, whose arm still sat bound in a rough splint. The woman's round face was kind, but you knew that no amount of offered bread or soft words could cure what comfort had been taken from her.
“Do you know where my husband is?” she had asked you before you left, with something desperate in her voice that made you wish you had a better answer than the only truthful one you could give.
“I’m sorry. I do not know," you told her, smiling in what sympathy you could muster, honest in your ignorance if nothing else.
The question sits strangely in your chest on the ride back to the castle, though you struggle to place exactly why.
Dinner is already laid out by the time you arrive. The long table is embellished with more food than Tumbleton's starving smallfolk have likely seen since the war began. The notion sits heavy in your stomach before you’ve even entered the dining hall, where Ormund rises from his seat to greet you.
His warmth is striking, a shade too bright for the late hour. He presses a jeweled chalice of ale into your hand with a tender grin and a pair of soft eyes, asking after the wife and the town's wounded with an attentiveness he doesn’t usually spare for such small domestic accounts.
“Sit,” he tells you with one wide hand along the small of your back to urge you the short distance to the table. “You've had a long day, my love. Eat something before it goes cold."
Confusion floods your face at the emptiness beside your usual seat. “Where's Daeron? He hasn’t missed out on lemon cakes since he was old enough to chew them.”
“He's not feeling well. Best to let him rest,” Ormund answers with a polite smile as he pours himself a goblet of wine. His soft eyes flit between you and the glugging flagon. “Sit with me, love. I’m sure you’re half-starved yourself."
He sits down in his cushioned seat at the head of the long table and gestures for you to take yours. You remain stubbornly in place, because you know him far too well for anything else. Years of marriage have taught you every register of his voice; every flicker behind his eyes; every twitch in his features. And this one, all warm and careful and slightly too eager, is one you’d learned to trust least of all.
“What have you done?” you deadpan.
Ormund scoffs a breathless laugh, bouncing his broad shoulders in a shrug. “Why do you insist I’ve done something?”
“Because I can hear it in your voice.”
Ormund huffs again, though it’s more of a sound of surprise than true laughter this time. “Well, I assure you, dear wife, I have done nothing at all.”
“Is that what will Daeron tell me?” you press. “When I go to his chambers and ask him myself?"
“He will tell you that I'm an excellent uncle and an even better husband," Ormund quips with his elbows propped on the table and his pointer fingers steepled together. “And also that you ought to sit down and eat your supper with your poor husband, before you go making a production out of a boy's upset stomach.”
You leave despite his words, led purely by the intuition swirling in your stomach that drags you directly to Daeron’s chamber door. You knock once and receive no answer — when the silence holds on the third try, you let yourself in and find the boy alone in his room, curled small on the edge of his bed in a way that strikes you deep in the chest; a reminder of that swaddled babe curled against your chest fifteen years past.
He does not look up when you enter, nor when you lower yourself gingerly onto the edge of the mattress beside him without a word. His shoulders shake in small, tight increments as he struggles to choke down his own sobs. He drags each breath in through his nose and holds it for a beat too long until it shudders out of him again.
He freezes when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, going rigid against whatever emotion he’s trying not to shake loose.
“What's happened, my love?" you coo to him, gentling your voice the way you might for a much younger child. “Tell me."
He shakes his auburn head against the pillow and sniffles to himself. “He told me I couldn't…"
“Who? Ormund?” you press and feel a preemptive anger kindling hot in your chest before you’ve even heard the whole of it. “Well… Your uncle tells me a great many things that I’ve long since learned to ignore. So I imagine he can spare us the indulgence of a secret or two.”
After another shaky breath, Daeron pushes himself up from the mattress. He snivels wetly and wipes his flushed cheeks with the back of one hand. You smooth down his wild flaming tendrils until he finds the words to speak.
“The blacksmith…” he wavers. “The one who struck Ser Garrick this morning…”
Your stomach swirls with a sick feeling when he trails off. Your blood runs cold with a fear of what he might say next. You think instantly of the woman with the kind face and the splinted arm, asking so gently if you knew where her husband had run off to. You have to remind yourself to breathe again as you ask, “What of him?”
“Ormund made me…” Daeron’s breath catches in his throat with a horror reignited in the pit of his chest. “He said any strike against the army was a strike against the crown. Against me. Against you.” He forces each word out through unshed tears and feels half-furious at himself when his voice shatters. “He told me it would be a king’s justice. That it— that it would make you proud.”
The boy’s eyes lift to yours then, glassy and green and rimmed red. They dart back and forth over your face, searching for an ounce of comfort within it.
“Are you?” he asks in a voice barely above a whisper. “Proud of me, I mean.”
You nod until the words have climbed through the fear swelling in your throat.
“Of course I am,” you answer breathlessly, but with no hesitation at all despite the dread searing in your chest. “I have been proud of you since the day I met you. Nothing you could do— Nothing of what your uncle made you do could change that. And you did it, I have no doubt, because some part of you believed it would keep our family safe. Protecting the people you love, even when doing so costs so much, is no easy feat, my love. I know this better than you might think…”
Your mind drifts to the pale-haired boy — the merchant’s son who was brown of hair before you found him. The boy who was borrowed and dressed up in a prince’s wardrobe and sent off to whatever fate Rhaenyra’s justice had in store for him. The boy who is very likely chained or worse for a crime that was never truly his, simply because you and Ormund decided his captivity was a fair trade for Daeron’s freedom.
Daeron watches your eyes well with tears of your own, and his freckled face crumples further at the thought of hurting you further. “I did not mean to make you sad…" he mutters with a wet gaze that flits between yours.
“You haven't," you tell him firmly, though your voice remains steady. You gather the boy into your arms and press your cheek against his hair, feeling his tear-stained cheeks wet the skin of your chest. “I’m not sad, my love. I promise. I only love you. That's all….”
You sit with him for a long while after that — until his breathing steadies and his shoulders lose their edge. Only then do you rise, with one last kiss to his forehead, and leave him to whatever uneasy slumber he can manage after what the long day had done to him.
You run into Ormund on your way down the long corridor. His broad form towers in the narrow passageway as his wide hands splay before him in confusion. “What’s taken you so long? Your dinner’s already gone cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Your shoulder scrapes along his arm as you shove by him with little affection. Ormund huffs and falls easily into step with you on his much longer legs. The two of you move through the stony corridors in a silent tension that grows with every step you take, torchlight guttering along the damp walls as you pass them. The words of an argument well in your throat the whole way to your chambers and refuse to break free until the door has shut finally behind you.
“I cannot believe you!” you shout, features twisted in anger. “How dare you tell my son to lie to me! After everything—"
Ormund shakes his head. “I only told him to spare you a grief that serves no purpose—"
“You told him to kill a man, Ormund! A smith. A husband.” The words come out through a jaw clenched tight. Your eyes glitter in the flickering candlelight with every one that spills from your mouth, hands gesticulating wildly at your sides. “I stood in that town not an hour ago and told his wife I didn't know where he was. And I didn't know, because you hadn't thought to tell me you hadn’t let him go at all! And now I have to carry that too, on top of everything else because you've decided I didn’t need to be troubled with it—”
“It’s war!” Ormund shouts, voice ringing through the cobbled walls. His handsome features harden instantly as he stares you down with emotionless pale eyes. His long fingers curl into fists before relaxing once more in a repeated cycle intended to calm him. “I will not apologize for teaching that boy what war requires of men who mean to survive it. For now, it’s only Ser Garrick’s broken nose, but we will have far worse than that done to us before this war is through. If Daeron doesn’t learn that now, he’s as good as dead—”
“He’s sixteen—”
“He’s the King's last trueborn son, with any righteous claim to the throne!” Ormund thunders over your teary retort, approaching you with long strides. “He is the rider of a dragon that is the only thing standing between this army and total ruin— What don’t you understand about that?”
Ormund towers over you at once. His firm hands close hard around your arms, keeping you close and unmoving before him. He ducks his head to your height, eyes darting wildly between yours.
“Do you think I enjoyed putting that sword in his hand?” he continues, quieter now. “Do you think I've slept easy a single night since we left Oldtown, knowing what I'm shaping him into— why I have to?”
You swallow hard through a tight throat, peering up at him through the tears clouding your vision. “I think you’ve decided his suffering is a fair price for war,” you waver. “And I think you decided that without asking me.”
“Yes,” Ormund nods without reservation. “I have decided a great many things without asking you first— I did not ask you first when I decided to blanch that stranger’s hair and send him off in Daeron’s place, did I? And yet you still thanked me for it with your words and body when it kept our boy breathing.”
His words tear right through your chest. You shake your head in protest of them even though you know that he’s right — that you are no better than Ormund even in his madness; that you would do worse and more for Daeron if the war called for it, if you were brave enough to do it.
“Did I complain, all those years, when grief after grief left this house without an heir of its own blood?” Ormund goes on, quieter now but no less harsh, as his features twist in a stifled sort of anguish. “Did I complain when courtiers wondered in whispers why a man would stay wed to a wife that could not give him an heir?”
You flinch at his words like you can feel them physically, tearing you from the inside out, though his long fingers caging you force you to stomach them.
“I never complained. Because I love you and because I understood it was no fault of your own,” Ormund continues. “So I have earned, I think, the right to make one hard choice without you looking at me as though I’ve become some monster for it.”
Anger pricks your skin beneath your heavy gown like needles.
It is not the unfairness of the blow of his words that sends you reeling, but rather the sheer astonishment at how low he has stooped in his fury — in his grief. It is, perhaps, the cruelest thing he’s ever said to you; made crueler still for how plainly he does not seem to recognize his own cruelty at all.
“Say that again,” you tell him in an emotionless monotone. “Say it plainly, exactly how you mean it— that you think I am some monster—”
“I didn’t mean…” Ormund huffs and hangs his head, tense shoulders dropping as the lingering anger slips from his skin like rain. “I am not saying this to be cruel— Gods know, I’d sooner cut out my own tongue before I meant any cruelty to you.”
His pale eyes are wet and soft again when they lift to meet yours. His hands loosen their grip on your arms as they lift to cradle your cheeks, softly calloused and warm like velvet along your blazing skin.
“Daeron is the only child either of us has been permitted to keep,” the man continues, softer now. “He is not merely a boy I love, though gods know I do, but he is the only proof that we were ever meant to be parents at all… After everything this life took from us in the trying… Do you understand what I’m telling you?"
“So what?” you press, voice breaking. “The only way he gets to stay ours is if he survives long enough to sit a throne? Is that the only way to remove the taint from his blood— that’s what you called it, right?”
Ormund softens further in the face of your anger.
“Without Aemond, without Vhagar, this army has no dragon to answer to whatever Rhaenyra sends against us next… But Daeron has Tessarion, and Daeron has a claim that half this army would follow into the fire itself,” he coos gently to you, as if anything louder might break you entirely. His thumbs smooth gently along your cheekbones, wiping away a tear that clings stubbornly to the burning skin there. “The war is coming here, my love. It is not a thing we can shield him from any longer. He is our only hope of surviving what is coming, and every bit his birthright to lead it."
“Surely…” you trail off in disbelief, wild eyes searching his bluer ones. “Surely you do not mean to make our child fight in this war."
“It is the will of the gods,” Ormund croons as if it were that simple.
Something in you knows, as each word spills from his mouth, that this is not a man reasoning clearly. You can hear it in the smoothness of his voice and in each too-quick answer on his tongue. And yet, you want more than anything for him to be right. You want it so badly it frightens you — for the gods to will this war’s end, for Ormund’s victory, for your son’s survival.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Ormund draws you fully into his chest with one wide hand along your back and another cradling the back of your head. Tears fall from your lashes and wet the front of his emerald doublet.
“Listen to me…” he mutters into your hair. “If he sits that throne, no one in this realm could ever call him anything but ours. He is Viserys’s heir, yes, but he became a Hightower the moment you held him— and if he rules, no man will ever again whisper that he is not truly yours. He will restore ancient order to the throne. That is how we keep him.”
You shake your head in protest as you lean back from him again, just far enough to peer up at him with tear-heavy eyes. “Just bring him back to me,” you plead fiercely to him. “When this battle is done, I don't care what it costs you to manage it. Bring him back—”
“I will," Ormund nods with the same iron certainty that has carried you through every hard year of your marriage. “I swear it to you. I’ll bring him home—”
“And you,” you remind with a stern finger jabbed into the center of his chest. “You come back to me, too— I have buried enough of what I love in this life, Ormund. I will not bury another. You come back to me. Both of you.”
He nods and leans down to press his forehead against yours. Each of his heaving exhales through his nose fans warm across your chin.
“I will,” he breathes against you, thumbs sweeping again along your cheekbone. He shifts against you to brush the smallest of kisses to the bridge of your nose — so gentle that it makes you feel like crying. Your hands curl hard around his wrist to keep him close. “The gods owe us a debt. And we will see it repaid in full before this war is through, I promise you.”
You cling to the certainty in his voice the way a drowning woman clings to driftwood; the way a starving woman clings to the memory of her last full meal — you cling to him the way a grieving woman clings to the gods themselves.
summary: you are to become the wife of a man whose fate is deeply intertwined with religion. you wish with all your heart to be worthy of your lord hightower. you ask him for a small mercy, to teach you to see the world through his eyes. ormund cannot help but bask in the feeling of pride as he watches you, folded in humble prayer
word count: 2.5k
tropes: religious themes ⋆ possessive .ᐟ ormund ⋆ dark undertones ⋆ tender moments ⋆ comfort ⋆ mutual respect
warnings: 18+ audiences only ⋆ sexual tension ⋆ mention of faith ⋆ possessive behavior ⋆ emotional intensity ⋆ mild anxiety ⋆ religious guilt ⋆ implied sexual desire ⋆ heated moments
thea's note: i didn't plan to make a reference to prince andrei bolkonsky, but when i finished writing the paragraph about the tree compared to the mighty man who embodies it, i realized i had. it was such a pleasure to write this fic, oh gods how appropriate is that exclamation here? and it became especially special because i wrote this for someone very sweet @fire-joestar <33
Walking through the lush, life filled gardens of House Hightower, you could not help but feel a light nervousness settling like grey ash in your heart. You paced along the neatly paved paths without any of the pride that many brides surely felt, preparing to claim these grounds as their own. You kept stopping with an internal anxiety that had already wrapped your chest in unpleasant metallic threads. Ormund, walking behind you, mirrored your steps, though he looked relaxed in contrast. His face was smooth, almost blissful. His blue eyes took in the sight of the garden with reverence, but it was nothing compared to the way he looked at you.
A chestnut tree spread its branches with a sense of dignity. The tree looked proud, full of color. Among the lush greenery, reminiscent of your future husband's house colors, lush white flowers peeked through, resembling candles. A sweet, almost honeyed aroma filled the morning air. Looking at the plant, you could not help but think how this garden reminded you of Ormund himself. He carried the same unshakable calm, the same majesty, with an air as if it meant laughably little. Lord Hightower wore a heavy velvet cloak in a deep emerald color. His body seemed tense almost all the time, as if he held an entire sky on his broad shoulders. In this, he reminded you of the crown of a majestic tree.
You awkwardly touched the cold silver of your earrings, adjusting them periodically, not because they sat unevenly, but because you wanted some way to calm yourself. The trinket was a recent gift from your betrothed. They were heavy, the lobes of your ears felt the pressure, like a promise that being the wife of the head of such a house would not be simple. The earrings swayed slightly and settled against your neck, kissing your skin with the points of their rays. Two little stars with seven points and pearls set in the middle. This generous gesture from Ormund had become a nagging thought for you. You wanted to be worthy of it, and that extended far beyond just the earrings. You wanted to wear seven pointed stars in your ears with the same honor with which he carried his faith. You wanted to be part of his world, steeped in beeswax and quiet, devoted prayers.
You were the middle daughter in your family, and perhaps because of that, you did not receive the same attention as your older sister. This applied not only to your parents but also to your septa. You did not want to blame that good woman for not instilling in you the necessary love for faith. But as far back as you could remember, you recalled fingers pricked by a needle more than hands folded in prayer. You felt somewhat detached from this world. You had never been particularly religious, and before, you had never even thought about it. But now, walking shoulder to shoulder with your future husband, Ormund Hightower himself, you could not help but ask yourself many questions about your previous life.
The head of House Hightower noticed how your expression had changed. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as your head was covered in a white cloth like a dove's wing. Ormund could not help but admire you involuntarily. You looked so innocent and pure, like an angel descending from the heavens directly into his arms. The curve of your cheek was softly outlined, and the fabric clung to your beautiful face. Your gaze was captivatingly hidden beneath the shadow of your lashes. You could not have imagined that your image radiated so much temptation. You were a mystery covered in a patterned veil.
"You've grown quiet. Has something happened? Is it because of the wedding? Have you changed your mind?" Ormund chuckled quietly. You guessed he was trying to tease you sweetly, but his shameless nature pierced through this armor of sweetness very successfully.
You shook your head with a slight smile. This marriage was desired by both of you. It was almost surprising. When you were a very young maiden, you had already resigned yourself to an arranged marriage, because that fate had befallen many of your friends and acquaintances. Some of them married so young, and their husbands were much older, that you were involuntarily grateful to the gods each time for the love you shared with Ormund.
"I wouldn't refuse. Too much has already been done. It would be a shame if all the flowers prepared for the wedding went to waste."
The irony that slipped into your voice gave Ormund a slight thrill. Those rare moments when you teased him while still looking like such a pious lady made him weak. All good and proper thoughts left his head. Lord Hightower turned his head away, pretending that a neatly trimmed bush was occupying his attention. He did not allow himself to cross the boundaries of propriety, for later he would never forgive himself. Such sweet lies, convincing himself that he was not waiting for the wedding night as much as a starving man waits for food.
"But something is bothering you, isn't it?" Ormund rasped quietly, his voice hoarse from pent up emotion.
"I would like everything to go perfectly. I don't want to do something that will later become a constant reminder of my ignorance regarding religion."
"Ignorance is too strong a word, and I would say unworthy of you."
"Lord Hightower, you don't understand. I don't even know how to pray properly," you whispered with some desperation. These words had slipped from your lips, and you regretted not being able to hold them back. Your cheeks warmed with a blush that spread across your skin.
The man stopped and looked at you intently. Something predatory flickered in his spring like eyes. He smiled with the corners of his lips. You blinked in confusion. Shouldn't he be outraged? Did this not truly make you ignorant? But Ormund simply extended his hand to you silently. In this gesture, there was barely a hint of authority. You obediently reached for him. Something was pulling your body, tugging at the strings, forcing you to obey.
His hand covered yours, and it felt pleasantly right. His fingers were long and elegant, like swords forged by a skilled master, clinging to your fingers with a sense of ownership. Ormund still tried to hide the fact that you belonged to him no less than Oldtown. In his "my betrothed," there was a rough love. No one doubted that the marriage would take place, because it was the will of Lord Hightower.
"It's pleasant to be the first at something, hmm?" he purred quite ambiguously. You were slightly less innocent than he imagined, so you caught his hint. The upcoming wedding night troubled you no less.
You nearly gasped when you saw where you had ended up. You had walked through these gardens before, but you had never wandered into this spot. Before you stood a white marble gazebo with a dome of green stained glass and silver swirls that reminded you of ripples on seawater. There were seven columns, unsurprisingly, each representing a familiar figure. The silhouettes of the Seven bathed in golden sunlight, and their smiles at this time of day looked blessing and kind. The work was so masterful that you could make out every fold in their garments and every wrinkle on the faces of the statues. In the center of the gazebo stood an altar, a massive square polished at the edges, made of the same white marble but with graphite veins.
You froze, overcome with reverence. You could not believe that your future husband had brought you to such a sacred place. For you, this meant the same as opening his soul. Ormund gently urged you forward, or rather pulled you along, slowly ascending the low steps.
"This is not the sept, but I tried to make it a little like one. There is a little less strictness here and more freedom." Ormund nodded at the ivy that wrapped around the railings with its green tenacious paws.
"I think for a first time, it will do perfectly." His voice became deeper and quieter, as if he was afraid to disturb the peace of the Seven.
Lord Hightower's knees touched the cold floor. The cushion remained peacefully lying beside his feet. It was clear that he had never performed a prayer with anyone before. You pressed your hands to your chest. Unease gripped your entire spirit. The faces of the Seven could not set you up for confession, nor could Ormund who spoke so gently. His hair caught the light, glowing with copper threads, sparkling almost like amber.
"Come here, my lady. There is nothing to be afraid of." He insisted softly. Your cheeks warmed again. A bad, unrighteous feeling made the pit of your stomach clench into a tight knot.
How intimate it was to see the man who would belong to you kneeling before you. Ormund seemed ready to pray not to the gods, but to you alone. It would cost you nothing to step closer and run your hand through his thick hair. It would cost him nothing to leave a kiss on your stomach and travel lower.
You swayed and quickly sank onto the cushion he offered, afraid that he might hear your bold fantasies. Or were you already sharing one fantasy between the two of you as spouses?
"This might seem humiliating, but it is a posture of humility. Pride is a terrible vice, and how else are we to atone for it if not before the gods?" he whispered softly, like a gentle breeze against your trembling back.
His fingers picked up a thin wax candle, fingers that could easily break it in half, but they held it with the tenderness of a lover. He lit his candle. The flame danced smoothly, swaying from side to side. The glow of the lit candle played in your eyes. Ormund held his breath almost imperceptibly. A protective feeling spread through his chest. One of your locks slipped from under your headscarf and fell onto your soft cheek.
He cleared his throat hastily, realizing he had been caught openly devouring you with his eyes. Ormund offered you the candle so you could light your own, but he could not let go of your fingers. He squeezed your flesh with hidden passion. Desire clouded his mind. Would the Seven approve of him imagining biting your lower lip to push his tongue into your sweet mouth?
The marble face of the Mother now looked stern, and perhaps she was saving you from some foolishness right before your wedding, because Ormund pulled back, trying to straighten up. You watched the dance of your candles' flames standing close to each other. Two thin wax pillars desired each other no less than you and Lord Hightower.
"Place your palms together, warm them, feel the blood in you, that you are alive, and that it is thanks to the Seven, my lady." Ormund sighed quietly. He closed his eyes with extraordinary submission. With each new word, a composure awakened in him. He only occasionally glanced at you, checking how much you were giving yourself to the prayer or to his gentle commands.
