My sister called me. She didn't call to catch up. She called to apologize.
She said they made a mistake at the lab. She said they were only trying to help, to cure things we thought were incurable. But she was crying so hard, and the screams in the background... they didn't sound human. Her last words to me were, "Hide, Yn. Please, just survive."
Word Count 3k
Warnings-Guns,Violence
Masterlist
🧟♀️ REMEMBER...Masterlist 🧟♀️
AN- This is the shortest one yet. That's because there's going to be a lot going on in the next part.
Previous Part
Day 4
I dreamed about my father last night. It was the last time I saw him, right before his heart gave out.
He was sitting in the worn armchair in his study.He was cleaning the same revolver that currently sits tucked into my waistband. In the dream, he didn't look sick. He just looked tired.
“You and Kaye are always looking in the wrong direction, Yn,”* he told me, his hands moving over the metal with practiced ease. “Kaye is always looking up. Trying to reach the next rung, the next breakthrough, trying to fix the sky. And you? You’re always looking back. Trying to hold onto how things were.”
I remember being angry with him when he said it. I remember defending myself. But in the dream, I just listened.
“You can’t go back, kiddo,” he said, clicking the cylinder into place. “The past is a ghost. It doesn't exist anymore, and if you spend all your time chasing it, you’ll end up a ghost, too. When the world shifts, you can't try to un-shift it. You just have to put your head down, grit your teeth, and move forward. You build something new in the ruins.”
I woke up before I could answer him.
He was right. I’ve spent the last four days entirely consumed by the past. I’ve been suffocating under the weight of what my mother and Kaye did, paralyzed by the guilt of their actions. I’ve been looking at Lily and seeing the parents she lost, instead of the child who is still here. I’ve been looking at the women in this complex and seeing the lives they had before, instead of the survivors they are now.
I can't un-break the world. I can't undo my family's legacy. If I keep looking back at the ashes, I’m going to miss the fire burning right in front of me.
We are trapped with dwindling supplies. There is no rescue coming. The world we knew is dead.
So, we move forward.
Today, they are sending teams out to sweep the stadium for any remaining supplies. Leah asked if I would go. I told her yes. I have to stop acting like a ghost haunting this lounge. If I want Lily to survive, I have to help them build something new in these ruins.
The administrative building was relatively bright, thanks to the massive skylights in the lobby, but the main indoor training complex was a different story entirely.
The sprawling facility, designed for indoor drills and scrimmages felt eerie. The emergency backup lights cast distorted shadows across the green turf and the elevated viewing galleries used by coaches and press.
"We stick to pairs," Leah instructed, her voice low. She was standing at the front of the group, a flashlight in one hand and a baseball bat resting on her shoulder. "Keep your radios on channel three. Click twice if you find anything useful. Click three times if you encounter… a problem. Do not engage unless you absolutely have to."
The group consisted of six people Leah, Horan, Sonnett, Alexia, Miller, and you.
"Sonnett, you and Alexia take the East wing," Leah continued. "Check the secondary medical bays and the equipment storage near the loading docks. Horan, Miller, you take the West. Yn, you're with me. We're taking the executive offices and viewing suites on the upper level."
"Wait," Horan interjected, a familiar edge of suspicion returning to her voice as she looked at you. "She’s armed. She should be taking point on one of the darker levels, not the executive suites with you."
"The upper level has a complete overhead view of the entire indoor pitch and the surrounding access doors," Leah replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Yn has the best eye for spotting them. She’s with me."
Horan didn't look happy, but she didn't argue. "Fine. Let's move."
You checked the safety on your revolver and adjusted the strap of the empty bag slung across your chest. Lily was back in the lounge, under the watchful, protective eye of Alanna. You felt okay leaving her for a few hours.
You followed Leah to the stairwell, pushing open the fire doors. The climb to the executive level was silent. You stepped out into a hallway lined with plush carpet and framed photographs of tournament victories.
For the next hour, the two of you moved from one office to the next. You scavenged bottled water, sealed bags of snacks from the mini fridges, and even a few first-aid kits from the private bathrooms.
"It feels wrong," Leah said quietly, stuffing several bottles of sparkling water into her backpack. She was standing near thewindow of an office, looking out over the empty indoor field below. "Being up here. Taking this stuff."
"It's just stuff," you replied, grabbing a handful of protein bars. "The people who owned it aren't coming back for it."
Leah turned her head, looking at you thoughtfully. "You're very pragmatic. Not much room for sentimentality, is there?"
You paused, your hand hovering over a jar of mixed nuts. You thought of the dream about your father. *The past is a ghost.*
"Sentimentality gets you killed right now," you answered, shoving the jar into your bag. "You start crying over a framed photo, you don't hear the monster walking up behind you."
Leah moved away from the window, leaning against a mahogany desk.
"True," Leah agreed softly. "But if we strip away all the sentimentality... all the humanity... what exactly are we surviving for? If we're just surviving to breathe another day, without any connection, then we aren't really living. We're just existing. Like them."
You stopped packing. You looked at Leah, really looked at her. Beneath the tough exterior,there was a deep lingering sadness. She wasn't just managing the logistics of the camp,she was managing the emotional weight of many terrified women.
"You're carrying a lot," you said quietly. "You have to be the rock for all of them. It's okay if it feels heavy."
She looked up, meeting your eyes. The vulnerability in her gaze was startling.
"I know the feeling," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "When I found Lily... I didn't want to take her. I just wanted to run. Every time I look at her, I'm terrified I'm going to make the wrong choice and she's going to pay the price."
"But you didn't run," Leah pointed out gently. "You stayed. You protected her."
She moved slightly closer, the space between you shrinking.
"You aren't just existing, Yn," Leah said softly, her eyes locked on yours. "You have a good heart. Pragmatic, yes. But good."
The air in the quiet office suddenly felt different. You couldn't look away from her.
*Click. Click. Click.*
The sharp burst of static from Leah's radio shattered the moment like glass. Three clicks.
*Problem.*
Leah’s head snapped up, the vulnerability instantly vanishing. She grabbed her radio.
"Horan, Sonnett, report," Leah barked into the mic.
"Leah!" Sonnett’s voice cracked through the static, breathless and panicked. "We're in the East wing! Near the loading docks. The outer rolling door... it's breached! They're inside the complex!"
The words chilled you to the bone. They're inside.
Leah didn't hesitate. She grabbed her baseball bat. "Get to the stairwell. Now."
You were already moving, drawing your revolver. You followed Leah in a sprint down the hallway throwing the fire door open. You hit the bottom landing, bursting out into the indoor pitch.
"Sonnett, how many?" Leah demanded into the radio as you ran.
"I don't know!" Sonnett’s voice was strained, accompanied by the clattering of metal. "We're barricaded in an equipment cage. At least a dozen came through the loading bay! We're trapped!"
"Where's Horan and Miller?"
"West wing. They're too far to reach us without crossing the open."
"Hold your position," Leah ordered. "We're coming."
"The East wing is on the other side of the facility," Leah said, pointing across the green field.
"Then we run," you agreed.
You sprinted across. Your lungs burned, but you kept your eyes fixed on the wide double doors on the far side. Leah was right beside you, easily keeping pace.
As you neared the East wing doors, the sounds of the breach became clear.
The guttural, wet snarling echoed from the hallway, accompanied by the crashing of bodies throwing themselves against chain-link fencing.
You pushed through the double doors, raising your gun, Leah stepping slightly behind you with her bat raised. You peeked around the corner of the hallway.
The scene was pure chaos. About fifty yards down, a large chain-link equipment storage cage was built into the wall. Inside the cage, Sonnett and Alexia were pressing their weight against a heavy metal ball cart, trying to keep it wedged against the cage door.
Outside, a nightmare had unfolded.
There were at least fifteen infected swarming the cage. They were clawing frantically at the chain-link, their faces pressing through the holes, snapping blindly at the two women inside. The loading dock doors at the far end of the hall were hanging wide open, letting in the harsh afternoon sunlight. More shadows were moving in the doorway.
"There are too many," Leah breathed. "We can't fight fifteen of them hand to hand."
"We don't have to," you said, your mind racing.
Your eyes darted around the hallway. Above the infected, running along the ceiling, was a thick, exposed PVC pipe marked with red stripes. The fire suppression system.
"The sprinklers," you muttered. "If I can break the main valve pipe, the water pressure will blow. It'll create a massive distraction."
"The main valve is right above them. You can't reach it."
"I don't have to reach it," you said, raising the revolver.
You stepped fully out into the hallway.
The sound of your boots drew the attention of three infected at the back of the pack. They turned, letting out a garbled shriek, and charged.
"Yn!" Leah yelled, stepping forward to intercept.
"Get ready to run!" you yelled back.
You didn't aim at the approaching infected. You raised the gun, sighting down the barrel, aiming at the thick red striped pipe on the ceiling.
You took a breath, steadied your shaking hands, and pulled the trigger.
*BANG.*
The bullet tore through the PVC pipe. With a hiss, the pressurized water system ruptured.
A torrent of high-pressure water exploded from the ceiling. It hit the concrete floor with the force of a fire hose, spraying wildly in every direction. The sudden, deafening roar of the rushing water and the blinding spray instantly disoriented the infected.
The ones charging you slipped on the wet concrete. The ones clawing at the cage were blasted backward, screeching in confusion.
"Sonnett! Now!" Leah roared over the rushing water.
Inside the cage, Sonnett and Alexia shoved the cart aside, threw the latch, and scrambled out into the flooded hallway.
"This way!" you yelled, firing a second shot. You hit the closest infected squarely in the chest, knocking it backward into the rushing water.
Sonnett and Alexia didn't hesitate. They sprinted toward you and Leah, slipping slightly on the wet floor but keeping their footing.
"Back to the turf! Move!" Leah commanded.
The four of you bolted back through the double doors, exploding out onto the indoor pitch just as Horan and Miller emerged from the West wing, guns drawn.
"We're clear!" Leah yelled across the field. "The East wing is breached! Fall back to the dorms! Now!"
You didn't stop running until you hit the stairwell leading to the secure dormitory wing. You slammed the heavy fire door shut behind you, Miller quickly throwing the deadbolt.
You collapsed against the wall, gasping for air, your gun hand shaking. Sonnett was bent down coughing. Alexia was leaning against Horan, her eyes wide with shock.
Leah stepped over to you. She was breathing heavily, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat and spray. She looked at you, a grin breaking across her face.
"Pragmatic," Leah panted. "You just shot a water pipe."
"It worked, didn't it?" you rasped.
"It worked," Leah agreed. She reached out, her hand resting firmly on your shoulder. "You saved them."
You looked at Leah then over at Sonnett and Alexia.
"Well," you wheezed, wiping water from your cheek. "This would probably be the wrong time to tell you that I've never actually shot a gun before today."
Sonnett slowly stood up straight, her jaw dropping. Horan’s eyes widened, and Miller let out a low, disbelieving whistle.
Leah stared at you, her hand slowly dropping from your shoulder. "You're joking."
"I wish I was," you muttered. "My dad showed me how to load it when I was a teenager. That’s it. I've never fired a live round in my life."
"You shot a two inch PVC pipe from fifty feet away," Sonnett said, her voice a mix of awe and terror. "With a handgun. In the dark. While running."
"I aimed at the ceiling and got lucky," you admitted, sliding down the wall until you were sitting on the concrete stairs.
