[opultea]

☆彡　Welcome ☆彡

Come rest for a little while, I only hope I can ease you.

Call me Mayo!

Refer to The Masterlist for all works

Asks are always open for thoughts, chats, and questions! (However I’m under no obligation to respond if you’re rude)

[messsssmer]

"Whimsy" is truly a wretched term. What maketh thee so carefree?

[fireknightqueelign]

thy mother

[messsssmer]

Art thou for fucking real

[tourfilm]

living under a rock is so fun i love watching a movie that’s been famous for decades and being like wow this is so good.. did you guys know about this

[not-your-average-url]

I miss when ads were a single click and then they’re gone. Now every ad has a minimum of three phases where you watch a video, exit the still frame of fake gameplay, and then exit the app download. That doesn’t even touch on the ones that forcibly take you to another app after opening a tab in safari without you ever touching the screen.

I hate advertising. I hate that you can’t do anything without companies jumping down your throat with mostly bullshit ads. I hate that billboards exist. I hate that every company unanimously decided to make their ads longer and longer. I hate that ad blockers try to charge you money and there are in app purchases to remove ads. I hate that my attention has become commodified. I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it.

[lazer-exe]

I'm gonna say it, I do think that even the laziest person imaginable should have a roof over their head, food in their stomach, and access to healthcare

[chronicallyhomoerotic]

this is a poem. To me.

[targlocket]

OUR BOY

ormund hightower x wife!reader, mom figure!reader & daeron targaryen

cw: spoilers for ep 4!!, found family trope, reader thinks of daeron like her own, tension, religious themes, slight manipulation, fluff fluff, motherly reader!!, hurt/comfort, reader is very protective of daeron, emotional distress, quarelling, ormund does love his wife, petnames (my love, sweetheart, sweetling), (2.7kw).

synopsis: A child doesn't need to come from the womb to weave his way into your heart. Your husband knows as much.

a/n: this was a wip since the second episode sitting in my drafts, and now with episode four out, it sparked me to continue it! i love daeron so much, and so does reader. they're a dysfunctional family, but they make it work! guys this piece is very dear to me okay it's my baby i love it so much.

"From King Aemond."

"King?" You frown, looking at the young squire for confirmation, which he gives with a slow nod of his head.

"Yes, my lady," Daeron says, brows pinching, mimicking your bewilderment. "The messenger said so himself when he delivered the letter to Lord Ormund."

You huff, the news rattling you a bit, sighing as if the weight of what must've transpired back in King's Landing is already heavy to carry. "Gods helps us all."

Daeron's expression turns sympathetic as he sees your mood sour, prompting you to step closer, one hand moving to brush his cheek as you speak, your tone hushed but warm. "Don't give me that look," you scold, but it contradicts the softness of your touch and tone. "There's nothing to worry about." Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone, motherly and reassuring, as you always do when he's putting others' emotions onto his own young shoulders. "Ormund will know what to make of it."

"As always."

Both of you perk up at the familiar voice, watching as your husband enters the tent through the flaps, one eyebrow raised as he assesses the scene, eyes narrowing at the sight of your hand cradling Daeron's cheek, jaw clenching minutely. "Such matters are not for wives," he shoots you a look, "or squires," his voice dips to a firmer tone as he glances at Daeron, "to worry about." Ormund closes the flap behind him before continuing, seeking privacy. "Or talk behind their hands like gossiping mongrels where I cannot hear."

You feel Daeron tense beneath your hand, and your thumb brushes his cheek to soothe, huffing as you hold your husband's gaze. "The boy was just relaying information to me, which I am grateful for." Daeron relaxes under your touch, which makes you hum, sneaking him a small smile before turning your gaze back to Ormund. "As any squire would."

"He is my squire."

"I borrowed him," you counter, lifting your chin, not backing down.

"You cannot borrow someone's squire. It is unheard of."

"And yet you are hearing about it now. Novelties are common during wartime, are they not?"

The corner of Ormund's lips twitches for one moment at your audacity before he scoffs, eyes narrowed as he holds your gaze enough to let you know this will not be the end of this conversation. It sends a shiver down your spine.

"So they say," he responds, stepping closer, motioning with one hand towards the flap of the tent. "Go see what that beast of yours is doing, won't you? There are matters I must discuss with Lady Hightower." Ormund's tone is firm, brooking no argument as he waits for Daeron to obey, the young boy nodding curtly, before turning to do the same to you, albeit a touch more reverent.

"My lord, my lady."

You smile, thumb tracing his cheek once more before he moves, letting your hand fall to your side, watching as he makes haste towards the tent's exit.

The silence he leaves behind is thick for a heartbeat, two, before it is broken by your husband's voice. "You coddle him incessantly," he reprimands, face scrunching in distaste, as if such a thing offended him personally. "Petting him like a cat and cooing at him as if he were but a babe."

Being a touch theatrical has always been one of your husband's most endearing traits, and one of his most daunting, as you sometimes remind him, to his annoyance. You will never admit that poking at that certain flaw of his tickles you greatly, just as it does now.

"He is young," you combat, "and this is his first ever war. A gentle touch would do him well."

"Too gentle of a touch will soften him overmuch and he will not be fit to fight alongside me, as is his duty," your husband counters, tone resolute as he takes slow, measured steps towards you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You know this."

And you did. The importance of coming out victorious was paramount to your husband, his house, and his cause. Seating the rightful heir on the Iron Throne was the one thing that mattered most, and Ormund was hellbent on seeing it through to the end, by any means necessary.

"I am aware," your tone softens, sighing as you reach for him, hand touching his cheek as you did Daeron, but the difference was stark in the way you offered your affection, thumbing at the cut of his cheekbone with intent, leaning in until your breaths mingled. Ormund frowned, knowing you were trying to appease him, but didn't pull away, instead leaning into your touch, tilting his head into the cradle of your palm, eyes boring into yours. “But someone has to soften the rigour you instill in him, husband, for he shall not be cruel, but just, even in times of war.”

“Being just is not enough,” he protests again, and you can feel his jaw tighten beneath your hand, which you try to soothe with soft swipes of your thumb along the bone, a touch that he welcomes, despite the turmoil in his gaze. “If one needs to be heartless, then the Gods have willed it so.”

Your brows pinch together, the urge to try and make your husband see reason slowly curdling into something acrid. “Since when have the Gods willed a young boy to cruelty, Ormund?” Your tone is no longer soft nor warm, sharpening at the mere thought of Daeron being made into something he was not meant to be. “Is this what the Seven Pointed Star had taught us all these years?”

Ormund’s eyes widen for a fraction, the use of his name in such a cadence from you and the sting of your words halting his breath. He knew how fiercely protective you were of the boy, like a lioness with its cub, even if not yours by womb. Now it was his turn to try and bring back the sweetness in your tone, for he shall never admit it, but having his wife cross with him was a fate he did not particularly enjoy.

“My love,” he murmured, and tried not to react when he saw your expression pinch even more at the fond moniker. “Sometimes, in the midst of war, we cannot abide by all that The Faith has taught us, no matter how much we wish to grace the Gods with our deeds.” Ormund took a breath, trying not to get irritated when your pretty face didn’t soften an inch. “And that boy is fated to sit The Iron Throne, for his blood is pure, and not savage, and his teachings are proper, and not the stuff of legends long past.”

Sit the Iron Throne.

You took a step back, recoiling from your husband as if burned, the warmth of your touch no longer on his cheek as you whispered, mortified. “Sit the Iron Throne?”

Such plans were news to you, for Aemond was to be the rightful heir now that Aegon was gone. But it seems your husband’s ideals reached further than you could’ve ever conjured up yourself. Was it because Aemond was to be sent to Harrenhal? Did your husband believe Rhaenyra’s forces would slay Vhagar and thus leave the throne with no one to occupy it?

“No,” you said, resolute, fingers starting to tremble as you curled them into fists at your side. “I will not have my boy thrown into that den of vipers that we’ve tried so hard to keep him safe from.”

Ormund’s chest rattled with the deep breath he took, as if preparing himself for the onslaught of your dissatisfaction to come. “He is not—”

“Don’t you dare!” Your tone was sharp as steel, voice rising, all pretence gone now that your husband had braved to utter those words to you, knowing how much they would chip at your tender heart. “You know just as well as I that Daeron is more mine than anyone else’s. I have raised him since he was a babe—”

“And you have done so valiantly, my dear, but—” Ormund tries to soothe, but the bitter taste in your mouth from his words is more pungent than anything he could say to save himself from your wrath.

“Do not patronise me so!”

Your chest is heaving, and you feel those damnable pinpricks behind your eyes, moisture dampening your lash line, tears slowly forming, as if already feeling the grief of losing one of the things you cherish most. “King’s Landing is a wretched place, devoid of honour and swarming with enemies, and you want to send our—”

Our son.

But you stop, chin wobbling, not daring to say such a thing now, knowing it will do no good, and only make your husband protest further.

The sweetest boy, who hid his chubby little face into your skirts and clung to them when nightmares came at night, is now sentenced to a life you know he does not wish for. You can already feel your stomach churning with trepidation just at the thought, your gaze unwavering despite the tears brimming in your eyes to shoot daggers at your husband, who stays unmoving before you, looking equal parts irritated and unsure of how to proceed in the face of such strong emotions.

“I cannot, Ormund,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges. “I shall not let you make a scheme of my boy just to fuel your own ambitions.”

You expect your husband to protest, to scream and rage and rip the very tent you’re in apart in his hands, but he does none of those things. Instead, he watches you, as calculated as he’s ever been, as if devising a plan to turn your sorrow into something for his own gain, or so you think.

What you do not anticipate is for Ormund to sigh, long and suffering, before walking towards you, lessening the distance between your bodies until his sword hilt bumps against your hip. “Do you believe that I am doing this solely for my own gain, my love?”

And you want to argue that, yes, you are certain of such things, for your husband was never one to not think of himself or his family first and foremost. But you don’t get to verbalise that, Ormund’s voice, softer than before, carrying that tone which could melt the marrow of your bones in mere seconds, but now, your impending grief is too great, your sorrow hardening you too much for such mellowness so quick.

“I do it for us,” he says, tilting his head to the side, bringing your faces closer, noses almost brushing. “For our legacy. For the future of House Hightower, which is now in ruins given the death of Otto and the usurpation of the King.”

You wish to protest, but your husband does not let you, sensing the argument on the tip of your tongue before it forms, a habit he picked up after more than a decade by your side, knowing you inside and out.

“Ascending Daeron to the throne will grant us power beyond our imagination, and allow the boy to live in a world of his own making.” The words are just and sound, but they do not go through you; the image of your sweet Daeron sitting upon that blasted throne full of swords and lies is too heavy on your heart.

“He will be in grave danger,” you croak, tears brimming along your lash line, slowly slipping down warm cheeks. “People will seek to harm him, to demand favours he’s not ready to offer, to—”

“And I will be in his shadow, making sure none of that comes to fruition,” Ormund says, tone brooking no argument, his gaze holding yours, willing you to see the seriousness of the matter. “If anyone dares to conspire against our boy, I will have their heads before they can draw their next breath. You have my word, sweet wife.”

Our boy.

You draw in a trembling, wet breath, your husband’s words breaking your heart and putting it back together in one fell swoop, a quiet, choked sob parting your lips as you try to utter a word back, anything to dismantle Ormund’s words, but you cannot.

“Oh, my love,” he coos, and it does not sound as condescending as it should’ve, as Ormund would pity those around him who show weakness. No, not with you. He wouldn’t dare make a spectacle of your tender, caring heart, which has grounded him many a time in his darkest, most turbulent moments. “Come here, sweetheart. Do not weep so.”

And you, powerless to resist, take the small step which is needed to bridge the distance between you, allowing your husband to cradle you in his arms, holding you as gently as one would a flower, but firm enough to make it known he wishes not to let go anytime soon.

One of his broad palms settles along your back, slowly smoothing down from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, the other anchored to the back of your head, coaxing you to rest your face along his throat. “Shh, shh, sweetling,” he whispers, turning his head to brush the words against your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your brow. “I will never let anything befall you or the boy. You know that with certainty.”

You do.

Gods, you do, but the fear that gripped your heart like a vice at the thought of such a grand plan was more powerful than reason and proof. Ormund had always gone above and beyond to ensure you and Daeron were safe at all times, even when he was away, instructing guards to follow you around like shadows and sit unmoving at your doors while you slumbered.

“I-i know, but the peril that awaits him if—”

Another kiss brushing your skin halted your incoming spiral, the feeling of your husband’s warm, rough lips against your temple melting you further into the safe strength of his arms, a haven in itself as you feared for what was to come. “The peril shall not exist. Our boy will have me, you, and more men-at-arms that I can count to keep him away from harm. In that, you must trust. In me, also.”

Your arms, which have hesitated until now, moved to grip at the back of your husband’s tunic as you embraced him tightly, needing a rock to cling to, nuzzling your face into his throat, dampening his skin with your tears as you sobbed quietly. “I trust in you more than life itself,” you croaked, and felt the pleased hum your words elicited from Ormund, as if the thought of you confiding in him so wholeheartedly brought him immense satisfaction. “But not that place, those people, that damned chair.”

“And you are right to do so, my love,” he approved, slowly putting weight from one foot to another, guiding your bodies into a gentle sway from side to side, meant to soothe you further. “Gods know everything the Targaryens touch is defiled beyond words. But we shall change that. Make it our own. A place where we and the boy can build a world fit for us alone.”

It sounded too good to be true, like a fairytale the septas would whisper to babes as they grew older, but the determined tone of your husband’s voice made you want to cling to this fantasy as well.

“Just us and our boy?” You murmured, fingers curling tighter into Ormund’s tunic, as if you could etch the very hope of such notions into his very bones.

“Yes, my sweet,” he whispered, brushing another lingering kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he held you close, still swaying. “Just us and our boy.”

gif cr: @/emmaziadarcy

[rhaenyras-crown]

this is literal perfection omfg i need to cradle daeron and kiss his head in a motherly loving, soothing affectionate way

ORMUND YOU ARE INSANE FOR THIS

[troublepunk-ldn]

me as a teenager: man it sucks to have no privacy or autonomy but i guess its for a good reason. when i turn 18 i will realise how young i was and understand why they did all that.

me as an adult: teenagers are an oppressed class, their abuse is normalised and systemic and they need to start killing people

[maswartz]

[fractally]

This has been my main argument against "AI" from the very beginning.

OpenAI scraped the entire web. All of which had been a labor of love from humans. Wikipedia is the backbone of a lot of LLMs, and that was volunteer human labor. They stole it and now they're selling it back to us.

And worse, they're trying to destroy the free sources that they stole from. It's destruction of human knowledge on an unprecedented scale. The burning of the library of Alexandria has nothing on this.

[mariposium]

➶ : THE LOST PRINCE — jacaerys velaryon

summary — while combing the beach for treasures, you stumble upon the unconscious, grievously injured body of a soldier. you decide to help him, but in doing so find love in a man that may never be able to return it. (11.4k)

featured — jacaerys velaryon / fem!reader

content — spoilers! tread carefully, fluff and ANGST, angst w/ a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergent, jace lives, light medical descriptions, reader cares a lot for jace, dual pov!!!, inexplicit mental health struggles (reader’s deceased father), dead vermax ☹, 18+ MDNI implied sexual content/fade-to-black, tw there is a baby

a/n — am i anywhere near caught up with hotd? no. did i write this in spite of that? yes. i'm sorry if things don't make sense or are not in line with canon. the wiki and i did our best!

(cross-posted on ao3)

The cerulean waves lap at the silver beach, ebbing and flowing with the morrow’s breeze. Quiet has finally settled on the shores after a night of war and destruction. A battle beyond these argent sands occurred out in the gullet. All night, the savagery had kept you awake. This morrow, you collect treasures from your fish nets.

You step carefully across the sands, adjusting your silk scarf tighter around your mouth and nose. You bend the knee at the first net.

You heave it onto the shore. Nothing except too-small pieces of fabric and inedible shelled fish are in this one. You empty it and release the fish back to the embrace of the sea.

You stand again, taking a few more steps down. Your mind drifts as you fall into a rhythm of checking these nets, pocketing pretty shells and scraps of metal. Wonder pricks at the back of your neck as you imagine the war. As the lone tenant of this pier, you had never had to consider the rites of the Targaryen rulers. Most of your neighbors had already chosen their sides, even if it did not really matter in the scheme of things—neither of those fighting for the throne cared for their subjects, especially not those at the bottom, like you.

Rulers like these bled the common man dry while claiming it to be an act of love.

You move a little rougher with the next net. Nothing but rocks and debris in this one. You imagine it will be a while until you find a worthy treat. The Gods are usually not as generous on solemn days like these. War makes monsters out of men, and the Gods scorn those who partake.

When you stand again, your eyes drift a little further down the bank. At the edge of the shore, a clump of trees catch your gaze. The water is darker there, cloaked in shadow. The shrubbery bends so far, it almost touches the water. You draw closer, eyebrows furrowed.

A dark lump sits entangled by brush, barely concealed by the cluster of foliage. You draw closer, hesitantly. As your eyes adjust, you realize it is not a lump of debris, but a body. Your breaths quicken.

If the person is alive, would it hurt you? Never trust a soldier, your father had once told you.

You bend your knee just as if you are checking a fish net. Your hands unfurl from your sides, reaching out hesitantly. You can only see his body. It is clothed in thick leather, a quality of which you’ve never seen before. Several arrows stick out of his torso. A pool of blood stains the sand maroon beneath him.

You pull back the shrubbery to see his face. You startle at the sight, falling back onto your bum.