"You can pray aloud. That is usually how it is done in the sept. That way you feel your involvement, and also that you are not alone, how faith fills you, making you the strongest person in the world. But you can also pray silently. That is your conversation with the gods. They will hear you because you are their daughter."
Lord Hightower whispered something completely unintelligible, but so tender that it made an indescribable impression on you. Your heart trembled, afraid of bursting. You were not praying. You were looking at your future husband without blinking. He was so devoted, so removed from the whole world, and the Seven, how beautiful he was! You forgot how to breathe. You wanted to immediately confess to the gods for all your sins, especially for the sin that had soaked into the skirt of your dress. Sometimes nature conquered any morality.
"Are you still worried about the upcoming wedding?" he suddenly asked, lazily opening only one eye like a cat. "You are not praying, dear."
"I am praying silently! And yes, I am worried, because I want everything to follow the strict traditions of your house." You began playing with your earrings again to occupy your trembling hands.
His blue eyes watched your nervous fingers. He was curious to feel your pulse, not just to run the pad of his thumb over your thin skin, but to warm your wrist with his lips, to trace the beating vein with the tip of his tongue.
"Everything will be as my wife wishes." Ormund swallowed. "And I appreciate that, my lady, your devotion. I swore to the Seven that my wife would lack nothing, that I would be everything to her that she desires."
You lowered your head so he would not see the wide smile that had appeared on your face. His words warmed you like strong Dornish wine.
Ormund approached without asking, lifting your chin with his fingers and kissed not your forehead or cheek, but your lips. His lips pressed against yours hotly and tenderly, his tongue tracing the outline of your upper lip, and you timidly allowed him to deepen the kiss with a shameless sigh. All you could do was part your lips a little more, letting your betrothed kiss you with pressure. His tongue slid against your inexperienced one. He was teaching you again, but this time there was no trace of anything as pure as prayer. Ormund's teeth grazed your soft lips, gently biting them and kissing them as if immediately comforting you, apologizing. Your moisture trickled down the inside of your thighs, which you pressed together to keep it from spilling onto the silk cushion.
You moaned pitifully, and that became something sobering for him. He did not pull away immediately. Ormund kissed you again, but tenderly this last time, unhurriedly sealing your swollen lips together. A wet thread stretched between your mouths, not allowing you to part so soon.
"The gods are merciful, as you can see, my lady." Lord Hightower whispered with eyes darkened and gleaming with arousal. "For I asked them for this."
You still could not calm your heart and your ragged breath, let alone the ache of your pussy craving sin.
Ormund did not look so agitated, or he hid it well. He meditatively dipped a sprig of hyssop into a bowl of water. With his brows furrowed in concentration, he ran the plant across your heated forehead. Water dripped onto your skin, but could not cool it.
Something vaguely told you that it would be different in the sept, certainly without that beastly kiss between prayer and aspersion, but your future husband looked as if he had done everything exactly as the rules you had so sweetly insisted upon required.
taglist: @lustedbby @pinkdoeweirdo @userhotd @rottenbites @ghostlybfgf @sedonasummer @risingraisin @icebearcucumber @baskettis @senatorpadmeamidala @sinarainbows @believeyourgalaxy if you want to be tagged, let me know .ᐟ
Can be read independently, but technically speaking it is the second and final part to this.
Ormund Hightower x fem!Reader
Summary: Ormund attends your wedding (night).
Includes: angst; forbidden love (?); iffy interpretations of canon (Ormund insists that he can claim the right to your wedding night (which is nonsense but oh well)); Ormund carries reader; smut; loss of virginity; Ormund being a very concerning individual; but you kind of really like him; not beta read
A/N: has this been done before? I do not know. But I thought these two deserved at least one night together.
Word count: 6.1k
Read on Ao3
banner by @/strangergraphics
All is perfect.
Your newly-wedded husband, who has kind eyes and warm hands, been whispering sweet nothings in your ear the whole day. Your parents-in-law, who have welcomed you to Castle Ivgrove with open arms, are nothing but patient with you. And the banquet prepared to celebrate your nuptials is simply a marvel of joy and merriment: the tastiest dishes, the jolliest tunes, the finest company. You have laughed your heart out, drunk yourself into a soft dizziness, danced yourself into near exhaustion and with it you have fatigued your husband, who did not grant you a dance even with your brother, so eager to instead be close to you the whole evening.
It is only a shame your parents could not attend, but their absence is not their fault: their carriage got damaged on the road, and the repairs are not so easily completed. If you so wished, you are certain that your new family, the Hastwycks, would have postponed the wedding for a few days, but you insisted on going through with it as planned. Your wedding was postponed long enough already. First the lord Hightower refused the match your father made. Only after many complaints did your liege lord broker you a different—a better, it can be said—match. However, those nuptials were adjourned three times due to the Septon finding last minute issues with the days you and your betrothed chose for the ceremony. It was a bitter pill to swallow, even more so three times, but you are not foolish enough to disregard a man of the Faith: you would not wish to be wed on any other day unless an auspicious one.
And what an auspicious day it is. Truly, you could not be happier. Only sealing your sacred vows to your husband in full could increase your joy now.
‘My lord husband,’ you say as he helps you return to your seat after yet another dance. ‘The hour is growing late.’
He is an honorable man, your lord Morgil Hastwyck, and you suppose, even handsome. If only not so handsome as him. You smile through the disturbing thought brightly, never mind that your cheeks hurt. It will pass, these sinful imaginations, these heinous desires. You have said your goodbyes to your lord Ormund Hightower weeks ago, and if all goes as it should, you will not see him again for months, if not years. Your wicked hunger for him will die once your husband takes you to your marital bed and you belong fully and only to him. It is not too late for you yet, you can still be an obedient wife.
But kind Morgil only smiles at your insinuations and so you remain on your place at the midst of the table, looking at the guests making merry and listening to the next happy tune. It is fine, you tell yourself, you can wait a while longer. There is no hurry at all, you have all the time in the world.
Until you have not. Through the opened doors of Ivgrove walk in four men; not invited guests, for no guest would ever bring armor and swords to a wedding. No, these men do not carry any sigil you have seen here until now. Instead, their silver plates of armor are adorned with the white tower topped with red flames of your liege lord’s house. The Hightowers. The music dies out, the guests stop dancing and all becomes silenced. Swallowing your breath, you place your hands flat on the table and push yourself on your feet—just in time to meet the gaze of the fifth and final intruder.
It is him.
He looks you straight in the eyes as he walks in, his hand resting on the hilt of Vigilance. How handsome he looks, how strong, how certain of himself. Not for the first time you are reminded that, unlike your husband, Ormund Hightower is no young boy, only about to grow into lordship. No, he is a true lord of house Hightower, seasoned with experience, dedicated to upholding honor and duty. Duty, however, should have kept him at Oldtown, in his wife’s chambers.
But here he is. The crowd parts to make way for him, but he walks into the middle of the room as if no one were there except for you. All his attention is gratuitously, freely bestowed onto you. You should not like the sight of him. And yet, you indulge yourself: for a moment you let yourself drown in the fantasy that he has come to you as a husband.
But he is not dressed in the white and gray of his house. Instead, he is dressed in deep emerald green. As if he were calling his bannermen to war.
As the wedding guests, all bannermen to the Hightowers, bow and courtesy, your lady mother-in law and lord father-in-law hurry to welcome their liege lord with the respect he is due. In the meanwhile your husband takes hold of your hand. You barely dare to move, caught under Ormund Hightower’s observant gaze as you are, but your husband guides you politely to the middle of the room.
‘—always welcome in our hall, my lord,’ the elder lord Hastwyck assures.
Ormund just smiles in that unsettling and disarming manner of his. He does not utter a word, only waits patiently until the lord and lady of the castle step back, and your husband presents you to him. As you sink into a polite courtesy, your gaze falls on the pearl white of your wedding dress. That is the only advantage which came with the numerous postponements: it is decorated marvelously, the embroidery a wonderful pattern of dragonflies, butterflies and flowers. You had plenty of time to see to refining these patterns after all.
‘You have been honored with a lovely bride, Morgil Hastwyck,’ Ormund Hightower says.
The first words uttered since he came in. Slowly you rise, and as you do so, for a moment, it feels as if it is all for him. This dress you so meticulously embroidered, the heat in your cheeks and sweat on your brow, and even, how disgracefully, the vows you spoke in the Sept this morrow. You cannot meet his gaze now, and so you look desperately at his knights behind him, at that Targaryen boy—how lost the young prince looks now, and how worried. His widened eyes and rigid stance do nothing to soothe you. Something bad will happen.
‘I am a lucky husband, my lord,’ Morgil agrees.
Ormund hums, in that pensive manner that only predicts trouble, and he mutters, ‘Day has made way for night.’
He does not allow you to avoid his gaze for longer. He takes hold of your chin. You jolt in surprise, but the small step you take back, he compensates by drawing closer. He forces you to meet your gaze. And something wicked glimmers in those brown eyes. In the gasp of a breath a horrid thought passes your mind, but you shake it off immediately. He cannot mean to attempt such a base thing. It would be against his own nature.
And yet, perhaps…
‘My lord, you cannot—’ you begin to whisper, but he is already speaking, his voice loud and certain, ‘I claim my right to this night with your bride.’
The silence in the great hall of Ivgrove swells to a grotesque weight, suffocating you. You shake your head in awe. He must have lost his mind, no other explanation can be given. For this right has been abolished decades ago, and even more so, it was one a lord could only claim over the lowborn. House Hastwyck may not be of the bluest blood, but it is not common, it is noble. He cannot do this. You know this, all around you know this.
And yet, your husband merely says in acquiescence, ‘My lord.’
Around you the nobles burst out in applause. You cannot believe what you are hearing. Lips parted in shock, you look at your lord Morgil, but he bows his head not even in avoidance of your face, but in subjugation to his liege lord.
‘You cannot do this,’ you whisper, eyes shooting back to Ormund.
But he merely raises an eyebrow. Before you can phrase your protests louder, he is already hoisting you over his shoulder.
‘No!’ you exclaim, ‘My lord, let me go, you cannot do this!’
It is common knowledge. It is the law. And yet, as he carries you off all clap: your husband, your parents-in-law, and every single guest. No one raises their voice in protest. They are apparently all more loyal to their lord than to the laws of men and gods alike. And so they keep their mouths shut and even applaud as their liege lord carries of someone else’s newly wedded wife.
You writhe and cry out in dissent as he carries you up the stairs. You curse even the servant who shows him the way to the very bedchamber you are meant to share with your husband. Ormund goes about his actions as if you were utterly still and silent, so unbothered he is by your attempts at putting up a struggle. By the time he sets you down on the blue silk covers of the bed—your marriage bed—indignation pounds harshly in your head.
This is not right, this is unlawful. And yet, no one keeps him from closing the door and caging you in.
As he draws closer to you, he says, ever politely, ‘Congratulations, my lady, on your marriage.’
And this time, when he smiles, it is not malicious, but tenderly. At least as much tenderness as he is capable of.
You force yourself to stand and face him head on. ‘You cannot do this, my lord.’
‘Tell me, my lady, who is the liege lord of house Hastwyck?’
Still he tries to reach you, to touch you, but you are insistent on keeping whatever distance remains.
‘Often you best me in the art of rhetorics and argumentation, my lord, but on this you will not.’
He should not be smiling at you like this, as if he is truly joyed to see you, to hear you speak, even if you do so in anger.
‘Let us not waste this night on debate, my lady.’ Still he comes closer, nearing you as if one would a feral cat. ‘The matter is simple. For hundreds of years stronger and fiercer men have had the right to claim the brides of lesser men. I only mean to honor tradition.’
‘The queen Alysanne—’
‘Yes, the old Targaryen witch mislead our forefathers to abandon tradition,’ he interrupts, a sharp edge to his voice.
It is not often he so makes his distaste for the royal house of the Seven Kingdoms known, but you have been aware of it for a long while now. He holds little love for the Targaryens, and maybe he is right to do so. The Hightowers have been lords of these lands since time immemorial. Yet, it matters not: what he means to do goes against ruling law, and has even been deemed a sin by the Faith. But still he only tries to reach you. You, in trying to avoid him, have worked yourself into quite the predicament, back pressed against the lush tapestry adorning the wall.
‘Tradition once gave highborn lords the right to claim the maidenhead of lowborn brides,’ you admit. ‘But I am not lowborn.’
You try to slip past him, but he grabs you by the waist and pulls your back flush against his chest. You try to free yourself from his hold, but he is tall and strong and so easily cages you in his embrace. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He takes in a deep breath.
For a moment, you fear or hope that he may retreat then. He is sensitive to smells, easily put off by the faintest notion of an unpleasant odor. You have been dancing, you have worked yourself into a sweat. He will take note of something a bit sour and he will retreat—except, he does not, except he just rubs his nose against your earlobe.
‘You are not,’ he admits in a whisper. ‘And yet, I claim your wedding night, my lady, and if you will, your maidenhead.’
He is trying to make you melt. To make matters worse, he is almost succeeding. If only because the lavender smell of him is so familiar, the timbre of his voice so calming. A man like him has no business being so well-versed in the arts of seduction. But is it seduction? Or is it tenderness? Warmheartedness? Part of you is inclined to give in. You are, after all, but a woman in love. Foolishly and blindly and terribly in love. And here you are offered a taste of the apple of your eye.
But the only reason you found yourself in this precarious position to begin with is that other part of you: the one which is inquisitive and sharp-minded enough to have ever impressed your liege lord in the first place. That part of you has been confused as to the details of this match. Your dowry, humble as it is, could never have been of the sort to impress a house such as the Hastwycks. And now you see why they may have welcomed you regardless.
Almost ashamed by your own thoughts, you whisper, ‘This is why you brokered this marriage, did you not? You did not even sell me, as a father would her daughter. No, my lord—’ You turn in his embrace, facing him, and sneer, ‘—you have bought me as base man would a whore.’
The silence tells you enough, but it is the darkening of his eyes and the heavy bob of his throat as he swallows that assure you of your correct guess. What a silly girl you are, that you did not question it more seriously before, that for a moment you thought he would let you marry another without even an attempt to yet claim you. He inhales and exhales slowly, not saying a single word for a long time. Finally he places his hand over your throat and says, ‘You should have been mine, my lady.’
‘You made me another’s.’
‘Only at your insistence,’ he snaps. You jolt at the venom in his voice, but he, noticing you fright, is quick to hush, ‘Only at your insistence, and only at… at this condition. You will be another lord’s beloved lady wife, but your maidenhead belongs to me. Tonight you belong to me.’
His words may have the form of statement and insistence, but at their very core they are a plea. Despair lines these vows, desperation glistens in his dark eyes. How you want to soothe him. But you cannot. It cannot be right, can it?
‘I took sacred vows in front of the gods, my lord, as did you when you wed your lady wife. We are each bound to another.’
‘We are bound, yes.’ He cups the back of your head, and leans in, until his forehead rests against yours, his nose rubs against yours. ‘But I am not a common man, my lady. And the gods recognize my right to you. Or do you think that if I were to call your husband to a duel now, the gods would bless him with a victory over me?’
Your legs are trembling, so upset you are. But also so content. He is so close to you now, so close as he is in your guiltiest dreams and most wicked fantasies. You grip the fabric of his doublet to keep yourself on your feet.
‘First you speak of claiming my wedding night, now you speak of dueling my lord husband,’ you mutter. ‘Ormund, I thought you were a man of the Faith, a man of honor.’
He scoffs, his grip on you softening. Then, he does the last thing you expected he would: he sinks onto his knees. Mouth agape you watch him kneel in front of you, his hands firmly gripping your hips. But his eyes are raised to meet yours.
‘This is the gods’ will, my lady,’ he says with such certainty that you almost believe it. ‘And as always I mean to do their bidding dutifully and honorably.’
You cannot help it. You reach for his face, tracing your fingertips over his cheek. But the touch is so unsuited that you press your eyes close.
‘Tell me you do not want this,’ he says suddenly. A moment passes as if he is scared to press the matter further, but he does, ‘Tell me you scorn me, and I shall—’
‘How can I speak such a lie?’ you interrupt in a cry.
Shocked, you place your hands over your mouth and stare down at him.
‘My maiden fair,’ Ormund mutters with such tender pity that your heart melts.
He rises onto his feet, prying your hands away from your mouth. His shadow falls over you as he speaks next, ‘You are mine to claim, my lady, you shan’t disgrace yourself by delivering yourself to your liege lord willingly.’
You desperately want to believe that. You desperately want him.
‘I-I should not,’ you whisper.
‘You should,’ he assures, ‘For your lord has commanded it, for this is the gods’ blessed order of things: for the strong to bless the weak. My lady—’ He takes both of your hands in his, kissing each softly, slowly. ‘—let me bless you with a child.’
You heart hiccups. A child, his child. It cannot be. It should not be. But you cannot deny that you have dreamed of it. And so you nod.
‘Yes?’ he presses, lips ghosting over your cheek.
You nod again.
‘I need to hear you say it,’ he murmurs.
Head swimming, heart bursting, you say, ‘Yes.’
You have barely uttered the word or he is kissing you. Whatever softness he spoke to you with is gone. He claims your mouth with the force and violence of a man who has been bereaved of what he desired for far too long. You let him, eagerly and wholeheartedly, you just let him kiss you like that. With desperate power. He is touching you in a way you have never before been touched: palming your body as if appreciating every curve and line of it, kneading your flesh as if testing its softness and pliability. So overwhelming these sensations are that you barely notice that he is guiding you towards your marital bed.
He kisses you so vehemently, yet helps you on the bed with care. He handles your body as if it were a sacred thing, moving so until he is certain that you are comfortable and content. He is reluctant to part from your lips, only doing so to quickly slip of your white shoes, to get rid of his boots and sword. And you, you cannot help yourself, you chase after his kisses with elated eagerness. When he finally joins you on the bed, you you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him back with you. He lets you move him, but when he is on top of you, when his tall and strong body cages you, it is clear that it is you who are at his mercy. His lips drift to your cheeks, to your neck, leaving a trace of fleeting kisses. His hands dip underneath your back, fumbling with the laces of your bodice.
‘You smell of saffron again,’ he mutters. ‘And lilies, and… hm, you.’
He kisses your throat and then, when he has undone your bodice, he bites down in the tender skin. You yelp and then, not able to help yourself, you giggle.
‘What a pretty laugh.’
He sits back on his knees, pulling you up with him. You place your hands firm on the silk sheets and you look up at him through your lashes. He is hesitating, you can see it in his eyes. It is a rare sight, this uncertain shimmer in his brown irises, but it is there now. Your body moves as if it has a mind of its own. You shift to sit on your knees and, drowning in his dark gaze, you begin to unbutton his doublet. He lets out a nervous breathe, a scoff of some sorts, but does not say a word.
In soft silence, lined by the glow of oil lamps and the cover of night, you undress him. At first your fingers shake, so nervous you are under his touch, but gradually longing overtakes you and your movements become steadier. It is a relief when his doublet and shirt are gone, to have your fingertips touch the hot flesh of his torso. He is firm and yet, a bit mellow. You press a kiss to his lips, smiling up at him.
‘Certainly you must know, Ormund, this is what I see in my most guiltiest of dreams.’
‘I too am looking at something straight from a dream,’ he confesses.
He kisses your lips, your cheeks, your brow, as if distracting you from what his hands are doing. A pleasant heat settles over your skin as he slowly pulls down your dress, baring your body to him. All guilt and shame you felt moments ago ebbs away as he does so. Being naked before him, is not something you can find fault in. After all, he has already seen your soul, why not your body?
‘My maiden fair,’ he mutters as he lets his hands drift to the swell of your breasts.
He urges you onto your back, lowering his face to the valley between your breasts. You sigh as he kisses you slowly, almost languidly there. It distracts you so that you barely notice him doing away with your dress entirely. He indulges himself in you, licking your nipples, palming the fat on your body, placing kisses there where you never imagined one could be kissed. Something between your legs begins to ache. You are defenseless against these sweet advances, this delirious claiming. And so, when his hand drifts over the sensitive flesh of your thigh, you can do naught but relax into the touch.
‘What are you doing?’
Your voice is accentuated by a laugh, both nervous and excited; for you truly do not know what he is doing, but you do know that you like this. That he likes this. As you dutifully follow his wordless command and spread your legs, he places a kiss over your tummy, and then dips his tongue in your belly button. With a muffled giggle, you prep yourself up on your elbows and look down at him. But the laughter dies in your mouth as you see him. He is kissing your hip, placing his hand over the inside of your thigh, as to hold you open. His dark eyes meet yours and you feel your cheeks burn.
He would not, you think, he would surely not do that—and yet, still holding your gaze he does. He kisses you there, on that warm, soft flesh between your legs. Your lips part as your breath escapes you. He smiles, not tenderly this time, but full of wickedness. He kisses you there again, but this time worse, better. With a gasp you fall onto your back. You have touched yourself before, so you are not entirely ignorant of pleasure. But this, what he is doing now with his mouth—his tongue—is different.
He wraps his lips around that sensitive nub there, and you cannot help but squirm. His touch is unraveling you, and you can feel yourself becoming slick with something else than his saliva. These new sensations, there is no way you can handle them. But you will have to, for he mercilessly grabs hold of your hips and keeps you down as he feasts on your flesh. Eyelids fluttering, you feel yourself sinking away in a warm pool of pleasure.
Obscene sounds fall over your lips, not words, just shapeless moans and whines and whimpers. If he minds them, he does not let them deter him. He is on a quest to claim you and so, undeterred, ever-devoted, he licks your slick folds and sucks on your sensitive nub and—
‘Ormund?’ you whine in confusion as you feel him slip his fingers over you.
He hushes you. ‘Lie back, my lady, let me take care of you.’
‘What are you doing?’ you ask, hands gripping the sheets.
At these words he pushes himself up and lies down next to you. But his hand, remains between your legs. He pulls you into a half embrace.
‘Surely, you are not so naive as to not know,’ he teases.
Yes, that is what he does. He taunts you with his words, and he torments you with his fingers. Almost absentmindedly he pets that sensitive button between your legs.
‘Naught I know of this,’ you say. ‘Why would you do that with your mouth, why do you do this with your fingers?’