"Fuck," Horan breathed, running a hand through her hair. "You're insane."
"Or a natural," Miller chimed in, offering a grim smirk. "But we can't rely on luck. We need to secure the interior doors."
"We will," Leah said. "Horan, get the rest of the squad and reinforce the doors leading to the dorms."
Leah turned back to you, offering her hand. "Come on. Let's get back to the lounge. You need to check on Lily."
———
When you pushed open the doors to the player lounge, the relief was palpable.
Lily was exactly where you left her, coloring in a notebook while Alanna sat nearby, casually tossing a tennis ball against the wall.
Lily looked up as the door opened, her eyes finding you. She scrambled to her feet. "Yn!" she called out, running over and wrapping her arms tightly around your waist.
You dropped to your knees hugging her tight.
"Everything alright?" Alanna asked, catching the tennis ball and standing up, her protective demeanor returning.
"The East wing is breached," Leah said quietly. "We got the interior doors locked, but they're inside the complex."
"Right. I'll let the Matildas know to double the watch."
You took Lily's hand and moved to a quieter corner of the lounge, sinking down onto a sofa. Lily curled up next to you drifting off. You closed your eyes, the adrenaline finally leaving your system.
"Here."
You opened your eyes. Emily Sonnett was standing there, the suspicion completely gone. She held out a small, unopened bottle of apple juice.
"Thought the kid might like it when she wakes up," Sonnett said quietly.
"Thank you," you said, taking it. Emily gestured to the sofa "Mind if I sit?"
Sonnett sat down, resting her elbows on her knees. "I was a jerk to you. When you first showed up. I was out of line."
"You were protecting your teammate," you replied softly. "I would have done the exact same thing."
"Maybe," Sonnett conceded. She looked at you directly. "But you didn't have to shoot that pipe today. You could have run. You stayed, and you risked yourself for me and Alexia."
"I got lucky."
"Luck doesn't make you stand your ground," Sonnett countered quietly. "Guts does. I don't know you, Yn. But I trust you. If you need someone to watch your back... you've got me."
"Thanks, Sonnett," you whispered.
Sonnett was called away a moment later by Naomi Girma to help with cots. You watched her go, then gently woke Lily up enough to give her the apple juice, which she drank with a sleepy smile.
The lounge settled into a quiet hum of activity as evening approached. You remained in your corner, limbs heavy with exhaustion.
"Excuse me."
The voice was quiet, accented, and smooth. Standing near the edge of the rug was Alexia, now wearing a clean, dark tracksuit.
"Hi," you said, sitting up.
"I did not have the chance to thank you," Alexia said softly, stepping closer. "In the indoor facility. Things were very...."
"You don't need to thank me," you replied.
Alexia shook her head. "No. It is important. You are not part of our team, yet you put yourself in danger for us."
She glanced at the hunting knife at your belt, then at Lily. "You are very capable. But you are also very tired. I can see it."
"Is it that obvious?" you huffed a laugh.
"To someone who knows what it looks like to carry a heavy burden, yes," Alexia answered gently. She gestured to the floor near your sofa. "May I?"
You nodded. Alexia sat down gracefully. She didn't press for conversation, simply offering a quiet presence.
"How is Sophia?" you asked eventually.
"She is resting," Alexia replied, eyes softening. "The doctor gave her antibiotics. She will recover. Your quick actions saved her leg."
"I just did what I could," you murmured, looking away.
"You do not accept praise easily," Alexia observed with a hint of amusement.
"Praise implies I did something heroic. I'm just trying to keep her alive." You nodded toward Lily.
"Sometimes," Alexia said softly, leaning forward slightly, "the most heroic thing a person can do is simply refuse to let the darkness win. You are keeping her light alive. That is enough."
The words struck a chord, echoing the dream of your father.
"Thank you," you whispered.
Alexia smiled, a warm expression reaching her eyes. "You are welcome, Yn. If you ever need a quiet place to sit, or someone to watch the little one while you rest... you know where to find me."
She gracefully stood up and returned to the Spanish squad. You watched her go, a strange peace settling over you.
The training complex was surrounded, the outer perimeter was breached, and the future was entirely uncertain. But as you looked around the room at Sonnett, at Leah, at Alexia you realized something.
AN- sorry tried my best but not the biggest fan of this one. The rest of the pr disasters are under Leah's Masterlist
Arsenal PR Manager Sarah generally had two rules for putting you on live radio no live callers, and a strictly enforced seven second delay button.
Unfortunately, the host of the morning sports talk show had just bypassed both of those safety nets.
You and Leah were sitting in the studio. The interview had been going relatively smoothly until the host a washed up, middle aged former player named Donny decided to change the conversation.
"Look, the women's game has come on leaps and bounds, credit where it's due," Donny said, leaning into his mic with a condescending patronizing smirk. "But you've got to admit, the physical differences are still there. The pace, the power. Honestly, no offense girls, but even at my age, I reckon if I strapped my boots on, I could still put two or three past your keeper in the WSL."
Leah took a deep breath.
"Well, Donny the demands of our league are actually incredibly high—" Leah started.
"Donny, mate," you interrupted, leaning casually toward your microphone.
Leah immediately tensed. On the other side of the glass, Sarah stopped breathing.
"Donny," you repeated, your voice completely flat, radiating withunbothered confidence. "You are forty seven years old and you’re shaped like a scotch egg."
Donny’s condescending smirk instantly vanished. "Now, hang on a minute—"
"I watched you audibly wheeze when you had to bend over to pick up your pen ten minutes ago," you continued, entirely ignoring his protest. "Your knees sound like packing peanuts when you walk. Our keeper wouldn't even need to dive to save your shot. She’d just stand there and watch your hamstrings spontaneously detonate on the run up."
Leah pressed her lips tightly together, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. She was staring at the desk, actively fighting the most unprofessional, desperate urge to burst into hysterical laughter.
"I played ten years in the Championship!" Donny argued defensively.
"Yeah, in 2008," you countered cheerfully. "Donny, if our centre-back shoulder barged you on a Tuesday morning, you would literally wake up in an ambulance on Thursday afternoon. But please, if you think you’ve still got the pace, Training is open tomorrow at 10 AM. Bring your boots. I'll even ask the medical team to keep the defibrillator on standby for you."
Leah’s shoulders were visibly shaking. She had entirely abandoned the diplomacy and was just hiding her face in her hands, her face buried against your shoulder as she silently lost her mind.
On the other side of the glass, Sarah didn't wave her arms to cut the feed.
For the first time in her entire career, the PR manager simply stood there, took a slow sip of her coffee and smiled.
Summary: You had an epic, romantic plan to surprise Alexia after her game. What you didn’t plan was ending up in first aid. Something Alexia doesn’t know… yet.
Word count: 12,902
Pairing: Alexia x Reader
Warnings: angst, comfort
For main story: MASTERLIST
A/n: this is based on this request. Thank you for requesting, I really enjoyed writing this, we get overprotective Alexia but this time she’s serious. I did change a few details, but I hope you still enjoy 😊 see end for more notes
———————————————————————————————————————
As you sat down in your seat at the Johan, a proud smile kept tugging at the corners of your mouth. Not only because you were there to watch Alexia, even though you’re obviously proud of her, but because you’d made it all by yourself.
Admittedly, that makes you sound a little dependent, and a maybe little silly. People do things like this on their own all the time. But you’re not most people. You have your little quirks. And attending football games was still a little bit of a novelty for you. Every one you’d been to before has been with Maria, and the one in London had been with your family.
But this was your first one completely by yourself. And you did everything, you bought the ticket, navigated the website without accidentally purchasing something ridiculous, caught both buses, found the right entrance amongst the sea of blaugrana shirts. Even treated yourself to a box of popcorn from the kiosk.
Well… the original plan had been popcorn. Somehow you ended up with popcorn and a stuffed mascot.
You absolutely did not need the Cat Culer plush. Yet five minutes after entering the club shop, you were handing over money for one. In your defence, it was cute. Honestly, you’re not sure how it’s taken this long to get one. Because, objectively speaking, it is very, very cute.
And now you were here. Sitting in your seat. Proudly sporting your Alexia shirt. Looking out across the pitch as the stadium slowly filled around you.
All in aid of surprising Alexia.
And you’re pretty sure she will be surprised.
She thinks you’re watching from home, probably perched on the sofa with some beans on toast balanced on your lap. It’s only a little lie. And it’ll be worth it when she sees you.
You’ve got it all figured out. You’ve already taken a bunch of selfies on the bus, standing outside the stadium, sitting in your seat. You’re going to text them all to her during the game because you know she won’t see them until afterwards. Then, once the match is over, you’re going to head over to the barrier where everyone gathers for signatures and photos and hold up your sign.
Yes, you actually made a sign. Well, ‘made’ might be a bit ambitious.
It’s two sides of a cereal box taped together with a sharpie message and heart that looks wildly underwhelming. Your first mistake was deciding to make a sign despite possessing absolutely no craft supplies. Your second was skipping pencil and going straight in with a permanent marker. Your third was having the idea twenty minutes before leaving your apartment.
Still. It’s the thought that counts, right?
You know she’ll love it. And the surprise.
She’ll be proud of you. And you’re proud of yourself.
You might be a grown-ass woman, but these things still didn’t come naturally to you. So for you, this was kind of a big deal. You’d navigated the buses, the crowds, the ticket scanners, and somehow ended up exactly where you were supposed to be.
You can’t wait to see her face.
The stands were starting to fill up around you, the energy building with every passing minute. If there’s one thing you’ve noticed, it’s that it seems a lot busier today. Apparently this match isn’t important as such, they’ve already won the league. It’s more about enjoyment now, and about Barcelona doing what it does best.
Winning.
Still, it’s nice to see so many people here supporting. The sea of shirts stretched in every direction. Now that you knew the girls a little better, you could actually pick out the names. Lots of Mapi. Lots of Aitana. Lots of Patri.
But, of course, the overwhelming majority are Alexia. That part never fails to make you smile. You know she’s loved, you realised that a long time ago. Every time another child hurried past in her shirt, every time you spotted her name stretched across someone’s shoulders, your gaze lingered for a second longer. And seeing it in person, being surrounded by it, makes your heart feel fit to burst.
Sometimes you wonder if she truly realises the impact she has on people. It must be a little overwhelming, but she never shows it. Always calm. Always composed. You know it means the world to her, though. When she tells you about the kids who scream her name, the people who make the journey every game, every poster or shirt. Every person who showed up because they wanted to watch her play. Sometimes you think she doesn’t quite know what to do with all of the love, but she shows up anyway. Doing what she does best.
And now you’re sat here amongst it all, surrounded by thousands of people who adore her just as much as you do, waiting for the match to start. You’re just hoping everyone make it’s through unscathed. And that you don’t start feeling sick from the nerves. That was one thing you’ve yet to conquer.
The perils of being in a relationship with a world-class, world-famous professional footballer you suppose.
———————————
It’s not long until the energy shifts. The conversations around you start to die away, replaced by anticipation. People rise from their seats one by one until you’re standing too, craning your neck towards the tunnel. Then the players start walking out. A roar sweeps around the Johan. Enough to give you goosebumps.
And there she is.
Same as always.