His eyes—they were open—albeit, he did not seem to see much of anything. His skin was not grey and placid like the bodies that you had seen before. Worse, you’d heard something when you held yourself over him. A breath, shuddering through his parted lips.

“Alive,” you whisper in awe. To survive so many arrows, then the tumultuous sea… it would take more than just courage. It would take something otherworldly. You know then that your decision has been made.

A huge piece of driftwood sits beneath him in the sand. You push it aside to straddle him. Gently, you grab his arm and sling it around your neck.

The rest of your journey back to the cabin passes in a frenzied blur. You move quickly, trying to spend as little time as possible forcing the grievously hurt man onto his feet. He lets out little grumbles as you move, head lolling this way and that like a puppet cut from its strings. You make it inside and push open the door that your father used to live, laying him onto his back on the bed.

Blood immediately infiltrates the off-white of the duvet, crimson floating before your vision. He groans continuously as you break the ends off of the arrows—serving as a reminder to the heart that still valiantly pumped beneath his ribs. Once they are off, you are able to slide the armor off. 

The tunic comes easily. It seems to be made of a material that deflects water, so when you drop it onto the floor, a puddle of liquid forms in its spot. You struggle a little with his breeches—though, those too come easily with a little pull.

After he is naked, you stare at his body in silence for a moment. You have helped men with injuries before. Arrow injuries just like these, even. But you’d never helped a man with this many. 

You reach out to touch his cold cheek. He is so young—had to be your own age. Too young for the cruel, unflinching hold of war. Gently, you close his eyelids, shutting away the dark brown of his unseeing gaze. He did not need to be witness to this.

You steel your nerves and clench your fists a few times to breathe life back into your numb fingers. Reaching into the bedside table, you grab your supplies—bandages, a bottle of rum, a couple cloths, and several blunt blades.

“I’m sorry, if you are awake,” you tell him, poising the knife along the edge of one of the arrow heads. “This will hurt a lot.”

Hours pass quickly under your blade. Each of the five arrows is cut away, sewn with fishing line, disinfected with rum, and bandaged tightly. Sweat falls into your eyes as you step away triumphantly, and you lift a hand to brush it off. As they are levelled with your eyes, you realize your hands are a bloody mess. Your stomach churns and you force the appendages away.

You hover over him a moment longer. You study the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids. He had a strong nose and jaw, thick dark eyelashes and a head of water-matted brunet hair. By all appearances, he was quite common-looking. He had the complexion and hair of any man you’d pass on the way to town. But something about him—the quality of his armor, the blemishlessness of his skin, it screamed something ethereal.

But even Gods can be killed. 

Your mystery man is not out of the woods yet. The chances of any of those arrows not nicking anything inside him is next to none. He’s also lost a lot of blood. The sheets are covered in it, not to mention the amount he was sure to have lost at sea.

You draw the hair sea-slicked to his head away from his forehead. Your hand slides to cup his cheek. He might never wake again. Your kind hand may be the last he knows. You wonder how many people missed him—if they were sitting with baited breaths, waiting for him to write. If only you could ease their worries.

You pull away and leave the room before your eyes can fill with traitorous saltwater tears.

There are few certainties in life. Ever since you were but a child, you had recognized this. Life is tumultuous and unfair. It takes and it takes, until you can give no longer. 

The sea is a comfort. She does not take, she gives. Usually, she gives you more valuable things than a body, but you try not to question her motives.

It’s been a day since you patched him and he still has not woken. His chest continues to move despite this disconcerting sign, and that remains your only comfort. You stood near-vigil at his beside for most of the hours following. Anticipatory nerves fill your every waking second, even at night when you lay awake trying to sleep.

You recognize that the danger has not fully passed for him. He had not had water in who knows how long. Eventually, his organs would fail due to dehydration and blood loss. That is, if the internal bleeding didn’t kill him first.

You also cannot help the hope that blooms in your chest as you gaze upon his face. Perhaps it is the fact that his skin seems more alive as of late. The fact that you have seen his eyes move behind his eyelids more and more often. The fact that you were quite insufferably lonely, and therefore latched onto any individual who came your way—alive or barely, as in the case of this man in your cabin.

You want him to survive because you want to know him. It is a thought that scares you as much as it invigorates you.

By his bedside, after a long morrow of scavenging by the tide, you dump your satchel of goodies on the now-clean duvet. (Now that had been annoying to do—having to move his admittedly quite heavy body over to remove the sheets). You begin to sort through them, cataloging them.

The silence is unsettling, so you begin to speak.

“The sea has been kind this morrow,” you say softly. You pick up a smooth rainbow shell, twisting it this way and that in the light. “These will sell for a couple of silvers.”

You put the shell down and then grab your cloth, gently stroking away sand and debris.

“My father taught me to do this,” you tell the man, “he taught me everything I know.”

Satisfied with its shimmer, you trade the shell for a clam. You pop it open forcefully—apologizing profusely to the creature as you did—and stick your fingers into the dark crevice you created.

“No pearl,” you report when your fingers come up empty. You bring the clam up to your eyes, stroking its now-broken shell. “I’m sorry, friend.”

The last piece had been one you were excited for. You grab the shrapnel of metal gently in your palms, categorizing the weight and feel of it with your hands. 

“Probably off a shield,” you decide. “I’m sure a blacksmith would like this.”

You put the metal down and let out a heavy sigh. You stare at the man, worrying your lip between your teeth. Perhaps some foolish part of you had hoped he would wake up to the sound of your voice, like the stories you had read as a girl.

But life is no story, as you had to continually remind yourself. Things like that just didn’t happen.

You go through a few other bits and bobs in silence, mood dampened by reality. A couple of small shells, a nail, and a scrap of maroon fabric. You aren’t sure why you grabbed the fabric—perhaps you’d wanted to try and sew something. It is quite pretty, you decide. It had belonged to someone once.

Once you finish polishing the items, you lift your head up to look at the man. Thoughts and images flash through your mind. What was he like? You wonder. He seems strong, based on his broad shoulders and defined stomach. But he also didn’t have the worn skin of a common man. He didn’t have callouses on his hands or fading scars upon his torso. He had to be a prince, you decide. A prince of a faraway land, hoping to bargain peace between the two feuding Targaryen houses.

You nod, satisfied with that recreation of events. Yes, a prince. A just, altruistic one. Perhaps he knew of the war and wished to come and save the small-folk.

You look down at his pale hand resting lifelessly upon the duvet. You swallow thickly. 

“You must wake soon,” you whisper, “the kingdom needs you.”

He does not stir. You sigh and gather your things into your satchel. If he is still not awake by the morrow, you decide, you will return his body to the sea.

That evening, you sit at the table with a plate of roasted fish and a glass of water. The fish is one of two meals you eat regularly. The other was for special occasions, depending on if you were able to procure bread and potatoes at the markets. 

You always eat the eye of the fish first. You do not like it looking at you as you eat its flesh. It feels wrong. The eye is not very tasty, though. The odd texture always makes you vaguely nauseous–the gooey, chewy ball. Your father had always laughed at you when you ate fish. He was not of an imaginative mind. He did not see the fish as being once alive, like you did. He did not imagine it swimming beneath the tide, with all its other fishy friends–before it was snared by ruthless hands and suffocated by the open air.

You stare at the vacant chair across from you with an empty feeling in your chest. It had been so long since you had a companion at supper time. Your father had not spoken much, but his presence alone was always enough to keep you happy. He is gone now, like with the ebbing of the tide, and all that is left is the shadow of the person he used to be.

His fishing pole, next to the door. His journal, where he kept extensive notes about what he found out on the sea during the day. His bed that now had a new, warm body sleeping in it.

You wonder what your father would have done, had he found the man. You take another bite of the fish, forcing it down with a thick swallow. Would he have left him? You had never thought of him as being cruel, but you also know he loathed unwelcome responsibility. He had enough of an imagination to conjure horrible images of betrayal and hurt, and so you decide he probably wouldn’t have brought him home to you. He had too much to lose to do so. Everyone did.

And so why did you? Perhaps, you think, you have lost everything that matters most to you already.

You stare down at the limp skeleton of the fish on your plate. You had never seen a person die of dehydration. Your father had once told you a story about a man he knew that had, and it sounded awful. 

You pick up your dinner knife, a sharp, clean-edged blade, and hold it in the candlelight. The silver edge catches the light, highlighting the sharp point. Your hand trembles as you study it.

Would it be quick, painless—slitting the sleeping prince’s throat? Or would it be messy and painful? Would it draw him out of sleep and would he gaze upon you with hurting eyes as he clutched the gaping hole in his neck?

Regret gnaws at you. As time draws on, you begin to think that the mercy you had granted your prince had been nothing but a farce. That by saving him for one moment had only just prolonged his suffering.

You put the knife in your satchel and stand. It is cruel, keeping a person alive only to die in a violent manner like this–it is inhumane. 

You take quick steps to the bedroom. 

You have never killed a person before. Your father had plenty. He always said the eyes, you can hear his voice in your mind now, the eyes are always the worst part. 

You can’t eat the prince’s eyes like you can the fish’s. No matter what you did, you would have to see those eyes. And with it, the betrayal. You stand over his prone body now. 

A sliver of moonlight streams in from the open window behind you, casting cool light across the heaving chest. He remains impassive, completely unaware of what you were about to do. You do not realize you are crying until you bring the knife up to your eyes and catch a glimpse of your face in the silver.

“I…I am sorry, friend,” you repeat the same mantra you had told so many clams before as you pried your fingers in their mouths, looking for a pearl. “But this is a mercy.”

Your hands tremble like windblown seagrass as you lift the knife against his skin. A moment of hesitation prevents you from acting. And it is just enough for a pale hand to wrap around your own and for dark eyes to snap open.

“Waaa-ter.”

You let out a sharp gasp and yank your hand away. The man watches you, his visage crumpled with pain.

He repeats himself, voice quieter than the first time. “Water, please…”

You move into action. You dart out of the room, hands fumbling with the metal bucket by your door. You run across the moonlit shore to the well that sits on the edge of the woods. Quickly, you fill the bucket. You curse yourself all the while–mind racing in what-ifs and guilt-ridden condemnations. 

You heave the bucket back into the house and grab the same goblet you had used with your own water. You take a huge scoop and shuffle back into the bedroom like a child caught with their hand on the sweets plate.

The man is still awake when you re-enter, his eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. You drop next to him on the bed and angle his head and neck up onto the pillows behind him. Finally, you fulfill his request. He drinks like a man in Essos who has wandered the Red Waste for weeks; heavy, desperate gulps of the liquid. Some fall and drip down his side, which you dab away with a nearby cloth.

When he finally drinks it all, he pulls back, his breaths labored and eyes half-lidded.

“W…Where am I?” he finally says once he has caught his breath. You notice him scanning the room as if trying to find the answer written in the stone.

You decide not to answer honestly. You fear what his reaction will be if he forces himself to recall the battle. Instead you say, “you are safe.”

He stares at you as if only just noticing you. His dark eyes are swallowed almost completely by night, exhausted and ridden with heavy bags. He lifts a hand, as if to touch you, but it falls short. His eyes flutter, and then shut.

He falls unconscious. You touch two hands to his chest to confirm his heart still beats steadily. You let out a breath you had not realized you captured when you find his pulse.

Shame hits you like a tidal wave. You were going to… you were going to kill him. You are shocked at the tears that swim in your eyes. You stand in a hurry–not without remembering to pull the duvet back up to his chest–and stumble out of the room. 

The adrenaline has all but worn away now. Tears clog your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. You allow yourself to feel the emotions–all of them. Relief, shame, exhaustion, and fear overwhelm you completely and you can do nothing but sob. On the table in front of you, the skeleton of the fish and the silver knife mock you without having to say a word.

Waking feels like drowning. Fighting against the wave ahead of you, trying to get your head above water. Then when you finally surface, you fall behind the waves again.

Jacaerys wakes to the sun in his eyes and a warmth around his waist. He thinks for a moment, perhaps, he is in a dream. Another barrier between him and wakefulness. Then, the pain hits him. No, dreams don’t feel like this.

The groan stumbles past his lips before he can stop it and his eyes shoot open. Everything is pain. It surrounds him like dragonfire and steals his breath. He trembles as he uses all his strength to cradle his side.

“Gods,” he murmurs. He feels beneath his fingers the familiar texture of a bandage. Someone helped him.

Helped him. Helped him from what? He gasps as memory rolls over him. Drowning. Arrows piercing through skin and muscle. A dragon’s roar of pain. No, not just any dragon—

“Vermax,” he cries out, tears springing to his eyes. No, no, no…

But it was true. His mind had never failed him before. His dragon. His beautiful dragon. Falling to the bottom of the ocean like a ship’s anchor. He tries to move, to jump to his feet, but he can’t. Pain ricochets up his side, and he can literally feel the side of his chest pulling taut. 

He stares at the ceiling above him with tears fogging his eyes and coating his tongue in salt. For one long moment, he despairs. Why? Why would he be punished this way? Forced to live without Vermax? The bond between rider and dragon could not—should not be severed. Not by something as futile as war. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Everything is despair.

He should have died. Living is not a gift in this condition. His knuckles go white against the duvet. Anger sweeps over him—hot, potent fury.

He curses everyone who caused this. Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, even fucking Helaena. He doesn’t care. They’ll all pay.

But not like this. He finally shuffles himself into a seated position, cringing at the pain that shoots from every direction. Every small movement feels like another arrow tearing his skin. 

His feet are unsteady as he finds his footing. For a second, he fears he might not be able to even walk. Then, he finds himself. He grabs his breeches off the table and slowly, painfully, shrugs them on. He leaves his chest bare—unable to even think about having to lift his arms over his head. He keeps one hand on the wall and the other around his waist as he stumbles across the room. 

The place he is in is frighteningly humble. There’s nothing unnecessary here. Everything has a purpose, a function. No gilded armoires, tall candlesticks, or commissioned portraits. Bare, cobblestone walls, sparse furniture (all glaringly handmade and rustic), and cobwebs hanging in every corner. 

Jacaerys moves slowly from the room he started in to the short hallway that opens into a tiny living area. A large fireplace is the only comfort to him. A pot of a molten, unappetizing glob bubbles above the waning fire. 

There are very few personal effects here. Nothing to propose any kind of hint or insight. Out the window of the front of the ramshackle building, he sees amber light flickering across a wide sea.

His breath shudders out of his lips. He doesn't recognize this place at all. He’s hurt. He has no dragon. He’s never felt worse in his entire life.

All of what energy he summoned flees him in that moment. He practically collapses into a nearby chair and it creaks pathetically under his weight. He hangs his head and a soft sob escapes his lips. 

Tears tremble down his cheeks and onto the wood table beneath his hand. His mind races, memory and pain and fury collide in a war of its very own. Vermax, his mind strays. The perfect dragon. Gone. He digs his nails into the grain of the table beneath his hands, trying to recapture something to ground him. Short, hyperventilating breaths escape his lips—his vision fogs.

Then, everything clears. His hands unclench and he leans back in the chair. He stares at the ceiling, measuring his breaths. You are still alive, he tells himself. Therefore you are still useful.

Because perhaps that was his real fear. That he would no longer be of use—that he would no longer be worth fighting for. He’d always measured his worth in terms of what he could provide to his mother. Perhaps the truth is that his worth stretches beyond that.

He hears the sound of crunching footsteps outside. He sits up in the chair, eyes flickering toward the door. Ahead of him, he notices with a jolt, a knife lay discarded on the table. He grabs it before he can think the better of it, brandishing it like he actually could fight his way out of this mess.

He ignores the pain throbbing in his side and pushes himself to stand again. He won’t die now. He can’t.

The door creaks open slowly, and he angles the knife in front of himself protectively. 

But the figure that crosses the threshold isn’t what he’d been expecting. Wide eyes and a mouth fallen open into an oval. Hands clutching a satchel of… is that a seashell? 

She drops the satchel with immediacy, hands flying into the air. Jacaerys thinks he hears something break inside.

He keeps the arm holding the knife up despite the involuntary tremble that has begun in his arm. A cool sweat travels down his temple. His vision wanes. Despite her… figure (she hadn’t brandished a weapon a day in her life, he thinks), he knows looks can be deceiving. 

“You’re up.” She does not immediately acknowledge the weapon in his hand. She’s either brave or simply ignorant. Jace is not sure what he’s more afraid of.

“Who—“ he starts to speak, but he breaks into a coughing fit. His throat feels like it is on fire. She takes a step forward, as if to help or harm him, but he freezes her in place when he turns his gaze back onto her warningly. “Who are you?”

She tells him her name. Then she quickly adds, “you washed up on the beach in front of my cabin. I found you.”

He bends over to clutch his side. He notices her eyes widen.

“Please, I’m not sure you should be up. You sustained massive injuries,” she tells him. “Your body needs rest.”

“I cannot—“ he scoffs, then coughs again. “I cannot simply rest. I must leave. I must…” 

A pang in his side makes him gasp and hunch over. The knife falls with a clatter against the floor but he can’t seem to bring himself to retrieve it. Everything feels like it is in slow motion, out of his reach and control.

She grabs him around the waist before he tips over. He stays conscious long enough for her to lead him back to bed, but he falls within the waves again the second his head hits the pillow.

Consciousness returns to him in fragments. The sound of footsteps by his head. A burning pain spreading up his chest, to which he thinks he shouts, but cannot prevent. The feeling of a wet cloth soaking his tears and sweat. 

When his eyes finally flutter open, it is dark in the room. A candle burns to a nub on the nightstand next to him, wax coating the wood. Sorrow fills his chest again so quickly it nearly steals his breath.

He sees her slip into the room like a wraith come to haunt him. It is ridiculous, he thinks, that she should be the one to stand over him. On any other day, in any other circumstance, she would not put up much of a fight. Now, he is at her mercy.