As you speak, he just continues to rub you and you catch the amused grin on his face for what it is: he is happy with what he sees, perhaps even delighted. Perhaps that is why he pulls you even closer. That you do not mind. It is good to feel his firm chest against your naked body, to feel his warmth seep into your bones.
‘I did that with my mouth, because I wish to be a diligent lover to you, my lady. And I do this with my fingers, for you need to be opened up before you can take my cock.’
You hiccup at that lewd talk.
‘Opened up?’ you repeat almost indignantly.
He just kisses your lips, and then mutters, ‘Like this.’
And slowly he presses a finger inside of you. Your breath hitches, but he kisses you through it. Kisses you through all of it: him rubbing his thumb over that sensitive nub of yours, him carefully inserting a second finger, and then him pumping his fingers inside of your aching hole. You are uncertain whether it should feel this good. But gods, does it feel heavenly.
‘There you go,’ he praises all sweetly. ‘There you go, my maiden fair, let me open you up.’
‘Ormund,’ you whine.
He does not hush you again, instead he seems rather pleased with himself. So damn pleased.
It comes so suddenly. A sort of wave, a sort of surge, a fire, making your body tremble. You cry his name, burying your face in the crook of his neck. All he while he continues pushing his fingers inside your aching hole, toying with that sensitive nub.
‘Good girl,’ he whispers as you claw your fingernails in the flesh of his shoulder.
Finally he ceases his antics. He slips his hand from between your legs and you lean into him, as if you could be even closer to him. He brings his fingers, glistening with your slick, to your lips. He does not need to say a word, for you to know what to do. His eyes are all guidance you need. Obediently, you part your lips and lick his fingers clean. He does not enjoy messes and filth. And yet, he mutters almost absentmindedly, ‘Pretty.’
He returns you to lie on your back, this time making certain you are comfortably resting on the cushions. You barely noticed that you were closing your legs, until he pats his hands against the inside of your thigh and he tuts. Scoffing, you spread them again and he, biting his lips, sits down on his knees between them.
With doe eyes you watch as he unties his trousers, as he pulls them down and frees his cock. While he gets rid of the piece of clothing, all you have eyes for is that; his manhood, hard and erect, red at the tip, and throbbing. Your heart hiccups into a gallop as you, to your utter horror, realize that your mouth has begun to water at the sight.
‘My lady,’ he says softly as he gets comfortable between your legs, ‘You look frightened.’
‘I should not want to,’ you just mutter.
His hands are palming your waist lazily. What comfort you find in that touch, as if being kneaded into obedience. ‘Should not want to do what?’
‘Want to touch you there, my lord,’ you admit.
He presses a kiss to your cheek. ‘If you want to, then you should.’
He takes hold of your hand, but then he does something you did not expect him to be capable of. He spits onto your palm. You raise your eyebrows in surprise and he chuckles. Perfectly guessing your thoughts he says, ‘I know, uncharacteristically foul of me.’
He guides your hand towards his manhood and you press your lips together tightly, muffling a sound of confusion. But still, led by instinct more than his grip, you wrap your hand around him. Your heart jolts at the touch, at the firm weight of him. And even more so, at the trembling breath that escapes his lips. He does not force your movements in the slightest. When you slowly bring your hand down, to the base of his cock, and then up, to that flushed tip, you do so on your own accord. What a lewd sight. What a delicious sight. Gnawing at your lip you begin to pump his cock with your hand. You are fascinated by the feel of him, the slick sound of your touch.
And he, for his part, lets his head fall back and—dear gods—he moans. Flustered you raise your eyes to him, and he meets your gaze with a smug smile. And then, again, a deep groan slips from his mouth. Enthralled by this scene and utterly mesmerized by the sensation of it all, you stroke his cock with a diligence you did not know you had in you. And he rewards you by shivering and sighing and, then, finally, by leaning in to kiss you.
You almost feel as good as when he touched you there, at your most intimate spots.
And then, all of a sudden, he grabs your hand and pulls your touch away.
‘I—I am sorry!’ you yelp in a reflex, but he claims your mouth again.
Only after a long while does he break the kiss, does he say, ‘You would have me waste my seed on your belly, my lady.’
‘I did not mean to,’ you reply.
He cages you in under his body, his chest flush against yours. And you can feel it: his manhood prodding at your aching hole.
‘I know,’ he says, and then, more strained, ‘Fuck—My fair lady, let me make love to you.’
‘Are you not already, then, my lord?’
He scoffs. He coaxes you to look him in the eyes. And as you drown in that dark gaze, he begins to press inside you. The strain is painful, if not also delightful. Strange, how aching and yearning can be so similar. Holding your breath, you let him do as he pleases. He is careful and slow, as if scared to send you running. As if you would run from him, as if you would run from this: this sensation of him sinking inside of you is the most bliss you have ever experienced. Once he has buried himself inside you into the hilt, he remains still for a moment, kissing your brow. No words are exchanged, he discerns your moods and feelings merely through exchanged touches and glances, but once assured that you are, if anything, perfectly comfortable, perfectly content, he slowly begins to rock into you.
It is sweet lovemaking, you suppose, saccharine and velvety soft. There is a dull ache to it at first, but it easily melts away in the most delectable pleasure you have ever felt. This is all you ever wanted. Him, this close to you, him in your marital bed, him claiming you as his. His moans and sighs in your ear are the prettiest sound you ever heard. You lift your hips, trying to meet his movements, but the clumsy attempts only make him chuckle somewhat.
Instead, he gradually increases his pace, until finally he is thrusting into you with such force and need that you can barely keep up. You dig your fingers in his shoulders and then, as he starts pounding into you near frantically, your touch slips and you are scratching his back.
‘Ormund,’ you whine, and all of a sudden he pulls out of you.
He slips from the bed. For a moment you fear you have upset him—he has a difficult temper—but then he drags you by your waist to the edge of the bed. What a marvelous sight he is, standing there, naked, his cock erect with desire for you. He wraps your legs around his waist, his cock rubbing against your slick folds. He teases you like that for a short while; sliding his manhood against your wet, hot flesh, now and then his tip prodding against the sweet spot of your entrance.
You are too dizzy with desire, too out of breath with overwhelming need to still be able to beg, but when you prep yourself up on your elbows, he suddenly stills. You can only imagine how you look now. A wanton whore most like. But it must entice him, for suddenly he has no patience for taunting you anymore. He presses inside you again and you sigh in delighted relief.
You let him do as he pleases, for it pleases you: how he splits you open with his cock, how his thumb toys with your sensitive nub, how his hand palms your breast. It is all for him, you and your love and yur desire, it is all his. Just as in this moment, he belongs only and utterly to you. As he makes love to you so, it does not take long for you to come undone. Whining his name over and over again as if it were a prayer, you tremble and shiver. And he, guides you through, it calling you his maiden fair, his good girl, his beloved—but it does not keep him from fucking you. You are granted no respite, for he is now chasing his own pleasure and that pleasure he gains from sinking his cock inside you. He has far more stamina than you, outlasting you for so long that you are uncertain of what you feel. But you do not mind, he may use you as you please if only in this moment. If only because you like how he moans your name as he chases his own releases.
And then he stutters to a halt, a moan dying in his mouth. Gripping your waist firmly he spills his seed inside of you. You welcome the strange sensation, but in truth all your attention is on his half closed eyes, his face contorted in ecstasy. You push yourself up on the palms of your hands, kissing the line of his jaw, before burying your face in the crook of his neck. You are sad to feel him slip out of you, but at least he keeps you close. He climbs once more on the bed with you, keeping you flush against his body as he sits down, back resting against the headboard.
You cup his face in your hand, inspecting his grim expression. You find that you cannot guess what is going on inside his head.
‘What are you thinking of, my lord?’
‘I am thinking that it is sad, my beloved lady,’ he replies as he maneuvers you so that you would sit astride on his lap, ‘that I can only lay claim on this single night with you.’
A heavy weight settles in your chest. For that sorrow you feel as well.
‘It is one night more than I ever dared hope we would have together,’ you say, mostly to keep your own spirits up.
He lets out a deep sigh. For a moment he just looks at you, his gaze straying over the curve of your neck, the swell of your breast, the fat of your tummy, as if trying to engrave it all in his memory, than he says, ‘The night still stretches long before us.’
‘I—I must remind you, my husband would still expect me to—’
‘No one will take you from me until dawn breaks,’ he interrupts harshly, and then, even more insistently, ‘No one will take you from me.’
And when he kisses you once more, you almost believe him on his word.
2.6k | painter!Reed Richards x f!Reader & Alex Serian
⟢ Summary: You attended Reed's art reception and grew closer to the person behind the paintings.
Tags/warnings: none. fluff. maybe second-hand embarrassment. I don't know painting and musical terms. no y/n. not proofread. not beta-ed.
a/n: This is a direct continuation to the painter. It was quite well received, and I also enjoyed writing for this pairing, so here's a sequel! With an addition of Alex Serian as a third wheeler because I'm already obsessed with him. Like the first one, I didn't take the writing aspect very seriously. It was a fun quick write while I take a little break after today's exam before I continue studying for the next. It's a bit rushed, so I'm sorry for any mistakes. I hope you'll enjoy this one!! <3
part 1: the painter
The gallery was already crowded with people within its first hour of opening. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement and anticipation, particularly outside the closed exhibition hall for which the very event you were here for will be held.
Your heels clanked against the hardwood flooring as you approached the growing queue. Aside from you, everyone here seemed to have been long aware of the reception.
Your hand reached inside the small bag hanging over your shoulder and you fished out the ticket you had received yesterday. Your eyes perused over the letters printed on the thick rectangular paper over and over again.
Just what, was your luck?
Your feet unconsciously moved with the line until you finally reached the staff in charge of the event admission.
"Madame? Your ticket, please." The staff's voice pulled you out of your thoughts and you looked up to find him looking mildly annoyed at your lack of focus.
"Pardon." You extended your hand to lend him the ticket, but instead, he only blinked at you as if you just offered him illegal money. "Is there a problem?"
"We use digital tickets, Madame."
Confused, you glanced over to the person behind you who looked just as impatient. The woman, whom you guessed was about your age, held up her phone to show you her ticket.
You turned back to the staff. "But this is still a ticket, no?—"
Before the staff could deny your entry, the faint sounds of chatter and camera shutters grew in your ears. You—and everyone else—whipped your head in the direction of the noise to see a group of people swarming a moving subject.
The actual reason you're here.
Reed Richards.
From the distance, you could see him flashing a polite smile as he answered questions thrown his way from the journalists. But your gaze didn't get to stay long on the man because the staff once again called you.
"I cannot let you enter yet, Madame. I have to consult my manager to make sure this ticket is valid."
Sighing, you let the woman behind you through as you stood next to the line, wondering if you should give up and leave, or give this man—in a boring, plain black blazer—a good headbutt so he could perhaps see better. Do you look like you'd scam your way inside with fake tickets?
Your patience was running thin as you watched the other visitors pass through. After calling someone over with his in-ear piece, a bald man, presumably in his mid 50s, rushed over. You assumed he was the manager.
They discussed the issue, and he took hold of your ticket, examining it like a lost artifact—and you had to physically hold yourself back from rolling your eyes.
"Mademoiselle. You made it."
The familiar soft voice shook your train of thoughts. Your head swiftly turned to find the artist himself standing next to you with hands shoved down the pockets of his trousers.
The paparazzi had left him alone, finally; the ones invited for media coverage already heading inside to get the best views and set up their tools.
"H-hi. You." You stammered, unsure on how to react after your encounter yesterday. It brought a chuckle out of the man.
"I believe I told you it's Reed." He smiled, showing off his dimples. "Though, I haven't had the pleasure of knowing yours, yet."
You swallowed as you stared into his eyes and told him your first name.
Reed repeated it. Your name sounded light on his tongue, like a brush on a canvas.
"That's a beautiful name."
He tore his eyes from yours and briefly glanced down at his watch. "The event starts in twenty. Best to get seated now."
"That's the thing.."
"Excuse me, gentlemen."
The two gallery staffs stopped their chatter to look at Reed. Their eyes widened at the unexpected presence.
"Monsieur!" The manager placed his hand over his chest and bowed curtly, and the staff followed suit.
Reed brushed off the greeting and went straight to the point. "Is it true that you're not the letting the owner of this ticket inside?" He pointed to your ticket that the manager was holding.
"Uh, yes. We're informed that all tickets are in digital form."
"Well," Reed gently took the ticket from the manager's hand. "This one is legit. I personally gave it to my special guest. So if you will.." He smiled; the kind that made the gallery employees shudder.
"Right away, Monsieur!"
"Merci bien." Reed nodded in satisfaction.
The staff quickly allowed you in. You thanked them, feeling relieved that the spectators of your earlier predicament no longer looked at you like a fraudster.
You caught sight of Reed already heading off to the back entrance reserved for staffs, but he turned his head in your direction and sent you a quick wink.
You have to thank him later for saving your dignity.
You immediately frowned at the thought your mind had conjured up.
No. HE got me into this trouble.
You shook your head to shrug off the debate arising in your head and went to find a seat; somewhere at the end of the row where you wouldn't be attracting anymore unwanted attention.
When you had finally settled in your seat and calmed down, your ears finally registered the sound of cello filling the room.
At first, you thought it came from the speakers. But then you craned your neck to look between the heads sitting in front of you and found a man in a suit playing the instrument, live.
The bow glided over the strings purposefully, and his loose curls swung over his forehead with matching intensity. You recognised the melody, Andante Cantabile by Tchaikovsky. It sounded wistful and tender, perfect for the atmosphere inside the hall.
The opening performance ended and you softly clapped along with the other guests. As the cellist stood, you managed to get a better look of the talented man. He held his cello and bow in one hand and bowed, smiling gratefully.
At the same time, Reed emerged from the white partitioned wall that displayed his artworks, and the claps only grew louder at his appearance. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him.
You spot the cellist's smile breaking into a grin as he gave Reed a little bow. He was about to leave with his cello, but Reed stopped him, placing a hand on his arm. The cellist, wearing a suit with a black bow tie was caught off guard as Reed led him to the center of the room.
"Please. Another round of applause for my good friend, Alex Serian." The room erupted with applause, and the man, whom you now know as Alex Serian, bowed again, this time with a slightly embarrassed smile.
You found Reed chuckling at his bashful response, which you had to admit, was adorable. Finally, with a pat on Alex's shoulder, he disappeared behind the same wall Reed came through.
"Thank you all for coming." You attention again shifted towards Reed, now standing in front of everyone with his artworks displayed behind him. He talked about how his latest works came about with bright eyes and the same excitement as you witnessed yesterday; when you shared your thoughts about a painting that was apparently his.
The memory had you biting your lower lip to suppress the embarrassment that had been plaguing your mind. You barely had any sleep last night thinking of how you must have made a fool of yourself.
Despite it all, you couldn't miss the chance to see Reed Richards's other masterpieces before the general public does. So here you were.
"Thank you again for coming, and please, help yourselves." Reed gestured towards the lines of frames holding his paintings after ending his speech.
Everyone started leaving their seats, thrilled to see his works up close. The media on the other hand, was quick to approach him for more questions, shoving mics into his face.
You took your time with each painting, observing the colours, the intentionally asymmetrical shapes, the brush strokes, the similar art style to the painting you saw yesterday. You found yourself smiling, finding joy in seeing patterns and seeing what makes each painter unique.
Your feet halted before a painting placed on the other side of the room. There were only two main colours. Black for the background, and orange for the subject. At first glance you thought it was mars. But no, it was a fox; curled up into an almost perfect round. The painting took your breath away, partly due to your love of foxes.
You lost track of time studying the fascinating artwork, and before you knew it, you were one of the last few visitors left inside the exhibition room.
"You've stared at this one for a while. I didn't expect the fox to receive most of your attention." A pair of heels softly clanked against the hardwood floor before stopping right beside you. "I'm almost jealous."
Your head whipped in his direction, and you found Reed smiling at you. You instantly mirrored his smile. "It's really beautiful."
"I'm glad one person thinks so."
"I'm serious."
Reed chuckled before playfully bowing with a dramatic flair. "I appreciate your kind words, Milady."
"Stop it." You gently slapped his arm without thinking, chuckling in embarrassment, as you caught some visitors' eyes on both of you. "We're in public." You continued in a hushed tone.
Reed only smiled and watched the twinkle in your eyes as you laughed. "So you won't mind if it's in private?"
His question made you stop, heat suddenly creeping up your cheeks as your heart thumped against your ribs. What the hell is happening?
"I don't—Not like that!"
Reed laughed. "Apologies, love. I was merely teasing." He placed his palm over his heart to show how sorry he was; but the way he bit his lower lip to suppress another chuckle told you that he relished in seeing your reaction.
Just then, another set of footsteps approached you. You both turned to find the man who played the cello earlier, looking slightly... disheveled. He smiled at Reed before sparing a glance at you.
"Alex." Reed tugged his sleeve to pull him over. Alex smiled as Reed introduced you both to each other, and you shook his hand with a polite smile.
Alex then turned to his painter friend and leaned close to whisper in his ear; which you could somehow still hear—very clearly. "Will you stop dragging me around?"
You had to bite the inside of your cheeks to stop yourself from laughing. This man sure didn't appreciate being the center of attention.
"Where were you anyway?" Reed gave his friend a look. Alex's lips parted but no words came out.
"Just went to get some drinks." He said after a beat of silence.
"Right." Reed smirked. You watched their exchange in amusement.
"How did you two know each other?" You asked, redirecting the conversation to something that wouldn't keep pushing Alex to the corner. The man gave you an appreciative look.
"We met in art school." Alex nodded in confirmation. "He made me do his painting assignment." He then added bluntly. The cellist snapped his head towards his friend in betrayal.
"No I didn't."
"Yes, you did. How else did you get an 'A' for that class when all you did was play cello and—"
"Fine, alright?"
Reed grinned in victory at his surrender, forcing the chuckled you had tried to contain out of you. You could tell they'd been friends for a while.
"Come on, dinner's on me." Reed said, voice turning softer as looked at you.
"Me?"
"Yes, and us." He jerked his head towards Alex.
"It's alright," Alex said, "you two can go together. I'll get something on my way back to the hotel."
"Absolutely not. I owe you for that performance."
"You don't owe me anything though." You interjected, feeling almost bad that you might be getting in between their plans.
"It was a mistake on my part that the gallery staffs almost didn't let you in because iof the ticket I gave you. So I do owe you a proper apology." Reed looked at you hopefully. For a second, you thought his eyes looked rounder, like puppies. And it made you want to give in.
"You sure?"
"Very."
Alex watched the whole thing like a tennis game. Reed's eyes on you didn't waver, and he then added,
"Please."
At that word—and the way he said it—Alex's eyebrows raised in surprise, but he didn't say a word.
"Alright." You finally gave in. "I guess I'd enjoy some company for tonight."
The implication that you rarely had company at night had Alex curious. "Why? Are you single?" He inquired, which earned him a jab from Reed.
"Uh, yeah. I am." You answered with a sheepish smile.
Alex's eyes sparkled with mirth and he glanced at his friend with a grin.
"Don't mind him." Reed said, subtly glaring at the man next to him. "Come. I know a place."
The atmosphere of the restaurant was warm and cozy. The three of you ate your meals and filled the silence with lighthearted conversations. You hadn't felt so happy talking to people in a while.
"You haven't shared your thoughts on my paintings yet today." Reed pointed out as he wiped his mouth clean of his tomates farcies.
"It wouldn't matter. I'm no art critique."
"That's exactly why it matters. My art are not for critiques—though they are, unfortunately, important for PR. But ultimately they're for myself, and for the people who find joy and comfort in it."
You sighed, knowing that aside from fine arts, Reed Richards was a master in the art of persuasion—or at least you couldn't seem to resist him.
So you talked, and talked, and the two men listened without cutting you off.
Alex looked at you before his gaze landed on his friend who was listening intently to everything you had to say—and a small, almost fond smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
You finally arrived home after midnight, thanks to Reed and Alex who made sure you got back safely.
You felt your heart fluttering the whole time as you recalled your conversations. The way Reed valued your opinions, the way he listened to you without interrupting, the way his voice would get softer whenever he talked to you.
You wondered if you'd ever get to see him again.
Reed and Alex walked down the dimly-lit pavements back to their own hotel after sending you back.
"You should've gone to that dinner without me." Alex said, breaking the silence of the night.
"What? Why?"
"Because clearly, you didn't need me there. It could've been a date."
"But it wasn't supposed to be a date." Reed looked at him in confusion.
Alex's lips parted in disbelief. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed Reed's neck, holding it in a headlock. "Do you even know how to pick up a woman?"
"Ow! Let go, idiot! I'm not like you."
"You're the idiot! You're literally in love with her!" That immediately shut Reed up.
Alex let him go with a shove, sending the man stumbling on his feet. "And yeah, I'm a ladies man." He shrugged. "So if you don't make your move, maybe I will."
Reed gasped, and his hands suddenly itched to wipe the smirk off the menace he unfortunately called friend's face. "Don't. You. Dare."
"Try me."
Sensing the warning signs in Reed's eyes, Alex instantly took off, with the man in glasses chasing after him into the night.
Deep down in his heart, Reed knew Alex was right.
When he looked at you, he saw a woman who spoke his language—a woman who could interpret the strokes on his canvas.
And Reed knew he had fallen. Hard.
Thank you for reading!! Hope this made your day/night :) reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts <3
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Summary: A family emergency turns out to be Eloise with a plan, your hormones have officially entered their dramatic era, and Harry decides to do something dangerously romantic about it. Unfortunately, the past has plans too.