Leading the team out. Captain’s armband wrapped around her sleeve. Calm, composed, completely unbothered by the thousands of people chanting her name. A smile immediately spreads across your face. You’re not sure how long you stare at her. Not that it matters. You’re completely mesmerised. You still get butterflies when you remember she’s yours.
It’s ridiculous really. You’ve been together long enough that it should have worn off by now. It hasn’t.
You can’t wait to give her the biggest hug after the match. Tell her how proud you are. Maybe even sneak a kiss on the cheek if you’re subtle enough. Not that you’re exactly hiding. People have seen you together before. Holding hands, sitting too close, looking at each other in ways that probably aren’t very subtle at all.
But as far as you know, nobody has officially put the pieces together. At least, nobody has told you otherwise.
Still.
You’re not about to plant one on her in front of thousands of fans. That might give the game away. The thought makes you grin. You can’t wait. It’s going to be a brilliant match, and an even better surprise.
And it’s that thought that stays with you as the referee raises the whistle to their lips, a sharp blast cutting through the stadium.
Game on.
———————————
The match flies by. So much so, you’re convinced you missed half of it, even though you haven’t left your seat. Somewhere along the way Barcelona score. Then score again. Then another. One you definitely missed because you were too busy putting popcorn in your mouth.
About thirty minutes in, you forgot who they were playing. The big screen in the corner informed you it was Levante, and because you didn’t do any research beforehand, you don’t know if this team is good. You always remember what Maria says though, even if Barcelona are better, no win is guaranteed. Turns out you didn’t really need to worry because they were already 3 nil up.
You spend the rest of the game alternating between cheering and worrying about someone kicking Alexia in the shins. Which, as it turns out, is a surprisingly exhausting way to spend an evening. As the final whistle blows, you immediately leap back on your feet cheering all over again. Barcelona win. Alexia is the best player in the world. And you survived your first solo match. A success all around.
You spend a moment applauding with everyone else, watching the players make their way around the pitch. Somewhere down there is Alexia, shaking hands, hugging teammates, probably already thinking about training tomorrow despite the fact they’ve won. Your smile grows.
You can’t wait to see her.
You have your sign tucked under your arm as you gather your things. Phone in pocket, bag on shoulder. Everything accounted for. Including Cat Culer.
Obviously.
Actually, best put him in your bag. Keep him nice and safe.
You follow the flow of people heading towards the exits before breaking off towards the section where fans usually gather after the match. The crowd is thicker here. Louder. Not unpleasantly so, just busy. Enough to make you a little more aware of your surroundings. You shuffle forward with everyone else, squeezed between a family wearing matching Barcelona shirts and two teenagers loudly debating who deserved player of the match. You contemplate suggesting it’s Alexia.
Obviously.
The flow of people slows. Stops. Then starts again. Lots of shuffling, some shoulders brushing, the usual when lots of people are trying to get to the same place at the same time. You find yourself near a small staircase leading down towards one of the barriers. Almost there.
Your fingers tighten around the cardboard sign. You can already picture Alexia’s face. The confusion. The surprise. The inevitable eye-roll when she sees what you’ve made your sign out of. But it will be worth it. Completely worth it.
A cheer suddenly erupts somewhere ahead. You glance up. A group of players have appeared in the distance. Not close enough to make out faces, but apparently close enough for everyone else to get excited for. You glance ahead at the barriers, looking for the perfect spot to stand…
The crowd shifts. Nothing dramatic. Just a collective step forward. You take one too. Then another. Someone brushes past your shoulder. Harder than they mean to. You stumble sideways.
“Ho sento!” Sorry.
The apology itself disappears into the noise. You try to steady yourself, but then someone else moves around you. Your foot lands half on the step and half off it.
For one ridiculous second, a single thought crosses your mind.
Oh. That’s not ideal.
Then the ground disappears. The world tilts violently. You reach for the handrail and miss. Your shoulder clips metal.
Your knee hits concrete.
Then—
Crack.
Something catches the side of your head. Pain explodes across your temple.
Ow.
The sign slips from your fingers, sliding across the concrete. A split second later your bag follows.
For a moment you stay exactly where you are. The stadium noise continues around you. People talking, laughing, shouting player’s names. Some walk past. Some stop, bending down towards you while speaking in rapid Spanish.
Yet somehow, it all sounds strangely far away.
You blink. Once. Twice.
“Senorita?”
A steward, complete in a high-vis jacket, appears in front of you.
“Estas bien?” Are you okay.
You immediately attempt your best impression of a person who hasn’t just fallen down a staircase.
“I’m okay,” you say, already trying to lift yourself.
The steward’s expression suggests he doesn’t believe you, which to be fair, you aren’t entirely convinced either.
“Inglesa?” English.
You blink at him, not because you’re trying to be rude, but because you’re still processing. So you nod, hoping that will somehow help.
“Can you stand?” He reaches his arms out, ready to help you.
“Yep.”
You push yourself upright, and instantly regret it. The world gives an unpleasant little wobble. Your stomach follows suit. The steward catches your elbow before you can argue with gravity a second time.
“Easy now, I’ve got you,” he says.
“I really am fine,” you manage.
“I’m sure.” His tone suggests otherwise. “Let’s get you checked out just in case.”
You furrow your brows but immediately regret it, a sharp pulse of pain shoots through your temple.
“Checked out?”
“Sí.” He gestures vaguely towards the concourse. “First aid.”
“Oh, no. I’m fine, really—”
The world gives another unpleasant wobble. You stop talking.
You lift a hand to your head, trying to pinpoint exactly where it hurts. Your fingers come away red.
You stare at them.
“Oh.”
The steward gives a small nod. “Sí. First aid.”
You finally relent, allowing him to help you stand. It’s a little blurry once you’re upright, the stadium tilting unpleasantly for a second before settling back into place. A few blinks help.
A little.
Some people are staring. Others are completely oblivious, focusing on getting players’ attention as they call names and wave shirts over their heads.
A security guard quickly approaches, a concerned look on his face.
“Está todo bien?” Is everything okay.
The steward answers before you can, speaking quickly in Spanish. The two exchange a few words before nodding in agreement. The security guard bends to pick up your bag.
“Gracias,” you murmur.
He offers a small smile.
The steward keeps a steady hand on your elbow. “Slowly.”
You nod, and together they begin guiding you away from the crowd.
You make it three steps.
“Wait.”
The two men pause. You glance backwards.
“My sign,” you say, a little sheepishly.
The cardboard is still lying where it landed.
The steward follows your gaze. Then looks back at you. For a moment, he appears genuinely confused. Probably thinking all the things to be worried about.
“I need it,” you explain weakly.
The security guard and steward exchange a look. Then, without a word, the security guard walks back and retrieves it.
Carefully. As though it might somehow be important. It’s not, but at the same time… it is.
You take it from him.
“Gracias,” you murmur, with a small smile.
This time the corner of his mouth twitches. The steward gently steers you forward again and the three of you head towards a different exit, away from the crowds gathering by the barrier. You glance back over your shoulder. Fans still cheering. Still waiting. Still hoping for signatures and photos.
Probably waiting for Alexia.
Just as you planned to do.
———————————
You soon find yourself being gently escorted into a blindingly white room, the brightness enough to make you squint. You glance around. A green medical sign. Chairs lining walls. Staff moving in and out in that quiet, efficient way the staff here always seem to do. There’s a little boy clutching a sick bowl with both parents hovering anxiously beside him. A woman holding tissues to her nose. A teenager with a suspiciously bent finger trying very hard not to look at it.
The steward guides you towards a chair in one of the medical bays, where a young woman with her hair in neat pigtails and yellow eyeshadow sits on a spinning stool waiting.
She smiles immediately.
“Hola, soy Noa. ¿Cómo te llamas?”
You blink, still trying to catch up with the fact you are now in a first aid room at a football stadium.
“Erm… I’m Y/n.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re… English?”
You nod.
Her expression softens. “Hello, Y/n.”
Her gaze flicks to your eyebrow, then down across you properly. The friendliness doesn’t leave her face, but something more focused settles in behind it.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
You hesitate. “Erm… I fell.”
“She fell down the stairs,” the steward adds from behind you. You glance sideways at him.
Noa’s eyebrows lift again. “Oh.”
Her eyes scan you once more. “Well. I can see your eyebrow is cut, and your knee.” She nods gently towards you. “Does it hurt anywhere else?”
You look down properly for the first time and immediately notice the graze on your knee.
Oh. Maybe shorts weren’t a such a good idea.
“Well… I hit my shoulder but I think I’m fine—”
You start to push yourself up, but Noa is already moving.
“Ah—no, no.”
The steward steps in at the same time, steadying you lightly.
“You’re not going anywhere just yet,” she says, still calm but firmer now. “We need to check you for concussion.”
You pause.
“… Concussion?”
She nods. “Just to be safe.”
You exhale through your nose.
“Really, I appreciate it but it’s just a cut. I should probably just—”
“You’re not going anywhere,” she repeats, softer this time, but final.
You swallow the argument.
She turns slightly to the steward. “Can you get an accident report for me?”
He nods and heads off without question.
The security guard speaks briefly into his radio before offering you a small reassuring smile and stepping out after him.
You watch them go.
“What did he say?” you ask.
“He just informed the security team that you’re safe with us.”
You look back at her. “But it’s just a cut.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
“Madam, with all due respect, you fell down the stairs.”
A pause.
“It’s our duty to look after everyone properly.”
You hesitate, then nod slowly. You can’t really argue with that.
The steward returns with a clipboard and hands it to Noa. She thanks him, setting it aside.
He offers you a small smile at you.
“Gracias,” you murmur. “For helping. Sorry if I was… weird.”
He shakes his head. “De nada.”
He flashes you and Noa one last smile before heading out of the room.
Noa pulls on a pair of gloves and starts laying out supplies beside her.
“Let’s clean this one up first,” she says, gesturing to your knee. “It might be cold.”
You nod, watching as she wets a piece of gauze. The moment it touches your knee, you flinch.
“Sorry,” she says immediately. “I know. Cold.”
She switches to the antiseptic spray next. Before you can brace yourself, it burns. You hiss through your teeth and pull back automatically, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.
“Sorry,” Noa repeats, gentler now. “But we need to keep it clean, sí?”
You nod, jaw tight, dragging your knee back into place. She works quickly, but every wipe still sends a sharp sting through your leg. Not unbearable. Just… irritating in a very personal way. You squint without meaning to, which immediately makes your eyebrow throb again.
“So,” Noa says suddenly, deliberately lightening her tone, “did you enjoy the match?”
It takes you a second to process the question. She’s clearly trying to distract you.
You give a small nod. “Yeah. It was really good.”
She hums, dabbing at the cut with a fresh piece of gauze.
“Have you been a supporter for long?”
“Erm… a while.”
Another careful wipe.
“Who’s your favourite player?”
You hesitate. A faint heat rises to your cheeks.
“… Alexia.”
Noa’s mouth twitches. The answer doesn’t seem to surprise her.
“Are you here by yourself?”
You nod again, fingers tightening around the edge of the chair.
“Do you want us to call someone for you?”
That lands differently. Your mind flickers through the possibilities.
You can’t exactly call Alexia. How would you even explain this? You could call Maria, but it hardly seems fair to drag her halfway across the city for a grazed knee and a bruised ego. No. You got yourself into this mess.
You shake your head.
“I’m fine.”
Noa studies you for a moment but doesn’t push. Instead, she just finishes cleaning the scrape and opens a plaster packet.