“You tore one of your stitches.” Her voice is soft, but it reverberates in his ear drums and skull like a dragon’s final roar. He clenches his jaw and turns his head toward the moon that hangs like a silver noose in the sky. “I had to sew it back while you were resting.”

Jace doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure he would know what to say. How does he encompass all his feelings—or even one of them, into a coherent thought? It isn’t possible.

She draws closer and he tenses. She notices. “Are you going to try and hurt me again?” 

He considers her for a moment, then shakes his head.

She pauses, thinking about something, then she settles upon his side of the bed. Jace notices for the first time since she’s entered the room, that she has a bowl of that wretched-looking soup in her hands.

“Here,” she says, outstretching the bowl. He leans back. She pulls away slightly. “Sorry.” She cringes like even she realizes that the soup is nothing to write home about. “It is all I have.”

Jace swallows thickly. He reaches a trembling hand out. She smiles, relieved.

He goes to take the bowl, but his arm feels weak. He pulls back. “Perhaps…” he pauses, clears his throat. “Perhaps you could…”

Asking for help has never come easy to him. Being weak is not something he is accustomed to. His other hand clenches the sheet in his fist.

She nods. He does not have to be explicit. He untenses his hand as she leans forward, a small bit of soup in the wood spoon.

The first bite makes his face twist. She laughs.

“I truly am sorry,” she says. “I know it is probably not what you are used to.”

It takes every bit of his strength to swallow the offending liquid. It is strangely salty. It tastes like the brine that filled his mouth when he— 

He cuts the thought short. No need to ruin his own mood again.

“Something happened to you out there,” she says as if she’d read his mind, and although it should be a question, it is not, “something bad.”

He swallows another gulp of the soup. He does not reply. 

She must realize he does not want to speak on that, for she does not press the matter. She lifts the spoon again and he forces down another sip.

“The soup has fish and some potatoes—oh, and they had carrots at the market today, so I put those in too. Perhaps those are the disgusting parts. I won’t purchase them again.”

Jace does not have the energy, or perhaps the heart, to tell her it is certainly not the vegetables that have made the soup taste like what sea captains scrape off the bottom of their ships.

She scoops another bit of soup and he forces it down. His mouth had begun to retain that saltiness even when he no longer had the soup in his mouth, like a stain one can’t wash away with soap and water.

She does not speak for a long pause, but Jace suddenly feels a bit antsy. It feels too intimate an act to not be speaking.

He swallows another mouthful, then clears his throat to speak. “Did you catch the fish?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, no, no,” she replies to him like it is a preposterous suggestion. Like killing fish is below her standards. “I just buy them.”

He frowns around the spoon in his mouth and hurriedly swallows the liquid. “Then why were you on the shore when you found me?”

She stirs the foul soup around for a moment, thinking hard about something, then she looks up at him. “I collect things. Shells, scrap metal, and fabrics. You would be surprised what comes with the morning tide, and even more what people would pay for them.”

An odd business, Jace can’t help but think. It seems like a hard thing to have to rely solely on the Narrow Sea for food and shelter. The Narrow Sea, he remembers with a sudden clarity. That is near where they fought.

“Are you going to tell your name?” Her head is tilted as she asks this, the soup bowl now empty and forgotten upon her folded legs.

He ponders the question for a moment. He could tell her his full name, but it might backfire, especially if she harbors a grudge against his family. He doesn’t think she has it in her to cause him harm, but he knows that many do not until they are cornered.

“Jace,” he finally tells her. “Just Jace.”

She smiles and her entire face lights up like nothing he’s ever seen before. Something twists in his stomach. “Nice to meet you, Jace.”

One, two, three, four. You count the shells noiselessly as you thread them onto the fishing line. They clink together softly as you pull the line taut around your wrist, measuring the width mentally. You remove the bracelet and add a few more of your little shells.

A few days had passed without much event. Jace drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day and slept soundlessly through the night. He did not complain, but you had seen his thinly-veiled winces and his shuddering breaths. You know that he is suffering more than he lets on. 

It is an odd thing, you think, to be harboring a man in your home that you know next to nothing about, but had inexplicably formed an attachment to. You still know nothing more about Jace than his name and even that had not been an answer easily wrought.

You slide the shells all to one side and swiftly tie a knot at the end of the line, forming a perfect circular bracelet. Putting it to the side, you cut a new piece of fishing line and begin sorting through your shells again.

Just as you go to slide the first shell on, you hear something behind you. The creaking of wood as light footfalls go across.

You turn your head, body tense.

“Jace,” you say, surprised by his appearance. You stand.

He had not been up since he’d ripped that stitch a few days ago, actually heeding your pleas to rest. But a part of you knew even then that the peace would not last long. He is a restless creature, like a bird stuck behind the bars of a cage.

“Do you need something?” You clutch your fingers together across your front, as if doing so could somehow steel your nerves.

He takes a step into the room. You notice his gait seems more steady today. He looks around every bit of the room, his eyes taking in all the pieces that make up your home. You gnaw your lip between your teeth. Did he approve of what he saw?

His voice comes suddenly, a blade cutting through the silence. “What are you doing?” 

It is not accusatory nor standoffish, instead it seems almost curious. You grab the bracelet you just finished and hold it out to him.

“A bracelet.”

Jace steps closer, tilting his head. “For what purpose?”

You let out a short laugh. “It has no purpose. It is just pretty.”

“Hm.” He stares at the offending object like he’s never thought about making something just for the sake of making something before. You smile. He averts his eyes to the other side of the room.

“You said you do not fish,” he says, “and yet you have a fishing rod.”

You follow his eyes to where the thing sits near the door. It sits, forgotten, in the corner of the room—there to haunt you and the person you’d never become, you’re sure.

“My father…” you start to say, but something gets caught in your throat. You forcefully swallow past the blockage. “My father used to fish.”

Jace’s accusatory eyes soften around the edges. He hobbles closer and takes the seat across from you at the table. Your father’s seat.

“And your father—“

“He is dead,” you answer curtly, “he has been for two summers now.”

You pick up the bracelet you had only just starteda nd slide a seashell onto the line. Hurt does not fill your chest like a cavity anymore—now all you feel is numbness as it spreads from your lungs to your heart. 

Jace turns his head to look out the window at the night sky. “My father is gone too.”

Your eyes leap toward his in a flash. He does not look at you, his hand tracing repetitive shapes on the table. The deep circles beneath his eyes have all but faded now, but the weariness to his expression remains. He possesses the gaze of someone who holds more than they can carry–a gaze your father shared.

Your throat bobs as you force yourself to swallow. You feel hollow, but a bit of warmth has reentered your chest. Two children, you think, without a parent—an awful thing, certainly, but not especially rare in Westeros.

You slide another shell onto the bracelet, fingers trembling. “He went mad.” Telling the truth, those three words, stings like betrayal. “He was a knight before I was born. He never… he never forgot what he had to do. The faces of the men he killed… they haunted him.”

Jace goes pale. His dark eyebrows furrow, the line of his mouth pulling down. “I-I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”

You nod. Put another two shells on the line. Desperately, you search for a way to change the subject. “He always wanted to teach me,” you say, gesturing to the rod, “but he never did.”

He drags a quick hand through his curly brown hair, then pauses as he gets caught in a tangle. He huffs irritably.

“Perhaps,” he says, onyx eyes catching the amber light of the candle flickering on the table, “if I could summon the strength to get dressed and brush my hair, then I could show you how.”

You swallow thickly. “You do not have to—“

“It is the least I can do,” he murmurs. “You saved my life.”

To smile feels inappropriate, so you avert your eyes and begin to tie a knot in another bracelet.

Jace stares at himself in the mirror that stands in the corner of the bedroom with solemn eyes. His eyes glaze over the bandages that wrap around his chest and lower torso, then the unfamiliar slightness to his shoulders and waist. He feels as though he looks at a person he no longer recognizes, like his mind has been transported into the body of someone much weaker than he used to be.

The old house is quiet in the morrow. Every once in a while, a soft breeze will make the house creak. One may occasionally hear a sea bird calling in the distance. Other than that, everything exists as if completely removed from reality; untouched by the war that rages just beyond the sea’s reaches.

His eyes flick back to the mirror and he sees her standing behind him with a deep green doublet wrapped in her arms. 

“It was my father’s,” she says, drawing closer. “It might be a little large on you.”

Jace nods. She hands him the doublet. The material feels like cheap linen, nothing to the quality he had worn before. He does not mind. It would be odd, he thinks, for him to expect anything better.

He lifts the top over his head and she helps guide it over. She seems to be trying not to touch his skin, like she thought he might be made of glass. He clenches his jaw when he feels the familiar tightness in one of his wounds as his arms stretch over his head.

The doublet falls over his body easily, but it does hang on him a bit like the robes a septa might wear.

He hears the sound of muffled laughter from behind him and he turns his head.

“My apologies.” She can barely get it out through her thinly-suppressed amusement. “You do look a bit funny, though.”

Jace feels his lips tug upwards in the first semblance of happiness he’d felt in days. It feels odd and out of place, and so it disappears with his next blink.

“Shall we go?” 

Jace nods. He follows her out of the bedroom and into the living area, watching as she bends to grab the fishing pole. He walks behind her as she leads the way outside, too slow to match her pace.

The brush of a briney mist against his skin feels like flying across the humid air on top of Vermax. His chest pangs and he forces the thought away. His eyes brush the swaying grasses that stand cloistered around the sea’s edge, each one caught up in a current of air drifting by. He watches the woman as she strides ahead of him.

She is quite plain. She does not have the dresses of the courts he is used to, nor the manners of a highborn lady. She moves unhindered by corsets and the plumes of expensive dresses. Her soft legs pump quickly across the sands, barefoot, like she has mapped every inch of the shore to near-perfection and knows without looking where she must go.

Seeing her slip ahead, her hair tangled in the sea’s mist, then as she turns over her shoulder with a jovial grin, it feels so different than anything he’s ever known before.

Baela is beautiful. She is poised, and gentle, but with a rough edge that assures him she could—and would—easily hurt him if pushed to it. But his stomach never flipped when she spoke. He never searched for her eyes from across the room. He never grasped her hand and wished he never had to let it go. He had known her for so long, he assumed she was all he’d ever need, that the feeling of content he felt in her presence was love. Now he isn’t so sure. 

She reaches the shore and stops when her feet hit the tide.

He meets her gaze as she turns to him. His heart pounds in his ears.

“Is it not wonderful?” She sweeps her arm in a half-arc as she speaks, eyes glimmering beneath the high morrow’s sun.

Jace draws his eyes away from her figure to the open waters. It is wonderful, he thinks. If not wrought with pain and regret.

He forces his gaze away. “Yes.”

“So,” she says, shifting on her heels, “how do we begin?”

Jace steps forward and picks up the rod. He retrieves the little scrap of maroon fabric that she had found a few days back and attaches it to the end of the hook. 

“It is always a good idea to have some kind of bait,” he explains, “fish are attracted to movement. If you can find insects or worms, those work even better. But this fabric may do. We will have to see.”

He moves close to the edge of the water and lets the rod scrape the top of the ocean. “Most fish do not swim right by the shore, so you will need to throw the line out a little ways. Make sure that you do not catch your skin with the hook.”

She nods, eyebrows drawn together in deep contemplation. Jace nearly smiles at the way she’s taking this all so seriously, before he catches himself and schools his expression.

Jace steadies his hand and propels the line out into the ocean. One of the wounds on his side complains at the movement, but he ignores it. He watches the line bob in the water with a softened expression. His memory flits between days spent under the sun at Driftmark and Dragonstone, laughing while he chases Lucerys with a wood sword; Laenor showing him how to fish among the tidepools; a fierce burn from the sun that is soothed by his mother’s affectionate hand.

“Who taught you this?” Her voice breaks through the silence that had settled between them. Her eyes keep steady on the line, lashes squinting against the harsh light.

“My father,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation. 

Another pause. 

He feels her shift to look over at the side of his face. “I’m sure he would be quite proud of the man you have become.”

Jace’s breath halts in his throat. Hands suddenly feel clammy. His heart hiccups and thuds against his skin. He had not thought of Laenor in a long time, Harwin even longer. It feels like decades had passed since he had seen either of them, a forgotten moment in his life overshadowed by tragedy after tragedy.

“Oh, look,” she says suddenly from beside him. “A conch shell.” 

She wields the massive thing toward him. Her entire face is bright with delight as she shows him the object that any normal person would completely disregard. She is anything but normal, though.

“These always sell for a few silvers at the markets,” she informs him, “the rich folk think they are good luck.”

He is not able to reply before his arm suddenly jolts and he is pulled a few inches forward. On the end of the line, something stirs in the water. 

“Come,” he orders her urgently. “Something is biting.”

She draws close, her eyes wide. The conch shell drops to the sand. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he says, “here, you hold the rod.”

“What? I don’t know how to catch a fish!”

He thrusts the rod into her hands. “I am too weak to reel it in. You have to.” It is a lie, but she does not seem to recognize it.

Her hands slip all over the rod as she tries to fight the beast at the end of the line. Jace, pitying her struggle, slides behind her and steadies her hands by placing his on top of hers. She freezes for a moment, then begins to pull. Jace clutches her hands gently within his own and he notices that they tremble like seagrass beneath his own. 

“Hold it steady,” he says against the shell of her ear, “pull only when you feel it stop fighting. You do not want–”

Suddenly, the pressure is removed from the end of the line and they are both sent stumbling backwards onto the sand. Jace lands on his bum, but she is able to catch herself as she tumbles beside him. The line must have broken. The fish is long gone now.

“Oh Jace, are you okay?” He looks over at her as she crouches beside him. “You did not reopen your wounds, did you?”

The laugh that tumbles out of his lips makes her jolt back. Distantly, he is not sure why he is laughing. The fish got away, he landed on back on the sand, and now one of his cuts hurts. But he had just felt so alive. So unburdened by responsibility, like any man of ten and eight without the entirety of their mother’s empire resting upon their shoulders ought to feel. 

The laughter eventually abates, and all that is left is the open sky atop him and the sun beating down on his skin.

“Do you think that the fish I cooked last night was spoiled?” she asks in response to his exuberant mood. “Once, my father caught ill from bad potatoes…”

Jace feels another chuckle escape his lips. “Sorry,” he tells her. “I have… not felt that free in a long time.”

She lets out a soft ‘oh’ and moves to lay next to him in the sand. Far enough away that there is no chance that they will touch, but close enough that Jace can smell the lavender on her skin.

Jace stares at the clear sky ahead of him until he begins to feel his body ache with exhaustion. He pulls himself into a seated position, but she does not move immediately. She looks at him with soft eyes from where she lays against the sand, a small, affectionate smile upon her lips. Her chest rises and falls slowly, hand absentmindedly drawing pictures in the sand.

His stomach churns as he turns away. He stares out at the rippling current with half-lidded eyes. 

“How far is the nearest town?” His words are nearly carried away with the next tide that pulls up the shore. She hears him all the same, sliding to sit up next to him.

“Not far,” she replies, a toothy grin on her breath, “would you like to come and help me pick out a fish for dinner tomorrow?”

Jace does not reply. The hope tinged in her words makes something inside him feel rotten. Like he is corrupting the world wherein she lives. As he takes longer and longer to reply, he notices something settle upon her face. A realization that fades into melancholy.

“Oh.” She looks to the sea in an attempt to hide the dewiness in her eyes, but Jace notices all the same. “You wish to leave.”

“My mother,” he says, “she will be looking for me. She will not stop until she finds me.”

She nods.

Something compels him to continue. “I would stay. I would, truly,” he says, “but this is bigger than me. Bigger than this–”

“I understand, Jace.” But Jace is not sure she does. Her lips purse, her eyebrows drawn to form a small wrinkle between them. 

“I would at least stay a couple more days,” he tells her, “I need to make sure I do not simply hurt myself again by leaving too soon.”

She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her head upon them. “It sounds like a good plan,” she agrees quietly. “Perhaps… Perhaps I could pack you some food as well.”

“Yes,” he says this far too enthusiastically, but he notices her brighten at the joy in his voice and so he continues to smile. “That would be wonderful.”

She nods, pulling at a frayed edge of her dress. “Then it will be done.”

The two of them watch for a few more moments as the red sun burns a hole against the sky and as the water ripples with wrath.

“I will leave on the morrow”--That is what he had told you over dinner the previous evening. 

In the morrow, the sky opens and floods them with her tears. 

You stand by the window of the cabin looking out at the frightful weather. Rain falls like daggers against the darkened, tumultuous sea. Waves crash against the shore. A crack of lightning makes you flinch.

“The Gods are angry,” you say to the still air of the cabin. 

Jace sits halfway over his plate of roasted fish as you say this. Then he straightens, his eyes flickering briefly outside. The dark brown of his irises reflect the grey of the clouds swirling above. “Or they do not grant me leave.”

You force yourself to pull away from the window. Turning your head, another flash of brilliant light comes across the floor, painting everything white. You fall into a silence as you step carefully across the cabin.

You knew that from the moment you found him, that it would not be permanent. Just like the rains that fall from above now, this momentary storm in your life will too pass. You had not even wished for him to stay, initially. You recall that first night, sewing his wounds with fishing line, as your eyes stretched across his alien visage. You had told yourself that his presence would be temporary as a comfort then, now you tell it to ground yourself in reality.

Jace had become more friendly in the past few days. Conversation came easily to him and made the thought of him leaving that much harder. Now you were the one that deflated at the sound of his voice across the hall, the one that shrunk from revealing the parts of yourself that had not seen the light in years.