Warnings and WC: 19.8k (yes, I missed writing this much 😌) 18+ MDNI / mature themes, time-jump, fluff, kissing, emotional intimacy, secret beach wedding, surprise wedding, private vows, second wedding / remarriage, Harry becomes the most romantic man alive because his very pregnant fiancée cried over a movie, overly emotional pregnant reader, comedy, hormonal crying, pregnancy cravings, twins gender reveal, high-risk twin pregnancy, pregnant reader, body changes, protective daddy-to-be!Harry, overprotective husband energy, soft Harry hours, second chance romance, exes to lovers, established relationship, mention about orgasm, billionaire romance, rich people problems, elite Manhattan society, family therapy ambush, Eloise being Eloise, family dynamics, childhood wounds, emotional distress, hurt/comfort, pregnancy complications, early labor scare, domestic fluff, banter, humor, old money aesthetics, private love vs public image, OC Characters (Ron=Harry’s assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Yuliana=Reader's maid, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Reader's EA (Executive Assistant), Eloise=Harry’s Grandmother.)
authors note: My loves, this chapter kept growing while I was writing it, and I can't believe it almost passed 20k. I almost split it into two parts… but changed my mind. It's officially the longest chapter I've ever written, and I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Enjoy! ❤️
• The Songs: Stand By Me — Florence + The Machine
You are the Reason — Olivia Penalva
What Belongs to You Will Find Its Way Back
April 13th...
Rhinebeck, New York
Three black cars swept up the long drive to Rhinebeck as though bad news had learned to travel in formation.
From the back seat of the first, you watched the estate emerge through the trees—gray stone, climbing ivy, and tall windows catching the last pale light of the afternoon.
It had always looked peaceful from a distance.
Today, it looked like the kind of place where families gathered to hear something they would never forget.
Harry hadn't let go of your hand since Ron received the call. His fingers remained tightly threaded through yours, his thumb brushing slowly over your engagement ring and across your knuckles in a steady rhythm that was probably meant to calm you.
It wasn't working.
Not when his jaw had been locked for the past forty minutes.
Harry had walked out of a meeting without his coat, picked you up before you'd even had time to change, and ordered the driver toward Rhinebeck without waiting for another explanation.
Across from you, Ron sat unusually still, his phone dark in his hand. He'd already called the house twice.
Both times, Eloise's nurse had given him the same answer.
Mrs. Castillo had suffered a difficult morning. She wanted the family in Rhinebeck immediately.
Nothing more.
"Did she sound frightened?" you asked again.
Ron looked up. "The nurse?"
"Yes."
"She sounded controlled."
"That wasn't my question."
Ron hesitated a fraction too long. Harry's grip tightened around your hand. You turned toward him. "Maybe we should've gone straight to the hospital."
"If she needed a hospital, her nurse would've sent her to one," Harry said evenly. "She knows what she's doing." His voice was calm. Deliberately calm.
It might've convinced anyone else.
Not you.
Harry was terrified. He was simply doing everything he could to keep that fear from reaching you. "Eloise is probably fine," he continued, his thumb brushing over your hand again. "It could be exhaustion. A medication adjustment. Anything."
"You don't believe that."
His gaze met yours. "I believe worrying before we know anything won't help you or the babies."
"I'm all right." You leaned closer, covering his hand with yours. "Hey. She's the strongest woman I know. She's going to be okay."
Harry held your gaze for a long moment, as though he wanted to borrow your certainty but wasn't sure how. "She'd better be," he said quietly.
He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles before lacing your fingers together once more.
Your free hand drifted instinctively to the gentle curve beneath your dress.
At five months, hiding the pregnancy was no longer possible—not with twins, and certainly not from a man who'd spent the past several weeks monitoring every meal, every yawn, and nearly every step you took.
Harry noticed immediately. "What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Was that a cramp?"
You smiled. "One of the babies."
"Which one?"
You waited until another tiny flutter danced beneath your palm. "The mischievous one."
Ron blinked. "You can already tell them apart?"
"Of course I can."
"They're identical twins."
"That doesn't mean they have identical personalities."
Another tiny kick answered for you.
You laughed softly. "This one waits until I'm trying to sleep. The other prefers interrupting my calls with Gerard."
Harry considered that. "The second one sounds strategic."
"Definitely a Castillo," Ron said with a smirk.
Harry slowly turned his head. Ron calmly redirected his attention to the window.
Before Harry could answer, the iron gates opened, and the car began its final climb toward the house.
A second car followed close behind.
Through the rear window, you caught a glimpse of your mother and Vivienne sitting side by side, both unnaturally rigid.
Lately, the two women had been spending an astonishing amount of time together.
Ever since you stopped speaking properly to Scarlet... and Harry had grown just as distant from Vivienne.
That, however, was another story.
Probably several.
A third black car turned through the gates.
You frowned. "That's Mikey's car."
Harry glanced over his shoulder.
Ron followed his gaze. "Michael was called as well."
"Of course he was," Harry muttered.
Ron's expression hinted there was more to say. He wisely chose continued employment instead.
The first car rolled to a stop beneath the portico.
Harry was out before the driver had fully opened the door. He rounded the car and offered you his hand. As you stepped out, his other hand instinctively rose above your head, shielding you from the doorframe.
You smiled. "I'm not quite big enough to need help getting out of a car."
"You're carrying our babies." His voice softened. "The least I can do is take care of my queen."
You slipped your hand into his. "You're supervising every limb I own."
Once both your feet were on the gravel, he rested an arm around your waist instead of letting go. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss beneath your ear. "I'm very attached to them," he murmured.
You laughed. "All of them?"
"Every single one."
Behind you, Scarlet and Vivienne climbed out of the second car.
Scarlet looked as though she'd abandoned her reading glasses somewhere along the drive. Vivienne, meanwhile, had lost every trace of color.
Your mother's eyes found yours first. Hope flickered across her face, fragile enough to disappear almost immediately.
She took the smallest step forward. At the same moment, Vivienne looked toward Harry with nearly the same uncertainty.
You felt Harry's arm tighten around your waist. Your fingers quietly found his hand.
No words were exchanged. None were needed. Together, the two of you turned toward the house. Scarlet stopped. Vivienne did too. Ron watched the mothers...
...then their children.
He let out the quietest sigh.
The third car pulled beneath the portico. Sienna stepped out first. Mikey emerged from the opposite side. For one suspended moment...
Neither of them moved. Sienna's hair was slightly less polished than usual. Mikey's tie was missing. The top two buttons of his shirt hung open beneath his coat. He looked exactly like a man who hadn't expected to arrive at his grandmother's estate with Harry Castillo's younger sister.
Harry noticed. Slowly... His attention shifted from Sienna...
...to Mikey.
Mikey straightened immediately. Sienna lifted her chin. Even Scarlet and Vivienne forgot their panic long enough to look between them.
"We ran into each other," Mikey said.
"At lunch," Sienna added a little too quickly.
"She needed a ride."
Vivienne frowned. "Weren't you supposed to be at the gallery all afternoon?"
"I was."
"Then how exactly did you run into Michael at lunch?"
Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Mikey rescued her. "Manhattan becomes a very small place when two people are hungry."
Scarlet's eyes drifted over his missing tie...
...his open collar...
...and finally the restaurant bag still hanging from his hand.
"Apparently."
Ron glanced toward the company sedan assigned exclusively to Mikey.
"A fortunate coincidence."
Harry remained silent. Which, somehow, was much worse. You felt the exact moment suspicion began arranging itself inside his head.
Questions were coming.
Before the first one could leave his mouth, you caught the front of his coat and gave it a gentle tug.
He looked down.
You held his eyes for a beat.
Not now.
His brows drew together. Somehow...He knew you knew something. He also knew this wasn't the place to ask.
You pulled your coat tighter. "Can we go inside? I'm freezing."
Mikey disappeared from Harry's mind instantly.
His arm settled around your shoulders. "Come on."
Together, you headed for the front entrance.
The interrogation disappeared.
For now.
The front doors were already open.
Two members of staff stood inside the foyer, their expressions solemn. The housekeeper held her hands clasped tightly at her waist, while a young footman stared fixedly at the marble floor.
Something about them felt wrong. Not grief.
Performance.
The realization flickered through you and vanished before you could fully grasp it. Perhaps they had simply been instructed not to say anything. Perhaps your fear was making everything seem strange.
“Where is she?” Harry asked.
“Upstairs, sir,” the housekeeper replied softly. “Her nurse is waiting.”
Scarlet moved first.
Her heels struck sharply against the marble as she crossed the foyer, Vivienne close beside her. Sienna and Mikey followed without looking at each other.
Harry kept one hand at your back as you climbed the stairs.
Too slowly for everyone else. Too quickly for him.
His arm tightened every time you reached another step.
“Harry, ” you warned beneath your breath.
“I’m not carrying you.”
“You were thinking about it.”
A reluctant smile touched his mouth.
You would have answered, but Eloise’s nurse appeared at the top of the staircase. Her face was composed. Almost suspiciously composed. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Harry stopped in front of her. “What happened?”
Vivienne stepped beside him. “I was gone for two days. She was perfectly well when I left.”
“She’s resting.”
“That isn’t an answer,” Harry said.
“She asked me not to discuss anything until everyone was present.”
Vivienne looked around sharply. “We are present.”
The nurse’s gaze passed over the group, pausing briefly on Mikey and Sienna before returning to Vivienne.
“Yes,” she said. “You certainly are.”
She turned and led all of you down the corridor. The house had gone unnaturally quiet. No distant clatter from the kitchen. No music from one of the sitting rooms.
Only footsteps and the steady ticking of the old clock near the staircase.
At Eloise’s bedroom door, the nurse paused. “Please try not to upset her.”
Vivienne pressed one hand to her chest. “Oh, God.”
The nurse opened the door. The curtains had been drawn halfway, leaving the room washed in muted silver light. Eloise lay beneath a pale cashmere blanket, her head resting against a mountain of pillows.
Her eyes were closed.
For the first time since the call, Harry released your hand.
He crossed the room in three strides. “Abuela?”
Eloise did not respond.
Vivienne hurried to the other side of the bed. “Mama?”
The rest of you gathered near the footboard. Scarlet reached blindly for your hand, and despite everything that had passed between you, you let her take it.
Sienna stood stiffly beside her. Mikey’s usual restless energy had disappeared completely. Eloise’s nurse closed the door behind all of you.
A long moment passed.
Then Eloise took a faint breath. “Is everyone here?”
Her voice was weak enough to make Harry bend closer. “Yes,” he said immediately. “We’re all here.”
“Scarlet?”
“I’m here,” Scarlet whispered.
“Vivienne?”
“Here, Mama.”
“Sienna?”
“Yes, Abuela.”
“Mikey?”
Mikey blinked. “Uh… yes, ma’am.”
Eloise’s eyes remained closed. “Mi reina?”
You stepped closer, Harry’s hand finding yours again. “I’m here.”
From somewhere near the door, Ron cleared his throat. “For the record, I’m here as well.”
Eloise remained motionless. “Ah, Ronald,” she breathed. “I remembered you.”
Ron gave a small nod.
Eloise released a long, tired sigh. Then her eyes opened.
Clear. Sharp. Entirely alert.
“Bueno,” she said.
Before anyone could react, she pushed herself upright against the pillows with surprising ease, pulled the cashmere blanket neatly over her lap, and held out one hand.
Her nurse placed her reading glasses into it.
Eloise slipped them on and looked around the room, visibly pleased by the collection of pale, frightened faces before her. She clapped her hands together once, bright and decisive. “Everyone is here. Perfect. Then we will not waste Dr. Adler’s time.”
Silence.
The door to the adjoining sitting room opened.
A woman in a navy suit stepped through, carrying a leather notebook and wearing the professionally neutral expression of someone who had already been warned about the family waiting for her.
“Good evening,” she said. “I’m Dr. Vanessa Adler.”
No one moved.
Harry stared at his grandmother. “Abuela.”
Eloise adjusted her glasses. “What?”
“Did you fake a medical emergency?”
Her mouth fell open in theatrical offense. “Fake? Ay, por favor (please). I did no such thing.”
“Your nurse said you’d had a difficult morning.”
“I did. My eggs were cold, the coffee was weak, and none of you have answered a direct question in nearly a month. It was a terrible morning.”
Scarlet made an outraged sound. “We thought you were dying!”
“You frightened all of us,” you added. “We came here expecting the worst.”
“I left an entire boardroom without saying a word,” Harry said.
Sienna folded her arms. “That was cruel, Abuela.”
Mikey whined. “I abandoned my dessert.” Everyone looked at him. “What?” he said. “Grief affects people differently.”
Eloise waved one dismissive hand at all of you.
“Dios mío, look at these faces. At my age, death is always somewhere nearby. I never said it had entered the house.”
Vivienne turned toward the nurse. “You allowed us to believe something had happened to her.”
“I said Mrs. Castillo wished to see the family urgently,” the nurse replied calmly. “That was accurate.”
“You trapped us,” Sienna said.
Eloise looked at her over the rim of her glasses. “Had I said, ‘Come to Rhinebeck, niños, there is a therapist waiting to discuss your feelings,’ would you have come?” Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing emerged. “Exactly,” Eloise said. “Do not argue when you know I am right. It gives me a headache.”
Mikey looked between Eloise and Dr. Adler. “You used mortality as a scheduling tool.”
“And you arrived on time for the first time since I met you.”
Mikey considered that. “That’s incredibly manipulative.” Then a slow, appreciative grin appeared on his face. “I like it.”
You stepped closer to the bed. “Eloise, I’m five months pregnant with twins. You cannot summon me by implying that you may be dying. There are currently three heartbeats inside this body, and you frightened all of them.”
Eloise reached for your hand. “Come here, mi reina.”
You gave her a suspicious look but allowed her to take it.
She squeezed your fingers between both of hers, her expression softening. “I am sorry I frightened you, mi amor.”
“You don’t look very sorry.”
“No, because I am not sorry that it worked.”
“Eloise.”
“Ay, let me finish.” She patted your hand. “I would not have done any of this if all of you had not become completely impossible.”
A chorus of protests began.
Eloise lifted one finger. “¡Basta! (enough!)” The room fell silent. “At our last family dinner, Scarlet and mi reina spoke exclusively through the salt and pepper.”
You glanced toward your mother. Scarlet looked away with great dignity.
“Harry and Vivienne exchanged six words all evening,” Eloise continued. “Four of them concerned the rain.”
Vivienne folded her arms. Harry said nothing, which did very little to help his case.
“And now Vivienne is spending every free hour with Scarlet. Just like schoolgirls. Their son and daughter are sulking in separate corners, so naturally the mothers have abandoned them to whisper together.”
Scarlet’s expression became carefully blank.
Vivienne lifted her chin. “We are allowed to enjoy one another’s company.”
“Sí, of course.” Eloise looked between them over the rim of her glasses. “And I am supposed to believe the two of you have no secrets while you disappear for lunches, lower your voices when I enter a room, and suddenly stop speaking whenever one of your children appears.”
Neither woman answered.
Eloise gave a satisfied nod.
“You may fool your children. You may fool one another. But you will not fool this old woman. Whatever you are hiding, whatever ridiculous problem has driven you into one another’s arms, you will solve it.”
Scarlet’s expression remained perfectly composed.
Which, in your experience, generally meant Eloise was right. Sienna lowered her head, hiding a smile. Then Eloise turned toward her.
“And you.”
Sienna blinked. “What about me?”
Eloise narrowed her eyes. “You have been happy.”
Sienna stared at her. “I’m sorry?”
“Too happy,” Eloise said. “Smiling at your telephone. Disappearing for lunch. Wearing perfume in the afternoon.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Sí, sí. And I am a foolish old woman who has never seen a girl hide a man.”
Mikey coughed. Eloise’s head turned toward him immediately.
“And there he is.”
Mikey straightened. “Why am I suddenly involved?”
Eloise looked from him to Sienna and back again.
“I may be eighty-six, cariño, but when it comes to romance, deception, and badly concealed attraction, my mind is still sharper than most of yours.”
Sienna abruptly found the carpet fascinating. Mikey looked toward the window. “Come on, Eloise,” he said with an unconvincing laugh. “This is becoming wildly speculative.”
“Mm-hm.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly does that mean?”
Eloise waved one hand dismissively. “Nothing you need to worry about yet.”
“Abuela.”
“Do not ‘Abuela’ me. If there is something to know, I will know it before you do.”
From near the door, Ron murmured, “At least we now know where the Castillos inherited their observational skills.”
Eloise released your hand and settled back against her pillows, looking around at the family with the weary affection of a woman who had raised too many stubborn people and somehow acquired several more.
“So I have decided that all of you need therapy.”
“We do not all need therapy,” Vivienne said.
“Some people need boundaries,” you murmured.
Scarlet looked at you. “Some people need to communicate instead of freezing out their mothers.”
“Some people need to stop investigating other people’s private lives,” Vivienne added.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Some people need better judgment regarding men.”
“Ay, Dios mío.” Eloise struck the mattress lightly with her palm. “Listen to yourselves. You sound like children arguing over one toy.” No one answered. “As the eldest person in this family, I am asking for one afternoon without secrets, sulking, investigators, secret lunches, mysterious interviews, and whatever else you are all doing behind closed doors.”
She pointed toward Dr. Adler.
“You will speak to this nice woman. You will tell her the truth. Not the elegant version, not the corporate version, and not the version where you are all innocent little angels. You will solve your problems, or at the very least, you will learn to argue more quietly. I would like to enjoy the rest of my life.”
Dr. Adler cleared her throat and stepped forward.
“My plan is to begin with a few brief private conversations. Afterward, we’ll meet together to discuss the patterns affecting the family as a whole.” She glanced around at the collection of reluctant faces.
“Shall we begin?”
The private sitting room was smaller than Eloise's bedroom, warmer too, with tall windows overlooking the gardens and a low fire crackling beneath the marble mantel. A carafe of water sat on the table beside a box of tissues with the quiet menace of something fully expecting to be needed.
Dr. Adler was already seated in one of the armchairs, her notebook resting open across her lap. She gestured toward the sofa opposite. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."
You lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions, one hand supporting the underside of your stomach. "Comfortable stopped being an available position about three weeks ago."
A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Would another cushion help?"
"If you bring me another cushion, Harry will somehow sense it through the wall and order six more." That earned a soft laugh. You adjusted your skirt and glanced toward the closed door. "I still can't believe Eloise actually did that."
"I'm observing that her method was effective," Dr. Adler replied. "Everyone she asked to come arrived."
"Because we thought she was dying."
"Which says something rather lovely about how much she means to all of you."
You narrowed your eyes. "That sounds suspiciously like therapeutic manipulation."
"It sounds like an observation."
"You're going to fit into this family beautifully."
She smiled, letting the joke pass. Instead, her attention drifted briefly—not intrusively—to the curve of your stomach. "Before we discuss your family… how are you feeling? Is everything going well with the pregnancy?"
You rested your palm over the place where one of the babies had been moving throughout the drive. "I'm about as well as anyone five months pregnant with twins can be."
"Tired?"
"Constantly."
"Any pain today?"
"No. Just pressure, backache, occasional insomnia… and two tiny people with very strong opinions about where my internal organs should be."
She nodded. "And emotionally?"
You looked at her. "That feels like a much more expensive question."
"It usually is."
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Then she asked, "Where would you like to begin?"
You gave her a knowing look. "You already know where Eloise wants us to begin."
"She gave me a broad outline."
"And?"
"I'd rather hear your version."
You sighed. "Of course she did." Another quiet pause. "If we're actually doing this…" You drew a slow breath. "Everything started after I moved into Harry's house."
At the time, you had been barely three months pregnant. The babies were still easy enough to hide beneath tailored coats and structured dresses. The nausea wasn't. Neither was the exhaustion. But Queen Financial had only just begun recovering, and the last thing you wanted was for anyone walking into a boardroom to mistake pregnancy for weakness. For weeks, you carried ginger tea in coffee cups and smiled through mornings when simply remaining upright felt like an act of corporate defiance.
"And your mother knew?"
"Everything."
"Was she supportive?"
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I thought she was."
When you told Scarlet, she'd cried. She'd held your face, kissed your forehead, and told you that after everything you'd survived, you deserved something beautiful. Then, less than twenty-four hours later…
…the conversation became strategy.
"Her first concern wasn't my health. It was the company."
Dr. Adler remained silent.
"Queen Financial was still fragile. Investors were watching everything I did. And she believed a public pregnancy would overshadow the recovery. She thought it would become the only thing people saw."
Scarlet's voice still echoed in your memory.
You cannot announce this yet, darling. Not until the company is stronger.
At first, you'd agreed. It seemed reasonable. Temporary. You'd wait until refinancing was complete. Then the board transition. Then quarterly earnings. There was always another milestone. Another reason to wait.
"How did that make you feel?"
You looked down at your hands. "Like I wasn't carrying two babies. Like I was carrying a liability."
Dr. Adler let the silence sit. "And the wedding?"
You leaned back carefully. "That was worse."
Scarlet had been thrilled when you and Harry found your way back to one another. She'd told you pride wasn't a substitute for love. That you'd regret letting fear choose your future. But once the ring was on your finger…
…and the pregnancy could no longer be hidden…
Everything came with conditions.
You cannot marry him while you're visibly pregnant.
"I honestly thought I'd misheard her."
"What was her reasoning?"
"That Manhattan would turn it into a circus."
Another memory surfaced.
They'll say Harry rescued you, rescued your company, got you pregnant, and rushed you down the aisle before anyone could ask questions.
"None of that was true."
"No," Dr. Adler said quietly. "It wasn't."
You gave a faint smile. "But she wasn't wrong about the headlines."
The smile faded. "She wanted us to wait until after the girls were born."
Twenty minutes later, Scarlet occupied the same sofa.
Her posture was immaculate, one elegant leg crossed over the other. Even now, she looked more like a woman preparing for a board meeting than a therapy session. Dr. Adler closed her notebook from the previous conversation and opened it to a fresh page.
"Tell me what changed from your perspective."
Scarlet folded her hands neatly in her lap. "She finally looked happy."
Dr. Adler waited.
"I had watched my daughter spend years carrying responsibilities that should never have belonged to her. Then she found her way back to Harry. She was expecting twins. She had a future." A faint smile touched Scarlet's lips. "I wanted to protect it."
"And what did protecting it look like to you?"
"Managing the circumstances around it."
"You mean the company."
"Among other things."
Scarlet glanced toward the window before continuing. "Queen Financial had only just survived the worst crisis in its history. Investors were watching everything. I believed one public pregnancy would eclipse everything she had accomplished."
"And the wedding?"
Scarlet didn't hesitate. "I wanted that to belong to them."
Dr. Adler tilted her head slightly. "Ms. Queen remembers it differently."
"I'm aware."
Scarlet let out a slow breath. "I told her she wasn't a spectacle. My concern wasn't the marriage. It was how the world would rewrite it. I wanted her achievements to remain her own."