“Alright.”
She carefully smooths the large plaster over your knee before sitting back to inspect her work.
“There,” she says softly. “How about we take a break, then we’ll look at your head?”
You nod, oddly grateful for the reprieve. That one you’re pretty sure is going to hurt more.
Noa shifts back on her stool, giving you a moment to breathe. Then her gaze drops to your bag. Something poking out of the top catches her eye.
The Cat Culer plush.
She reaches for it. “Is this yours?”
Heat immediately creeps up your neck. You hesitate before giving a small nod.
Noa’s smile softens. “Cute.”
She gently places him in your hands.
“You look like you could use a friend.”
A short laugh escapes you. “Yeah probably.”
You take him immediately, clutching him against your chest without really thinking about it. For a moment, the absurdity of the day catches up with you. Sneaking around, making a sign, buying toys, ending up in first aid. The weight of it settles over you.
Then eases. Just a little.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
And for the first time since you fell, you let yourself sink back into the chair.
Noa is still watching you, not in a clinical way anymore, more like she can see you’re hurting and doesn’t want to make it worse.
“Sorry,” you say quietly. “I know you’re just trying to help.”
She offers a reassuring smile.
“It’s okay. Have you been here before?”
You nod. “Only with friends. This is my first time on my own.”
“Yeah?”
You nod again, picking absentmindedly at one of Cat Culer’s ears. And for some reason you keep talking. Maybe because she’s listening. Maybe because it’s easier than sitting with your thoughts.
“I just wanted to surprise my girlfriend,” you admit. “I had this whole plan and then—”
You gesture vaguely to yourself.
“—this.”
Noa’s expression softens. “Is she here?”
You nod.
“Does she know this has happened?”
Your grip tightens around Cat Culer. You hesitate before shaking your head.
Noa’s eyebrows lift slightly.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to call her?”
“No!” The answer comes far too quickly.
Noa pauses. You immediately wince.
“Sorry.” You look down at the plush in your lap. “It’s just… she’ll worry.”
Noa studies you for a moment, her head tilting slightly. Like she understands more than she’s saying.
Then she lets it go. “Okay.”
You release a small breath.
You don’t notice the change at first. The way Noa’s attention shifts past your shoulder. The brief glance toward the doorway. The fact someone has entered the room.
Then—
“…Y/n?”
Your stomach drops. You look up.
“Luis?”
He stands in the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame. His gaze moves over you in a single sweep. He steps in a little further, though his expression doesn’t change.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say immediately.
Too immediately.
One of his eyebrows lifts. His eyes flick to your knee. Then your head. Then the Cat Culer clutched against your chest. Then back to you.
“You are sitting in first aid.”
Heat floods your face.
“It’s… nothing,” you insist weakly.
Luis says nothing. Just keeps looking at you. You can practically see the pieces clicking into place.
“Does Al—”
“No.”
The word cuts across him before he can finish. The room falls quiet. You see it register instantly. The way his expression shifts by a fraction.
You swallow.
“I mean— it’s fine. Really.”
Luis continues staring at you for another second. Then exhales through his nose. Slowly. Like he’s already made a decision.
Without another word, he turns and heads for the door.
“Luis, wait—!”
The door swings shut behind him. Silence rushes in to fill the space as you stare at the closed door. Very still. Very, very, still.
Because you know exactly where he’s going. And you know exactly who he’s going to tell.
———Alexia————
Alexia smiles for photos, signs shirts, tries to get to as many people as possible. The crowd is thick, voices overlapping as names are called from every direction. Around her, the rest of the team linger too, stopping for selfies and autographs. Eventually she steps away for a moment, wiping her forehead. She loves this part. The match is over. Barcelona have won. Everyone is happy.
These people wait for hours, travel for miles, just to catch a glimpse of the team. The least she can do is spend a few minutes with them afterwards.
She glances up and spots Luis walking towards her.
Immediately she smiles.
“Luis.”
“Ms Putellas.”
Her smile falters. His expression is neutral as always, but something in his voice makes her straighten slightly.
“Is everything okay?” Alexia asks.
Luis glances around before stepping a little closer.
“It’s Y/n.”
Her brows draw together immediately. “Y/n?”
He nods. “She’s in first aid.”
For a second, she just stares at him.
“Qué?”
“Y/n,” he repeats carefully. “She’s in first aid.”
Alexia blinks. Once. Then again.
“First aid?”
Luis nods.
“I was just walking down the corridor and happened to glance through the window. I saw her sitting there.”
Alexia let’s out a short confused laugh.
“But…” She shakes her head. “She’s at home.”
Luis says nothing. Just watches her.
The smile has completely disappeared from her face now.
“But she’s—”
The words die in her throat. Slowly, the confusion begins to unravel.
“My Y/n?”
The question sounds ridiculous the moment it leaves her mouth.
Luis nods anyway.
And suddenly nothing makes sense.
Y/n is supposed to be at home. Curled up on the sofa. Watching the match. Probably sending Alexia messages she won’t see until later.
Not here. Not at the stadium. Not in first aid.
Alexia’s heart starts to beat a little faster.
She’s here?
The thought catches and refuses to move.
She never said she was coming. Never mentioned tickets. Never mentioned travelling.
Nothing.
A horrible feeling begins to settle in her chest.
Heavy. Cold.
Because if Y/n is here…
And she’s in first aid…
Then she’s hurt.
Around her, the celebrations continue. Someone laughs. Someone shouts. Music echoes from somewhere near the tunnel. It all fades into background noise.
“She’s here?” Alexia asks again, quieter this time.
Luis nods.
That’s all it takes. She doesn’t wait for anything else, doesn’t ask another question, doesn’t stop to think.
Alexia is already moving before she fully realises it, her pulse pounding. She turns and heads for the tunnel at a near run, disappearing into the stadium.
———You————
You stare at door Luis just disappeared through. For a moment, the room feels completely silent.
Then your stomach drops.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
Noa glances back at you. “You know Luis?” she asks, sounding surprised.
“No. Well… yes. Kind of…”
That isn’t helping. You scrub a hand over your face, panic beginning to creep in now, slow and unavoidable. Luis is going to tell Alexia. You’d bet your life on it.
Your head snaps back toward Noa.
“Am I finished now?”
Noa blinks. “What?”
“Can I go?”
Her eyebrows rise. “We still need to clean your eyebrow. And I need to finish the accident report.”
You stare at her. Then at the door. Then back at her. Your good leg starts bouncing.
Think. Think. Think.
An idea occurs to you. It’s a terrible idea. Probably the worst idea you’ve ever had. Worse than hiding the flu.
“Can you hide me?”
Noa freezes. “Hide you?”
You nod immediately.
“Just for like, ten minutes.”
Her confusion deepens.
“Y/n, is everything okay?”
“Yes… Well, no,” you manage, clutching Cat Culer tighter. “He’s going to tell my girlfriend. And she absolutely cannot know about this.”
Realisation flickers across Noa’s face. “Ah.”
She glances at your plaster. Then your head. Then back at you.
“I’m not sure that’s going to be possible.
You groan. That was exactly the answer you were expecting. You sink lower into the chair.
“Worth a try.”
For a moment, Noa just watches you. Then her expression softens.
“Are you afraid of her?”
Your eyes widen so fast it almost hurts.
“What? No!”
“No?”
“No!” You sit up immediately. “It’s nothing like that.”
The denial comes so quickly that it nearly trips over itself. You clutch the Cat Culer against your chest again.
“She’s lovely.”
Noa studies you for a beat. As if comparing your words to the panic she’d witnessed over the last five minutes.
“Then what is the problem?”
You let out a long sigh.
“The problem,” you say miserably, “is that she’s going to worry.”
The words hang in the air for a second. Noa blinks. Then understanding finally settles across her face. A gentle smile tugs at her lips.
“Hey.” She places a hand on your good shoulder.
You look up.
“Your girlfriend is probably going to find out eventually, sí?”
A laugh escapes you. Half amused. Half defeated. You let your head fall back against the chair.
“Unfortunately.”
The corner of Noa’s mouth twitches. Something tells you she’s finding this far more entertaining than she should.
“Then maybe we stop trying to hide from her.”
You stare at the ceiling. For a long moment, you seriously consider your options.
There aren’t any.
“Fine.” The word sounds far more like surrender than agreement.
Noa pats your shoulder.
“Good.”
You sink lower into the chair, defeat settling over you like a blanket. Alexia is absolutely going to find out. And just as the thought crosses your mind, the door swings open.
Actually swings open.
The sound makes both you and Noa look up. Your stomach drops instantly.
Oh no.
There she is. Still in her kit. Still flushed from the match. The captains armband wrapped around her arm. Mud staining her boots. A few loose strands of hair escaping her ponytail. Like she’d come straight from the pitch without stopping for a second.
For a moment, she just stands in the doorway. Staring. You stare right back. Neither of you says a word. Confusion flashes across her face. Then concern. Then something dangerously close to panic.
Heat immediately rushes to your cheeks.
Oh.
This is much worse than you imagined.
Alexia shakes her head once, as if trying to make sense of what she’s seeing, then crosses the room in a handful of quick strides. Her boots click sharply against the floor before she drops to her knees in front of you.
One hand reaches for you automatically before stopping halfway. Her eyes catch on the cut above your eyebrow. You see the exact moment she sees it, the exact moment concern floods her expression. Then her gaze drops to the plaster on your knee, before coming back up to your face.
Her expression crumples.
“Amor.” The word leaves her in a breath, soft and shaky. “What happened?”
Around the room, everything seem to pause. Even Noa has gone completely still. You catch her staring openly between the two of you now, clearly trying to process what she’s witnessing.
You offer Alexia what you hope is a reassuring smile. “Baby, I’m okay.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Okay?” She gestures vaguely to your face. “You’re bleeding.”
Her gaze sweeps over you again.
“And what are you even doing here?” she asks. “I thought you were at home.”
You swallow.
Right. That.
You glance briefly at Noa before looking back at Alexia.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
Something in her expression softens instantly. The panic doesn’t disappear, but it makes room for something warmer.
“Surprise me?”
You nod. “Sí.” A small smile tugs at your mouth. “I had a whole plan.”
Alexia’s hand settles carefully on your thigh. Listening, waiting.
“I was going to wait by the barriers,” you continue. “Give you a hug. Tell you how proud I am.”
The smile grows for half a second. Then fades. You glance down at the Cat Culer in your lap.
“And then apparently I decided to end up in first aid.”
A laugh escapes you. Weak. A little embarrassed.
Alexia doesn’t laugh. Not even close.
“Amor.”
The concern is back immediately, stronger than before. Her hand finally reaches your face, but you see her hesitate before touching you. Like she’s afraid she’ll hurt you. Her thumb brushes gently across your cheek, and you lean into it before you can stop yourself, grateful she’s here. Even if you did want to hide five minutes ago.
Her touch is impossibly careful. The kind of care that makes your chest ache.
“What happened?” she asks again, softer this time.
You sigh. “I fell.”
Alexia blinks. “You fell.”
You nod. “Down some stairs.”
The silence that follows is immediate. Alexia stares at you. Then at Noa. Then back at you.
“Down stairs?”
You wince slightly. When she repeats it like that, it does sound worse.
“But I’m okay,” you rush to add. “Honestly. Everyone’s been really nice. They’ve looked after me.”