You are selfish. It is a quality that had always lurked behind your eyes, but had sharpened since your father’s death. It is a survival tactic. Every animal, even humans, wish to hold onto the things they hold dear. It does not matter if it is not much. Everything you have is in some way worth keeping–including Jace.

But you could not fight logic. His mother, his family–they had a higher claim to him than you did. You could not keep him like a bird with clipped wings. It is cruel to even think it. 

You scrub the dish in your hands until your hands feel raw and achy. The only light comes from behind you in the smoldering fireplace and the flash of light that illuminates the sky. You hear the clatter of the bowl from behind you as Jace finds his footing–the screech of the chair as it rubs harshly against the floor.

You feel his warmth as he comes to stand beside you. He reaches a hand into the soapy mess over the wood bucket and fetches your hand from the fray. 

“You have made yourself bleed,” he observes quietly, a finger stroking over the cuts. 

You feel your throat bob under the weight of his probing stare. You slip your hand away from his and turn your back to dip the bowl in the bucket of soapless water.

“Have I done something to upset you?” he murmurs. His words are echoed by a rumble of thunder in the distance.

You still your movements for just a second before continuing. Your cuts throb at the feeling of the cool water cleansing the blood from your hands. “No,” you reply simply.

“Then why have you been so quiet as of late?”

You drop the bowl onto the wood surface in front of you and turn, drying your hands with a near cloth. “I just haven’t had much to say, I suppose.”

Another flash of light. Rain as it beats ceaselessly against the metal roof. You face him, clenching the towel in your fist.

“Shall we remove your stitches?” It had been suggested a few days ago as the first thing he would do before departing, so he would not have to bother with finding someone to do it for him on the road. 

Jace looks like he might say something. Then he shakes his head. “On the bed?”

You nod. “That would be easiest.” 

You slip behind him as he moves toward the bedroom. On your way, you light the spill near the fireplace and bring it with you. Your eyes find his figure as it slinks through the darkness. He’s healed so much better than you had ever expected he might. He should not have survived his injuries—should not have been able to heal so quickly. You think the Gods must favor his survival much more than they favored the own laws they stipulated.

He slides off his doublet and lounges back into the bed. You let the flame on the end of the spill touch the end of the wick of the candlestick and the room is bathed in a soft glow. You suffocate the flame and put the spill onto the table next to the bed.

Jace watches you as you do this quietly. When your eyes move up to his face, you notice his eyes are lidded, the tips of his ears red. You feel a warmth catch hold of your skin at his gaze and you avert your eyes to his chest.

You begin your work in silence. You lift the knot of each stitch and easily slice through it with the sharp edge of your knife. At the end of your first removal, you are happy to see that the wound has faded to a pinkish stripe.

“Who taught you this?” 

You startle at the sound of his voice after several long minutes of silence. It is a deep baritone, rough around the edges. Its unexpected richness has you shifting in your place on the edge of the bed. A flash of white light from out the window bathes his face in color. 

“My father.” You do not elaborate further. You think it self explanatory. Your father taught you everything.

“Was he hurt often?” 

You cut another knot. “There are no maesters in the far reaches,” you tell him. A hint of bitter frustration lines your words. “I have assisted several people who have needed help in the village.”

“I did not know,” he replies softly, “that is quite kind of you.”

“We all share responsibility here, no one is without duty.” You put another piece of the fishing line to the side. “It is how things function when you do not have the entire Seven Kingdoms at your disposal.”

You notice Jace’s eyebrows furrow. His stomach tenses beneath your hand. “How did you…”

“It is obvious,” you say, “your voice, your cadence, the way you were dressed when I found you… you have no scars, no callouses. You did not offer your house’s name, so I can only assume—“

“Jacaerys Velaryon,” he says, “that is my name.”

You still. Your eyes dart to his, alarm filling your chest and stealing your breath. “Velaryon,” you echo, heart racing. “That is the name of…”

“Perhaps you know of Corlys Velaryon,” he offers, “the Sea Snake. He is my grandfather. Or Rhaenyra Targaryen, my mother—“

You stand, breathing panicked. “You must leave,” you say, “why did you stay so long? The realm… your mother… the Seven Kingdoms need you.”

Jace leans forward to grasp your arm. You allow him only because you fear you may topple over without the stability.

“I am of no use to them in this condition,” he scoffs. You notice a faraway look in his eyes. The same look he sometimes got when he stared upon the ocean or recalled stories of his father to you. “My dragon is dead, my body a wreck. There is nothing left of me for them to scavenge.”

“T-That is not true,” you stutter. “You must at least find out if they are safe. You have been healed for days… you could have left—“

“I stayed for you.” You fall silent at the sincerity in his voice. His hand drifts down the bare skin of your wrist to thread between your fingers. He cups your hand between his own.

“You cannot stay,” you tell him.

“It does not matter if I stay one more day. The realm will not fall today,” he replies, “we cannot travel in this ruinous weather, anyway.”

Your eyes drift to the window, where the wind throws its tears against the pane. You nod slowly and find your seat again.

You grasp the knife from where you sat it on the duvet. You slide the other to rest upon his warm stomach. His breaths quicken beneath your hand as you drag it up to the next wound.

“I almost killed you the day after I found you,” you whisper, “I thought it would be a mercy. The fact that you are here at all… alive, breathing. It is a gift from the Gods.”

He leans forward. “What stopped you?”

Your movements pause from where you had started to cut away another knot. “You did.”

His throat bobs. His hand moves from where it clutches the sheets to where your hand rests upon his sternum. He strokes the skin of your hand gently.

You lean forward without realizing what you are doing. He does not allow you to back away. He brings his other hand to the nape of your neck and leans forward to seal your lips with his.

The kiss is languid. His tongue probes the seal of your lips and you allow it to slip inside. You bring your hand up to cup his jaw and he drags the hand cupping your neck to your hair. You let out a soft moan against his lips and he responds to the noise by pulling you forward onto his chest.

You do not lean your weight onto him in fear of hurting him, but you feel his hands crawl to settle upon your heaving ribs. You gently settle your lower half onto his hips, settling your hand down on a part of his chest that had no injuries.

You and Jace continue to kiss for what feels like hours. It is exhilarating. It feels like flying. Your stomach feels warm and fluttery, and your lips are throbbing.

You shift your hips and Jace lets out a groan. You pull away from the kiss, concerned. His hand moves to grab the flesh of your hip, sliding you back some. There is a hardness beneath you that makes a pleasant chill slide down your spine.

“Are you alright, Jace?” 

“Unless you wish for us to have sex,” he grumbles, “you should move off my hips.”

You swallow thickly at the insinuation. Sex. A novel thing. A thing that should be saved for marriage. But marriage seems so far from your mind now, drifting away like a current.

“And what do you wish for us to do?” you murmur. You slide forward an inch and he throws his head back onto the pillows. His chest heaves.

“You know what I wish,” he groans. “Is it not obvious?”

You lean forward so that your lips barely brush his own. “Then take it.”

Sunlight streams through the window ahead of you, branding the side of your face with heat, and your eyelids flutter against the intrusion. You fist your fingers in the sheets and twist your legs close to your body. As you shift, you feel an arm pulling you backwards.

You grasp the hand splayed across your stomach between your trembling fingers.

“Stay,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Tears bead in your eyes, but you keep them at bay.

Your thumb finds the pulse that thrums beneath his skin and you count his heart beats. The Gods are cruel, you think. They had kept Jace here long enough for you to miss him when he leaves.

You turn your body over to face him. You are not surprised to see him already staring back at you. His dark curls are a mess on the pillow beneath him. His lips pull upwards at the corners, but do not reach his eyes. He brings his hand up to stroke your cheek.

Your chin wobbles and he blinks away a frown.

“It will not be forever,” he tells you softly, reverently,

“I will return to you one day.”

You bring a hand up to wipe away the stubborn tears. “I suppose you do not know when that will be.”

He leans forward to give you a kiss and you know that is the only way he can possibly tell you no. 

Pulling away from the kiss feels like saying good-bye.

You stay in bed as he stands, sluggishly dressing himself as if he was still looking for reasons not to leave. You do not think he finds one. He turns his head to look back at you and his expression falters. 

A small smile curls at your lips as you mouth the word—go.

He heeds your instruction and leaves your cabin with a satchel of roasted fish, a map to the nearest town, and a bracelet strung with seashells.

ONE YEAR LATER…

The nets are full this morrow. The tide ebbs and flows, slinking across the silver sands. Birds let out cries of rejoice overhead for the plentiful bounty gifted by the sea. 

You bend the knee to heave the first net out of the water. You clutch your chest protectively as you search through the things with the other hand. 

“Hm,” you murmur, “a rainbow shell.” 

You bring the shell up to the light and small reflections bounce across your vision. Tucking it into your satchel, you search some more. A piece of metal, two scraps of fabric, and a clam.

You pocket the metal and one of the ratty pieces of fabric, but allow the clam to slide back under the tide. You bring your dry hand to rest upon the head of the babe swaddled against your breast.

“Shh,” you whisper to him as he begins to stir. “It is alright, my prince.”

He brings his head up slowly to peer at you. A splatter of sea foam settles on the side of his face, but he does not seem to mind. He gives you a gummy smile and you return it lovingly.

He watches with bleary eyes as you sort through the next net of things. You show him each individual item as you retrieve it. Your heart skips when you feel a familiar shape and weight in the palm of your hand.

“A conch shell,” you inform him with a giddy grin, “these sell for several silvers at the market.”

He stares at the shell with wide eyes. The pattern, a dark brown and white mottling, you think, must confuse or enrapture him by the way he looks at it.

The small of your back has begun to hurt. You straighten up and lift a supportive hand to rest underneath the baby’s bum.

“This will be enough for today,” you decide. “The sea has gifted us more than we need.”

The little boy smacks his lips as if agreeing with the statement. You nod and carry your satchel and the boy up the familiar path to the cabin.

However, your footsteps slow as you grow closer until you stop right before the door. Something is not right. You protectively cradle the back of your son’s head as you touch a hand to the door.

It pushes open with little resistance. You slide the knife you kept on you at all times to your hand in one swift movement as you step inside.

You take not but two steps beyond the threshold before you freeze. The knife clatters to the ground and a gasp shudders from your lips at the sight in front of you.

He stands across from you like he never left. He’s dressed in black gilded leathers, his body a tad leaner and steadier. His face looks older, more mature and shaped by circumstance, just as you imagine yours must too. His mop of dark hair curls around his ears, longer than when you saw him last.

His lips with awe. He stares at you and your face as if trying to map something with his mind. 

“Jace,” you say breathlessly. “How…”

“I saw you by the shore as I rode in from town,” he murmurs, taking a hesitant step forward. He lets out a soft laugh that sends your stomach aflutter. “I thought I might surprise you. I guess I am lucky to not have received a knife in my throat.”

Your throat bobs. Mistiness clouds your vision. “You came back for us.”

“For us?” Jace echoes, eyebrows furrowed. He comes so close he can reach out to you with his arm and you know that he has seen him then, by the shock that melts his features.

The boy turns his head to the best of his ability in your swaddle, his eyes searching for the unfamiliar voice. Jace’s mouth comes nearly unhinged, a trembling hand lifting as if to stroke his head, but it falls short.

He forces his eyes to look at you. “He… he’s mine?”

You bite your lip to suppress your smile as you nod. You reach around your neck with one arm while the other supports the baby’s bum. You unravel the swaddle easily, and the chubby baby flails his arms with relief. Never one to like a cage.

You outstretch him toward Jace and he takes him eagerly. He holds him with practiced ease. He supports the baby’s head and bum as he gazes down at him, tracing his forehead to the slope of his nose to the flutter of his lashes with only his eyes.

Jace finally breaks away from the baby long enough to look up at you. “And I just… I just left you. You and my son.”

Your heart skips a beat at the name. Son. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning like a fool.

“You had to,” you say, stepping forward to lay a gentle hand upon his upper arm. “Your family needed you.”

He clenches his jaw. “Nothing we did… nothing we accomplished… equals this.”

He strokes a featherlight touch against the boy’s cheek and he wrinkles his nose.

“Will you…” you pause. You try to steel yourself for the rejection that may very well follow, hands clammy by your sides. “Will you be staying long?”

Jace’s eyes rush to meet yours. He steps forward. The baby whimpers in his arms at the movement. 

“I would stay forever if you would have me.”

You feel your heart skip a beat. “What? What of the throne? Of your family?”

He shakes his head. Your stomach drops.

“My brother Aegon will be the next ruler. Wed to his cousin.”

“And you?”

His dark eyes soften as they consider this question carefully. He clutches the lost prince to his chest protectively.

“I am right where I want to be.”

© mariposium ; do not copy, feed into ai, redistribute, reupload, edit, translate, or otherwise steal my works, thanks!

[gumy-shark]

nothing scarier than being a fan of a fic and then becoming mutuals with the author. like hi shakespeare. big fan of your fake dating au

[burgerdotcom]

reblogs were off

[lilyswritings]

match point.

synopsis: patrick zweig is failing his classes, so stanford brings you in to tutor him. the caveat? if you can't get his grades up, it's your academic standing on the line as well. so what happens when your tutee turns out to be a cocky asshole, and worst of all, you start to feel something for him? author’s note: well. here we are. 15k words and like two weeks of agonizing later, i finally like the stanford!patrick au enough to post. hope you all enjoy <3 (yes the chair scene is inspired by the churro scene. obviously.) not entirely proofread so if you find any errors pls let me know!! wordcount: 15,631 (the longest piece i've ever written, jesus christ.)

Patrick Zweig x Reader

On opposite sides of Stanford campus, in separate offices, both you and Patrick Zweig think you know exactly what the meeting you’ve been summoned to will be about.

You’re both wrong.

Patrick thinks the meeting with his coach is going to be about his backhand.

That’s why he’s so relaxed when he steps into the office – towel slung over his shoulder, sweat cooling on his skin, heart rate still humming pleasantly from drills. He’s already got a joke ready about how pathetic the other guy’s serve was, but then the door swings shut behind him, and his coach doesn’t sit down.

Instead, he leans against the desk, meets Patrick’s eyes, and sighs. “You’re failing your classes.”

Patrick blinks, smile still plastered to his face despite his confusion. “That’s dramatic.”

“Your GPA is below eligibility,” his coach replies, dragging a hand down his face. “If the semester ended today, you wouldn’t be allowed to play.”

Patrick laughs once, the sound echoing sharply in the office. “It’s March.”

“And you’re already behind.”

Silence settles, heavy and unfamiliar. Patrick shifts his weight, irritation prickling under his skin. “I’ll fix it,” he says, shrugging. “I always do.”

The coach finally looks at him then, disappointment in his eyes, and Patrick feels his mood sour. “You’ve missed half your classes.”

“I’m here to play tennis, not to listen to some old guy tell me about Hemingway–”

“You’re here to be a student-athlete.”

Patrick scoffs. “Semantics.”

His coach exhales, slow. “This isn’t a warning, Patrick. This is the line.” He taps a folder on his desk. “We’ve arranged a tutor for you. Mandatory. Once a week. You miss sessions, you don’t play. You fail, you don’t play. You don’t agree–” He shrugs. “You don’t play.”

Patrick feels it then – the tight, sick pull in his chest. Not out of fear of failure, or worry for his grades or future, but anger – at being cornered, at being told what to do. 

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” He snaps.

“No, you need to pass,” Coach says, crossing his arms. “So. Decide.”

Patrick stares at the folder like it’s an insult. He thinks about his parents, who threatened to cut him off if he didn’t go to college. He thinks about Art, effortlessly disciplined, happy to juggle both tennis and his classes, and about Tashi, always watching, always the best. 

About the court – the only place he’s ever felt untouchable. 

“Fine,” he huffs. “Whatever. When do we meet?”

The coach nods once. “Good choice. The first meeting is scheduled for tomorrow. And Patrick? Don’t fuck this up.”

Across campus, you sit in a large, oak-panelled office, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you wait for the two administrators across from you to speak. 

Correction – as you wait for them to revoke your scholarship and kick you out.

Your file rests between the two of them, thick with top-mark transcripts and glowing recommendations – and the one mistake you’ve ever made that’s going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

“Do you understand why you’re here?” The older woman asks, glasses perched low on the bridge of her nose, and you swallow thickly as she peers down through them at you.

“Yes.” You nod, knowing there’s no protesting the claim now.

They exchange a look. The younger man sighs, scanning one of the papers in front of him. “We have evidence that you’ve written academic papers on behalf of other students for compensation.”

You don’t bother to correct their wording, don’t try to explain the nuances – that it started small, that you never cheated on your own work, only did it for others when your account balance got really low or a student loan bill came in.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, any form of academic plagiarism is grounds for suspension,” the man continues. “Potentially expulsion.”

Your hands are steady where they lay in your lap, but your pulse isn’t. 

“But,” the older woman says, and you look up suddenly. “Considering that there were exceptions made for some of those that employed your services, we are willing to consider an alternative.”

You’d already heard that the students with recognizable last names and moneyed families had gotten off with basically a slap on the wrist, but with no rich angry parents of your own, or campus buildings named after your family, you’d already written off the chance of that happening for you.

“There’s a student-athlete whose academic performance has become… A concern,” the man starts, opening up a file and frowning down at it. “He’ll need a tutor to get him back on track.”

“Now, since you’ve always been at the top of your class, and you have previous tutoring experience, we’re prepared to make a deal with you.” The woman pushes her glasses to the top of her head, and folds her hands together on the table.

You’re already nodding, desperately grabbing at whatever lifeline they’re willing to throw at you. You can’t get kicked out, can’t let this one mistake ruin everything you’ve worked towards.