Silence lingered for a moment. Then Dr. Adler asked quietly, "And what do you think Queen heard?"
Scarlet's brow furrowed.
"I…"
She stopped.
Dr. Adler didn't rescue her. Instead, she simply waited. Scarlet's shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. "…That I cared more about appearances than about her."
Another pause. "Was she wrong?"
Scarlet didn't answer immediately. Finally… "No." She looked toward the floor. "Not entirely."
Dr. Adler turned back to you. “What happened after that conversation?”
"I stopped telling her things."
Scarlet's response came without hesitation.
"She punished me."
"I set a boundary."
"She excluded me from the pregnancy."
"She knew the babies were healthy."
"She wouldn't let me attend the next scan."
"She tried to relocate my obstetrician to Rhinebeck."
"I suggested an alternative arrangement."
"She had an examination room prepared in the house."
"It was discreet."
"It had a chandelier."
"The chandelier was already there."
Dr. Adler paused.
"And the flowers?"
Scarlet's eyes narrowed slightly. "Medical rooms are unnecessarily bleak."
Back in your session, you looked toward the ceiling. "Do you see what I'm dealing with?"
"I'm beginning to," Dr. Adler admitted.
"The second baby had already been identified as a girl," you continued. "The other refused to cooperate."
Despite yourself, a smile appeared.
"A few days ago… we finally found out."
Dr. Adler smiled back.
"And?"
"Another girl."
The words still warmed something inside you.
Two daughters.
Two tiny heartbeats.
Two entirely different futures already unfolding.
"And you haven't told your mother."
"No."
"Why?"
You looked down at your engagement ring before answering.
"Because I wanted one thing to belong to Harry and me before it became a theme, a luncheon, a guest list… and twelve thousand flowers."
That earned the smallest laugh.
Then Dr. Adler grew thoughtful.
"So withholding that information became a boundary."
"It did."
"And it remained one?"
"For a while."
"And after that?"
You hesitated.
"…Maybe it stopped being only a boundary."
"A little?"
You sighed.
"Moderately."
One corner of Dr. Adler's mouth lifted.
"Elegantly punitive."
Despite yourself…
You laughed.
"So Harry wasn't exaggerating."
"Oh?"
"He told me your sense of humor usually appears about twenty minutes after your honesty."
You smiled despite yourself.
"He's annoyingly perceptive."
"I've noticed."
Dr. Adler closed the notebook.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Finally, she said,
"I'd like to ask you one last question."
You nodded.
"When Scarlet said she was protecting you…"
"…did any part of you believe her?"
Silence. A long one. Eventually…
"Yes."
"And yet?"
"I didn't need protecting."
"You needed trusting."
Your voice had become barely more than a whisper. "I needed her to trust that I could live my own life."
Dr. Adler nodded once. "I think that's a very important distinction."
She stood, gathering her notebook. "I won't ask you to forgive her today." You looked up. "I don't think either of you is ready for that. But I do think you're both grieving the same relationship."
You frowned. "The same relationship?"
"The one each of you thought you had. And that's usually where healing begins."
By the time Harry took your place on the sofa, Dr. Adler had already filled several pages. She turned to a fresh one and poised her pen above it. “Mr. Castillo. Tell me about your mother.”
Harry settled back, resting one ankle over his knee. “My mother is seeing a man.”
Twenty minutes later, Vivienne answered the same question with visible irritation. “I had dinner with a perfectly respectable gentleman.”
“Four dinners,” Harry said in his own session.
“Three dinners and one lunch.”
“Two lunches.”
Vivienne sighed and looked toward the ceiling. “My son apparently keeps a ledger.”
“There was also a weekend in Connecticut.”
“There were twelve bedrooms in that house,” Vivienne protested.
“That doesn’t make the weekend less concerning.”
“It makes it considerably less intimate.”
“He sent her roses.”
“He is French.”
Harry looked directly at Dr. Adler. “That is not a defense.”
Dr. Adler rested the tip of her pen against the page. “Mr. Castillo, your mother is an autonomous adult.”
“I’m aware.”
“You had the man investigated.”
“Autonomy does not eliminate due diligence.”
"And did your mother ask for your protection?"
"No."
"Then why did you decide she needed it? What are you afraid will happen?"
“He could take advantage of her.”
“Financially?”
“Financially, socially or emotionally. Those things often overlap.”
“And did your mother ask for your protection?”
“No.”
“Then why did you decide she needed it?”
Harry’s fingers moved once against the arm of the sofa. “People rarely ask before something goes wrong.”
“That sounds less like an answer about this man and more like an answer about someone else.”
His eyes lifted to hers. “My father left.”
The words were flat and controlled. Dr. Adler did not immediately begin writing again.
“Your parents divorced?”
“No.”
She paused. “Your mother is still legally married to him?”
“Yes.”
“And yet he has not been part of her life for years.”
“No.”
Harry looked toward the window. “My mother never received an ending. He simply left her with the consequences.”
“Not anymore. We don’t remind her. The last time her condition worsened, the doctors told us to avoid anything that could trigger another episode.”
Dr. Adler regarded him quietly. “So your father’s absence is something the entire family is required to live around, but never fully discuss.”
“That isn’t why we’re here.”
“Perhaps not. But it may explain why another man entering your mother’s life feels less simple to you than it does to her.”
When Dr. Adler later asked Vivienne about Harry’s behavior after Eduardo left, her irritation softened. “He became efficient.”
“That sounds like an unusual response to grief.”
“It was Harry’s response. He dealt with the lawyers, the accounts and every practical problem Eduardo left behind. Sienna was nineteen and furious. Harry called her constantly until she threatened to block him.”
“And you?”
“I was still married to a man who had chosen not to be my husband.”
Vivienne looked down at her hands.
“Harry decided that if Eduardo had abandoned his responsibilities, he would assume all of them.”
“Did you ask him to?”
“No. Harry has never waited to be asked.”
Back in his own session, Dr. Adler said, “Has this new man given you any reason to believe he intends to hurt her?”
“Not yet.”
“So you’re preparing for a betrayal that has not occurred.”
“I’m being cautious.”
Dr. Adler lowered her pen. “Your mother’s marriage never formally ended, your father’s absence cannot be openly discussed around your grandmother, and you have spent years managing the consequences. It makes sense that you want this new relationship verified before you allow yourself to trust it.”
“Allow myself?”
“Yes. Because this is not only about whether your mother trusts him.”
Harry said nothing.
“It’s also about whether you can tolerate her beginning a new life when the old one was never properly closed.”
In Vivienne’s session, Dr. Adler asked, “Does being legally married to Eduardo affect how you feel about seeing someone else?”
Vivienne was silent for a moment. “Sometimes.”
“Guilt?”
“Not toward Eduardo.” Her answer came sharply. “He surrendered any right to ask for loyalty when he left.”
“Then what?”
Vivienne exhaled. “The strangeness of it. Beginning something new when part of my life is still sitting unfinished in a locked room.”
“And Harry knows that.”
“Harry knows everything.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “That is both his best quality and his most exhausting one.”
Later, when Dr. Adler brought them into the room together, Harry sat at one end of the sofa and Vivienne chose the other.
“Harry,” Dr. Adler began, “your mother understands that your actions come from love.”
“And arrogance,” Vivienne added.
“And arrogance,” Dr. Adler allowed. “But she is not asking you to erase the risk. She is asking you to trust her to decide whether it is worth taking.”
Harry looked at his mother. “Does he know you’re still legally married?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know why?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know about Abuela?”
“Only what he needs to know.”
“Has he asked for money?”
“No.”
“Professional introductions?”
“No.”
“Access to the family?”
“No.”
“Has he—”
“Harry.”
He stopped.
Vivienne’s voice softened. “I’m not replacing your father. I’m trying to stop living as though the life he abandoned is the only one I’m allowed to have.”
That silenced him.
After a moment, Harry nodded once. “If something feels wrong, you’ll tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Immediately?”
“Within a reasonable period.”
“Define reasonable.”
Dr. Adler lifted one hand. “No negotiations.”
Harry looked dissatisfied but relented. “Fine.”
“And you will not investigate him further,” Vivienne said.
“I won’t authorize any new investigation.”
“That isn’t the same sentence.”
“It’s the sentence I’m offering.”
“Harry.”
He sighed. “I will not investigate him further.”
“Or ask Ron.”
His silence lasted half a second too long.
Dr. Adler looked at him. “Or Ron,” he added.
Vivienne’s shoulders eased. She reached over and touched his cheek. “My poor baby boy.”
Harry leaned away. “Mama.”
“You’ve always been so devoted to me.”
“I am forty-six years old.”
“And still my baby.” Vivienne smiled. “When you stop treating me like a helpless abandoned wife, I’ll stop treating you like a worried little boy.”
Harry looked toward Dr. Adler. “Is this therapeutically appropriate?”
She made one final note. “It appears to be working.”
Vivienne patted his cheek again. “My baby boy.”
Harry closed his eyes. “This was a mistake.”
Dr. Adler turned to a fresh page.
Across from her, Mikey settled into the armchair as though he had been waiting his entire life for an audience legally required to listen to him.
"Before we start," he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile, "everything we say in here stays in here, right? I can tell you anything?"
"Within the boundaries I explained earlier, yes."
She regarded him over the top of her notebook.
"Although I was under the impression we would be discussing your problem."
"I don't have a problem."
"Are you certain? You and Miss Castillo appear to be concealing something from your families."
His smile faltered.
"Did Eloise tell you that?"
"She shared several suspicions."
"That woman missed her calling."
"What was her calling?"
"International espionage." He leaned back with a sigh. "Fine. It was a problem. Mostly."
Dr. Adler waited.
"I realized I liked Sienna." Another pause. "I then tried several strategies that failed spectacularly." She waited again. "And eventually everything worked because of my little sister."
That finally earned a smile. "You asked your sister for advice?"
"I did."
He leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "My little sister is the smartest woman I know. Smarter than my mother. If that sentence leaves this room, I'll deny it under oath."
The corner of Dr. Adler’s mouth curved. “And you asked your sister for advice about Sienna?”
“I did. She told me to stop trying so hard and just be myself.” He leaned back, satisfied. “She was right.”
Twenty minutes later, Sienna occupied the same chair. She looked considerably less pleased by Queen's advice. "I'd never thought of Mikey that way before," she admitted.
"He was funny. Different." A small smile appeared. "But whatever this is… it only started last week."
"What changed?"
"He came to an auction I'd curated." A pause. "Everything went downhill after that."
One Week Earlier
The Belcourt Auction House, Manhattan
The auction room was exactly what wealthy New Yorkers liked to imagine culture looked like—polished wood, quiet lighting, priceless objects behind glass, and enough restrained elegance to justify spending absurd amounts of money.
Mikey wandered through it wearing a burgundy velvet jacket, cropped black trousers, martini-print cashmere socks, tinted glasses, and the cream trilby Sienna would later describe as a personal attack against art.
A numbered paddle rested in one hand.
An open packet of gummy bears occupied the other.
He stopped in front of an abstract painting made up of three black lines.
A member of staff approached.
"A striking piece, isn't it, sir?"
Mikey tilted his head.
"Is it finished?"
"…Yes, sir."
"Good for him."
Then he saw Sienna.
She stood near the front beside the auctioneer, dressed in a sharply tailored dark suit that somehow made everyone around her look underprepared.
His grin appeared before he could stop it.
He had come for her. Entirely for her. Mostly for her. He lifted the paddle and waved. Sienna noticed immediately.
Her expression passed through surprise…
…disbelief…
…suspicion…
…and something softer that disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.
She gave him the smallest wave in return. Unfortunately… So did the auctioneer.
Genevieve Crane smiled from behind the podium.
Mikey, meanwhile, looked at her with absolutely no recognition. An unfortunate situation… considering she remembered him perfectly.
"Two hundred and eighty thousand from bidder seventy-four."
Mikey blinked.
"What?"
The auctioneer rested one hand beside the gavel.
"Two hundred and ninety thousand on the telephone."
Mikey frowned.
"No, I was waving to—"
"Three hundred thousand from bidder seventy-four."
A ripple spread through the room.
Across the aisle, Sienna's eyes widened.
She shook her head frantically.
Mikey pointed at her.
"No. Her. I was waving at her."
"Three hundred and twenty thousand."
"What? No."
The auctioneer's smile never wavered.
"Three hundred and forty?"
Mikey threw both hands into the air.
"Stop looking at my hands!"
"Three hundred and forty thousand from bidder seventy-four."
Sienna mouthed,
Put. The paddle. Down. You idiot.
Mikey stared at the paddle as though it had betrayed him personally.
He shoved it inside his jacket.
The auctioneer waited.
The room fell silent.
"Three hundred and forty thousand, once."
Mikey cautiously raised one finger.
"Can I ask a question?"
"Three hundred and sixty thousand."
"Oh, come on."
"Three hundred and sixty thousand, once."
Sienna covered her face.
"Twice."
Mikey looked at her helplessly.
The gavel struck.
"Sold."
Polite applause echoed through the room.
Mikey remained frozen. "What did I buy?"
The gentleman beside him closed his catalogue. "A seventeenth-century Venetian cristallo marriage goblet."
Mikey stared at the stage.
"Singular?"
"Yes."
"For three hundred and sixty thousand dollars?"
"Plus buyer's premium."
He closed his eyes.
"…I don't know what that means."
The moment the auction ended, Mikey headed straight for the auctioneer.
"Excuse me."
She looked up pleasantly.
"Yes?"
"There has been a terrible misunderstanding."
"Has there?"
"I was waving."
"You raised your paddle."
"To say hello."
"Several times."
"Because you kept selling me things."
"I sold you one thing."
"For the price of an apartment."
She smiled.
"You should probably familiarize yourself with auction procedure, Mr. Queen."
A beat.
"Although I suppose rules have never been your strength."
Mikey frowned.
"…Do we know each other?"
Sienna stopped walking. The auctioneer laughed once. "Typical Mikey."
Recognition finally dawned. "…Genevieve?"
Her smile vanished. "Oh. So you do remember."
"Fuck."
"Perhaps the rules of an auction slipped your mind…
the same way the woman you left alone in a hotel suite apparently did."
Sienna quietly turned away and began speaking to another member of staff.
"Hey."
Mikey hurried after her.
"That was six years ago."
"I was a different person."
She didn't even look at him.
Behind them…
Genevieve smiled.
Mikey slowly turned back toward her. "You vindictive witch."
"You just ruined everything."
Two attendants approached carrying the goblet on a velvet tray.
It was breathtaking. Centuries old. Delicate. Beautiful.
Mikey looked at it with absolutely no emotional attachment.
"Congratulations, Mr. Queen."
"Shall we process the purchase through the Queen Foundation account?"
Mikey closed his eyes. "…Of course it's the foundation account."
He looked at the goblet. "…Well. I bought it. So it's mine."
He reached into his coat… removed the packet of gummy bears… and tipped them directly into the three-hundred-year-old Venetian goblet.
Silence. Genevieve stared. "That object has survived three centuries."
"And now it has purpose."
The administrator held the tablet toward Mikey again. As he prepared to sign, Genevieve leaned closer.
“Try not to forget this one by morning, Mr. Queen. It cost considerably more than the women you leave behind.”
Mikey’s hand stopped above the screen.
He looked at her for a moment, then lowered the stylus. “One second.”
He took out his phone and started a video call. "You asked for it."
The screen rang twice before you appeared. You were seated somewhere bright in a silk blouse, one hand resting beneath the pronounced curve of your stomach. Yuliana stood beside you with a tray of tea.
“Mikey.”
“Hey, baby sister. You look beautiful. Radiant. Glowing.”
“What did you do?”
“That’s hurtful. You don’t even know why I’m calling.”
“You only call me ‘baby sister’ when money, police, or bodily injury are involved.”
“Technically, none of those.”
Dr. Adler interrupted the story. “You called Ms. Queen—your sister?”
Mikey nodded. “She was the only person who could get me out of it.”
“And she did?”
A proud grin spread across his face. “Without even setting foot in the building.”
Mikey turned the phone toward Genevieve. "Someone would like a word."
Genevieve took one look at the screen. "…Queen." Her face fell. "Shit."
Mikey held the phone closer anyway.
The change in your face was almost imperceptible. Your posture remained relaxed and your voice gentle, but every trace of warmth disappeared.
“Genevieve, darling. Listen carefully, because I am five months pregnant with identical twins, I slept for approximately three hours, one of them has mistaken my ribs for a rehearsal studio, and the other appears to be conducting experiments on my bladder. What little patience I have left is reserved for members of my immediate family.”
Yuliana nodded solemnly behind the phone.
Genevieve raised her chin. “Your brother placed a valid bid. He should know the rules.”
“My brother should know many things—auction procedure, women’s names, and when to stop wearing that hat among them. His intellectual limitations are not the matter presently under review.”
Mikey looked offended.
You continued without acknowledging him. “The auction was recorded. Your staff saw him attempting to correct the bid. Half the room watched you accelerate the increments while addressing a registered bidder with whom you have an undisclosed personal history.”
Genevieve’s expression faltered. “That has nothing to do with—”
“It has everything to do with professional conduct. Do not mistake my brother’s stupidity for an opportunity.”
“Hey, sister-” Mikey protested.
You ignored him.
“Michael may be an idiot, but he is our idiot. You used a charity auction to settle a six-year-old grievance with a man who did not even remember you well enough to understand that he was being punished.”
Genevieve’s face flushed.
You studied her for another second. “Also, whatever you’ve been earning by selling antiques to harmless fools appears to have been reinvested in self-tanner. That was an unfortunate decision. The shade is less Saint-Tropez and more decorative terracotta.” Yuliana tilted her head, considered Genevieve on the screen, and nodded again. “And is that Valentino from four seasons ago?” you continued. “Genevieve, honestly. If you intend to humiliate my family in public, at least don’t do it dressed like an archived press sample.”
Sienna’s eyebrows rose.
Mikey beamed at the phone as though you had complimented him personally.
“That is insulting,” Genevieve said.
“No. It is embarrassing. There is a difference.”
Your hand moved over your stomach as one of the babies shifted. “Here is what happens next. You void the sale, apologize to Mr. Queen for the misunderstanding, and return the goblet to its case before he attempts to serve breakfast cereal in it.”
Mikey glanced at the gummy bears. “I wouldn’t use milk.” You gave him a look. He closed his mouth.
Genevieve folded her arms. “And if Belcourt refuses?”
Your smile appeared—small, beautiful, and lethal. “Then the Queen Foundation will dispute the transaction, suspend its annual patronage, and request a formal ethics review into why a senior auctioneer accepted repeated accidental gestures as bids from a former sexual partner without disclosing the conflict.” Genevieve’s lips parted.
“I am currently carrying the future beneficiaries of both the Queen and Castillo families and, regrettably, I am one of the most discussed women in Manhattan. If I say this was personal retaliation disguised as a charitable transaction, by breakfast every board member, donor, and consignor attached to Belcourt will know exactly which phrase to repeat.”
Silence fell around the podium.
Mikey slowly selected another gummy bear.
You tilted your head. “Have I explained the available options clearly?”
Genevieve swallowed. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Ms. Queen.”
“Wonderful. I knew we would understand one another.” Your smile vanished as smoothly as it had appeared. “Yuliana, end the call before she mistakes any more of my attention for social relevance.”
“I love you, baby sister,” Mikey called quickly. “Take care of my nieces.”
“Try taking care of your own reputation for the rest of the day.”
The screen went dark.
Genevieve turned toward the administrator. “Void lot forty-seven.”
The attendants took the goblet from Mikey. Before surrendering it, he scooped the gummy bears out with one hand and dropped them into his mouth.
From across the room, Sienna laughed.
She finished her conversation and walked toward him, glancing once at Genevieve and the retreating attendants. “Let me guess. Queen fixed it?”
“Yes.” Mikey removed his tinted glasses. “Sienna, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”
“For putting gummy bears in a three-hundred-year-old Venetian goblet?”
“No. Well, partially.” He glanced down at the paddle still protruding from his jacket. “I came to an auction you curated because I wanted to support you, and somehow I made the entire thing about me.”
“That does seem to happen around you.”
“I know.” His confidence disappeared for the first time that afternoon. “But I came because of you. I care about you. More than a little, actually. And when I’m around you, my hands apparently stop communicating with my brain, and then I forget what I meant to say, and—”
Sienna began to laugh again.
Mikey frowned. “This feels like a vulnerable moment.”
“You really are unlike anyone I’ve ever met, Mikey.” She shook her head. “I told you to put the paddle down, and instead you hid it inside your jacket and kept raising your fingers.”
“I panicked.”
“That was obvious.”
“Does the fact that you’re laughing mean you forgive me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What if I buy you dinner?”
Sienna looked at him for a moment. “One dinner.”
By the time everyone returned to the sitting room, the April light beyond the tall windows had begun to fade, softening the edges of Rhinebeck into shades of blue and gold.
Without anyone consciously deciding it, everyone drifted back to the same places.
You settled beside Harry. His hand found yours immediately, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. He didn't ask how your session had gone. Somehow, the gesture promised he would—later, when the answer belonged only to the two of you.
Across from you, Scarlet sat with the same composed posture she always carried into difficult conversations. This time, however, when your eyes met, neither of you looked away.
Beside her, Vivienne crossed one elegant leg over the other. She still looked faintly offended by several events of the afternoon, but no longer refused to acknowledge Harry's existence.
Harry gave her the smallest nod.
It wasn't quite an apology. It wasn't forgiveness. But it was a beginning.
Sienna chose the armchair nearest the fireplace.
Mikey sat on its broad arm without asking.
She looked up at him and, for the first time all day, didn't tell him to move.
Dr. Adler closed her notebook.
"I've heard four very different stories today," she began. "But they've all led me to the same conclusion."
The room grew quiet. "When this family is frightened, none of you asks for control." She looked around the room. "You simply take it." Harry lowered his eyes. Scarlet folded her hands. Vivienne's expression softened almost imperceptibly. Mikey suddenly found the pattern in the rug fascinating. "You investigate." She looked at Harry. "You plan." Scarlet. "You withhold." Your turn. "And sometimes…" her gaze shifted toward Mikey and Sienna, "…you attempt to solve problems before anyone has admitted they're problems."