Noa gives a small nod from the side. As if confirming that yes, you’re alive. Alexia exhales sharply through her nose. The sort of exhale that means she’s trying very hard not to say several things at once.
“Amor.”
“It’s a graze,” you offer weakly.
She just stares at you, then gestures around the room.
“You are in first aid.”
You open your mouth, pause, then close it again.
Fair.
Alexia drags a hand across her forehead, the movement quick and tired. You can tell she isn’t frustrated with you, just overwhelmed. A few minutes ago she’d been celebrating a win. Now she’s walked into first aid and found her girlfriend covered in cuts and plasters. Not exactly the surprise you’d been planning.
You reach out and rest a hand on her shoulder. “I’m okay, Alexia.”
Her eyes lift to yours, and there it is. The worry. Raw and impossible to hide.
“You got hurt,” she says quietly.
The words land somewhere deep in your chest. Then something shifts in her expression, like a thought crosses her mind. Her posture stiffens.
“Did somebody do this to you?”
“No,” you insist, shaking your head. “It was an accident.”
Alexia doesn’t look convinced. Her gaze moves over you again, searching for something you’ve missed. Looking for holes in the story.
If it was anyone else, you might feel exposed under that scrutiny, but with Alexia, you just feel loved. And a little guilty for being the reason she’s looking at you like that.
“There were lots of people moving around,” you explain. “Someone bumped me. My foot slipped.”
You shrug. Then immediately regret shrugging because a sharp ache shoots through your shoulder.
“Ow.”
Alexia’s eyes arrow. You immediately continue.
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” you say. “Just… one of those things.”
She studies you for another moment, trying to decide whether she believes that. Then eventually she nods, a little reluctantly.
“You came on your own?”
You hesitate for a second. Then nod.
Alexia closes her eyes briefly. Not because she’s angry. Because she can already picture it.
The ticket. The buses. The crowds. Navigating all of it alone just to surprise her. When she opens them again, her gaze drops to your lap. The Cat Culer plush is still tucked firmly against your chest.
A small smile finally appears. The first real smile since she entered the room.
“What is this?”
You glance down, a small laugh escaping you.
“My emotional support buddy.”
The smile grows, just a little. And for the first time since walking in, some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
She reaches for your hand, carefully, like you’re made of glass, then lifts it to her lips, pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles.
Normally, the gesture would have your heart melting into a puddle. To be fair, it still does, but you’re also very aware of the fact that half the room is pretending not to watch.
And failing miserably.
Except Noa. Noa isn’t pretending at all. She clears her throat lightly.
“How about we clean up that eyebrow, sí?” she asks gently.
You swallow. Right, this part. You already know it’s going to hurt.
Alexia is still holding your hand when you glance towards her. The moment she sees the look on your face, she understands, and without a word, she rises from her knees and crosses the room. You watch her drag a chair over and place it directly beside you before sitting down.
Immediately reaching for your hand again.
“I’m right here,” she says softly, fingers tightening around yours. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in your chest eases a little. You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite hide the worry written all over your face.
Alexia notices. Of course she does. Her thumb brushes across your knuckles.
“You’ll be okay.”
The words are meant to reassure you. Unfortunately, they also confirm that something unpleasant is about to happen. You let out a quiet groan. Alexia’s mouth twitches, just slightly.
Then you turn back towards Noa.
She offers an encouraging smile before reaching for fresh gauze. After wetting it, she gently lifts it towards your eyebrow, her other hand steadying your jaw. Probably because she’s learned by now that there’s a very real chance you’ll try to escape.
The touch is cool against your skin. Cold. Tender. Sore.
You squint as she carefully cleans around the cut. It stings, but not enough to be the scary part. Not yet.
Beside you, Alexia’s fingers remain intertwined with yours, her thumb tracing slow circles across your skin. Grounding you.
Your other arm is occupied by Cat Culer, who has somehow gone from impulse purchase to essential emotional support animal is less than three hours.
Noa finishes cleaning the area, then reaches for the antiseptic spray.
You immediately notice. So does Alexia. Noa glances at you. You glance at the spray. The spray glance at you.
Nobody wins.
You straighten slightly in your chair, trying your best to appear brave. Judging by Noa’s expression, you’re failing spectacularly. In fact, you probably look like a nervous child preparing for a vaccination.
You take a deep breath. Clutch Cat Culer. Close your eyes. And prepare for the worst.
Then Noa touches the cut.
The sting is immediate. Sharp enough to make you suck in a breath through your teeth.
Your grip tightens around Alexia’s hand as tears instantly gather behind your eyelids.
“Hey, hey, bebé,” Alexia murmurs. Her voice is low and steady beside you. “It’s okay.”
You nod, or at least attempt to.
Noa continues as gently as she can, but it still burns.
A tear slips free. Then another. You squeeze your eyes shut.
“That’s it,” Alexia murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”
Her hand shifts in yours, holding tighter. “Just a little longer, bebé.”
You can feel her leaning closer now, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours. As if she could somehow absorb some of the discomfort for you if she got near enough.
Unfortunately, science refuses to cooperate. The sting continues.
Then finally, mercifully, Noa pulls back. “All done.”
The relief is immediate. You open your eyes, blinking rapidly, trying to clear the lingering tears. Alexia reaches for your face before you can even think about it, her thumb brushing carefully across your cheek, catching the dampness there. You lean into the touch automatically.
Noa places a plaster over the cut with one final gentle touch before smiling as she peels off her gloves.
“I don’t think you’ve got a concussion,” Noa continues, “but because you hit your head I want you to take it easy tonight. If you feel worse, develop a severe headache, start vomiting, become unusually drowsy, or anything concerns you, you need medical attention.”
You nod with a shy smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
Noa laughs softly. “I’ll give you two a moment while I start the accident report.”
She wheels herself a little further down the counter, already reaching for the clipboard.
The room suddenly feels quieter. You sink back into the chair, every muscle in your body relaxing at once. You let out a long breath.
“Well,” you say, voice slightly hoarse. “This was not how I expected my day to go.”
A soft laugh escapes Alexia. “Me neither.”
You turn towards her and find her looking at you as like you’re the most precious thing in the room, which is probably more than you deserve right now.
God, you’re lucky.
Alexia is still holding your hand, her thumb brushing absent circles across your knuckles, like she’s reassuring herself you’re actually here.
“Surprise me, huh?”
A smile tugs at your mouth. You glance down at the Cat Culer still tucked against your chest.
“I thought it would be nice.”
“It was,” she says.
The answer comes immediately.
You blink.
Alexia’s gaze softens.
“Well, maybe not this part,” she adds, gently nudging your good knee. “But you.”
Your heart does an unfortunate little flip.
“Coming here for me.”
She lifts your hand and presses a kiss against your knuckles.
“That was nice.”
There’s so much affection in the words that it makes your chest ache. You look away first, because if you don’t, you’re fairly certain you’ll end up embarrassingly emotional in front of half the medical staff.
Alexia’s gaze drifts downward, something catching her eye beside your chair. Her brows furrow slightly.
“What’s this?”
Before you can answer, she bends down and picks it up. Your stomach immediately drops. Oh no. Not that.
She straightens with the sign in her hands. Heat rushes to your face so quickly it feels impossible. The cardboard is bent at the corners now. One side is creased. The tape on the back is beginning to peel away. It looks exactly like something assembled in a panic twenty minutes before leaving the house.
“You made a sign?” she asks, sounding genuinely astonished.
You groan.
“Yeah.” You sink lower in your chair. “I know it’s rubbish.”
Alexia’s head lifts immediately. “It isn’t rubbish.”
Your huff a laugh
“I rushed it.”
Alexia barely seems to hear you, her fingers tracing lightly across the edge of the cardboard. Carefully, like she’s handling something far more valuable than a homemade sign.
Then she reads the message.
“Good luck, Alexia.” A smile begins to form. “P.S. you’re still my favourite one.”
Her eyebrow lifts immediately.
“It’s our little joke,” you offer.
Her smile widens, before she laughs, soft and warm. The kind that always makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something. She looks back down at the sign.
“I love it,” she murmurs.
And somehow, you know she means it. Not because of the sign itself, but because of what it represents. Her gaze lifts from the cardboard and settles on you again. The oversized Barcelona shirt. The plaster on your knee. The plaster above your eyebrow. The Cat Culer plush tucked securely under your arm.
A flicker of emotion crosses her face, something tender and sad.
“I can’t believe you’re actually here.”
You smile softly.
“It was a great game. You played so well, Alexia,” you say, grin widening. “I almost choked on my popcorn cheering.”
That earns a proper laugh, the kind you’d been hoping for all day.
“Of course you did.”
She shakes her head, still smiling. The sound settles warmly in your chest as she reaches up and brushes her fingers softly across your cheek. The touch is familiar, grounding. Her hand lingers for a second longer than necessary.
Then she leans forward, her gaze lingering on yours for a heartbeat before she closes the distance between you. Her lips meet yours in a soft, tentative kiss, warm and gentle. For a moment, everything else seems to fade away, the noise around you, the thoughts crowding your mind, leaving only the quiet certainty of her touch.
When she starts to pull away, you find yourself following without thinking. Your hand lifts, fingers curling lightly around her wrist, reluctant to lose the moment. The kiss lingers in the space between you, leaving your heart beating a little faster as you meet her eyes again.
You hesitate, because you can see something has changed. It’s subtle, a slight tightness around her eyes. The way her gaze flickers briefly towards the plaster above your eyebrow before returning to yours. A thought she hasn’t voiced. Something she’s still carrying.
The feeling settles uneasily in your stomach.
Alexia exhales slowly before offering another smile, as though she’s trying to reassure both of you. Before either of you can say anything else, Noa turns back around with her clipboard.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ve filled in most of the report. I just need a signature here, and then you’re free to go.”
You take the pen, quickly scribbling your name, then hand it back.
“Gracias, Noa.” You hesitate. “And sorry for being… weird.”
Noa laughs softly. “Not at all. That’s what we’re here for.” She sets the clipboard aside. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Then she opens a drawer and pulls out a small stack of plasters.
“Take these. You’ll need to clean everything again and change the dressing before bed.”
“Gracias,” you say, taking them.
Before Noa can respond, Alexia extends a hand towards her.
“Sí. Gracias, Noa.”
Something in her tone makes Noa blink.
“For taking care of her.”
The words are simple. But they’re spoken with enough sincerity to make your chest squeeze.
Noa smiles and shakes her hand.
“It was no problem.”
“And the steward and security guard,” you add. “I should have asked their names. They were really kind.”
“Álvaro and Ramón,” Noa supplies.
Alexia nods with a smile. “I’ll make sure they know they’re appreciated too.”
Noa’s eyebrows rise slightly, clearly not expecting that.
Alexia turns back towards you.
“Stay here, okay?”
You nod.
“I’m going to get changed and then I’ll come straight back.”
Your expression softens.
“You don’t have to rush,” you tell her. “You can celebrate with the team.”
Alexia shakes her head immediately.
“No.” The answer is instant. Certain. “I want to be with you.”
Your chest tightens. The words shouldn’t affect you this much. They do anyway.
Her gaze flickers briefly towards your eyebrow again. Just for a second. That same unreadable look flashing across her face. Then it’s gone.
She leans forward and presses another quick kiss to your lips.