“If you agree to tutor him for the remainder of the semester,” she continues, “And his grades improve to acceptable standing, we’re prepared to overlook this violation.”

“Yeah– yes, I’ll do it.” You find your voice, nodding almost fervently. There’s a pause, before the burning question finally comes out. “And, um, if I can’t? Improve his grades, that is.”

The pause that follows feels heavy, deliberate, and the man looks at you with sympathy. “Then this incident will have to go on your record.”

You nod. Of course it will. It doesn’t matter – you can do this. You have to do this. It occurs to you to ask, “Who is he?” 

The woman pulls her glasses back on and peers down at the file. “Patrick Zweig.”

The name rings a faint bell – he plays tennis, you think. You’d heard girls from your philosophy seminar giggling about him and his ‘cute friend’ earlier in the semester.

You sit back, spine straight, already calculating schedules and syllabi and the thin margin for error. “Okay. When do we start?” You ask.

They look very relieved. It almost makes you feel sick.

As you leave the office, the weight of it presses in, equal parts relief and worry. It isn’t just the risk, but the unfairness of your future being balanced on the whim of a stranger – a stranger who, completely unbeknownst to you, is already deciding exactly how much of a nightmare he’s going to be.

One day later, you get to find out.

Patrick Zweig is late – not egregiously so, not enough to make you give up or go report him, but just enough to make a point.

When he finally shows up, twenty-three minutes into your scheduled hour-long session, he looks like he’s come straight from practice – his dark hair is damp, a loose sweatshirt thrown on over athletic shorts, tennis bag slung across his torso. 

He scans the room with a blasé expression, his eyes half-lidded yet sharp, and a smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth as he collapses into the chair across from you, dropping his bag at his feet. 

In another life, you could have found him attractive – probably could have swooned over him, like the other college girls who turn up to all the Stanford tennis matches with no real interest in the sport.

But this is not that life.

You straighten slightly, smoothing a hand over your notes, schooling your expression into something neutral. Professional.

“Hi,” you say. “Patrick, right?”

He hums, like he’s amused you asked. “That obvious?”

“You’re twenty-three minutes late,” you reply mildly, eyes sliding between him and the clock. “I assumed.”

That earns you a smirk – wider now, entertained. He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him like he’s settling in for a movie.

“So,” he says, eyes raking over you. “You’re the tutor.”

“Yes,” you say evenly. “I am. And we only have about half an hour left, so I’d like to get started.”

You glance down at the bag at his feet, then back up at him. “Did you bring your book? And your syllabus?”

He watches you for a long moment, taking in the display of neatly organized stationery and papers in front of you, smirk slowly spreading into a full grin. “You’re serious.” He observes, cocking his head at you like it amuses him.

“Yes,” you say, still trying to be polite, though something in your chest tightens. “I am.”

He shrugs, slow and unapologetic, leaning back into his seat and folding his hands behind his head. “I figured we’d ease into it,” he says, relaxed. “Get to know each other first. Feels rude not to know the name of the person I’m supposed to be spending so much one-on-one time with.”

You give it to him and exhale slowly through your nose, the patience you arrived with already thinning at the edges. “But I don’t really think we have time for easing into anything, Patrick. Your coach was very clear. We need to focus on your English Literature course–”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand. “He can be very dramatic.”

“This isn’t–” You inhale deeply, your tone sharpening just a fraction. “We need to make sure you actually pass your classes.”

That finally gets his attention – not concern, exactly, but interest. He sits forward just enough to show he’s listening.

“And if I don’t?” He asks lightly.

You ignore his question, infuriated by the easy smile that remains plastered to his face, and flip open your folder anyway, sliding him over the schedule for your sessions, explaining your course plan, attendance requirements, minimum GPA, etc. 

He nods along, but never once looks down at the paper, doesn’t ask anything, and when you finish speaking, he leans forward, braces his arms on the table, and jerks his head towards the big clock.

“How much longer do we have to sit here?”

You look up, patience evaporating as you flick the folder shut. “If you’re not going to take this seriously then there’s no point of me even being here.”

It’s all theatrics – you can’t afford to leave, to let this go. You need it, desperately, but you can’t admit that to him, can’t let on how much this matters to you.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that.” He pouts.

“Do you think I want to be sitting here, wasting my time babysitting you?”

Sharp eyes snap to yours, his attention caught, though not in the way you want – not scolded, or admonished into compliance, but challenged. “I don’t know, do you?”

You hold his gaze, unimpressed, and he rolls his eyes. You slide the paper you were given toward him. “You’re failing your English Literature requirement.”

He glances at the page, then back at you. “I read.”

“That’s not the same thing as doing the work for your class.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Semantics.”

You ignore that, looking down at the sheet. “You completely missed the midterm. You failed the last quiz. You haven’t submitted a single response paper.”

“Those are a lot of words to say that the class is boring.”

You keep your voice even. “What are you reading right now?”

Patrick leans back, rocking the chair onto two legs. “The Sun Also Rises.”

“Okay,” you say. “Tell me what it’s about.”

He grins. “What, you didn’t get it? Should I tutor you?”

You wait him out, eyes narrowed. Eventually, he sighs like he’s indulging you. “A bunch of miserable rich people, drinking too much in Europe because they don’t know what to do with themselves after the war.”

You pause, brow lowering over your eyes. “So you did read it.” 

Patrick grins, immediate and unrepentant. “Never said I didn’t.”

“Then why aren’t you doing the work?”

He tilts his head. “Why would I?”

The bluntness of it irritates you more than if he’d lied. “Because you’re failing,” you say. “Because if you keep this up, you won’t be eligible to continue with your tennis.”

He scoffs. “Save it, okay, Coach already gave me the speech.”

“So…?” Your expression scrunches in confusion, glancing up at him and then back at your notes, entirely baffled.

“...So?” Patrick mimics you almost mockingly. 

“So, what the fuck is your deal?”

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. You clearly don’t need a tutor, so why are we both here pretending you’re incapable when you just need to get your head out of your ass?”

For the first time, something sharp flashes across his face – irritation, maybe. Or interest.

“You’re taking this way too personally, Professor.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, pushing back from the table a fraction. “Some of us take our jobs seriously.”

Patrick’s mouth twitches, like he’s deciding whether to laugh. “Relax,” he drawls. “You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm.”

“I look like someone who doesn’t want their academic record tied to a guy who’s had everything handed to him his entire life and is only now realizing there are consequences for his actions.” The words spill out of you, irritation provoking you. 

“Wow,” he says, infuriatingly unphased, looking almost impressed. “You always this intense?”

You don’t answer that. You flip another page in your folder instead, eyes glued to the table.

“Ooh,” he coos, leaning forward again, closer, elbows on the table, voice dropping into a dramatic hush. “Let me guess. Straight A’s, color-coded notes… You get a rush from being right.”

You don’t look up. “Let me guess – you think that’s supposed to bother me.”

That finally does it. He blinks. It’s quick, but it’s real – the brief stutter of surprise when his usual rhythm doesn’t find anything to hook into. “I’m just trying to make conversation.” He says, tone light, but there’s a new edge there now – he’s curious.

“This isn’t a social call.” 

He smiles charmingly anyway, raking his eyes over you. “Could be.”

You meet his gaze then, flat and unyielding. “It won’t be.”

For a moment, the room goes quiet. Patrick studies you, like he’s recalibrating, like he came in expecting you to fold, or quit, and is only now realizing you won’t. And that, more than anything else so far, seems to throw him.

“So,” he says instead, glancing down at your notes. “English Lit. What do you want from me? The themes? The symbols? Do I have to tell you all about the metaphors for masculinity or whatever?”

“Close,” you say coolly. “You have to do your work. On time. And go to class.”

He groans softly. “You’re killing me.”

“You’re killing your GPA.” You’re annoyed to find you suddenly have to suppress your own smile. 

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “You know, you could be a little nicer about it. Maybe you’ll even earn a tip.”

“I didn’t realize you needed me to coddle you through this.” You snap, irritated by the insinuation that this is about money for you, or that you should be any nicer to this man who’s done nothing so far but disrespect you and your time.

There’s another long pause where Patrick leans back, his eyes narrowing. He doesn’t seem annoyed, or amused, but interested. “Huh,” he murmurs. “You really don’t care.”

“No,” you say. “I do care. About your grades. Just not about you.”

That earns a low whistle. “Ouch.”

You slide a blank sheet of paper toward him. “Write a paragraph. Anything. One claim about the novel. I don’t care if you believe it, just give me something to show that you’re trying.”

He looks at the paper, then at you, then back at the paper.

“Or,” he says, grin lazy and unmistakably practiced. “I could take you out sometime and we call it even. Make it worth your while….” His tone suggests he already knows exactly how that usually goes.

You pause, clenching your jaw. “Not a chance.”

The words land clean. Final.

Patrick stares at you for a second, clearly waiting for the follow-up – the smile, the fluster, the softening that usually comes after.

It doesn’t.

“Pick up the pen or don’t, Patrick,” you huff a sigh, already turning back to your notes. “I don’t control you. But if you walk out of here without doing anything, I go right to your coach.”

Something shifts, his interest in you sharpening. He rolls the pen across the table, fidgeting with it, eyes still on you.

“You know, you keep threatening to walk.” He states mildly, and you can see him watching you in your peripheral.

You don’t look up. “Because I will.”

“No,” he says, almost conversationally, “You won’t.”

That makes you pause.

He gestures lazily toward the door. “I was late. You could’ve packed up. Written me off as a no-show.”

You lift your eyes to him, wary now. “I waited because it’s my job.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Or because you want the paycheck.”

You pause, taken about that that’s what he thinks this is about – that you’re putting up with him for money. While you don’t want to let on how critical this is for you, you still hate the implication that you’re just in it for a check. 

“That doesn’t mean you can just–”

He laughs softly. “Relax. I’ll show up, do the bare minimum, and you'll still get your paycheck. Everyone wins.”

The sudden ring of the bell marking the end of the hour is punctuated by his gleaming smile as he stands up, hooking a hand around his bag and slinging it over his shoulder and heading for the door.

He pauses just before leaving head poking back into the room with a cheeky grin. “See you next week, Professor.”

The door closes behind him, leaving you staring at the empty chair, irritated, unsettled, and uncomfortably aware that he just won whatever game the two of you were playing. And furious at yourself for your lack of a clever comeback.

Over the next week, you learn more about Patrick Zweig than you’d ever admit to wanting to know.

It starts innocently enough – a couple overheard conversations, his name dropped in passing, nothing more. 

You look him up on the Stanford tennis page once, purely for context, and then again to narrow your eyes at the photo they used. You ask around about him in what you hope is a casual way, like you’re just being thorough. Responsible. A good tutor.

The picture that forms is annoyingly consistent.

Patrick Zweig is talented, insufferable, and apparently incapable of celibacy. His reputation as a playboy precedes him, sometimes even eclipsing his skill on the court. He’s always mentioned in the same breath as his best friend, Art Donaldson, as well as Tashi Duncan – campus royalty, tennis prodigy, It Girl of Stanford.

You tell yourself that you’re just gathering useful information, knowledge that can help shape your tutoring sessions. You also tell yourself that’s why you refuse to go to the match that weekend. On principle.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop everyone else from talking about it. For days. Patrick won, apparently, not that you care.

By the time your next session rolls around, all the scattered details have condensed into one irritating, inescapable truth – Patrick Zweig is exactly the kind of person who has never had to want for anything, and somehow that makes the fact that he’s failing English Literature feel personal.

You gather your things and brace yourself as you head to the library to meet him, grimacing when you enter and realize just how quiet it is today.

Your usual room was in use, you couldn’t find a replacement in time, so the study section of the library it is – but you’d miscalculated just how empty it would be, how silent, how immediately tense it is between the two of you. 

Patrick is only fifteen minutes late this time, slouching into the chair across from you, chewing gum, eyes flicking over the spines of books with an air of amusement.

He spends the first ten minutes of your session asking stupid questions, telling you he didn’t bring his book, didn’t read the chapter, and trying to get under your skin. 

It works. You finally snap, telling him to cut it out, and he smirks as you finally engage with him. His eyes flick over your face, lingering just a beat too long. “But you look so good when you’re annoyed at me. Very serious. I’m into it.”

Heat licks up the back of your neck. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He asks, all mock innocence.

“This isn’t–” You stop yourself, glance around to check if anyone could possibly overhear him. You drop your voice further, just in case. “This is not the place for whatever game you think you’re playing.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really tense.”

“Shocking.” You mutter, narrowing your eyes.

He hums, smirking. “I could help with that.”

You stare at him. “Patrick.”

He shrugs, like he hasn’t just crossed a line. “I’m just saying. You’re wound really tight, you probably just need to destress. Maybe then you’ll get off my dick about my grades.”

“That is not–” You cut yourself off, breath sharp. “This is about you passing your class.”

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “And you getting paid.”

Your mouth thins. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m not judging. Everybody’s got a price.”

Something in you goes very still, and then snaps – not dramatically, just clean and final. This can’t be worth it. There has to be something else you can do, some other way you can plead with the administrators to let you stay at Stanford. But you can’t do this anymore. 

You close your notebook. “Okay,” you say, quietly. “We’re done.”

He blinks, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“I’m not doing this,” you say, already standing, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “You didn’t bring the book, you didn’t do the reading, you’re not putting in the work, and you clearly don’t intend to.”

“Come on,” he says, half-smiling like this is still a joke. “You’re really gonna leave?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said you were a professional.”

You turn back to him, anger flaring hot and sharp. “I’m not going to sit here and let you waste my time or talk to me like that. I’ll tell the coordinator you’re not engaging and they can deal with it.”

That’s when rises to his feet and steps forward so your back hits the shelf behind you. It’s not aggressive, just calculated, inserting himself into your space. 

The shelves are narrow, and he angles his body between you and the exit, deliberately not touching you, but still close enough that you’re forced to lean back into the shelves, your eyes wide.

“Whoa,” Patrick says lightly, as if he’s not suddenly caging you in with his body. “That feels extreme.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, heat immediately blazing in your cheeks at the sudden proximity. 

“Move.” You manage to say, deliberately looking past him at the exit.

He doesn’t. He leans closer instead, hand braced on the shelf behind your ear, close enough that you can smell the mint on his breath as he hums.

“No,” his eyes flick over your face, a lazy smile spreading across his lips. “I think you like it.”

You swallow thickly, eyes darting down to his lips for the briefest moment, before your brain catches up to itself. “You’re disgusting.”

“Mmm… Maybe,” he tips his head to the side, smile widening as he considers you. “But then so are you.”

You balk at him. “I’m not the one–” 

“Staring at my lips?” He makes a ‘tsk’ sound, and you feel the surge of heat in your body at the absurdity of it all, definitely not feeling anything about the proximity of your skin to his, or how his eyes are raking over you, or how if you leant forwards just a little bit–

You blink, snapping yourself out of it. “Zweig, if you don’t step back in the next five seconds I’m actually going to hit you.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, but doesn’t move back. “Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that–”

“Three… Four…” You keep your voice even.

“Are you serious?”

“Five.”

Your palm comes up, fast, and makes contact with his cheek. It’s lighter than you could have done, but effective, the sound echoing sharply around the quiet library. Patrick’s head snaps to the side, and you step around him.

“I fucking warned you.” You huff, irritated to find that you actually feel a little bad for him, but that dissipates when you catch a glimpse of his expression as he turns to face you.

He’s fucking laughing. “Wow, Professor, I didn’t know you had that in you.”

You’re genuinely at a loss for words, just staring at him while your eyebrows pinch together.

He rubs a hand over his cheek, eyes bright and mouth split in a shining grin as he watches you. He holds his hands up in surrender, expression softening slightly. “Don’t go to the coordinator, alright? I’ll try.”

You realize that your mouth is hanging open, and you snap it closed as you try to come up with a response. “O–Okay.” You swallow, nodding, still stunned. 

“Okay.” He nods in return, still grinning as he grabs his bag. 

Your heart thunders in your chest, the whiplash of your anger and your shock making your head spin as you watch him gather his things.

As Patrick slides past you to leave, he leans close to your ear as he slips behind you and whispers under his breath, “That was hot.”

You spin around to scold him, brow furrowed, but he’s already disappeared into another row of shelves, leaving you alone and utterly confused in the study section.

Even as you leave, you’re not really thinking about the session – you’re too busy cataloguing the warmth in your face, the way your pulse sings under your skin, the way the skin of your palm tingles from the impact.

You’re still thinking about him, long after you’ve shoved your books into your bag with more force than necessary and left the library.

For the rest of the week, you very deliberately do not think about Patrick Zweig.

You absolutely don’t think about how close he’d stood, or how easily he’d unsettled you. You certainly don't replay the moment at all – not the way his hand brushed past your cheek, not the way his eyes darkened under the fluorescent lights. 

Mostly, you’re just pissed that he managed to get under your skin like that, as if that isn’t exactly what he wants.

By the time your next scheduled session rolls around, you’re fine. Completely fine. So fine, in fact, that you arrive ten minutes late – if he can make a habit of strolling in whenever he feels like it, you can afford to be a little careless too.

The door creaks loudly as you push it open, the sound echoing down the corridor, and you wince – and then freeze.

Patrick is already sitting at the desk, his book laid out in front of him, and at the sight of you he uses his foot to push the opposite chair out for you. 

“You’re late.” He points at you with a pen, accusingly. 

“You– What?” You can’t help the question, shock evident on your face, and he grins at your reaction as you move to put your bag down, brows still pulled together in confusion. 

“I’m not a complete asshole, you know.” He shrugs, watching you carefully as you move to sit.

Right before you make contact with the chair, he uses his foot to tug it toward him, pulling you into your seat at the table, and your eyes go wide at the sudden movement. 