Mikey slowly raised a finger.
"I feel mildly targeted."
"You should."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Even Harry smiled.
Dr. Adler waited until the laughter faded.
"Every one of you described those choices as protection."
She paused. "The person on the receiving end experienced them as control."
Silence settled once more. "I'd like each of you to try something different."
No one spoke. "The next time you're frightened for someone you love… ask them what they need before deciding for them."
Nobody argued.
For this family…
…that alone felt like remarkable progress.
The door opened.
Eloise stepped inside, carrying her cane less as a walking aid and more as a symbol of authority.
She surveyed the room carefully.
No one appeared to be crying.
No one appeared ready to disown anyone.
She gave a satisfied nod.
"Bueno." She tapped the floor once with her cane. "Enough emotional growth for one afternoon." A beat. "Dinner is ready."
"And if any of you start another family crisis before the soup…"
"…I'll schedule a second therapist."
Mikey stood immediately. "What kind of soup?"
"The kind you'll eat."
"That still doesn't narrow it down."
Sienna quietly caught the back of his jacket before he could continue and steered him toward the hallway.
Scarlet and Vivienne followed together, their conversation noticeably quieter than it had been only an hour earlier.
Harry rose beside you, offering his hand.
Once you were standing securely, his palm settled against the small of your back.
"Ready?"
You nodded. "Starving."
"Good."
"I intend to steal at least half your dessert."
"You always do."
"I know."
Together, you followed the others into the corridor. Within moments the sitting room fell silent. Almost.
Dr. Adler slipped her notebook into her leather bag and reached for her coat. A discreet knock interrupted her. The door opened just enough for Ron to step inside before quietly closing it again.
He remained standing. "May I ask you something?"
Dr. Adler smiled faintly. "Is this about the family?"
"No."
"Good."
She gestured toward the empty sofa. "Then it's probably about you."
"I'd prefer not to turn this into a session. If a man has never had a serious relationship but his current girlfriend wishes to get married and he doesn't believe he's ready…" He adjusted his cuff. "…there also happens to be a childhood friend."
Dr. Adler considered him for a moment. "Does your girlfriend know you're emotionally preoccupied with someone else?"
"No."
"Then you shouldn't agree to marry her."
"And the childhood friend?"
"Do you want a future with her or is she simply a safe possibility that allows you to postpone making a difficult decision?"
Ron frowned. "How does one determine that?"
"By telling both women the truth."
He looked genuinely disappointed. "That sounds unnecessarily human."
From somewhere down the corridor came Eloise's unmistakable voice.
"¡Ronald! Harry is already answering emails at the dinner table!"
Ron reached for the doorknob. "This conversation never happened." "¡Ronald!"
"I'm coming, Mrs. Castillo."
The door closed behind him.
April 23rd
A week after Rhinebeck, Queen Financial had settled into a rhythm that was not quite normal, but no longer felt like an emergency.
Gerard called every morning with whatever developments he believed required your attention. Dana sent carefully filtered briefings twice a day, having apparently decided anything capable of raising your blood pressure required written authorization before reaching you.
Emily and Chloe phoned almost daily, supposedly to discuss work and inevitably ending with questions about the twins, your appetite, and whether Harry had yet attempted to place you under medically supervised house arrest.
He hadn't. Technically.
By Friday evening, your final call with Gerard had lasted twelve minutes longer than promised.
“The revised projections are in your inbox,” he said through the speaker. “You don’t need to look at them tonight.”
“You sent them to me tonight.”
“I sent them so you would know they exist.”
“And now that I know they exist, you expect me not to open them?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an unreasonable understanding of my personality.”
From the other end of the sofa, Harry calmly reached over and removed the phone from your hand. “We’re done,” he said.
Gerard did not hesitate. “Thank you, Harry.”
“You’re both becoming intolerable,” you informed them.
“Monday morning,” Gerard replied. “Good night, Ms. Queen.”
The call ended before you could object. Harry placed your phone facedown on the coffee table, well beyond your immediate reach. You looked at him. He looked back. “That was hostile.”
“That was twelve minutes past your own deadline.”
“I was receiving information about my company.”
“You were reorganizing the executive committee from the sofa.”
“They needed reorganizing.”
“They’ll still need it on Monday.” You narrowed your eyes. Harry had already picked up the television remote. “No more work tonight.”
“What are we doing instead?”
“Watching a movie.” He moved closer and began scrolling. “No.”
You glanced at the screen. “What’s wrong with that one?”
“Home invasion.”
“It’s listed as a romantic comedy.”
“I checked the parents’ guide.”
“You checked the parents’ guide?”
“I’m being thorough.”
You laughed. “Harry.”
He ignored you and continued scrolling.
Finally he stopped. “This one.”
You looked at him suspiciously.
“Have you already researched it?”
“IMDb. Two reviews. Parents’ guide.”
“…Of course you did.”
The poster showed two people standing beneath strings of lights beside the sea. “A woman returns to the coastal town where she grew up,” Harry read. “She meets a man renovating an old hotel.” You considered it. Harry nodded once. “No violence. No blood. No psychological torment.”
“Finally.”
He pressed play. As the opening credits rolled, he stood.
“Where are you going?”
“Popcorn.”
“With actual salt?”
He gave you a look. “I’ll be right back.”
You settled deeper into the cushions he had arranged behind your back. A minute later Harry returned carrying a large bowl of popcorn. He sat beside you, glanced at the curve of your stomach, and carefully balanced the bowl on top of it.
You looked down.
Then slowly back at him.
“I’m carrying your children.”
“I’m appreciating the engineering.”
“You’re using me as furniture.”
“You’re beautiful in every form, baby.”
Before you could answer, he leaned over and kissed you, slow and gentle. You reached for the popcorn.
Your face fell almost immediately. “There’s a rumor of salt.”
“We’re watching your sodium.”
You sighed dramatically. “This family has become a dictatorship.”
The film began exactly as promised. It was gentle, romantic, and occasionally funny without trying too hard. The heroine inherited a weathered seaside hotel.
The hero knew how to repair everything except his own emotionally guarded heart. Harry disliked him immediately. “He should tell her why he left.”
“It’s been twenty minutes.”
“He has already created unnecessary confusion.”
You smiled. “That’s how films work.”
By the middle of the film, your head had settled against Harry’s shoulder while his fingers moved absentmindedly along your arm.
Beneath the blanket, your stomach gave a sudden, unmistakable ripple.
Harry looked down immediately.
Another tiny movement answered beneath the fabric.
He smiled, leaned over, kissed your stomach, and rested his palm gently over it.
“Easy, girls,” he murmured. “We’re trying to watch a movie with your mother.”
Another kick answered beneath his hand.
You considered it seriously.
“I think they want pistachios.”
“Five minutes ago they wanted popcorn.”
“They changed their minds.”
“They’re growing.”
“…Fair enough.”
He started to stand.
You caught his hand. “The roasted ones.”
“The roasted ones.”
“And bring the whole bag.”
Harry bent to kiss your forehead. “One full bag of roasted pistachios coming right up.”
As he disappeared toward the kitchen, you settled deeper into the cushions, both hands curving around your stomach as though congratulating the girls on another successful negotiation.
On the screen, the film drifted quietly toward its conclusion.
The hotel had been restored.
Something tightened painfully behind your ribs. Before you understood why, your vision blurred. One tear escaped. Then another. Within seconds they were falling too quickly to hide.
Harry turned immediately. “Hey.”
You wiped beneath your eyes, only making the tears worse.
“Hey, hey…” He set the popcorn aside at once, his hand instinctively finding your stomach. “What happened? Are you hurting?”
You shook your head.
“The babies?”
“No.”
“Then why are you crying, baby?”
You pointed helplessly toward the television. “The movie.”
Harry looked at the screen, then back at you. “The movie?”
“They're just…” Your voice cracked. “They're just getting married.” He stayed quiet. “They're just doing it.” Another tear slipped free. “There isn't a wedding planner shouting into a headset. No ballroom booked two years in advance. No security outside checking guest lists.”
You swallowed hard.
“No board wondering whether the timing is strategically responsible. No journalists deciding what the wedding means for my company. No headlines about my dress, my body, or whether marrying you affects the markets on Monday.”
Harry didn't interrupt.
On the screen, the couple exchanged vows while the ocean rolled gently behind them.
“They're just getting married,” you whispered again.
“They get to live it before the rest of the world starts talking about it.”
Harry reached up and gently brushed another tear from your cheek. “Oh, baby.”
A shaky laugh escaped you.
“I know. I'm crying over a fictional beach wedding.”
“I don't think that's why you're crying.”
You looked back at the television. The bride had slipped off her shoes. Her guests were laughing. The waves reached the edge of the aisle.
“I don't think I want all of it anymore.”
“All of what?”
“The spectacle.”
The word hung quietly between you.
“For years I thought that if I ever got married again, it had to be… perfect.”
You gave a tiny, humorless smile. “Perfect enough to justify everything that came before it.” Harry remained silent, listening. “But watching this…” Your eyes drifted back to the screen. “It just looks… peaceful.”
You leaned against him a little more. “I don't want our wedding to become public property before we've even lived it.”
His hand tightened gently around yours. “I don't want to spend the day wondering which photograph they'll print first… or what the markets will do on Monday.”
“You won't.”
“We can't control that.”
“No,” Harry said softly.
“But we can control what we choose to give them.”
You lifted your head to look at him. “I want one thing that's ours first.” A pause. “Before anyone turns it into a headline.”
Harry studied you for several quiet seconds. “Do you want a beach?”
Despite the tears, you smiled. “Maybe.”
“Barefoot?”
You looked back at the television. “Let's not become primitive.”
A laugh escaped him. “Fair.”
The newlyweds ran laughing toward the water while their friends chased after them.
You watched them for another moment before speaking again. “Besides… Scarlet and Vivienne already decided we should wait until after the girls are born.”
Harry listened. “That's still months away.”
You looked down at your stomach. “And by then everyone will spend the entire wedding talking about the babies instead of us.”
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You're the one who said you didn't want to be a bride with an enormous stomach.”
“I know.”
Your voice softened. “But if it were something like this…” You glanced back toward the beach on the screen. “Small. Quiet. Just family.” A tiny smile appeared. “I don't think I'd care.” You looked at him again. “Everything in my life has to happen in front of an audience simply because I'm a Queen.”
Your hand drifted toward the small bowl on the coffee table.
It was empty.
You stared into it for a long second.
“The pistachios are gone.”
Your face crumpled all over again.
Harry looked from the empty bowl to you just as another sob escaped.
“Oh, no.” He cupped your cheek immediately. “Shh, baby. Don't cry.”
“I wanted more.”
“I'll order more.”
“Two bags.”
“Two bags.”
“And the lemon sorbet.”
He had already unlocked his phone.
“And those thin crackers Dana brought last week.”
His thumb moved across the screen.
“Added.”
“And strawberries.”
He glanced up. “You said pistachios.”
“The situation has developed.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Clearly.”
“And chocolate-covered pretzels.”
“Anything else?”
You frowned thoughtfully, genuinely considering the question. “…The little tangerines.”
Harry added them without another word before setting the phone aside. “Everything's coming. ” He drew you gently back against his chest. “Now breathe for me.”
You nodded, still sniffling as you wiped beneath your eyes.
“I’m fine.” A pause. “It’s just the hormones.”
His lips brushed the top of your head. “Our wedding will be beautiful, baby.” You curled closer against him. “However we do it.”
“Okay,” you whispered.
The movie continued quietly in the background, but neither of you was really watching anymore.
Harry's fingers moved slowly through your hair until your breathing gradually steadied.
Only then did his eyes drift back toward the television.
The bride and groom were laughing barefoot beneath the driftwood arch. No ballroom. No photographers. No headlines. Just the people they loved. Harry watched in silence. His gaze lingered on the weathered wooden arch… the shoreline… the small gathering of family and friends. Then something almost imperceptible softened in his expression. A thought. Nothing more.
He said nothing.
He simply looked back down at you, asleep against his shoulder, one hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of your stomach.
A faint smile appeared.
The Following Morning
Chez Akiko
The restaurant had not yet opened for lunch, but the table nearest the kitchen was already occupied by six people who had been summoned with varying degrees of urgency and almost no useful explanation.
Emily sat at the head of the table with coffee in front of her. Chloe had arrived carrying two garment bags and the conviction that every crisis could be improved with appropriate tailoring. Dana was answering emails beneath the table, while Ron had placed a leather folder beside his plate and appeared to be the only person who had anticipated an agenda.
Mikey was eating something the kitchen had not officially served him.
Harry remained standing.
“We need to plan a wedding.”
Everyone stopped.
Mikey lowered the croissant in his hand. “Whose?”
Harry looked at him.
Mikey considered the question. “Right. Context clues.”
Emily leaned back in her chair. “You and Queen are already getting married. After the babies are born.”
“Scarlet and Vivienne have interviewed three event planners,” Chloe added. “One of them presented a forty-page proposal for the flowers alone.”
Dana finally looked up from her phone. “The preliminary date is being held for late summer.”
“And an entire team of professionals is supposed to organize it,” Emily said. “So why are we here?”
Harry placed both hands against the back of the empty chair in front of him.
“I’m not talking about that wedding.”
The table went quiet again.
Mikey slowly set down his croissant. “There are two weddings now?”
“Technically, yes,” Harry said.
Chloe narrowed her eyes. “What exactly are you planning?”
“Something private. This weekend.”
Six faces turned toward him.
Even Ron blinked.
Emily slowly placed her coffee on the table. “Harry, it’s Thursday.”
“I’m aware.”
“You want us to arrange a wedding in two days?”
“A small one.”
“Rich people always say that,” Emily said, “before describing a small country.”
“No ballroom, no hotel, no press. No guest list beyond the people in this room and immediate family.”
Emily studied him. “What changed?”
Harry looked down at the table. “We watched a movie last night. There was a wedding on a beach.” He paused, remembering the way your voice had broken when you said the couple had simply been allowed to marry. “She said she didn’t want ours to become public property before we’d had the chance to live it.”
The room grew quieter.
“No reporters,” he continued. “No analysts deciding what our marriage means for the companies. No photographs released before she chooses them.
She wants something that belongs to us.”
“A private beach wedding,” Emily said softly.
“Yes.”
“Just friends and family.”
“Yes.”
“And Queen doesn’t know.”
“No.”
Mikey raised one finger. “Are you sure we’re talking about my sister? She used to plan her wedding while she was still in elementary school.”
“I can confirm that,” Chloe said. “There were sketches.”
“Sounds like her,” Emily agreed.
Ron glanced down at his folder. “Ms. Queen being the only person unaware of her own wedding presents a significant degree of risk.”
“Her hormones have made her more emotional lately,” Harry said. “She cried last night because the pistachios ran out.”
Emily sighed. "Aw."
“Oh, poor thing,” Chloe murmured.
“My sister cried during a comedy when she was pregnant with my niece,” Dana added. “No one in the movie was even sad.”
“Fine. Whatever she wants, we give her,” Emily said.
Harry’s expression remained serious. “That doesn’t mean we decide for her. I’m not bringing her to a wedding and expecting her to perform because everyone is waiting. I’ll show her what I arranged and ask whether she wants to marry me that day. If she says no, the officiant leaves, we have dinner on the beach, and no one makes her feel guilty.”
Emily nodded once.
“If she says yes,” Harry continued, “everything needs to be ready.”
Mikey looked at Harry. “Where exactly is this happening? And how are you telling our mothers? Because mine is not going to celebrate being excluded from wedding planning.”
“Scarlet and my mother will be told last.”
Ron opened the leather folder. “A sound security decision.”
The planning moved quickly after that. Ron would secure a private beach, confidentiality agreements, transport and discreet security. Dana would clear your calendar without making the absence too obvious. Emily took charge of dinner, cake and a small reception, while Chloe handled the flowers and overall design.
Then Chloe tapped her pen against the table. “We still have one significant problem.”
Everyone looked at her.
“The dress.”
Harry’s attention sharpened. “What about it?”
“She’s carrying twins. Her old measurements are useless, and her body is changing every week. I can’t fit a gown correctly by guessing.”
Mikey added. “The dress is important, man. Those hormones can turn into rage when she looks at the photographs ten years from now. I’m warning you in advance.”
Chloe pointed her pen at him. “For once, he’s right. We have very little time to make something beautiful and unforgettable.”
“How quickly can you do it?” Emily asked.
“I can alter an existing gown if I have accurate measurements tonight. Soft structure, an empire waist, room around her stomach—nothing restrictive.” Chloe turned to Harry. “I need her shoulders, shoulder to floor, bust, underbust and the fullest point around her stomach.”
Mikey sat back, delighted. “You’re going to measure a sleeping pregnant woman without telling her why. That may be the most dangerous plan I’ve heard today.”
Harry stared at Chloe. “There’s no other way?”
“You could tell her.”
“No.”
“Yuliana could possibly do it,” Ron suggested.
Harry shook his head immediately. “No. I’ll do it.”
Chloe tore a page from her notebook and slid it across the table. “These measurements. In inches. Don’t pull the tape tight.”
Harry studied the instructions as though they described an unfamiliar explosive device. “I’ll handle it.”
Ron closed his folder. “I recommend waiting until she’s asleep.”
“Thank you, Ron."
That evening, Yuliana met Harry outside his study and lowered her voice as though reporting a delicate security matter.
“She fell asleep upstairs.”
“In bed?”
“She said she was only going to rest for ten minutes.” A small smile touched Yuliana’s mouth. “She was listening to classical music.”
Harry glanced toward the staircase, then at the flexible measuring tape concealed in his hand.
Perfect.
Or as close to perfect as this plan was likely to become.
He opened the bedroom door carefully and stepped inside. The curtains had been drawn against the evening light, leaving the room dim and quiet except for the faint piano music escaping from one of the wireless earbuds in your ears.
You were asleep on your side, one hand tucked beneath your cheek and the other curved protectively over your stomach. The second earbud had fallen onto the pillow beside you.
Your phone rested on the nightstand, still playing the same gentle piece on repeat.
Harry stood beside the bed for several seconds, simply looking at you.
Then he unfolded the list Chloe had sent him.
This should have been easy.
Harry had negotiated acquisitions involving several governments. He had once completed a merger while both legal teams threatened to walk away. He regularly managed people who considered compromise a moral failing.
He could measure his sleeping fiancée.
Carefully, he sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the remaining earbud from your ear. You made a quiet sound and shifted deeper into the pillow.
Harry froze.
Your breathing remained even.
The first measurement was uncomplicated. He placed one end of the tape near your shoulder and extended it gently across your back, recording the number in his phone.
Shoulder to floor required an approximation from the side of the bed. Chloe had specifically written that an imperfect number was preferable to waking you, although Harry suspected she had not fully considered what would happen if you woke and found him standing over you with tailoring equipment.
The underbust measurement was next. Harry stared at the instruction. Then at you. Then back at the instruction. The circumference of your stomach seemed safer.
Harry lifted the edge of the blanket and passed the tape carefully around the fullest curve, reaching beneath your side to bring the ends together.
Your eyes opened.
Harry stopped breathing.
You blinked down at the measuring tape wrapped around your stomach, then slowly raised your gaze to him. “Harry.” Your voice was rough with sleep. “What—what are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
You stared at him.
He was sitting beside you with a measuring tape in both hands.
“Nothing?”
“I can explain.”
“Are you measuring my waist?”
Your voice rose sharply as you pushed yourself upright, shock and hurt chasing the last traces of sleep from your face.
“No—no, baby. Not like that.”
You pulled the tape from his hands and looped it loosely around the back of his neck before he could react.
“Harry Castillo, I will strangle you with this.”
“Baby, wait.”
“You measured me while I was asleep?”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“That I was—”
“Checking how much weight I’ve gained?”
Harry’s expression changed immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”
“How many inches was it?” Your eyes began to shine. “I’ve gotten huge, haven’t I?”
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I didn’t hesitate.”
“You looked terrified.”
“Because you threatened to kill me.”
“With a fabric tape. You would’ve survived.”
The first tear slipped down your cheek. Another followed before you could wipe it away.
“I knew I’d gained too much weight.” Your voice broke. “I look awful, don’t I? I’ve become enormous and ugly.”
Harry gently removed the tape from around his neck and dropped it onto the carpet.
“That is complete nonsense.” He moved closer and cupped your face between his hands. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”
More tears spilled down your cheeks.
Harry wiped them away with his thumbs, his voice softening further. “You’re carrying our daughters. Your body is changing because it’s making room for two people. There is nothing ugly about you. Not one thing.”
You sniffed and looked down at your stomach. “My face is puffy.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“My ankles are swollen.”
“Still beautiful.”
“None of my clothes fit.”
“I’ll buy you new ones.”
“That isn’t the point.” You opened your mouth to continue, but a sudden yawn interrupted you. Your shoulders sagged as quickly as your anger had risen. “I’m so tired.” The abrupt change left Harry staring at you. “I just want to sleep.”
His expression softened with relief and guilt in equal measure. “Okay, baby. Sleep.”
You lay down again, then caught his wrist before he could move away. “Stay.”
“I’m here.”
You pulled his arm against your chest and settled around it, resting your cheek near his shoulder. So many emotions had passed through you in the space of a few minutes—anger, humiliation, tears and exhaustion—that Harry could not stop himself from feeling responsible for every one of them.
“Will you stroke my hair?” you asked sleepily.
“Of course.”
His fingers moved gently through your hair, smoothing it away from your face. Every few moments, he bent and pressed a quiet kiss to your temple.
Your breathing gradually slowed. “Harry?”
“I’m here, baby.”
“Don’t measure me again.”
“I won’t.”
Harry looked down at you suspiciously, but a faint sleepy smile touched your mouth before disappearing.
Within moments, your breathing deepened.
Harry continued stroking your hair long after you had fallen asleep. At first, he intended to remain for only a minute.
Then five.
Your fingers stayed curled firmly around his wrist, and every attempt to move made you shift closer. Eventually, Harry lay down beside you fully dressed, one arm trapped beneath your head and the other resting over your stomach.
One of the babies moved beneath his palm.
A quiet smile crossed his face.
“Easy,” he whispered. “Your mother has already threatened me once tonight.”
Twenty minutes later, his trapped arm had gone completely numb.