“I’ll be as quick as I can.”
You smile and watch her leave. The door closes behind her.
You stare after her for a moment. Something is bothering her, you know it is. You just don’t know what. And a small part of you worries it’s your fault.
When you finally turn back around, Noa is already smiling. A smile that quickly becomes a smirk.
“You know,” she says, “when you mentioned your girlfriend, I wasn’t expecting Alexia Putellas.”
A laugh escapes you.
“Yeah.” You glance back towards the door. “Still surprises me sometimes too.”
Noa’s expression softens. “It’s very obvious she cares about you.”
You don’t even have to think about the answer. “Yeah. I’m really lucky.”
Noa smiles. “I think she appreciated your surprise.”
Her gaze flick towards the sign. “Even if it didn’t go exactly to plan.”
You follow her gaze. The bent corners. The peeling tape. The badly drawn heart.
A small smile tugs at your lips.
“I hope so.”
But as your thoughts drift back to the look in Alexia’s eyes, the one that appeared every time she looked at your injuries—
You can’t shake the feeling that she’s carrying something heavier than relief.
———————————
The radio was on, but the ride home has settled into silence. Not uncomfortable silence, but not the easy kind either. The kind that lingered. The kind that seemed to stretch around everything neither of you had said.
When you’d left the stadium, Alexia had asked if you wanted to go back to yours or hers. You’d told her you didn’t mind.
Unfortunately, your answer had immediately been followed by a series of questions.
Did you have antiseptic cream? Spare plasters? Painkillers? Ice packs? Any medical supplies whatsoever?
The increasingly guilty expression on your face had apparently answered all of them. You weren’t exactly known for taking care of yourself.
Alexia hadn’t said a word after that. She’d just nodded once and steered you towards her car. Now she was driving through the Barcelona streets, one hand resting on the wheel while the other remained comfortably wrapped around yours. Comfortably for her, anyway. You were fairly certain she hadn’t let go since leaving first aid.
Not that you minded. You brush your thumb across her knuckles absent-mindedly. Trying to soothe her, or maybe yourself. At this point, you aren’t entirely sure.
Outside, the city slips past in streaks of light. Inside, the car feels strangely small. Alexia’s eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, but every now and then, her grip tightens slightly. Barely noticeable. The sort of thing most people wouldn’t even register.
You do. Because you’ve been noticing it all evening. The extra glances. The careful way she’d touched your face. The way her eyes kept drifting back to the plaster above your eyebrow. Like she was checking it was still there. Or maybe checking that you were.
Your gaze shifts towards her. The glow from the dashboard catches the side of her face. Softening some of the sharp edges. But not all of them. Because she still has that look. The same tension lingering around her eyes. The same set to her jaw.
She isn’t angry. At least, you don’t think she is. But she’s thinking. And whatever she’s thinking about, she hasn’t let it go.
You desperately want to ask what’s wrong. The question keeps rising to the surface. But every time, something stops you. A small part of you is afraid you wouldn’t like the answer.
Is she annoyed you hadn’t told her you were coming?
Annoyed you had travelled across the city by yourself?
That you’d gotten hurt?
Had you somehow managed to turn what was supposed to be a thoughtful surprise into a stressful evening?
“What do you want for dinner, amor?”
The question pulls you from your thoughts and you glance across at her, caught slightly off guard by the sudden change in subject.
“Hm?”
“Dinner.”
You blink.
Of all the things you expected her to say, that wasn’t one of them. You look down at your lap for a moment.
“I’m not really that hungry.”
Alexia’s eyes flick towards you briefly before returning to the road, but the look is enough for you to know that wasn’t the answer she wanted.
“Do you feel okay?” she asks, her grip tightening slightly around your hand. “Do you feel sick at all?”
You soften immediately. God, she’s still worried. You give her hand a small squeeze. “No. I feel fine. Just… tired.”
She considers that for a second. “Drowsy tired, or tired tired?”
Despite everything, a smile tugs at your lips. The concern is so painfully Alexia.
“Tired tired,” you reassure her. “It’s been a long day.”
She hums quietly, not sounding entirely convinced. You can practically see her running through Noa’s instructions in her head. Checking symptoms. Comparing answers. Looking for reasons to worry.
“Okay. But you’ll tell me if that changes?”
This time you smile properly, squeezing her hand again. “I will. I promise.”
Alexia exhales softly through her nose. The tension eases, only slightly.
“You still need to eat.”
The certainty in her voice makes you laugh. Just a little. It’s not a suggestion, or even a discussion. It’s a fact. You were injured. You were tired. Therefore, you were going to eat dinner. There are some battles that simply aren’t worth having.
Especially when Alexia has already decided she’s won.
———————————
Once you were back at her apartment, Alexia barely let you lift a finger. The moment you stepped through the door, she guided you straight towards the sofa and insisted you stay there while she made dinner. You weren’t allowed to lie down, though. When you’d tried, Alexia had immediately pointed out that there was a risk you might become drowsy and fall asleep before eating. Which, according to her, was completely unacceptable.
It almost made you smile.
Almost.
Because you knew she was only trying to take care of you, even if she was being slightly paranoid. The problem was you knew it wasn’t really about the food. Or the sofa. Or whether you were sitting upright. There was something else. Something she wasn’t saying.
Still, you didn’t ask. You let her do her thing. She clearly needed an outlet for all the nervous energy humming beneath the surface, which was honestly impressive considering she’d just played more than ninety minutes of professional football. Most people would have collapsed on the sofa by now. Alexia, however, seemed physically incapable of sitting still when she was worried.
She moved constantly. Tidying things that didn’t need tidying. Opening cupboards. Checking the pasta. Checking on you. Checking the pasta again.
Every so often she would glance over her shoulder. Quick little checks. As though reassuring herself you were still exactly where she’d left you. And every time she did, she had that look in her eyes.
Focused. Quiet.
The same look you’ve seen after difficult matches or when she’s rewatching footage she isn’t happy with. The look she gets when she’s trying to solve a problem and hadn’t quite found the answer yet.
Dinner helped, at least a little.
She seemed lighter once the food was in front of you, though she spent most of the meal asking whether you felt okay, whether your head hurt, whether you needed anything, and whether you were absolutely certain you weren’t feeling sick.
The fourth time she asked, you started wondering if she’d memorised the entire concussion checklist. Eventually, you’d steered the conversation back towards the match. The goals. The atmosphere. The celebrations. Giving her something else to focus on.
For a while it worked. She smiled more. Relaxed a little. Started talking about football instead of symptoms.
Then you yawned. Alexia noticed immediately. Of course she did. You barely finished covering your mouth before she was looking at you. Then, ten minutes later, you yawned again. That was apparently the final piece of evidence she needed, deciding it was time for bed.
Now she was guiding you towards the bedroom, one hand resting securely against your waist, careful to avoid your sore shoulder. You’d developed a slight limp, partly because your knee still ached and partly because the oversized plaster made bending it properly surprisingly awkward.
The whole thing was beginning to feel a little ridiculous. Ever since the match had ended, somebody had been helping you. The steward. The security guard. Noa. Alexia. Everyone had been supporting you, cleaning you up, checking on you, making sure you were okay.
It had just been a fall. Yet somehow it was starting to feel like a lot more than that.
Alexia guides you inside the en-suite bathroom, gently steering you towards the closed toilet seat. Apparently the lighting is better in here for whatever medical procedure she has planned next. At this point, you wouldn’t be surprised if she appeared wearing scrubs.
She gathers an assortment of bottles, cotton wool, and spare plasters along the countertop before disappearing back into the bedroom and returning with a chair. You couldn’t help smiling as she placed it directly in front of you. Even now, she was treating you as though you were something precious. Like if she looks away for too long, you’ll somehow find another staircase to fall down.
“Do you think you can lift your leg, amor?” she asked softly.
You nod. She reaches for your calf and carefully guides your leg onto her lap before beginning her work.
The concentration on her face is almost impressive. She peels away the old plaster with painstaking care, checks the graze, cleans around it, inspects the skin, then replaces it with a fresh plaster as though she’s been doing this her entire life.
It stings a little. Not enough to matter. Not when you’re too busy watching her. The furrow between her brows. The way she bites gently at her bottom lip while she’s concentrating. The quiet focus she brings to even the smallest things. Like changing a plaster is the most important task she’s ever been given.
You expect she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it. That look. The one that’s followed her all evening. It’s there again now. Quieter than before. But still present. Still thinking. Still carrying something she hasn’t quite said out loud.
Your chest aches with affection. For a moment, you consider leaning forward and wrapping your arms around her. The position makes that somewhat difficult, given that one of your legs is currently draped across her lap, so you settle for watching instead.
Letting her do whatever she needs to do.
Eventually she finishes, smoothing the edge of the plaster down with her thumb before letting her hand linger against your leg. Her fingers trace slowly across your skin. You watch her for a moment, and the longer you look, the more it starts to claw at your chest.
“Are you okay, baby?” you ask quietly.
Alexia blinks, like she’s been pulled back from somewhere far away.
“Hm?”
You reach for her hand and hold it gently.
“You’ve been… quiet.”
Her brows draw together.
“Quiet?”
You nod. “Since the stadium.”
That lands. You see it. A flicker in her expression. Like she hadn’t realised she’d been anything but normal.
“I’m fine, amor,” she says, her thumb brushing across yours. “I’m more worried about you.”
“But I’m fine too.”
The words come out automatically. Too easily. And the moment they do, her hand stills. Completely. The change is so small it almost doesn’t register. Except you feel it instantly. A muscle tightens in her jaw.
She exhales slowly, and immediately you know you’ve found the thing she’s been trying not to say.
“Did I upset you?” you ask softly. “With the surprise?”
Her expression changes at once, the tension melting into something gentler. Like the idea is almost painful to her.
“Amor,” she says, squeezing your hand. “You have done absolutely nothing wrong.”
Your brows knit. “Then… what is it?”
You gesture vaguely between the two of you.
“Why are you being like this?”
It comes out smaller than you meant to. More vulnerable.
“Honestly, it’s just a scratch, I’m fine—”
“Please.”
Her voice cuts in gently. Immediate but sharp.
“Please stop saying that.”
You fall quiet as she meets your gaze properly now. And when she speaks again, there’s no hesitation left in it.
“It’s not just a scratch, amor. You got hurt.”
Her voice is calm, steady, but the emotion underneath it is impossible to miss. You watch her as something shifts. Slowly. Like the walls she’s been holding up all evening are finally starting to loosen.
“You bought a ticket,” she says quietly. “You got yourself all the way to the stadium. You made me a sign.” A small shake of her head. “You did all of that because you wanted to surprise me.”
A small, sad smile flickers across her face.
“You were brave.”
Your chest tightens immediately.
“It was just a couple steps—”
“I don’t care.”
The interruption is instant, sharper than before. She stops herself almost as soon as she speaks, jaw tightening as if she wishes she could pull the words back in. Then she exhales. Looks away for a second. Then back at you.
“It could have been worse.”
Alexia lets out a breath, running a hand down her face. Her eyes squeeze shut for a second. And when she speaks again, her voice is quieter. More fragile.
“As soon as Luis said first aid… all I could think was what if it was worse?”
You go still. She shakes her head slightly, like she can’t quite believe her own thoughts.
“What if you’d hit your head harder? What if nobody had seen you? What if—”
She stops, her jaw tightening. She breathes in slowly, before letting it out.