Once you’re over your shock at the motion, you clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, schooling your face into a neutral expression. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Ouch.” He places a hand over his heart with a wounded expression. “You’re mean, you know that?”

You level him with a cool stare in response, tamping down the smile that threatens to tug at your lips, and he grins. “Yeah, exactly, just like that.” 

The rest of the session goes shockingly smoothly. He gives you his latest test, which is marked with a big fat FAIL in red ink across the top, but only because there’s nothing even written on the paper.

You go over the last few chapters of the book, and you’re stricken by how intelligent Patrick actually seems to be, underneath all the showy confidence and charm. 

It’s near the end of the session when he brings it up, casual as anything, leaning back in his chair as he glances over at you. “So… I need you to talk to my coach for me.”

You look up slowly, eyes already narrowed. Ah. The being on time and actually seeming to give a shit makes sense now. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” he exhales a laugh and leans forward, his chair making a clunk sound as the front legs make contact with the ground again. “You didn’t even ask why.”

“I don’t need to,” you say, closing your book. “I already know why.”

Patrick huffs a dramatic sigh, tipping his head back towards the ceiling. “He thinks I’m not taking this seriously.”

“...And?”

“And I am,” he says, glancing back at you. When your expression doesn’t change, he raises his eyebrows. “More than I was.”

You exhale through your nose. “That’s not the same as doing well.”

“It will be,” he says easily, shrugging. “I just need him off my back until then.”

Your gaze sharpens. “I’m not going to lie.”

“You won’t be.” Patrick shakes his head, leaning forwards on the desk and bracing on his forearms. The sudden proximity makes you blink, and you swallow thickly, immediately reminded of the library. “Come on. I am trying.”

You frown, cocking your head. “You want me to lie and tell him how great your grades are now? How dedicated of a student you’ve become?”

“I want you to confirm I’ve been showing up,” he corrects, leaning even closer. “That I’m reading. That I’m not blowing this whole thing off.”

You study him for a long moment. He meets your gaze without flinching, something uncharacteristically serious there.

“I’ll ace the next test,” he says, and somehow, you can tell that he means it. “Not just pass. Like–” he lifts a hand, palm flat, pushing it upward. “–Impressively.”

You snort despite yourself, thinking of the last few tests of his you’d seen. “You can’t promise that.”

He shrugs, confident. “Sure I can.”

You decide to entertain it. “And if you don’t?”

“Then you get to slap me again.” He smiles teasingly, and you scowl, though part of you relaxes at it being brought up so casually.

You weigh it – the risk, your own personal ties, the irritating sympathy you feel for him.

“…Fine,” you say after a long moment. “I’ll talk to him. That’s it.”

Patrick grins, leaning back. “Knew you’d come around, Prof.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, but can’t help the small smile that curls your lips after.

When his match that weekend rolls around, you make good on your promise, showing up to the tennis courts with only a little bit of apprehension, weaving through a sea of red Stanford t-shirts to get there. 

You find the coach near the benches and introduce yourself nervously. He listens carefully as you explain Patrick’s attendance, his engagement, the improvement you’ve observed – no embellishment, no lies, just… No mention of his less-than-favourable moments, either.

When you finish speaking, the coach nods, hands braced on his hips. “I’m glad to hear it,” he smiles at you, and then, after a beat, “Hey, you should stick around.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“For the match,” he says, gesturing toward the court. “Context matters. You’ve put all this effort into making sure he gets to stay here and play for us, you might as well see what you’re working towards.”

“Oh– no, I really don’t need to–”

But he’s already turning away, conversation apparently over, hand hovering over your back as he guides you to the stands. You go with him, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do, all the way until he’s deposited you in a seat.

You don’t realize Patrick’s already on the court until you hear your name being called distantly, and it takes you a minute to place it and find him below. He’s staring up at you, racket hanging loose in his hand, eyebrows lifted like he’s caught you doing something embarrassing.

What are you doing? He mouths.

You lift one shoulder in a helpless shrug, jerking your chin toward his coach. His confusion melts into something bright and smug almost immediately. 

You flip him off without thinking. He laughs, the sound carrying all the way up to the stands, before he’s called away to the court, and you try to ignore the little flutter in your chest at the sound.

And that should be it. You should check out, stare at your shoes, take one of your textbooks out of your bag to do some reading.

Instead, the match starts, and your attention is caught.

Patrick serves, the ball cracking against his racket with a sound that carries across the court, and you feel it low in your chest.

Oh.

He’s good. Obviously. Precise, fast, ruthless, like the court belongs to him – controlled, almost cruel in how effortlessly he dismantles his opponent. You hate how compelling it is. 

Halfway through the set, he glances up again and finds you immediately. His grin widens, unmistakably pleased now that he knows you’re watching, and he plays the next point like he’s showing off on purpose, stretching for a shot he doesn’t need to chase, sending the ball down the line with unnecessary flair.

The crowd eats it up.

Oh, you are so not doing this. You are not going to sit here and think about how the sun drapes over his toned arms and legs, or how his jaw sets when he’s focusing, or the way his curls cling to his forehead as he begins to sweat.

He wins the point, and the crowd goes wild. Patrick looks up, his eyes finding you instantly. He grins victoriously, squinting through the sun, and then he winks.

You glare back, heat crawling up your neck, and tell yourself he’s being smug because this is just the deeply irritating reality that Patrick Zweig is talented, arrogant, and unfairly attractive when he’s doing the one thing he’s good at.

Still, your pulse doesn’t settle for the rest of the match, and by the time it ends (and Patrick wins, because of course he does), you’re no longer thinking about syllabi or response papers.

A weird sort of panic claws at your throat, and you don’t wait for the applause to die down. The moment the final point is called, you’re up, bag already on your shoulder, slipping sideways along the row like you might be able to vanish if you move fast enough. You refuse to give Patrick the satisfaction of catching you lingering.

You make it three steps down the aisle before a voice cuts in from your right side.

“Hey– Sorry, hi.”

You turn, half-expecting the coach again, and find yourself face-to-face with someone you recognize immediately from your internet stalking as Art Donaldson.

“I’m, uh, I’m Art,” he greets, offering his hand in an endearingly formal gesture. “You’re the tutor, right?”

You hesitate, then take it. “Unfortunately.”

Art laughs, loud and genuine. “Yeah, that checks out. You came to see him play?”

“Oh, no– I didn’t–” You say suddenly, because it feels important to clarify. “I just came to talk to his coach, who then insisted...”

“Of course he did,” Art’s lips curl into a wry smile, glancing toward the court almost shyly. “Coach loves showing off.”

There’s an awkward beat, where you’re very aware of Art’s eyes on you, as if he’s trying to figure you out. “Do you have a game soon?” You ask just to break the silence, readjusting your bag strap. 

“Uh…” Art’s brows pull together slightly and he huffs a half-laugh, ducking his head a little, and you realize your mistake.

“Fuck, sorry, a match. I’m sorry, I don’t– This isn’t normally my thing. Sorry.” You stumble over your own words as you try to apologize, grimacing.

“No, no, you’re fine. It’s honestly kind of refreshing.” Art shrugs slightly, and you smile.

Before he can say anything else, a voice cuts in from your other side. “You were in my seminar.”

You turn to find Tashi Duncan (the Tashi Duncan, the tennis prodigy from the Adidas posters you’ve seen everywhere, quite possibly the most beautiful girl on campus) watching you with frank curiosity, her head tilted slightly as she studies your face. 

“Comparative Lit,” she continues. “You argued with the professor about the unreliable narrator.”

You blink, both a little starstruck and also genuinely confused. “…I asked him a question.”

“You corrected him,” she pauses for a moment, before her lips curl. “I liked it.”

You feel heat creep up your neck despite yourself. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

She hums, turning to scan the crowd before focusing on you again. “So, is Patrick going to get kicked out?”

“Oh, no, he’s– Well, I don’t–” Jesus Christ, get it together. “Not on my watch, at least.” You finally say, readjusting your bag again.

“Oh, so you’re a miracle worker.” Art laughs, sharing a knowing glance with Tashi, and you shrug, unsure how you could possibly explain the strange mutual understanding you’ve formed with Patrick.

Speak of the devil.

“You guys stealing my tutor from me?” He appears then, stepping into the loose circle like he belongs there, still flushed from the match, hair damp, energy crackling just under his skin.

He takes in the scene quickly – Art smiling at you, Tashi watching you almost hungrily – and something prickles at the back of his neck.

“What are you still doing here?” He asks, eyes slanting over to fix on you, pleased to find you already looking at him.

“I talked to your coach,” you say evenly. “Like you asked.”

“Yeah, and then you stuck around,” he adds, a cocky grin spreading across his face. “You wanted to watch me play.”

“I didn’t want to,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. “Your coach made me sit and practically blocked me in.”

Art’s eyebrows lift, smile tugging at his lips as he ducks his head shyly. “Oh.”

Patrick looks at him sharply. “What?”

“Finally found someone who you can’t charm into doing what you want, huh?” Art quips, still grinning, and Patrick shoves him gently. 

You watch in amusement as Art shoves Patrick back, and Patrick subsequently drops his stuff and fully tackles Art – there’s such a playful easiness between them, an almost childish side you haven’t yet seen in Patrick. 

Tashi scoffs beside you, watching the boys mock-wrestle on the ground, before she makes eye contact with you, making a face like ‘men, am I right?’. 

“There’s a sports mixer happening at one of the frats tonight,” she folds her arms elegantly in front of her chest, eyes narrowing slightly, almost like a challenge. “You should come.” 

You blink. “Oh, no, I’m not–”

Popping up beside you, Patrick scoffs as he helps Art stand up again. “Nice try. I’ve never seen Professor over here outside of a classroom or the library.”

A flash of irritation tugs in your chest at the dismissal.

“Oh, come on, you’ve gotta tell me how bad his grades are getting, I’m dying to know.” Art pipes up, smoothing his hair and putting his hat back on as he claps his friend on the back. “Just come for a little bit?”

You’re aware of the fact that a sports mixer at a frat house sounds like your actual worst nightmare, that you barely know these people and you’ll definitely end up feeling left out, but you’re also aware of Patrick’s eyes on you, and for some reason, you nod.

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Something flutters in your chest at the way Art’s face lights up at your answer. “But only for a little bit.”

Art is already pulling his phone out, enthusiasm bright and uncomplicated. “Awesome. I’ll text you the address.”

You hesitate, then take the phone when he hands it to you, thumbs hovering for a second before you type your name and number in, acutely aware of Patrick’s eyes on you.

You can feel the way his posture stiffens, the easy looseness bleeding out of him. When you glance up, you catch his expression mid-shift – mouth set in an easygoing smile, but his eyes are dark and fixed on Art’s screen like it’s done something personally offensive.

You finish typing and hand the phone back.

Art grins down at your number. “Alright. Nine o’clock. No pressure.”

“Just for a bit.” You reiterate, already regretting your decision.

“Of course.” He replies, sincere, and you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Seriously. I’ll even walk you home myself.” He offers, and you smile. 

You don’t look at Patrick when you say your goodbyes and turn to leave, but you feel the weight of his gaze all the way as you walk away, aware – absurdly – of having crossed some invisible line.

When you finally do glance his way, his expression is unreadable, smoothed back into something careless.

But somehow you know the damage is already done.

The party is even worse than you expected it to be.

People spill out of the front of the frat house, all toned and lean and obviously athletic, and you stand at the edge of the lawn for longer than you’d care to admit, trying to psych yourself up enough to go inside. 

When you finally venture in, it’s loud, and packed, and you’re forced to squeeze past multiple couples eating each other’s faces before you even catch sight of Tashi – near the wall in the living room, hair draped loose over her bare shoulders, gaze sharp as she scans the room and a smile lighting up her face when she spots you.

“You came,” she rakes her eyes over you appraisingly, voice raised above the pounding music. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I almost didn’t.” You admit sheepishly, searching the crowd for a familiar head of dark curls.

She hums, considering you. “Because of Patrick?”

You frown, startled. “What? No, not– Why?”

“Nothing,” she narrows her dark eyes, shrugging nonchalantly. “It just seemed like he got under your skin earlier.”

“Oh, no– Well, maybe a little. I don’t know. He can just be an asshole sometimes.” You shake your head, stepping to the side to avoid the flailing arms of some guy ‘dancing’.

She studies you for a moment and you prickle slightly under the scrutiny before she leans in close, her voice raised to make sure you hear her. “He’s only acting like that because he wants you, you know.”

You choke a little, shaking your head. “Wh– No, he doesn’t.”

Tashi’s smile turns sharp and knowing. “He wouldn’t act like such a child if he didn’t.”

Before you can respond, Art appears, already mid-sentence. “–And I swear, the ref was blind, like fully blind– Oh!” His face lights up when he notices you. “You made it!”

“You’re here.” Patrick appears next to Art, glancing between you and Tashi with narrowed eyes, and you nod.

“Yep.” You smile despite yourself, Tashi words still worming their way under your skin.

“He said you wouldn’t come, but I had faith.” Art pipes up, taking a sip of his drink, and you arch an eyebrow.

“He did, did he?” You slide your gaze accusingly over to him, taking in the way the flashing neon lights paint his face in shades of purples and blues.

“Oh, like I had any reason to think you would show.” Patrick defends, and you make a humming sound, somewhat comforted by the routine back and forth.

“Ignore him!” Art shakes his head. “I usually do.” You hum, smiling, as Patrick scoffs and disappears back the way he came. 

Tashi gets called over by some friends and disappears as well, and then it's just you and Art, shifting closer to the kitchen so that you can actually hear each other. He asks you about your major, your interests, and the tutoring gig, only deflating ever so slightly when you refuse to tell him just how badly Patrick has been doing.

Someone appears and hands you both shots, which you take, and then another, and eventually, Art brings you a drink in a solo cup to sip on. 

Talking with him is… Nice. Easy. He asks you what you enjoy reading, not what you were assigned for class, and his expression lights up when you mention a book he likes. He listens to you, properly, and you find yourself laughing brightly more than a few times at his stories.

You don’t notice Patrick for a while, caught up in your conversation, but then you feel it – a little prickle at the back of your neck. 

When you glance through the crowd to the other side of the room, he’s leaning against the wall and watching you over the rim of his solo cup. Your heart stutters when you see him, your eyes meeting, but he looks away casually, smiling wide at something someone else says.

You tell yourself you imagined it and go back to your conversation. What you don’t see is that every time Art leans in to hear you better, or makes you laugh, Patrick looks away, then back again, like he can’t help himself, his jaw tightening.

Someone tops off your drink. Then again. And again. The room feels warmer, edges blurring just enough that your irritation floats closer to the surface, laughter coming easier, your words slipping out looser, less guarded.

Patrick finally drifts over, inserting himself into the space beside you without asking, and when you dimly note the smudge of white powder under his nose, you can’t help but scoff. Of course. 

“Having fun?” He asks loudly, tone casual but eyes sharp.

“It’s a party,” you shout back. “That’s usually the idea.”

Art grins, leaning closer to his friend. “I’m being schooled on 19th-century novels. Turns out I’ve been wrong about basically everything.”

Patrick snorts, rolling his eyes. “Wow, sounds riveting.”

You bristle. “You could try listening sometime.”

“You could try having fun sometime.” He retorts, eyes trained on you now.

Art senses the shift happening and glances between the two of you, his smile faltering. “Uh, I’m gonna grab another drink.” He glances at you to check in, but you don’t look at him, won’t take your eyes off Patrick.

As soon as he’s gone, the space feels too tight, the crowd around you pushing in, the alcohol in your system making your nerves thrum under your skin.

Patrick says something, but it’s right as the music swells, and you squint at him and lean closer. “What?”

He rolls his eyes, but leans in as well, his breath ghosting over your neck as he raises his voice over the crowd to speak. “If you want him, I could set you up. He’s pretty easy.”

You blink, pulling back. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “Seems like you’re into him.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh, incredulous, ignoring the weird ache in your chest at his words. “Is that what this is? You’re sulking?”

“I’m not sulking.” He scoffs.

“Yes, you are. Oh, my god, I can’t believe you.” You’re too caught up in the notion that he doesn’t like you talking to his friends, that it doesn’t even occur to you that he could be jealous.

He leans closer, raising his voice as the crowd begins to sing along to the song. “You don’t even like this sort of shit.”

“And you don’t even like our sessions,” you snap back. “Yet here we both are, showing up for things we don’t like.”

His smile sharpens. “Careful. I don’t have to keep showing up.”

“Why?” You cock your head, alcohol buzzing hot under your skin. “You gonna blow off another responsibility? Do another line of coke in the bathroom?”

That gets him – his easy smile falls away, jaw clenching. “You gonna keep acting like a fucking narc all night?” He snaps.

You stiffen. “Excuse me?”

He scoffs, irritation bleeding through now, smile turning mean. “You act like you’re so above it all, but I’ve heard some very interesting things about you recently.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“You little side business,” he says, casual, almost bored, and ice slides down your throat into your lungs. “Writing essays for cash – heard a couple guys from the rowing team talking about it the other night.”

“That’s not–” You falter, suddenly feeling cornered.

“So get off your high horse,” he cuts in. “Because you’re not exactly the morality police.”

Something cold settles in your chest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shrugs. “I know enough. I can’t believe you had me fooled this long, thinking you were all high and mighty about academic integrity.”

“I don’t–”

“You know, maybe I’ll just have you do my essays for me, skip the middle man.”

“Patrick.” You warn, panic clawing at your throat.

“Do the people who set up our tutoring sessions know?” He’s too caught up in it now, his words turning sharp and mean. “Because I’m sure they’d be very interested in your little side hustle if I told–”

“Fuck you.” You spit, anger and disappointment wrapping around your throat. He doesn’t actually have any leverage on you, but he doesn’t know that, and the idea that he would threaten you like this feels so wrong, so cruel, it catches you off guard.