He endured another ten.
Then a faint snore escaped you.
Harry looked down.
Your lips had parted slightly, your head angled back against his arm. The snoring had appeared with the pregnancy and grew louder whenever you were exhausted—something you denied with absolute conviction every morning.
Another soft snore followed. Harry smiled. “You’d call me a liar if I told you.”
He gently touched beneath your chin and turned your head slightly toward the pillow, just as he had on countless nights before. The sound stopped almost immediately.
You murmured something indistinct. Harry froze. “Harry…”
He bent and kissed your hair. “I’m right here.”
Your fingers loosened around his wrist, and your breathing settled again.
Moving slowly, Harry reached down for the tape. He passed it around your stomach once more, careful not to pull it tight. When the ends met, he secured the exact point beneath one finger and eased the tape away without losing the measurement.
This time, you did not wake.
Harry carefully freed his arm, replacing it with the pillow before sitting up. He opened his phone, added the final number to his notes, and sent the measurements to Chloe.
Harry: This is everything I could get.
Her reply arrived almost immediately.
Chloe: Did she wake up?
Harry: Briefly.
Chloe: Are you alive?
His gaze returned to you. You were sleeping peacefully again, one hand spread across your stomach, your mouth beginning to fall open.
Harry: Barely.
He set the phone on the nightstand and watched you for another moment, smiling despite himself.
Saturday Morning
When you opened your eyes, Harry’s side of the bed was empty.
The sheets still held the faint warmth of him, but the room had gone quiet in the particular way it did only when he had been awake for some time. The curtains were partially open, allowing the soft April sunlight to spill across the carpet.
You reached blindly toward his pillow. Nothing.
“Harry?”
No answer came from the bathroom.
You pushed yourself higher against the pillows, one hand automatically settling over the curve of your stomach. “Harry?”
Still nothing.
That was when you noticed the folded card resting against the lamp on his nightstand, placed beside the snow globe.
You reached for it.
Good morning, baby.
I have something planned for you. Trust me for a few hours and let Yuliana help you.
I’ll see you soon.
I love you.
H.
You read it twice, then narrowed your eyes at the empty room.
“Trust you with what?”
A soft knock sounded against the bedroom door. Before you could answer, Yuliana stepped inside carrying a tray of tea. Her usually restrained expression had been replaced by a smile she was making very little effort to hide.
You held up the card. “What is happening?”
“I was instructed not to say, Ms. Queen.”
You accepted the tea and took a cautious sip while studying her over the rim of the cup. “You understand that smiling like that only makes you look more suspicious.”
Yuliana glanced at her watch.
“You’re timing me?”
“Perhaps.”
She waited patiently until you finished, then placed the cup aside and offered her hands.
“We should get you up now, Ms. Queen.”
“Why?”
“Several people are waiting for you.”
The way she said it made you immediately suspicious. “Which people?”
Yuliana continued holding out her hands.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
With a sigh, you let her help you sit up. One of the babies shifted as you moved, a slow rolling sensation beneath your ribs. You pressed your palm against it. “At least one person in this room should tell me what’s happening.”
“Trokhy terpinnya, Ms. Queen,” Yuliana said gently. “Just a little patience.”
She helped you into your robe, tied it securely around you, then waited while you slipped your feet into your house shoes.
The moment you stepped into the corridor, you heard several voices coming from the dressing room.
You stopped.
Emily appeared first. “Look who’s finally awake.”
“Our Queen has arrived,” Chloe added from behind her.
Emily came directly toward you, placing one hand gently against your stomach. “How are you feeling? And how are these two?”
“We’re confused,” you said. “What are all of you doing in my house?”
“First, breakfast,” Emily said. “There’s a full table waiting.”
“No. First, someone tells me what is happening.”
Chloe exchanged a glance with Emily. “Perhaps it would be easier to show you.”
She opened the dressing-room door.
The room had been transformed.
A small hair and makeup team stood near the windows beside neatly arranged cases and brushes. Fresh white flowers had been placed on the vanity, restrained enough not to resemble one of Scarlet’s productions. Dana stood near the wardrobe holding two phones—yours and her own—while appearing entirely untroubled by the fact that she had confiscated your professional life.
“Good morning, Ms. Queen,” the team greeted.
Your gaze moved from Emily to Dana, then Chloe.
Finally, it settled on the garment bag. “What is that?”
Dana’s smile became dangerously emotional. “Morning, Ms. Queen.”
“What is in the bag?”
The room fell silent.
Emily quietly moved a plate of toast closer to the nearest chair. Dana looked down at the phones.
Chloe reached for the zipper. “Why don’t you take a look?”
She opened the bag.
Soft ivory fabric appeared first, followed by delicate folds of silk, a gracefully structured bodice and a skirt designed to fall around the curve of your stomach without constricting it. There was no excessive beading, cathedral train or rigid corsetry. The fabric caught the morning light with a quiet sheen, elegant without demanding attention.
It looked effortless.
Which meant an extraordinary amount of work had gone into it.
Your breath caught. “Oh, my God. That... looks like—”
A wedding dress.
Not something inspired by one. A real wedding dress. Pinned carefully to the front was another folded card. Chloe removed it and held it toward you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you opened it.
Baby,
Chloe and her mother made this for you. I hope it’s close to what you wanted.
There’s a car waiting downstairs. At the end of the drive, you’ll find a beach, the people closest to us, and me.
I made today possible. Whether we marry here or wait for the wedding they’ve been planning is your decision.
I’ll be waiting.
H.
You stared at the page until the words began to blur. Then your gaze dropped to the dress again, and understanding arrived all at once.
“Oh, my God, Harry.”
A tear struck the card.
You looked toward Chloe. “That’s why he was measuring me.”
Chloe pressed her lips together, already close to tears herself.
You laughed, covering your mouth as more tears followed. “Oh, that man.”
Emily stood immediately. “Hey.”
“I cannot believe him.”
She placed both hands gently on your arms. “Is that a good cannot believe him?”
You looked down at the note. “He listened to me.”
The words emerged so softly that everyone in the room went still.
Emily’s expression changed. “Yes. He did.”
“And then he made it happen in two days,” Chloe added quietly.
You touched the skirt with your fingertips.
It was beautiful, but not because it was expensive or perfectly made. It was beautiful because nothing about it felt designed for other people to admire.
Harry had remembered the beach, the quiet, the absence of reporters and boards and questions. The moment in the movie when you had cried because two people had been allowed to simply marry each other.
Your face crumpled again.
Chloe hurried toward you. “Oh. I think the crying spell has arrived.”
You nodded, tears already falling.
Emily handed you a tissue. “Get it all out before they start your makeup. This entire team is here to prepare you for today.”
“Then I should wash my face.”
“Yeah.” Emily slipped an arm gently around your waist. “Then you’re eating breakfast, and after that, we’ll get you ready.”
Chloe hesitated. “You do want this, don’t you? Because after five years apart and two babies on the way, I think you two have waited long enough.”
You looked at Chloe, then Dana, Yuliana, and the waiting hair and makeup team.
For one unsteady moment, the reality of it settled over you: a beach, no cameras, no audience, vows spoken before the rest of the world could claim them. Was this really what you wanted?
Then you pictured Harry waiting for you, and the question became almost embarrassingly simple.
Finally, your gaze returned to the dress.
“Yes,” you said. “I want this.”
Bridgehampton
The limousine turned through the gates of the Bridgehampton estate just after four.
Beyond the windows, pale dunes gave way to flashes of blue water beneath the soft April sky. The ocean wind moved through the beach grass, bending it toward the private stretch of sand Harry had somehow secured in less than forty-eight hours.
Chloe looked mournfully at the view. “The fact that I can’t put any of this on my story is cruel.”
“Post one frame and every paparazzi in New York will be outside the gates before we reach the sand,” Emily warned, holding up the one phone Dana had authorized for photographs.
“No one posts anything,” you added. “Turn off your location services too.”
“They’re already off,” Dana assured you.
“Good. Now move closer,” Emily said.
Despite her warning, she was already recording, the phone safely on airplane mode. You, Chloe and Dana leaned together while she turned the camera toward you. Yuliana sat opposite, watching with quiet amusement.
“Smile,” Emily instructed.
“I am smiling,” you said with a laugh as another small movement rolled beneath your hand. “They’re the ones refusing to hold still for the picture.”
You glanced at your reflection in the darkened window. “Do I look as nervous as I feel?”
“No,” Emily said immediately. “You look radiant.”
“Annoyingly beautiful,” Chloe added.
Dana nodded. “Exactly as you should.”
“Beautiful is insufficient,” Yuliana corrected, studying you with open admiration. “Vy prekrasna (you’re beautiful) Ms. Queen. Prosto neymovirna. (Simply incredible.)”
And, inconveniently, they were right.
The ivory silk dress fell cleanly from beneath your bust, following the curve of your stomach without trying to conceal it.
Its deep V neckline was softened by delicate embroidery that gathered just above the swell of your belly, while the long skirt moved fluidly around your legs. There was no veil, no heavy train and nothing that required you to become someone else to wear it.
You smoothed both hands over your stomach. One of the girls moved beneath your palm. “Apparently they’re as excited as I am.”
“They’re half Queen and half Castillo,” Dana said. “Of course they assume the entire event is being held in their honor.”
The limousine slowed. Your heartbeat immediately quickened. Emily lowered the phone. “We’re here.”
Down on the beach, Harry checked his watch for what Ron estimated was the ninth time.
“She crossed the gate three minutes ago,” Ron said.
“She’s here,” Harry replied, and the words came out softer than he intended.
He stood near the small flowered arch in a black tuxedo, his attention fixed on the wooden walkway leading down from the house. Mikey waited beside Ron, while Captain Mateo Alvarez—Richard’s oldest friend and, thanks to Ron’s exhaustive planning, a legally registered officiant—stood nearby with the ceremony papers secured inside his jacket.
Sienna adjusted one of the white flowers in her hands. “The florist reinforced the arch. It won’t collapse unless the wind develops personal hostility toward us.”
Harry barely heard her.
Vivienne approached and straightened his boutonniere, her expression warm with emotion. “Breathe, sweetheart.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re waiting aggressively.” Her hand lingered briefly against his lapel. “You get to marry her again. Try to enjoy this part too.”
A small smile finally broke through his nerves.
Before he could answer, the limousine appeared beyond the dunes.
Every conversation stopped.
Scarlet immediately moved toward the end of the walkway with Richard beside her. He relied on his cane for balance, his steps slower than they once had been. Scarlet slipped her arm through his without drawing attention to the support she provided.
The car came to a stop.
Harry went completely still, though from where he stood, the vehicle concealed most of the drive.
“They’re here,” Sienna said, already moving. “I’ll go make sure she has everything.”
A member of the staff opened the door. Emily stepped out first, followed by Chloe and Dana. Then the attendant offered you his hand.
You took it.
Emily immediately gathered the skirt so it would not catch beneath your shoes as you carefully stepped onto the stone drive. The ocean breeze caught the silk, pressing it briefly against the curve of your stomach before letting it fall into its clean, graceful lines again.
For one suspended moment, no one spoke.
Scarlet’s eyes filled before you had taken three steps. “Oh, my baby,” she whispered. “You are so beautiful.”
You approached her, and she caught both of your hands. “You too,” you said, looking over her pale blue silk dress, structured hat and entirely unnecessary pearl gloves. “Though you appear to have dressed for a royal garden party.”
Scarlet lifted her chin. “I was given forty-eight hours and absolutely no authority. I had to express myself somehow.”
Richard sighed beside her. “They’re doing this the way they want, Scarlet.”
“I know,” she replied, never taking her eyes from you. “I’m adjusting with remarkable dignity.”
You turned toward Richard. “Dad.”
His face softened completely.
“My beautiful girl.” His gaze dropped affectionately to your stomach. “How are all three of you?”
“Nervous, happy and extremely pregnant.”
“That sounds about right.”
You hugged him carefully, feeling one of his hands settle against your back.
When you pulled away, your gaze dropped briefly to his cane before returning to his face. “You look very handsome.”
“I had an important place to be.”
Your throat tightened.
Before the tears could begin, Mikey appeared and opened his arms. “Baby sister.”
He attempted to hug you, only to discover that your stomach reached him first. He looked down between you.
“I think your stomach arrived before the rest of you.”
“Careful,” you warned. “You’re insulting three Queen women at once.”
“I would never.” He bent and spoke toward your stomach. “Your mother has always been this threatening.”
You pushed lightly at his shoulder. “Move.”
Laughing, Mikey kissed your cheek and stepped aside.
Sienna approached carrying a bouquet of white ranunculus, sweet peas and small ivory roses. She placed it gently in your hands before glancing toward the beach.
Harry was visible at the other end of the walkway.
He had not moved.
Even from a distance, you could see the way he was looking at you—as though the rest of the beach had disappeared the moment you stepped from the car.
Sienna smiled softly. “Whenever you’re ready.”
You took a deep breath, then another, waving your hands to calm your emotions. “Oh, no.”
Emily was instantly beside you. “What?”
“The crying spell.”
She opened her bag and produced a tissue with the speed of a trained emergency responder.
Chloe pointed at you. “Do not rub your eyes. We used waterproof makeup, but I refuse to test its limits before the ceremony begins.”
“I’m trying not to cry.”
“You’re failing beautifully,” Dana said.
A laugh escaped through your tears.
Emily carefully dabbed beneath one eye. “There. Crisis contained.”
Richard moved beside you and offered his arm.
You looked at the wooden path stretching across the dunes, then toward Harry waiting at its end.
“Are you sure?” you asked softly.
Richard straightened, tightening his hand around the top of his cane. “I didn’t spend two months learning to walk across rooms again just to sit down for this part.”
Your eyes filled all over again. “Chloe,” you warned.
“Ugh, honey breathe,” Chloe said firmly. “We have reached the maximum permitted tears.”
Richard smiled and held out his arm once more. “Ready?”
You slipped your hand through it, supporting him as subtly as he supported you.
Your gaze returned to Harry. This time, there was no hesitation.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m ready."
The first notes of the music drifted across the dunes as you and Richard stepped onto the wooden walkway.
Everyone rose.
Warm applause followed, unrestrained and familiar. Mikey brought two fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly before stepping directly into the aisle with his phone raised.
“Mikey,” Sienna hissed, catching the back of his jacket and pulling him out of the way.
“I’m documenting history.”
“You’re blocking history.”
Laughter moved through the small gathering as he allowed himself to be dragged back beside her, though he continued filming over her shoulder.
There were no camera flashes, no reporters calling your name, no phones raised for an audience waiting somewhere beyond the beach. Emily and Chloe recorded from their places, but only so you and Harry could keep the moment. Near the second row, a single videographer followed your progress through a discreet lens, having been warned by Ron so thoroughly that he looked prepared to surrender the camera, memory card and all personal identification at the slightest provocation.
Nothing was being broadcast.
Nothing had to become public before it belonged to you.
The aisle was not lined with investors, board members or distant relatives invited out of obligation. There were only two short rows of chairs, and every person standing beside them was someone whose face you knew well enough to read without effort.
Scarlet was already crying behind the sunglasses she had apparently worn to prevent exactly that. Vivienne held one hand over her heart, her expression radiant. Ron remained beside Dana, who was wiping beneath one eye while pretending to inspect Emily’s recording. Lara stood near Scarlet, openly crying without attempting to disguise it, while Yuliana watched you with quiet pride.
They were all family.
Some had witnessed the first marriage and the way it had broken. Some had arrived later, carrying you through the strange, tender work of finding your way back to one another. But every person standing there had seen enough to understand what this moment meant. They had seen the love, the damage, the silence, the repair—and they had stayed.
The realization settled warmly beneath your ribs.
Your free hand moved instinctively over your stomach. One of the girls shifted beneath your palm, followed by the faintest answering movement from her sister.
You smiled down at them.
Richard glanced toward you. “All right?”
“More than all right.”
The boards of the narrow aisle beneath your low ivory heels were dusted with sand carried over them by the wind.
Beyond the gathering, the Atlantic stretched endlessly blue beneath the afternoon sky, its waves folding softly against the shore and filling the spaces between the music.
Then you looked ahead.
Harry stood on a low wooden platform beneath the simple arch of white flowers.
For one dangerous second, you nearly missed a step.
He wore a perfectly cut black tuxedo, the ocean breeze moving lightly through his hair. A white ranunculus and a small sprig of olive rested against his lapel, chosen to match your bouquet without surrounding you with the heavily scented flowers that always made your eyes water.
But it was his expression that caught you.
The tension he had carried while waiting disappeared the moment he saw you. His entire face softened into a wide, unguarded smile reserved only for you.
Richard tightened his hold on your arm before your heel could slip from the edge of the board.
“Careful, darling.”
Your eyes locked with Harry’s.
Neither of you looked away.
Five years apart seemed to compress themselves into those final steps—every wrong decision, every unfinished conversation and every night you had convinced yourself that losing him had been necessary.
But the last six months had changed you both. There were no secrets left between you now, no assumptions allowed to grow in silence. You were not walking toward the marriage you had once lost. You were walking toward something you had rebuilt together, deliberately and without anyone else deciding what it should become.
In a few moments, you would be husband and wife again.
This time, you both understood exactly what choosing one another meant.
By the time you reached him, your eyes were wet again.
Richard stopped before the platform. Harry stepped down immediately, offering one hand to you before turning toward him.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Richard placed your hand into Harry’s.
“I gave her hand to you once before,” he said, his voice low with emotion. “But she was never mine to give away. She is my girl because she chose to let me love her like a father.”
Your throat tightened.
Richard looked from you to Harry. “So this time, I’m not giving her away. I’m asking you to stand beside her properly. Hold on to her. Listen to her. And when life gets loud, don’t let silence do the damage again.”
Harry closed his fingers carefully around yours. “I won’t.”
Richard studied him for another moment, then nodded. “Good.”
You leaned forward and kissed Richard’s cheek. “Thank you, Dad.”
His eyes shone as he stepped away.
“Go on, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Go marry the man who finally learned how lucky he is.”
Harry helped you onto the platform, one hand steady at your waist until you were safely beside him. Captain Mateo waited a few feet away, but Harry appeared temporarily unaware that anyone else existed.
His gaze moved slowly over the dress, your hair and the curve of your stomach.
“I knew the dress would be beautiful,” he said softly. “I wasn’t prepared for you in it.”
The words nearly started the tears again.
You looked over his tuxedo with exaggerated consideration. “You look very handsome yourself, Mr. Castillo.”
His smile deepened. “More handsome than the first time?”
“You’ve aged.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“Like an obscenely expensive wine,” you added.
Harry’s gaze softened. “Then I must be keeping suitable company.”
One of his hands settled gently over your stomach. A visible ripple moved beneath the ivory silk almost immediately.
Harry glanced down, smiling. “They look as excited as we are.”
“No. They heard their father arranged an excellent wedding cake.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
His thumb moved lightly over the embroidered fabric before you looked around at the flowers, the two rows of chairs and the long table waiting farther up the shore.
“Harry,” you whispered. “What did you do?”
For the first time that afternoon, uncertainty flickered across his face. “Too much?”
“No.” You tightened your fingers around his. “It’s more beautiful than anything I imagined.”
His expression softened.
“Thank you,” you said. “For listening. For all of it.”
Harry lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles. “I wish I had done more sooner.”
“We had a great deal to survive first.”
“We did.”
His eyes remained on yours. “Then we shouldn’t give away any more time.”
Captain Alvarez cleared his throat with deliberate patience.
“I have married people on boats before,” he said, glancing toward the wooden platform that extended just over the water. “This is apparently the compromise Ron could manage in three days.”
Soft laughter moved through the gathering.
Ron adjusted his cuff. “A legally valid compromise.”
“The best kind,” Captain Alvarez said, smiling before he turned back to you and Harry. “We are gathered here with the people who know and love Harry and Queen best—not to begin their story, because that began many years ago, but to witness the choice they are making today.”
The ocean moved quietly behind him.
“This ceremony is small by design. There are no strangers here, no audience beyond those invited and no expectation except honesty. Before we continue, I need to ask one simple question. ”
His gaze moved first to Harry, then to you.
“Have you both come here freely, intending to marry one another today?”
Harry answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
You looked at the man who had arranged an entire wedding only to ensure you could still refuse it.
“Yes,” you said. “I have.”
Captain Alvarez nodded. “Then you may speak the promises you’ve prepared.”
Harry’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
You stared at him. “You prepared something?”
“Not a speech.” His fingers tightened around yours. “I don’t need one to tell you the truth.”
The last trace of humor faded from his expression as he looked directly into your eyes.
“The first time you chose me, I woke up the next morning and watched you sleep because I still couldn’t believe you were my wife.”
His throat moved.
“Then I lost you. And for five years, I learned exactly how much of my life had been built around loving you.”
Your eyes filled. “Harry, don’t make me cry.”
His thumb brushed beneath one of your eyes.
“Then you came back,” he said quietly. “And I felt like a prayer I had no right to make had been answered.”
A quiet laugh escaped you through the tears.
“You gave me a second life with you. You gave me our daughters." He paused, as though even he could not quite believe it. “I promise you this: you will never have to guess where I stand again. No silence, no pride, no misunderstanding will ever come before the truth.”
His voice lowered.
“I will choose you in every version of our life. I love you more than I did the first time. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful that you chose me twice.”
For several seconds, you could only look at him.
Around you, no one seemed to breathe properly. Scarlet pressed a tissue beneath her sunglasses. Vivienne’s mouth trembled. Dana looked down quickly, and even Ron appeared suspiciously interested in the horizon.
“I loved you when I left,” you said finally, your voice unsteady. “That was the cruelest part. I loved you through every year I pretended I had moved on, and I love you now without fear, without secrets and without one foot near the door.”
Harry’s eyes shone.
“I choose you, Harry Castillo. I always have. And I always will.” You squeezed his hands. “This time, I intend to stay.”
Neither of you moved.
The silence stretched until Mikey called from behind you, “You can keep staring after you’re legally married.”
Laughter broke through the emotion.
Captain Alvarez gave him a patient look.
“It appears we have people here even more impatient than the bride and groom.” His eyes narrowed faintly with affection. “Mikey, you were always like this.”
Mikey grinned. “Thanks, Captain.”