When she looks at you again, her voice is steadier.
“I know none of that happened.”
Her thumb brushes across your hand.
“I know you’re okay.”
A pause.
“But for those few minutes… I didn’t know that.” She swallows. “And that terrified me.”
She looks down at your joined hands for a moment before continuing.
“I thought you were at home.”
The words are simple but they land heavily.
“I thought you were on your sofa watching the match.”
A breath escapes her, almost a laugh, but there’s no humour in it.
“But you weren’t.”
Her eyes lift to yours again.
“You were taking buses across the city. Finding your way through crowds. Buying popcorn and apparently adopting a Cat Culer.”
Despite yourself, your lips twitch. Alexia doesn’t seem to notice.
“While I was doing my warm-ups,” she continues softly, “you were already there.”
Her voice softens.
“And I had no idea.”
The bathroom suddenly feels very quiet. Everything seemed to still around you, as though the room itself was waiting for your response. Alexia’s words hung in the air between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.
“I didn’t know you were in the stadium,” she continues. “I didn’t know you’d fallen. I didn’t know anything until Luis walked up to me and told me you were in first aid.”
The words settle heavily between you.
“When I found you sitting there…” She swallows. “I just kept thinking you should have been somewhere else.”
Your heart aches. “Baby…”
Alexia shakes her head.
“I know it wasn’t serious. I know that,” she continues, her hand tightening around yours. “But for those few minutes, I didn’t know what happened. I didn’t know if you were okay. I didn’t know how hurt you were.”
Her gaze drops briefly to the plaster on your knee.
“The thought of you needing me, and me not even knowing where you were…”
She trails off, her eyes dropping to your joined hands.
“You’re my person,” she says quietly, so quiet you almost miss them.
She swallows.
“When something happens to you, I want to be there. I want to be the one helping you. The one making sure you’re okay.”
A small shake of her head.
“Instead, you were hurt and I didn’t even know you were in the stadium.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I know it isn’t rational. I know I couldn’t have stopped it. But all I could think about was that I should have been there.”
Her eyes meet yours again.
“I should have been with you. I… should have protected you.”
She trails off. The rest doesn’t need saying.
You stare at her, your heart breaking a little more with every word.
“Baby,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”
You shift closer and cup her cheek. She leans into your hand immediately, like she’s been waiting for it.
“Yeah,” you admit after a beat. “It was scary.”
The honesty surprises even you. You pause, a small breath leaving you.
“But mostly I was annoyed,” you say, a faint laugh escaping you. “Annoyed that I fell. Annoyed that I ruined my surprise.”
That finally earns the faintest smile from her. Barely there… but real.
“Well,” you add lightly, “I suppose technically I still surprised you.”
“Amor.”
The look she gives you is fond and exasperated all at once. And far too understanding.
“Don’t do that.”
You blink.
“Do what?”
“That.”
A pause. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles.
“Making a joke when something hurts. To distract… how you’re really feeling.”
The word land gently. But precisely. They catch in your chest anyway. Because she’s right. You realise it before you can even argue. You’ve been doing it all evening. Telling people you’re fine. Laughing it off. Making light of it.
As if that would make the embarrassment go away. Or the fear. Or the moment your foot slipped on the stairs and the world tilted for half a second too long.
Your gaze drops to your hands in hers.
Because the truth is, it had been scary. You hadn’t really let yourself think about that part. The fall. The confusion afterwards. The strange helplessness of sitting in first aid while people fussed over you. The disappointment. The frustration. The fact that the one time you tried to do something like this on your own, it had all gone wrong.
Your throat tightens. Because beneath all of that, there had been one thought louder than any other.
You’d wanted Alexia. You’d wanted her to be there. To tell you everything was okay. To hold your hand. To make you feel safe. And eventually she had. The moment she’d found you, she’d done exactly that. But she’d only found you because somebody else told her.
And somehow, that was the part that hurt the most.
“It was my own fault,” you murmur. “I could have waited for the crowds to thin out. I could have stayed in my seat for a bit longer. But I just…” You shake your head. “I followed everyone else.”
Alexia immediately reaches for your hand.
“It wasn’t your fault, amor.”
You stare down at your lap. You don’t trust yourself to look at her.
“The worst part is, I think I knew.”
You swallow hard.
“I could feel it getting busier. It was becoming a bit crowded and I was starting to feel uncomfortable.” You let out a small laugh that doesn’t sound much like a laugh at all. “But I kept telling myself it would be fine. I kept thinking I’m nearly there anyway, so I might as well keep going.”
Alexia’s thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.
“When I fell, it took me a second to understand what had happened.”
Your voice is getting quieter now.
“There were people everywhere. Everyone was talking. Most of it was in Catalan.” You blink rapidly. “I just wanted to get up, but my legs felt like jelly and I couldn’t think straight.”
The memory settles heavily in your chest. You hadn’t really let yourself think about it properly before now.
Not in first aid. Not in the car. Not over dinner.
You’d spent the whole day convincing everyone else you were okay. Including yourself.
Your eyes finally lift to Alexia’s.
“I was scared.”
The words barely make it out. Smaller than you expect. Your eyes sting immediately, and you blink hard. Once, twice. It doesn’t help. The room blurs anyway.
The moment the words leave your mouth, her expression breaks. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a sharp shift, like something in her steadies and cracks at the same time.
“Amor…”
And somehow that’s what does it. Not the fall. Not the first aid room. Not the aching knee or the cut above your eyebrow. Just the way she says amor. Like she’s been carrying the fear with you all evening.
She doesn’t hesitate. She carefully lifts your leg from her lap and guides it back to the floor before pulling her chair closer and wrapping her arms around you.
One hand cradles the back of your head immediately, instinctively protecting the side that isn’t injured. You cling to her as best you can with your sore shoulder, your fingers curling into the back of her shirt.
And after holding it together all day, you finally let yourself cry. The sobs hit harder than you expect. They crash into you all at once, stealing breath from your lungs as you bury your face in her shoulder. She gathers you closer without hesitation, holding you so tightly it feels as though she’s trying to keep all the broken pieces together.
Frustration. Embarrassment. Fear. Disappointment. Everything you’ve been pushing away since the moment you slipped.
Alexia holds you through all of it. One hand rubs slow circles across your back while the other remains tucked protectively against your head, her lips pressing softly into your hair.
“It’s okay, bebé,” she murmurs.
Her voice is soft against your hair.
“It’s okay.”
You feel her press a kiss against your temple.
“You’re safe now.”
For a long moment, you simply let yourself be held. Let yourself hurt. Let yourself stop pretending that this doesn’t matter. Gradually the tears begin to ease. Your breathing steadies. The knot in your chest loosens.
Alexia doesn’t let go straight away. She stays exactly where she is, arms around you, whispering little reassurances that melt into the warmth of her embrace. Eventually you pull back enough to look at her. She reaches for a box of tissues and hands one to you without a word.
You laugh weakly through the remnants of your tears.
“I’m sorry.”
Her brows immediately furrow in confusion.
“For what?” she asks softly.
You shrug lightly.
“For putting you through all of this,” you say, wiping at your eyes. “For worrying you.”
Alexia’s hand comes to your cheek at once, brushing away a stray tear.
“Amor, you have nothing to apologise for.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I just wanted to surprise you.”
Her expression softens. “I know.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
“And it would have been the best surprise.”
You huff a small laugh. “It would have?”
“Sí.”
She squeezes your hand.
“I would have had to try very hard to stay professional.”
That earns a proper laugh.
“I think you failed at that in first aid.”
Alexia chuckles, shaking her head.
“Maybe a little.”
The two of you sit quietly for a moment, letting the weight of the day finally settle.
Eventually, Alexia brushes her thumb across your cheek one last time.
“Why don’t we change your eyebrow plaster,” she says softly, “and then get you into bed?”
You nod with a smile and she begins gathering what she needs.
The old plaster peels away carefully beneath her fingers. Alexia studies the cut for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly.
“Is it bad?” you ask.
She shakes her head immediately.
“No. It just looks sore.”
You relax a little.
Once again, she cleans it with the same gentle concentration she’d shown all evening. Up close, you can see every tiny expression pass across her face. The slight crease between her brows. The way her tongue presses briefly against the inside of her cheek when she’s focusing.
Your chest warms.
When she finally smooths the fresh plaster into place, you lean forward and press a kiss to her cheek.
Her smile appears instantly.
Before you can pull away properly, she turns her head and kisses you back.
It’s soft.
Unhurried.
The kind of kiss you’ve been wanting since the moment you spotted her standing in the doorway of first aid.
When she eventually pulls back, her expression has softened completely. She rests her forehead against yours.
“Thank you, baby,” you murmur.
Alexia brushes her thumb across your cheek.
“Of course.”
The words are simple, but they settle warmly in your chest all the same.
You stand and slowly make your way over to the mirror. Your legs feel a little steadier now, lighter. As though crying had released something you’d been carrying around all day.
For the first time all evening, you properly take in your reflection. Your tired eyes, sluggish posture. Your gaze flicks to your head. The plaster isn’t too bad. The bruising beginning to form around it, however, is a different story.
You groan.
“Oh, brilliant.”
Alexia glances over.
“What?”
You point at your head. “How am I supposed to explain this at work?”
She laughs softly. The sound makes something inside you loosen.
By the time she’s finished putting the supplies away, she’s standing beside you, one arm slipping comfortably around your waist.
“Just tell them the truth,” she says. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”
You pull a face at your reflection.
“But it’s embarrassing.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
“Falling down stairs?”
“Yes.”
You study your reflection for a moment.
“Maybe I’ll tell them I got into a fight.”
Alexia turns to look at you properly.
“A fight?”
You nod seriously.
“Yeah.”
“You?”
You ignore the obvious lack of confidence in her voice.
“I’ll tell them they should have seen the other guy.”
For a second she simply stares at you. Then she laughs again, shaking her head as though she’s given up trying to make sense of you.
“Come on, amor.” Her hand squeezes your waist. “Time for bed.”
You cast one last mournful look towards the mirror before following her into the bedroom.
Changing proves significantly less graceful than you’d hoped. You manage the shorts without much issue, but the moment you try to pull your shirt over your head, a sharp twinge shoots through your shoulder.
You wince. Immediately, Alexia looks up, and without a word, she crosses the room and gently helps lift the shirt over your head. You attempt to raise your arm to help. It gets about halfway before protesting.
Once the shirt is gone, Alexia goes very still. You follow her gaze. The bruise spreading across your shoulder is impossible to miss now. Deep blue and purple staining the skin.
“Oh.”
The single word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
Alexia exhales slowly through her nose. The look on her face makes your stomach twist.
“Amor.”
“…Yeah.”
She reaches out carefully, fingertips ghosting over the uninjured skin nearby. Not touching the bruise. Just looking at it.
For a moment neither of you says anything. Then she quietly helps you into your pyjama top, guiding your sore arm through first before pulling the fabric down into place. Once you’re dressed, she pulls back the sheets and helps you settle into bed. You ease yourself down onto your back with considerably less dignity than usual.
You watch as Alexia changes into her own pyjamas, moving around the room, switching off lamps and straightening things that don’t need straightening.
Still restless. Still thinking.
Just as she reaches for the light switch, a thought suddenly occurs to you.
“Wait…”
Alexia pauses, one hand already on the switch, and looks over her shoulder.