You stumble back, knocking into someone, and shake your head, turning on your heel, desperate to find somewhere quiet, somewhere you can breathe. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Patrick’s voice calls after you as you enter a hallway, and you resist the urge to groan out loud.

“Out. Away. I don’t know.” You fire back, not turning around, continuing to march forward, squinting at the bright overhead lights.

“Oh my god, relax, it isn’t even that serious–” 

The air shifts, something brittle snapping into place between you – and suddenly you’re not joking anymore, not teasing, not dancing around it.

“It is that serious, you fucking asshole, so stop acting like none of this matters,” you snap, spinning to face him, the words tumbling over each other now. “Like it’s not my ass on the line too.”

Patrick scoffs, sharp and reflexive. “Oh, please. Sorry I don’t give a shit if you get a slap on the wrist and a docked paycheck for not fixing your idiot student.”

Something in your chest twists hard. “A slap on the wrist?” You laugh, breathless and ugly. “You seriously think that’s all this is to me? If I can’t help you, they’ll–”

You cut yourself off, mouth snapping shut as the last of the alcohol-soaked courage drains away. Too far. You’ve gone too far, admitted too much.

Patrick catches it instantly. His expression shifts, the easy hostility faltering into something tighter, more focused. “They’ll what?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly. You turn your face away, heat crawling up your neck. “Whatever. Just stop being a fucking dick about it.”

“No.” He steps closer, and you’re suddenly aware of the distant noise of the party in contrast to the quiet that surrounds the two of you. “Not nothing. What the fuck is your stake in this?”

“Seriously, Patrick,” you mutter. “Leave it. I’m not in the mood–”

“What are you talking about?” His voice is lower now, no longer teasing, no longer amused.

You swallow, throat thick. “They’ll take away my scholarship,” you say, the words tasting bitter and final. “And I’ll get kicked out.”

Silence. Patrick stares at you like the ground just shifted under his feet, and whatever he had braced himself for, it wasn’t that.

“Happy now?” You snap, because the quiet feels unbearable, because standing there exposed feels worse than being cruel. “That enough pressure for you? Or do you want me to spell out exactly how badly you’re about to fuck my life up?”

For once, he doesn’t have anything clever to throw back. His jaw works as he searches for the right angle to come at this from, like he always does, and comes up empty.

“They didn’t tell me that,” he says finally, voice tight and clipped. “You never told me that.”

“No,” you reply, voice gone thin. “Because you’re the golden athlete, and I’m just… Leverage. And it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway, would it?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice climbing despite yourself. “Do you want fairness? Because I’ve been sitting in a library for months watching you blow off work you could do, knowing every missed assignment drags me closer to the edge.”

“You didn’t have to agree to tutor me.” He defends, slipping back into the familiar territory of the back and forth.

You flinch, and then bristle. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.” 

He pauses. “I didn’t think–”

You laugh again, bitter. “No. You don’t do that a lot.”

That lands harder than you expect it to. His mouth opens, then closes, something flickering across his face – not amusement this time, or deflection. Frustration. Guilt. Maybe both.

“Jesus,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. “You think I want this hanging over you?”

“I don’t know what you want,” you bite back, taken aback by his reaction. “You treat everything like a game.”

His eyes lock onto yours. “This isn’t a game to me.”

“Then stop acting like it doesn’t matter,” you snap. “Stop acting like you don’t care.”

The words hang there, raw and unguarded, and suddenly the air between you feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with anger anymore.

You suddenly realize how close he is, though when that happened, you’re not sure, but Patrick’s close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath, his cologne, the cigarette he smoked earlier.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t gentle, it’s abrupt and imperfect and messy, as if he decided a split second ago that this was the only way to shut both of you up. His hands come up, warm and steady as they slide into place at your jaw and the back of your neck.

You freeze for half a beat, and then you kiss him back.

It’s a bad idea. You know it is – even as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, even as the anger in your chest melts into something dizzying and bright. He makes a surprised sound against your mouth as his back connects to the wall, like he didn’t expect you to meet him there, like that was never part of the plan.

Clarity dumps over you like a bucket of ice.

You pull away, shoving him against the wall again, your eyes wide as you reel back in shock, his hands falling away from you as you step back a full pace. 

Shock melts into anger. “What the fuck was that?” You demand, brows tugging together.

“What was what?” He blinks, and you could just about kill him.

“What was– you just kissed me!” 

Patrick scoffs. “You kissed me back!”

You sputter, unable to refute that one. “I didn’t–”

“Oh, okay, so I just pushed myself into the wall, I guess.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“You’re such a dick.” You spit, the alcohol in your system setting your rage alight.

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were such a prude–”

He catches your wrist right before your hand can make contact with his face, head cocked as he narrows his eyes at you, and that’s when Art chooses to reappear. 

“There you are–” Art takes in the scene in front of him. “…Am I interrupting?”

You tug your hand free, heat flooding your face so fast it’s almost painful. “No,” you say, chest still heaving. “I was just leaving.”

You don’t wait for a response, don’t look at Patrick again, you just turn and bolt, heart hammering, the ghost of his mouth still burning on yours.

You’re trying to find somewhere quiet when you stumble out onto the back porch, and you manage one deep inhale of clean air before you notice the other person out there. It’s Tashi, because of course it is, perched against the railing, red solo cup in hand. 

She looks up at you, her gaze sharpening, and you suddenly feel very scrutinised. 

“You okay?” She asks, eyes narrowed, and you nod, trying to shove the surge of emotions down as much as possible and act unbothered.

“Yeah.” You say immediately, too fast, then swallow and add, softer, “I just needed some air.”

Tashi hums, neither believing you nor calling you out on it. She takes a small sip of her drink, eyes flicking past you toward the glow of the house. “There’s too much testosterone in there.” She says mildly.

You nod, grateful for the out as you step up to the railing beside her and rest your forearms on it, letting the night air cool the heat in your face. Your pulse is still too fast, to the point where you can feel it in your throat, as well as the feeling of his hand on your neck, his lips on yours–

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable earlier,” you glance over sharply to find Tashi studying you from the corner of her eye as she speaks. “When I said that thing about Patrick.”

Your stomach drops, wondering briefly if you’re that transparent or if she can read minds.

“I saw him wink at you on the court, earlier. I just didn’t know if you knew what you were in for.” She continues.

You fix your gaze on the dark stretch of lawn beyond the porch, the scattered shapes of students cutting across campus in the distance, and force your voice to come out light and dismissive. “He’s like that with everyone.”

A small smile curves at the corner of Tashi’s mouth. “That’s true.” She tilts her head, considering. “He’s kind of a manwhore.”

The words land softly, casually, and somehow they still knock the air out of your chest. You swallow, forcing out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Tashi takes another sip, still not really looking at you. “I just mean – don’t read into it. Patrick will sleep with anything that moves. It’s kind of his whole thing. He’s been trying it on with me since last spring.”

Right. Of course he does. Something tightens low in your chest, sudden and sharp, like you’ve missed a step on a staircase. 

You nod, too quick. “Trust me,” you say, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere brittle. “I’m not.”

Tashi glances at you then, something curious flickering in her expression, and if she sees the way your shoulders have gone rigid, the way your fingers curl tighter around the railing, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she sweeps her hair off her shoulder and shrugs.

“I mean,” she says lightly. “Do what you will, just don’t get attached. He’s pretty good in bed. But don’t ever tell him I said that, his ego’s too big already.”

Your stomach plummets then, the insinuation sharp and targeted. You suddenly get the sense this isn’t you being looked out for, this is Tashi staking her claim, making sure she’s still in control, in charge.

You manage a half-smile, even huff out a laugh that echoes wrongly in your ears. “Of course not.”

The music spills out into the night as someone behind you opens the door, sees that the porch is occupied, and slips back inside, shutting the sounds of the party out alongside them, leaving the two of you alone again.

You stand there for a little while, nodding along dutifully as Tashi starts saying something about the match earlier, how Patrick needs to work on his backhand, something about his opponent’s footwork. You tune out, responding when you’re supposed to, smiling in the right places, while all the while, your mind is busy rearranging the memory of the kiss as your stomach churns.

You tell yourself it was just drunken embarrassment, not some devastating thing. He’s a prick, you hate each other, you’re fine. Then why do you feel so hurt?

After a minute, you straighten. “I’m gonna head out,” you make the easy excuse, gesturing awkwardly towards the yard. “Early morning.”

Tashi nods, disinterested. “Okay.”

You step off the porch and into the dark, keenly aware of her eyes fixed on your back as you leave, your chest aching, your head swimming.

You don’t make it far before you smack into someone and reel back, head snapping up with an apology poised on your lips.

“Woah, woah,” the guy laughs, steadying himself – he’s tall, broad, unmistakably an athlete of some kind.  “What’s the rush?” 

“Hold on, do we know you?” The guy behind him asks, and it’s then that you notice there are three of them clustered together, jerseys abandoned but still draped in entitlement.

You shake your head weakly, desperate to just leave. “No, I just– I was just–”

“I just– I was just–” The second guy mimics mockingly. “You just what? Just thought you’d sneak in?” 

You’re already shaking your head, but then the third guy pitches in. “Who are you here with?”

“Tashi.” You frown, glancing back towards the house, to the porch, but it’s empty now. 

“Tashi Duncan?” The first guy repeats, snickering. “Yeah, right. And we’re on the badminton team.”

For all you know they could be, but you choose not to say that. You open your mouth to respond, but the third guy squints at you harder, head tipping. “Wait,” he says slowly. “I do know you.”

Your stomach drops.

“You write essays for people,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Right? You wrote that midterm for my roommate last month.”

“No, I–”

“Oh shit,” the second guy grins. “Yeah, it is you.”

“Well that explains it,” the first guy says, amused now. “You did our work for us and now you think you get to be one of us?”

“Admit it,” The second guy steps closer to you, cruel smile on his face, and your heart thuds in your chest. “You snuck in, thought it would be cool to hang out with the sports teams–”

Someone yells one of their names (of course it’s fucking Chad) and they all turn, and you seize your opportunity, pushing past them, the sound of their brash laughter echoing behind you as you all but flee the scene. 

Your heart hammers in your ribcage as you walk, a swirl of emotions choking thick in your throat. You just… You can’t believe you fell for it. Can’t believe you let them sway you into coming to this stupid party with these stupid athletes, can’t believe you told him about your scholarship, can’t believe you kissed him–

You stop when you realize you’ve made it all the way back to your dorm building, but you don’t want to go back inside, don’t want to go sit in your dorm alone, so you sit down on a low stone wall and rest your elbows on your knees, your head in your hands.

Fuck. You’re so stupid. You can’t believe you care. To top it all off, the voices of the Asshole Trio from earlier keep ringing in your ears – they were right, you didn’t belong there, you shouldn’t have even gone in the first place. 

Oh, God, no, you’re not going to cry over some idiot frat boys– but the tears come anyway, hot and humiliating. 

You’re scrubbing at your face when you hear footsteps pounding on the pavement, echoing against the buildings, and then a voice breaks the quiet. A very familiar voice, out of breath, like he’s been running.

“What the fuck?”

Oh, God. Like this isn’t already the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to you.

You don’t even glance up, can’t, can’t let him see the shine of tears on your face. “Go away, Patrick.”

“No, seriously,” his voice sounds closer now. “What the fuck? I’ve been looking everywhere– What happened?”

You scoff down at the ground, grimacing at how wet it sounds. “I’m not in the mood to be made fun of any more, okay, so just–”

“Are you crying? Wait– Made fun of?”

There’s something in his tone that makes you look up.

He’s standing a few feet away, hands braced on his thighs as he catches his breath, brow furrowed more deeply than you’ve ever seen. His face is scrunched in confusion – and underneath it, unmistakably, anger. Not the performative kind he wears so easily, but something sharp and real.

It makes your heart stutter in your chest.

“Who,” he says slowly, standing fully, “Was making fun of you?”

You laugh weakly, wiping at your cheeks. “It doesn’t even matter.”

“Yeah, it does.”

You shake your head. “It was just some guys. From some team... I don’t even know.” You scoff at how stupid it all is. “They asked who invited me, and then they didn’t believe me.”

Patrick frowns. “They didn’t believe you…?”

You shrug, miserable. “That you guys invited me.”

Something dark flickers across his face, interrupting his easy-going facade. His jaw tightens like he’s trying very hard not to do something stupid.

“Were they assholes to you?” He asks quietly, looking down the road.

“That’s kind of their whole thing.” You mutter, swiping at your cheeks.

“Fucking Christ.” He exhales sharply through his nose, pacing like a caged animal before stopping in front of you again.

You swipe at your eyes again, exhausted now more than anything. “Can you just– Not make this worse?”

“I’m not,” he says immediately. “I’m–” He makes a face, visibly recalibrating. “I’m not trying to.”

You glance up at him, surprised despite yourself. For once, Patrick looks completely out of his depth. He frowns, glances down the street again, and winces.

“Look, I said a lot of stupid shit, earlier, and I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, or whatever. I didn’t mean anything by it, alright, I was just–” He makes a face, obviously not sure how to say what he wants to. 

“It’s fine, Patrick.” You shake your head, just wanting this night to be over.

“It’s not, but. Okay. If you’re sure,” he gives you an odd look, inhaling deeply. “I also just wanted to say–”

“Was this all just some game to you? See how long it takes to get into my pants?” The words bubble out of you before you can stop them.

His face goes slack, eyes wide and then narrow, nose crinkling in disgust as he digests your words. “Jesus, no, what the f–”

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have even said that,” you know you’re the one who brought it up, but you suddenly feel sick at the idea of discussing it right now, at having to listen to him justify it, at even reminding yourself of it. “Can we just not? Okay? I’m just– I just want to go to bed.”

“You just–!” Patrick blinks, mouth opening, then closing, still indignant but shockingly, he listens to you. “Yeah, we can– Okay. Sure. Yeah.” 

You stand, glancing towards the door of your dorm, sniffling slightly. “...Go home, Patrick. Goodnight.”

“Yeah. Uh.” He frowns, spins on his heel, and walks away, before pausing and turning back. “Night, Professor.”

That stupid fucking nickname nearly makes you smile at him. Nearly. You turn around and go to bed instead, trying not to cry as you lie in your darkened dorm room.

You wake up with embarrassment lodged in your throat and a dull, punishing throb behind your eyes, burying your face in your pillow for a moment and considering letting it suffocate you. It doesn’t, so you accept defeat and get up.

It’s late morning on a Sunday, so the dining hall is thankfully crowded with people who look just as wrecked as you feel. You grab the biggest coffee available, sit down, and immediately spot Tashi’s face blown up on a poster across the room.

You’re back outside in seconds.

The sun is warm on your face, at least, as you wander with your book and look for somewhere quiet to read. You don’t realize where you’ve walked to until the familiar thwack of tennis balls cuts through your thoughts. Of fucking course you’re here. 

You curse the sky as you spin around, heading literally anywhere else, and you’ve almost reached the edge of the tennis courts when you hear your name called, sharp and breathless.

You turn just in time to see Patrick jogging off the court, racket still in hand, shirt darkened with sweat and clinging to his chest. His dark curls are a mess, escaping everywhere, face flushed in that way that makes it obvious he’s been moving hard for hours. He looks unfairly good like this. 

“Hey,” he says, slowing to a stop in front of you, hands braced on his knees for a second before he straightens, and you get flashbacks of the night before. “What’re you doing here?”

“I was looking for somewhere to read,” you say, immediately defensive. “You’re practicing this early?”

“Uh… Yeah.” He says like it’s obvious, glancing back at the court, which is when you notice Art trying and failing to look like he’s not paying attention to your conversation. You offer him a small wave anyway, and he ducks his head with a thin smile, caught.

You look back to Patrick as he flips his friend off, then turns back to you, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I– uh. I’m glad I caught you.”

Something tightens in your chest and you fold your arms almost protectively. “Look, if this is about last night–”

“It is,” he cuts in quickly, then exhales, almost looking nervous. “But it’s not a big deal, relax.”

You find yourself smiling despite it all. “Okay, well, you’re the one who chased me down, so.”

That earns a crooked smile, and something in your chest loosens at the sight of it, your eyes tracing along the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Please, I didn’t chase, I just… Jogged a bit.”

You roll your eyes, but suddenly, you no longer feel like your heart is a lead weight in your chest. There’s a pause where Patrick rocks back on his heels, clearly searching for the right tone, and he lands, as always, on casual to the point of denial.

“So,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. “We made out.”

You stiffen, the easygoing mood from before disappearing. “You kissed me.” You correct, because you can’t help it, but when he opens his mouth you hold up a hand. “It’s fine, Patrick. We were drunk,” you dismiss immediately, like you’ve rehearsed it. Which. Maybe you did. “It’s not like it meant anything.”

Patrick blinks once, watching you carefully as he quirks an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, seriously. There was a lot going on last night, and– And tensions were high, so. It’s fine.”

“Tensions were high, huh?” He mimics, obviously mocking you, and you level him with a glare, to which he shrugs. “Yeah, okay, whatever. We were drunk. Didn’t mean anything.”

His tone makes you pause, your eyes raking over his face in an attempt to discern his expression. He shrugs, deliberately loose, twirling his racket in his hands. “I mean, you were yelling at me. I’m pretty sure that’s not how people usually flirt.”

You bristle, frowning. “You fucking started it, and then you kissed me–”

“You kissed me back. And pushed me against the wall.” He counters smugly, eyebrows raised.