Then he leaned toward Sienna and whispered, “He loves me.”
Sienna covered her mouth to hide her laugh.
Captain Alvarez turned back to Harry. “Harry Castillo, do you take this woman to be your wife—to love her, honour her and continue choosing her for the rest of your life?”
Harry did not take his eyes from you. “I do.”
“And Ms. Queen, do you take this man to be your husband—to love him, honour him and continue choosing him for the rest of your life?”
“I do.”
Ron stepped forward with the rings. Harry slid yours carefully onto your finger, his hand trembling just enough for you to notice. You placed his ring beside the one he had once worn before,
sealing a promise renewed rather than replaced.
Captain Alvarez smiled. “By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Mikey was already on his feet. “Kiss her!”
Others joined him, laughing and applauding.
“Kiss!”
“Kiss!”
“Kiss!”
Harry’s arm curved carefully around your waist. He drew you as close as your stomach allowed, his other hand rising to cradle your face.
Then he kissed you.
Slowly at first, as though the two of you were alone. Then more deeply as the applause rose around you and the ocean wind carried Mikey’s triumphant whistle across the beach.
When Harry finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“Mrs. Castillo,” he whispered.
You smiled through your tears. “You always did like calling me that.”
His thumb brushed your cheek. “I missed it.”
Later, after champagne had been poured and the official photographs had been taken, Chloe insisted that the bouquet had one final responsibility.
You turned your back to the small group gathered behind you and tossed it over your shoulder.
The wind caught the flowers, shifted their course and dropped them directly into Vivienne’s arms.
She stared down at the bouquet.
Then she looked toward Marc, standing several feet away.
Marc smiled.
Vivienne’s cheeks turned pink as everyone began laughing and applauding.
Beside you, Harry’s expression changed slowly.
You looked up at him. “Don’t even start.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Your face is saying plenty.”
He gave a small shrug. “I’m only wondering whether we can return the bouquet and try again.”
You hit his shoulder lightly. “Shut up and dance with me.”
The first notes of the music began.
Harry turned toward you and placed both hands at your waist. You slipped your arms around his neck, though the curve of your stomach prevented you from moving as close as either of you wanted.
Harry glanced down at the space between you. “I had imagined holding my wife a little closer.”
“Your daughters have other plans.”
“They’ve been interfering all day.”
“They’re making sure you behave.”
Harry looked offended. “With my own wife?”
“Especially with your own wife.”
Harry laughed and lowered his forehead to yours, swaying with you as the music carried across the beach.
A few feet away, Scarlet and Vivienne watched with matching tears in their eyes.
“They deserved this happiness, didn’t they?” Vivienne whispered.
Scarlet nodded. “More than anyone.”
Vivienne dabbed at her cheek. “My eyes are leaking.”
“So are mine.”
Mikey appeared behind them.
“Should I call 911, or is this a shared maternal event?”
Both women turned toward him.
Sienna burst out laughing, and even Richard failed to hide his smile.
You extended one hand toward the others. “Come on. Join us.”
Scarlet joined Richard first, moving carefully around his cane. Ron drew Dana into his arms, while Sienna allowed Mikey to spin her with considerably more enthusiasm than skill. Vivienne hesitated only briefly before accepting Marc’s hand.
Harry watched them, a trace of old protectiveness tightening his expression.
You touched his cheek. “She looks happy.”
His gaze returned to you. After a moment, he nodded and relaxed beneath your hand.
“She does.”
Near the edge of the dance floor, Emily, Chloe and Yuliana formed a loose circle, laughing as they danced together.
Lara clapped in time from her chair until Captain Alvarez offered his hand and persuaded her to join him for several careful steps.
There was no ballroom, no orchestra and no audience waiting to judge what the day meant.
Only the ocean, the music and every person you had chosen as family.
Harry watched them for a moment—the people dancing barefoot or carefully around canes and hems, the laughter carried by the wind, the small, impossible life you had built out of everything that had nearly ended.
Then his gaze returned to you.
His arms tightened around your waist, and he rested his forehead against yours.
“A little late,” he murmured, “but I think we made it.”
You cupped his face in both hands. “We did. And we made it beautifully.” Your lips trembled. “Oh, no. I think it’s coming back.”
Harry’s eyes softened with immediate alarm and amusement. “No. No crying, we just survived the ceremony. You can give the makeup ten more minutes.”
You laughed, blinking quickly. “Okay. I’m not crying.”
“Good.”
“I’m almost not crying.”
“That’s progress.”
The wave passed slowly. You breathed in, steadied yourself, and looked up at him again.
Harry’s smile faded into something quieter, deeper. “I love you so much,” he said.
Your hands rested against his jaw as the music continued around you. “I love you too, Harry.”
And while everyone you loved danced around you beneath the open sky, you let the moment stay exactly what it was.
Yours.
Days turned into weeks.
For a while, you and Harry stayed married only in the places that mattered. At home, in the quiet, his ring never left his finger. But every morning before a public meeting, a board dinner or anything involving cameras, he removed it with an apology he never seemed to grow tired of giving. “I hate it. I want everyone to know you’re my wife.”
And every morning, you gave him the same answer. “They will. Wait until our girls are born.”
The world still believed the real wedding was coming later—the grand one Scarlet and Vivienne were already designing with terrifying enthusiasm. When reporters asked how the preparations were going, you smiled, touched your stomach and said something harmless about family, timing and taking things slowly.
Somehow, the rumors still began.
Did Harry Castillo and Ms. Queen Marry in Secret?
Private Beach Ceremony Reportedly Held in Bridgehampton.
No Guests, No Press, No Confirmation: Inside Manhattan’s Most Talked-About Non-Wedding.
Some said Bridgehampton. Some said it had only been an engagement celebration. Some insisted there had been a wedding, but no one could produce a single photograph.
You and Harry answered none of it.
There were more important things to survive.
Your stomach grew heavier by the week, until getting out of bed without assistance became less an act of independence and more an unnecessarily ambitious athletic event. Doctor’s appointments became nearly the only reason you left the house. Everyone else came to you.
Emily arrived one afternoon claiming she had only stopped by to bring soup, then sat at the edge of your bed and confessed that she had started seeing the man her mother had hired as a waiter at the restaurant. He was Asian, apparently devastatingly handsome according to Emily’s increasingly unprofessional description, and “too polite in a way that felt dangerous.”
Chloe gave her ex another chance and pretended she was being cautious about it, despite the fact that she blushed every time his name appeared on her phone. Scarlet and Richard came regularly under the excuse of checking on you, though Richard spent most of each visit asking the girls whether they intended to let their mother sleep. Lara moved in without ceremony, joining Yuliana in the practical, unspoken agreement that until the babies arrived, you were not to be left unattended for any length of time.
Mikey and Sienna came sometimes together, sometimes separately, each visit explained with suspiciously unnecessary detail. Mikey brought stories from the office,most of them delivered with the confidence of a man who had survived another day in corporate warfare and deserved applause for it.
Gerard still called when necessary, but even he had begun to respect the boundaries Dana enforced with frightening precision. For the last three weeks, he no longer patched you into meetings unless there was no alternative. Dana kept such careful notes that reading her briefings almost felt like being in the room.
Almost.
Queen Financial was not healed, not yet.
But it was rising.
The panic had passed. The structure was holding. The people who had expected you to disappear quietly were beginning to understand that you had only stepped back long enough to breathe.
Harry had done the same in his own way. He met with Ron over laptop screens more often than in boardrooms now, choosing home whenever he could. Some afternoons, you would wake from a nap to find him at the foot of the bed, muted on a call, one hand resting absently over your ankle while he listened to Ron speak.
By the time you entered your thirtieth week, your doctor stopped sounding politely cautious and began sounding direct.
“You cannot be alone at home now,” she said. “Not for long periods. Not with this level of risk.”
Harry’s hand tightened around yours. She reviewed the warning signs, the possibility of early labor, the need to avoid stress, overexertion and anything that might trigger contractions.
“I’m also recommending pelvic rest from this point forward.”
You glanced at Harry.
He looked straight ahead.
The doctor continued, perfectly professional. “That means no intercourse, no penetration, and no sexual activity that results in orgasm. Uterine contractions after orgasm are usually harmless in low-risk pregnancies, but in your case, with twins and your current risk factors, we are not encouraging anything that could increase uterine activity.”
Harry’s expression did not change, but his hand became very still around yours.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
He looked like a man receiving a sentence from a judge and refusing to appeal in public.
In the car afterward, Harry remained silent for almost three minutes.
“You’re being very mature,” you said.
“I’m being tested.”
You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder. “It’s only temporary.”
“I understand that.”
“You look as if someone cancelled Christmas.”
“I said I understand it. I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”
But he was careful. More careful than you were, sometimes. When you curled into him at night, he kissed your forehead, your hair, your shoulder, then gently put space where space needed to be.
Sleeping became more difficult. Turning from one side to the other required planning, patience and, on particularly humiliating nights, Harry’s assistance. He surrounded you with pillows until the bed looked less like a bed and more like a medical nest designed by a luxury hotel.
Still, the girls pressed against your ribs, your bladder, your lungs and every other part of you they apparently considered negotiable.
Harry spoke to them every night. “Be kind to your mother,” he whispered, one hand spread over your stomach. “You’ll meet us soon enough.”
A small kick answered him. “Not that soon,” he added sternly.
You smiled into the pillow.
Eight weeks, the doctor had said.
Only eight weeks until you would meet your daughters.
Dinner was over when the call came.
You were lowering yourself carefully onto the sofa, one hand braced against the armrest and the other resting over your stomach, when your phone began to ring on the coffee table.
Unknown number.
You frowned, reaching for it. “Who calls after dinner anymore?”
Harry glanced up from where he was folding the throw blanket at the other end of the room.
You answered before he could say anything.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice spoke on the other end. Careful. Professional.
“Ms. Queen? My name is Claire Walsh. I’m calling from a long-term care facility—”
“A care facility?” you repeated, confused.
Harry was beside you before the woman finished her next sentence. He took the phone gently but firmly from your hand.
You stared at him. “Harry?”
He ended the call.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
“What was that?”
“Nothing important.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You just took my phone from my hand. And hung up on a woman from a care facility.”
“She shouldn’t have called you directly.”
The sentence landed strangely. You pushed yourself higher against the cushions, studying him more closely. His face had gone pale, the controlled lines of it too still to be casual. “Harry,” you said slowly. “What is going on?”
He looked away.
That was enough.
You knew every version of his silence. The business silence. The angry silence. The silence he used when he was trying to keep a room from collapsing around someone he loved. This was the last one. “How long have you been hiding calls from me?”
His jaw tightened.
Your breath caught. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? The last few days—your phone, Ron calling you outside the room, that woman—”
“Baby.”
“No.” Your voice sharpened. “Tell me. Please. What is going on?"
Harry stayed standing for another second. Then he exhaled, sat beside you and took both of your hands in his.
“Last Friday, a woman came to the building,” he said carefully. “Security didn’t let her up. She said she needed to speak to you.”
“About what?”
“At first, I didn’t know.”
Your fingers tightened around his. “And then?”
“I saw her again the next day. Outside. I asked what she wanted.”
Harry’s thumb moved slowly over your knuckles, as though he was trying to keep you anchored before he had even said the words.
“She works at a long-term care facility,” he said. “Your biological father is there.”
You swallowed. The room seemed to drop out from beneath you. For a second, you only stared at him. “My… what?”
Harry’s face softened with worry. He reached up and brushed his fingers along your cheek. “Breathe for me."
You drew in a thin breath. One of the girls shifted beneath your ribs, and your hand moved instinctively to your stomach. “Continue,” you whispered.
Harry nodded once. “She tried Scarlet first because he had been saying her name for weeks. Scarlet refused to speak to her. She tried to reach Mikey and couldn’t. Then she saw your name attached to mine in enough society articles to find the building.”
Your mouth parted, but no sound came out. “Why is he there?” you asked finally. “Why is some woman calling me? Why now, after all these years?”
Harry looked down at your joined hands.
“The woman he left your mother for is gone. She took what remained of his money and disappeared when his illness became inconvenient.” His voice stayed low, measured. “He has Alzheimer’s. Advanced enough that some days he doesn’t know where he is. Some days he asks for Scarlet.
Some days he asks about the little boy.”
“Mikey,” you breathed.
Harry nodded. “And lately,” he said, softer now, “she said he keeps asking whether the baby was born.”
The words moved through you like something cold.
The baby.
Harry did not answer immediately. Your eyes lifted to his. “Me?”
His expression broke just enough to hurt. A tear slipped down your cheek.
The daughter he had never met. The child he had left behind before she had even taken her first breath.
Harry wiped the tear away with his thumb. “Baby, talk to me.”
You stared past him, but all you could see was a man you had never known asking about a baby who had already grown up, married, divorced, survived him, and was now carrying two daughters of her own.
“I need to see him.”
Harry’s brow drew together, that familiar deep crease forming between his eyes as his whole face tightened in immediate refusal. “No.”
“Harry—”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“If we are talking about your health and our daughters’ safety, then I do get a say.”
“A say, yes. Not the decision.”
“You’re thirty weeks pregnant with twins. The doctor said no stress.”
“I know what the doctor said.”
“Then you know this is exactly the kind of thing she meant.”
You pulled your hands back, not harshly, but enough to make him feel the distance.
“I have to see him.”
“You don’t owe him that.”
“I know.”
“He left you before you were born. He doesn’t deserve the chance to hurt you now.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
You pressed one hand to your stomach and swallowed hard.
“Because if something happens and he dies, I will never know what was real.” Your voice broke. “I spent my whole life imagining him. When I was seven, I asked my mother about him, and after that I made up versions of him in my head. Younger. Better. Sorry.” You shook your head. “I don’t know if I want to see him. But I need to.”
Harry looked at you for a long moment, the fight in his expression slowly giving way to something heavier. You reached for his hand again. “I don’t owe him anything,” you whispered. “But I think I owe something to the seven-year-old version of me who thought he might still come back if she was worth coming back to.”
That did it.
Harry’s face changed completely. The anger left him first, then the argument. What remained was something softer, almost wounded.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured.
He reached for you at once, his hand sliding gently over your hair as he drew you closer.
His eyes had gone bright, though he tried to blink it away before you could see. “She was always worth coming back to,” he said quietly. “He was the one who didn’t deserve to find his way back.”
Your breath broke against his chest.
Harry closed his eyes briefly and let out a slow breath. When he opened them again, his fear was still there. So was the decision.
“We go together,” he said.
The facility smelled like lemon cleaner, old carpet and something medicinal underneath.
You hated that your first thought was how small everything seemed. The woman from the phone met you near the entrance and spoke softly to Harry while you stood with both hands curved over your stomach. He kept one hand at your lower back the entire time, steady and warm through the thin fabric of your dress.
When they brought you to the room, you stopped at the threshold.
The man sitting by the window was not the man you had imagined at seven.
He was not the famous director whose face you had cut from old entertainment magazines and hidden in the back of your drawer. Not the man smiling beside actresses at premieres, not the man whose interviews you had read in secret, searching for some trace of yourself in the shape of his mouth or the way his eyes held the camera.
That man had belonged to glossy paper and childhood invention.
This one was thinner than memory had any right to make him. Older than he should have been. His hair had gone almost completely white, his shoulders folded inward beneath a cardigan that looked too large for him. His hands rested in his lap, restless over the blanket.
For a moment, you could not breathe.
Harry leaned closer. “We can leave.”
You shook your head.
The man turned at the sound. His eyes moved over Harry first, then found you.
He stared.
Your body went cold.
“Scarlet?” he whispered.
Harry’s hand tightened at your back.
You tried to speak, but nothing came.
The man’s gaze drifted lower, to your stomach. Something in his face changed. Confusion. Wonder.
A grief too late to be useful.
“The baby,” he said.
Your breath caught.
He looked up at you again, eyes wet and empty of recognition.
“Our girl?”
The room tilted.
“No,” you whispered.
But he did not understand. Or perhaps some ruined part of him did, because his mouth trembled as he reached toward you with a hand that shook.
Harry stepped between you at once.
The movement broke something in you. You took a step back before you could stop yourself, one hand rising to your mouth as you looked at the helpless, fragile old man in front of you.
He did not look like the man who had destroyed your mother.
He did not look like the man who had left behind a pregnant wife and a one-year-old son.
He looked small.
Lost.
Almost pitiful.
And somehow, that hurt worse.
For years, you had imagined anger would be enough to hold you upright if this moment ever came. You had imagined questions.
Accusations. The clean satisfaction of finally saying what a child could not.
But there was no one here to answer you.
Only an old man who looked at you and saw your mother.
Only a mind trapped in the year he had left.
Only the baby he had never stayed to meet, standing in front of him with two babies of her own.
You turned away because you could not look at him anymore.
Behind you, he murmured something soft and broken.
“Scarlet… don’t go.”
Your eyes closed.
Harry understood before you spoke.
“That’s enough,” he said gently.
The woman from the facility said something behind you, but you did not hear it. Harry guided you into the corridor, one arm firm around your waist.
You made it three steps before the sob broke loose.
Harry pulled you into him.
“I thought he would be different,” you choked out. “I know that’s stupid. I know he was never good.
But when I was little, I imagined this so many times.”
“I know.”
“He was supposed to be healthy. Arrogant. Shameless.” Your voice broke harder. “He was supposed to be the man who betrayed my mother and left two children behind. I was supposed to be able to hate him. To ask him why. To make him look at me.”
Harry held you tighter.
“But he can’t even do that,” you sobbed. “He can’t answer me. He can’t apologize. He can’t even know me.”
“Breathe, baby,” Harry murmured. “Please. For me.”
“He was supposed to see me.” Your fingers twisted in his jacket. “He doesn’t even know me, Harry.”
“I know.” His voice was rough now. “I’m sorry.”
You clutched at him, crying too hard to stand without him.
“I’m right here,” he said, his hand moving slowly over your back. “You’re not that baby anymore. You hear me? You’re here. You have me. You have Richard—the father who stayed. You have our girls. He doesn’t get to take that from you.”
You tried to nod.
Harry’s hand moved to your stomach. “Think of them. Just breathe. In and out.”
It took several minutes before you could move again.
The woman from the facility followed you into the corridor, holding a worn black notebook against her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “There is one more thing.”
Harry’s arm tightened around your waist. “Not now.”
But your gaze had already dropped to the notebook. “What is that?”
The woman hesitated. “They found it among his things when he was moved here. He kept it for years.” Her eyes softened with something like pity. “He knew about you, Ms. Queen. About both of you. It’s only in the last year that the illness began taking names from him.”
The words landed too slowly.
He knew.
You should have said no.
Instead, you reached for it.
The cover was cracked at the corners, the pages swollen from age. When you opened it, the first thing you saw was Mikey’s face, cut from a society magazine years ago and pasted crookedly onto yellowing paper.
MICHAEL QUEEN CAUSES SCENE AT CHARITY AUCTION
A laughless breath caught in your throat.
Mikey looked younger in the photograph, grinning at someone outside the frame as if he had absolutely no intention of learning from the incident.
The next page was Scarlet.
SCARLET QUEEN TO STAR OPPOSITE ROBERT DE NIRO
She was impossibly young, impossibly beautiful, her smile bright enough to belong to a woman who had not yet learned how much grief could cost.
Then another.
QUEEN AND CASTILLO FAMILIES UNITE IN HIGH-SOCIETY WEDDING
Your first wedding.
Your face beside Harry’s, both of you caught on the church steps, younger and shining with a kind of happiness you had not known enough to protect.
Your fingers trembled as you turned the page.
MS. QUEEN RETURNS TO NEW YORK
A photograph from one of your first major public appearances after joining Queen Financial.
Then another.
QUEEN FINANCIAL’S HEIRESS STEPS INTO POWER
And another.
MS. QUEEN SHINES AT ANNUAL GALA
Page after page.
Your face, collected in silence.
Not loved properly. Not claimed. Not protected.
Just watched from a distance.
Harry looked over your shoulder and went very still.
Between the clippings, there were folded letters in shaky handwriting.
Scarlet, forgive me.
Scarlet, I made a mistake.
Scarlet, tell me about my kids.
The words blurred.
A sound left you before you could stop it.
“He…” you whispered. “All those years…”
Harry turned toward you at once. “Baby—”
“He knew.”
Your hand moved to your stomach.
For one second, everything inside you went too quiet.
Then a hard tightening pulled low across your abdomen.
You gasped.
Harry’s face changed instantly. “Baby?”
Another wave came before you could answer. Not sharp enough to name, but deep and wrong enough to steal your breath.
The notebook slipped from your fingers and hit the floor.
“H-Harry.”
He caught you before your knees gave way.
“No, no, no.” His voice dropped into panic before he forced it steady. “Baby, look at me.”
Your fingers clutched at his jacket.
“The babies—”
Harry lifted you into his arms before you could finish.
“I’ve got you.” His voice was calm in the way it became only when he was terrified. “Open the doors,” he called down the corridor. “Now.”
The woman from the facility moved quickly, shouting for help as Harry carried you toward the exit.
“Look at me,” he said, holding you carefully against his chest. “Breathe for me.”
Then he felt it.
The warmth soaking through the fabric beneath his arm.
For half a second, his mind went brutally blank.
Then everything the doctor had said came back at once: thirty weeks, twins, stress, warning signs, early labor, rupture, pressure, do not wait.
His hold tightened.
“No,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Not yet.”
Another pressure rolled through you, harder this time.
A broken cry slipped from your mouth.
“Harry.” Your voice cracked with fear. “It’s too early. It’s too early. I can’t—They can’t come now.”
“Yes, you can.” He pressed his mouth briefly to your hair as he moved faster, his heart beating violently against you. “Listen to me. You can. I’m taking you to the hospital. You and the girls are going to be okay.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.” His voice roughened.
“I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
The driver was already out of the car when Harry reached the entrance.
“Mr. Castillo?”
“Call the doctor,” Harry ordered as the doors opened ahead of him. “Now.”
The driver grabbed his phone with shaking hands.
Harry lowered you into the back seat, one arm still braced behind you, the other pressed protectively over your stomach.
Another wave hit.
You clutched his shirt, tears breaking free.
“Harry…”
He looked down at your face, all the color gone from his own.
“Stay with me,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Please. Stay with me."
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