You open your mouth, something sharp and indignant poised on the tip of your tongue, but at the sight of the glimmer in his eyes you take a deep breath instead and hold up a hand. “I’m so not taking the bait from you right now.”

He laughs, nodding, hands held up in surrender. “Yeah, okay, you got me. Sorry. Didn’t mean anything.”

You watch his face as he says it – the easy smile, the way his eyes slide away just slightly, like he doesn’t want to linger too long on the moment, and not for the first time this conversation, you feel like he’s putting on an act. 

“Okay. Good,” you nod, clearing your throat. “Because I don’t want this to get weird.”

He huffs a laugh. “Trust me, the last thing I need is my tutor falling in love with me.”

“Trust me, you do not have to worry about that.” You deadpan, rolling your eyes.

That gets a real laugh out of him, and something in your chest sings. “So we’re good?”

“We’re good.” You echo, though even as you mean the words, you can feel something shift irreparably between the two of you.

Another pause passes, the warm sun beating down on the back of your neck, his eyes on yours, the space between you humming with something.

Patrick’s eyes linger on yours for half a second too long. “Look, I’m not gonna– Just– After everything last night, uh, are you good?”

You hesitate for a split second, flashes of your conversations with Tashi, those guys last night, the feeling of his lips against yours– and then you nod. “‘Course.”

He studies you like he might call you on it, but doesn’t. “Whatever you say,” he says, stepping back. “See you on Tuesday.”

As he turns to leave, you call out, “Patrick.” He looks back, eyes wide and almost hopeful, and your stomach swoops. “Don’t be late.”

He grins, a sharp flash of white teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Professor.”

And then he’s gone, jogging back toward Art on the court like nothing happened, like he didn’t just knock your equilibrium sideways again.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, heart doing something stupid in your chest as you watch Art say something and Patrick smack him on the back of the head, and then you turn and walk away, telling yourself the knot in your stomach is relief.

Patrick is, predictably, late to your next session.

Twelve minutes this time – you’ve just about convinced yourself he’s not coming at all when the door swings open and he strolls in like he owns the place, hair still damp at the nape of his neck, tennis bag slung over one shoulder.

“Yeah, I know, sorry.” He says as he drops into the chair across from you.

You level him with a look. “You’re late.”

“I said I know,” he rolls his eyes, unbothered. “My fucking dad called.”

You pause, blinking at the mention. He’s never brought his family up before, never talked about his home life, but you can see the way his shoulders are curled inwards, the tension thrumming through his body, the pinch of his expression.

Whatever that phone call was, it left Patrick in a foul mood. You nearly ask about it, weirdly unsettled at seeing him so tense and upset, but delving into personal lives is a line you have yet to cross. 

You purse your lips together instead, watching him for a moment, before reaching for your notes, trying to switch tracks. “Did you get your last essay back?”

Instead of answering, he reaches into his bag. You’re bracing yourself for excuses when he slides the paper across the table toward you, and your eye immediately catches on the bright red handwriting in the corner. 

‘A+. 98%. Well done!’ Your stomach drops.

You flip through the pages, scanning the text, brow furrowing more and more as you read. It’s… Good. Sharp, focused on an issue, with supporting quotes and engagement with the text. Compared to the last essay, this is a miracle.

You look up at him sharply. “Patrick.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, pleased smirk already tugging the corner of his mouth. 

“You got a ninety-eight.”

He scoffs. “Don’t look so shocked, Professor. I told you I’d ace it.”

You stare at him, something between disbelief and irritation bubbling up in your chest. “How?”

“I’m not completely hopeless.” He says lightly, shrugging as he pulls his book out of his bag.

You should be overjoyed, but something nags at you, something unsettling about how easily it had been for him to make the leap to such a perfect grade.

“I never said you were, I just– This is a crazy leap from your last essay.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m better than you think I am. You’re not the only smart person on campus, Professor.” The nickname comes out harsher, more pointed, and you frown, hurt now, confused as to why he’s acting like this.

“I’m sorry your dad pissed you off, but–” It was the wrong thing to say. You know that immediately, but before you get a chance to backtrack, Patrick’s expression has gone cold, smile turning into more of a sneer. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he says, voice flattening. “And I definitely don’t need someone who thinks I’m too stupid to figure it out.”

“I never said that.” You defend, holding a hand up. 

“You didn’t have to.” He scoffs, raking his eyes up and down you in a pointed way. “And I don’t need your help.”

“Then why was I hired to stop you from fucking failing?” It slips out, and you know you’ve gone too far.

“Okay.” His jaw clenches, a brief smile devoid of humour flicking across his face. “I think we should just call it.”

You frown. “Call what?”

“This. The sessions.” 

You laugh once, short. “What, because you wrote one decent essay?”

His mouth tightens. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” You lean back in your chair. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re finally starting to try – which is great, by the way – and now you want to quit.”

He shakes his head like you’re deliberately missing it. “That’s not why.”

“Then tell me why!”

He hesitates, and you see it flicker across his face – something uncertain, almost restless – and then it hardens, pushed away, expression slipping back into casual annoyed arrogance. 

“You’ve got other classes to worry about,” he says, almost casually. “You don’t need me wasting your time.”

Something about the phrasing sits wrong, and you pinch the bridge of your nose, exhausted by the sudden conflict. “You’re not wasting my time, Patrick, we just– We need to make sure you do well in the final.”

He gives you a pointed look, gesturing at the paper on the table. “I think I’ve got this.”

You squint, searching his face for humour, waiting for the punchline of the joke, but it isn’t there. He’s serious. “You did well on one essay, that doesn’t mean you’ve–”

“Oh my god,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “I know you want to fix me, but I’m serious, I–”

You scoff. “Fix you? What are you even talking about?”

He stands up abruptly, snatching the paper off the desk, and you gape up at him. “We can pretend we’re still meeting, they won’t kick you out and you’ll still get paid–”

“Are you fucking kidding me?“ you snap, heat flooding your face. “Do you seriously think that’s all this is?”

He pauses, watching you carefully, expression guarded, posture tight.

“Money?” You continue, standing up, planting yourself in front of him. “Or babysitting? Or whatever narrative makes you feel less guilty about bailing?”

“I’m not bailing,” he snaps. “I’m telling you I don’t need this anymore.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” You shake your head.

He laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “Right. Of course it’s not.”

“You’re on probation,” you say, your voice rising despite yourself. “You don’t get to just decide you’re cured because you managed to string together a coherent paragraph.”

His eyes flash, and he steps back. “See? That’s exactly what I mean.”

“What?” 

“You don’t think I can do it.” He accuses, eyes dark and stormy.

Your jaw drops. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says, stepping closer, his face inches from yours. “You think if you’re not keeping watch over me, I’ll just fall apart.”

“I think,” you bite out, letting your eyes trace down his face, heat rising to your cheeks at the proximity. “That if you screw this up, I’m the one who gets screwed too.”

There it is. It lands between you, heavy and ugly.

“You know what?” He says, stepping back suddenly. “Forget it.”

“Patrick–” You find yourself reeling at the sudden space between you and his sudden coldness, trying desperately to stop this conversation from careening towards disaster.

“No, you’re right,” he cuts in, anger snapping back into place because it’s easier. “I don’t take things seriously. I don’t care. I’m just the idiot athlete you got stuck with, right?”

“That’s not true.” You can’t believe he would think something like that.

“Relax,” he says coldly. “You’re off the hook. I’ll pass. You’ll keep your scholarship. Everybody wins.”

“Can we just–”

“I said I’ve got it.” He repeats, eyes narrowed, lips curled, and something sinks in your chest.

“And I’m supposed to just trust that?” Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.

He gives you a hard look. “Yeah,” he says, darkened eyes flicking down to your lips, hesitating, and meeting your eyes again. “You are.”

You open your mouth – to throw an insult at him, to placate him, to stop him, you’re not even sure – but he’s already slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“We’re done,” he says flatly. “I’ve got it from here.”

And then he leaves, the door of the classroom slamming shut behind him harder than it needs to. You’re left in the empty classroom, reeling, staring at the door for longer than you mean to.

You don’t schedule the next session. He doesn’t either.

You log the last session as completed, add neutral notes to his file to pretend you had the meeting, and wait for him to schedule the next one.

He doesn’t.

At first, you tell yourself it’s temporary – you’re both upset, it’s a busy time on campus, he’s probably studying… He’ll cave. Right?

He doesn’t.

Finals week arrives before you know it, a sickening anxiety filling your chest as you attend your exams, agonized with the overarching worry of whether or not any of it will even matter in the end.  When grades are released, you don’t reach out to him – you’ll find out soon enough.

An hour after grades are released, your inbox pings with an email titled Academic Review Board – Mandatory Attendance.

Your stomach drops, and you just stare at the screen, pulse pounding. Of course. You close your laptop, already furious – at him, at yourself for trusting him even a little, at the fact that you left your future up to fate because you found yourself falling for your insufferable tutee.

You grab your bag and head for the administrative building. If he failed, after all that– You don’t let yourself finish that thought, pushing through the doors instead and bracing for impact.

The conference room is too bright.

Two of them sit on the other side of the table, files stacked, laptops open, polite, unattached smiles already in place.

You brace for reprimand.

“Thank you for coming in,” the department chair says, folding her hands neatly. “This won’t take long.”

That’s never a comforting sentence. You sit, your spine rigid, fingers laced in your lap to keep them from shaking.

The chair slides a folder across the table toward you. It’s thick. Heavier than it should be.

“You were assigned to Mr. Zweig at the start of term,” she says. “At that point, he was on academic probation.”

You swallow. “Yes.”

“We were very pleased to see,” the chair continues, and her tone becomes a little warmer, “That those concerns have been resolved.”

You blink. “Resolved?” 

She tilts the file toward you, and your breath catches in your throat. A. Across the board. You can see further comments written beneath, but your eyes are stuck on those grades.

“He demonstrated measurable growth across all written components,” the advisor says. “Particularly in the latter half of the semester.”

The latter half. Your fingers tighten against the edge of the folder, trying to make sense of it all.

“We attribute a great deal of that to your intervention,” the chair adds. “Your reports indicated steady engagement, even when progress seemed incremental.”

“I–” You clear your throat. “He did the work.”

“Yes,” she says. “But consistency doesn’t happen in a vacuum.” There’s a faint smile exchanged between them.

“And to think,” the advisor adds lightly, “His father was just calling, threatening to pull him out entirely.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m sorry?”

The chair waves a hand. “Just posturing. He was concerned about performance, I imagine. But clearly, Mr. Zweig made the decision to stay the course.”

You stare back down at the pages. He hadn’t scraped by – he’d crushed it. Without you. Or maybe because of you. You can’t tell which is worse.

“We consider this a success,” the advisor says gently. “You should be proud.”

Your throat feels tight. “So… I’m not–” You force the words out, almost lightheaded from the sudden relief and confusion. “There’s no issue with my position here?”

“On the contrary,” the chair says. “Your scholarship remains in excellent standing. We’ll be recommending you for advanced placements next year.”

“I see.” You manage, the pieces clicking together.

“If you have any questions–”

“I don’t,” you say quickly, standing before you quite mean to. The two of them blink at your abruptness. “Thank you,” you add, voice thinner than you’d like. “For… Everything.”

You gather the file without thinking, then realize it isn’t yours to take and set it back down awkwardly. They smile at you again, and your blood rushes in your ears.

You don’t even remember leaving the building.

One minute you’re listening to words like growth and intervention and improvement, and the next you’re pushing through glass doors into the afternoon sun with your pulse in your throat and your hands shaking.

Patrick Zweig, top marks across the board, and yet all you can think about is that motherfucker could have done this the whole time.

The courts are loud before you even see them, the rhythmic crack of a ball against a racket carrying across the quad, sharp and punishing, over and over again like someone trying to beat a thought out of their own head.

He’s alone when you find him, no coach, no Art, no cheering audience in the stands.

Just Patrick, moving through drills with brutal precision – serve, recover, sprint, return – sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched, focus so tight it looks like it hurts.

You don’t slow down, you don’t announce yourself, you simply walk straight onto the edge of the court and call out, loud enough to cut through the echo. “Patrick.”

He startles, the ball sailing wide as he turns, blinking like he’s been dragged back into his body.

“What the fu–” He squints at you. “Jesus. Do you ever pick a normal moment?”

You laugh, short and sharp. “I just came from my meeting.”

His shoulders tense immediately. He doesn’t bother asking which one.

“Congratulations,” you add. “You’re officially an academic miracle.”

He exhales through his nose, already defensive. “If you’re here to yell at me–”

You don’t let him finish, already crossing the remaining distance and shoving him. “You fucking asshole.”

“Okay– what the fuck?” He stares at you as he stumbles back a pace, genuinely bewildered now. 

“You got top marks, Patrick.”

“And?”

“And you don’t think that’s worth mentioning?” Your voice cracks on the edge of fury. “You don’t think maybe I deserved to know you were always capable of doing the work you spent months pretending was beneath you?”

His mouth opens, closes.

“You think this is funny?” You press. “You think I enjoyed sitting across from people today listening to them praise me for something you clearly could’ve done whenever you felt like it?”

“That’s not–”

“You know what?” You laugh again, ugly this time. “No. I don’t even want to hear it.”

Something in his face hardens. “Okay, you don’t get to come down here and–”

“I spent months terrified,” you cut in, stepping closer again, hands clenched. “I thought I was one bad grade away from losing everything, and you were fucking bored.”

He goes very still. “You want to know why I didn’t try before?” He asks quietly.

You narrow your eyes. “Enlighten me.”

“Because it didn’t fucking matter.”

You stare at him, chest tight as he speaks. 

“But it does now,” he adds immediately, sharper. “So don’t storm out here and look at me like that.”

“Why?” you demand. “Because someone finally threatened your tennis?”

“No.” His jaw tightens. “Because you came along.”

That knocks the air out of you.

He scoffs, trying to recover, rolling his shoulders like he can shake the moment loose, but your heartbeat is already thundering in your ears, his words echoing in your head as you gape at him.

“Fuck you, Patrick.” The words slip out of you, biting.

He grins, but there’s something sad there, defensive – like he’s baring his teeth, backed into a corner. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

You grab him by the front of his shirt and he flinches, expecting you to hit him. You close the distance and kiss him instead.

It’s hard, and messy, all frustration and instinct. His body locks up for a split second out of pure shock, and then instinct kicks in, and he leans in, hands coming up to your waist and digging in. 

You pull back just as suddenly, your heart slamming against your ribs. You just stand there, looking at him, watching as he blinks at you. 

“...Holy shit.” He mutters, licking his lips, and you can already see the smirk creasing the skin of his cheek.

You swallow, suddenly aware of his hands still on your waist, something like fear sitting high in your throat. “Don’t.”

The growing smirk drops. “What?”

“Don’t… Don’t make a joke,” you voice shakes slightly. “Just– Don’t.”

He shakes his head lightly, eyes narrowing as he searches your face, and for once, he listens to you, and doesn’t say anything. 

You grab him again, fingers fisting in his shirt as if you’re still angry, clutching desperately at the familiar emotion, unsure what to do without it. 

Patrick makes a small sound of surprise as you kiss him this time, rougher, mouths colliding instead of just meeting, teeth clicking before he adjusts, his hands coming up to cage your face as he slots himself against you. It’s all heat and breath and the sharp tang of adrenaline, and it feels less like a decision than a release, an inevitable collision. 

You walk him back without breaking the kiss, crowding him until his back hits the chainlink fence. The impact knocks the breath out of him, and it draws a lower, rougher sound from his throat – a laugh.

“Jesus–” he pulls back just enough to mutter against your mouth.

“Shut up.” You breathe, annoyed at how much you want him, annoyed that he’s letting you kiss him like this, but you realize with a jolt that you’re smiling, too. 

You kiss him harder for it, like you’re trying to make a point you can’t articulate, and he lets you, lets you crowd his space, lets you set the pace, before he pulls you firmer against his body and flips you so that your back is the one against the fence now, smirking at your surprised yelp that escapes against his lips.

His mouth softens even as the kiss stays hungry, like he’s trying to meet you where you are without overwhelming you, like he’s paying attention.

When you finally pull back, it’s only because you have to breathe.

You’re close enough that his forehead bumps yours, his breath warm and uneven against your cheek. His hands are still on you, not gripping, just there – present.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

Then, quietly, like he’s afraid to spook the moment, Patrick says, “For the record, I meant it. About… It mattering now.”

Your chest tightens.

He swallows, thumb brushing your side in an unconscious, almost tender gesture. “I didn’t know how to say that without fucking it up.”

You sigh. “Yeah, well, you managed not to fuck both of our academic careers up, so you’ve got that going for you.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Professor.” Patrick muses teasingly, lips brushing against yours as he speaks, and you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, you could.”

He pauses, pulling away very slightly. “...Okay. Yeah, I could, but I wouldn’t have.” 

He kisses you again, gently, like he’s asking instead of taking something. It’s softer, careful in a way that feels more intimate after everything else. You don’t know what to do with that softness.

You pull away, expression twisted into another frown. “But seriously, you couldn’t have mentioned that earlier–”

“Oh my god, would you just shut up,” Patrick scoffs. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

Your eyes widen indignantly. “Oh, I’m the p–”

You’re cut off as his mouth connects to yours, and this time, you don’t fight to get the last word in.

[fairycosmos]

you literally have to unironically listen to some shit like party rock anthem so you don’t kill yourself

[quinnspinkcamera]

when people are like "i didn't come here to make friends" i'm like thats sooooo unrelatable. i am always on the look out for some girl friends. I would be in that hunger games cornucopia like "your ex boyfriend did WHAT."

[animentality]

[opultea]

i love when the moons crested and tilted back

yeah girl relax you deserve it