“Hm?”
You bite your lip.
“…Can you get my Cat Culer please?”
She blinks.
Then a smile spreads across her face. “Of course.”
Without another word, she disappears from the room, returning a moment later with the plush tucked securely under one arm.
And your sign under the other.
Your eyebrows lift.
“What are you doing with that?”
Alexia ignores the question completely as crosses the room. She props the sign carefully against the mirror on top of the dresser before taking a step back, assessing it. Then nudges it a little to the left.
“You actually want to keep that thing?” you ask, a little incredulous.
She turns to look at you, seeming almost offended by the suggestion.
“Sí.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It is not.”
A smile tugs at your lips.
“Alexia, it’s literally a cereal box.”
She folds her arms.
“A cereal box that somebody turned into a sign for me.”
You groan, dropping your face into the pillow.
“It’s awful.”
Alexia walks over to the bed, climbing in beside you, completely unbothered.
“It’s the best sign I’ve ever seen.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Alexia looks entirely pleased with herself as she hands you your Cat Culer.
You immediately hug him to your chest.
Alexia narrows her eyes.
“Don’t tell me this little guy is joining us in bed from now on.”
A smile tugs at your lips.
“Why not?”
She raises an eyebrow.
“I know he was an impulse purchase,” you say, glancing down at the plush, “but I feel strangely attached to him now.”
Alexia let’s out an incredulous laugh.
“Strangely attached?”
You nod seriously. “We’ve been through a lot together.”
For a second , she just stares at you, then a proper laugh escapes her. She shakes her head fondly before moving closer across the mattress.
You carefully roll onto your good shoulder, and without missing a beat, Alexia curls up behind you, one arm draping across your waist. Careful. Mindful of every bruise and ache.
A soft kiss lands against the back of your neck. Then another, lips brushing against your skin. The warmth of her settles around you like a blanket.
“Amor?” she murmurs.
“Mhm?”
“Why didn’t you get family and friends tickets?”
You pause, biting the inside of your cheek. You wondered if this would come up.
“…I didn’t know how.”
Alexia lifts her head slightly.
“What do you mean?” she asks softly.
“You’ve always got the tickets for me before,” you say softly.
Alexia studies you for a moment. “You could have asked.”
You smile. “That would’ve ruined the surprise.”
“Amor.”
The single word is enough to tell you she’s not entirely convinced by that argument.
“I mean it.” Her hand squeezes yours gently beneath the covers. “There are family and friends tickets for a reason.”
You glance down. “I know.”
“No,” her thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles. “Not because they’re free. Not because they’re easier.”
Her voice softens. “Because I want you safe.”
Your chest tightens.
Alexia lets out a quiet breath.
“You travelled all the way across the city by yourself. Through crowds. Through the stadium.” She shakes her head. “And when you got hurt, I didn’t even know you were here.”
“Baby—”
“I’m not angry,” she reassures.
She shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your neck.
“I loved the surprise.”
The words are immediate. Certain.
“I loved that you came. I loved the sign.”
A smile tugs at her lips.
“But tomorrow,” she continues, “I’ll show you how to get the tickets.”
You glance back at her. Her nose brushes lightly against your cheek before she smiles.
“Just in case you want to surprise me again.”
The fondness in her voice makes your chest ache.
“And next time,” she murmurs, “I would very much like my girlfriend to arrive without a visit to first aid.”
A laugh escapes you, and Alexia joins in a moment later, warm and quiet in the darkness.
When the laughter fades, she just looks at you. Really looks at you, affection flickering across her face. Like she still can’t quite get over the day.
You lift her hand from your stomach and press a kiss to her knuckles.
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” she murmurs against your skin.
A comfortable silence settles between you.
Then a very important thought occurs to you.
“Don’t forget Cat Culer.”
Alexia goes still.
“… Qué?”
You lift the plush slightly. “You need to kiss him goodnight too.”
She lifts her head.
The look she gives you is one of complete disbelief.
“Amor.”
“Alexia.”
“I’m not kissing your toy.”
You gasp dramatically. “Excuse me. He’s more than a toy.”
Alexia closes her eyes. “No.”
“He’s my emotional support buddy,” you insist.
She blinks.
“I’m your emotional support buddy.”
“He’s my backup emotional support buddy.”
Alexia lets out a long suffering sigh.
“Absolutely not.”
You pull Cat Culer a little closer.
“Now you’ve upset him.”
“He doesn’t have feelings,” Alexia insists, but the smile in her voice gives her away immediately.
“He does,” you say with a pout.
“He’s made of fabric.”
You look down at him sadly.
“Did you hear that? That’s very hurtful.”
Alexia shakes her head against your shoulder.
A few seconds pass. Then you feel her smile.
“…Fine.”
Your face immediately lights up.
You hold Cat Culer towards her.
With all the dignity of a two-time Ballon d’Or winner being held hostage by her girlfriend’s nonsense, Alexia leans forward and presses a quick kiss to the plush’s head.
“There.”
You beam. “He’s so happy.”
“He’s a toy.”
“And how many toys can say they’ve been kissed by Alexia Putellas?”
A laugh escapes her before she can stop it.
She buries her face back into your neck, pulling you closer.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
You smile into the darkness.
“I know.”
A huff of laughter brushes against your neck, then she tightens her arm around your waist. Not enough to be uncomfortable, just enough that you know she’s still holding you.
“Sleep now, amor.”
You settle further into her embrace, warm and safe beneath the covers, Cat Culer remains tucked against your chest.
The day hadn’t gone anything like you’d planned. The surprise went wrong. The sign never made it to the barrier. You ended up in first aid instead of Alexia’s arms. But somehow, you got there in the end.
Held by her.
Cared for by her.
Loved by her.
As sleep begins to pull you under, you feel Alexia press one last kiss against your skin.
And for the first time all day, everything feels okay.
———————————
A/n: I really hope you enjoyed this one. And thank you anon for requesting, it was a lot of fun to write. I hope I did it justice. I know I changed a few details, I thought it would be a little less harsh if she fell because of crowds rather than a fight. But we did get overprotective Alexia again 🥹
No one has permission to copy, steal, repost, or translate this work.
As always, please let me know what you think. Comments, reblogs, and asks all make my day. I love interacting with you all and hearing your thoughts/opinions. Thank you so much for taking the time to ready my story so far ❤️
>> series - minor dni - katseye ot6 - g!p reader - smut - fluff - yoonchae is here for fluff not smut - haunted themed - sexual content - multiple kinks - threesome - etc
[ 緒 ]
After your grandparents passed, your parents dumped their old, rotting manor on you with zero help. “You’re broke, so deal with it,” they said. Reluctantly, you move into the isolated, creepy estate alone, expecting dust, leaks, and maybe some rats.
What you don’t expect are the six girls who have been haunting the manor for decades.
The shift from an iPhone 11 with a spiderweb crack across the front camera to a pristine, titanium-grey iPhone 17 Pro Max was not a technological upgrade for Y/N; it was a diplomatic intervention.
Alexia had bought it during the January winter break, presenting the sleek box across the kitchen island with the stern, unyielding expression she usually reserved for explaining tactical pressings to the midfield. She had watched Y/N squint at her old screen, trying to decipher a blurry laboratory report for a three-legged Podenco, using the tiny bit of glass that hadn’t been completely shattered when she dropped it into a hydrotherapy pool at her clinic.
"You are a brilliant veterinary surgeon with a thriving practice in the Eixample, Y/N," Alexia had said, her voice dropping into that rhythmic, low Catalan-infused cadence that always sounded slightly like an ultimatum. "You own a luxury pet boutique. You manage an entire rehabilitation shelter. And yet, you are communicating with your staff trought phone that looks like it survived a mortar attack in the nineties. Take the box before I force you to take it."
Y/N had simply grinned, her large, heavily tattooed shoulders shifting beneath an oversized, paint-splattered charcoal hoodie. To anyone walking down the Carrer de València, Y/N looked exactly like the sort of woman who might lead an underground motorcycle club or have a strong opinion on industrial techno. She stood a comfortable five-foot-nine, broad-chested and striking, her skin a rich tapestry of intricate ink—sleeve designs of anatomical flora, geometric wolf silhouettes, and soft charcoal portraits of the very first rescue dogs she had saved during her residency in London. Her jawline was sharp, her style decidedly heavy-duty boots and distressed denim, giving off an untouchable, slightly intimidating 'bad girl' aura that made people give her a wide berth on the metro.
But inside that imposing frame lived a girl who was effectively a soft, oversized loaf of bread. A total push-over who would literally dissolve into tears if a stray kitten sneezed within a three-mile radius of her person.
"I don't need a professional camera, Ale," Y/N had mumbled, her calloused, strong hands carefully opening the box with a degree of clumsy hesitation that always made Alexia’s chest ache with fondness. "The old one still holds a charge for three hours if I don't turn the Wi-Fi on. And the crack gives the photos a nice, vintage filter. Very indie."
"It makes you look like you live in a cave," Alexia shot back, though she was already sliding across the barstool, her hands reaching out to loop around Y/N’s waist, burying her face into the soft crook of Y/N’s neck where the scent of cedarwood, expensive veterinary antiseptic, and chamomile soap always lingered. "And your shelter needs visibility. My mom says your website looks like it was coded by a badger. Use the new phone. Record the animals. People like seeing you covered in mud, apparently."
That was how the great TikTok experiment of 2026 began.
The relationship between the captain of FC Barcelona and the most soft-hearted vet in Catalonia was the worst-kept secret among their immediate circles, yet completely invisible to the broader public. Eli and Alba knew Y/N as the woman who kept their family anchored, the one who had spent Christmas dinners quietly checking their elderly aunt’s arthritic retriever under the table while everyone else drank cava. The team knew Y/N because she was the intimidatingly handsome woman who occasionally turned up at the training ground in a battered Land Rover Defender, her sleeves rolled up, casually tossing 40k bags of premium kibble over her shoulder like they were bags of crisps, before turning into absolute mush the moment Mapi León’s English bulldog came trotting over for belly rubs.
She was charming, effortlessly cool, and completely unfazed by the glittering status of the professionals around her. When Lucy Bronze had tried to discuss high-level defensive transitions with her over a coffee, Y/N had simply blinked, pointed at a tiny scratch on Lucy’s forearm, and spent twenty minutes explaining the exact cellular structure of cat-scratch fever while applying an organic ointment she’d mixed herself. The players adored her because she treated them like normal human beings who happened to have highly reactive dogs.
But nobody outside that small ecosystem knew that the luxury apartment in Castelldefels, with its sleek minimalist decor and expensive cream carpets, had essentially been converted into a high-traffic subterranean transit station for the most physically and emotionally damaged canine citizens of Spain.
Alexia had tried to set boundaries. In the third year of their relationship, after Y/N had brought home a blind Greyhound who could only sleep if he was resting his entire muzzle on Alexia’s left football boot, the captain had stood in the doorway of the bedroom, her arms crossed, trying to look like a pillar of athletic authority.
"No more, Y/N. I am serious this time," Alexia had declared, her eyes tracking a stray piece of golden dog hair that was floating toward her dry-cleaned suit. "We are a professional household. I need eight hours of undisturbed sleep for my recovery cycles. We cannot have a revolving door of broken creatures."
Y/N had simply stood there, holding a tiny, shivering, mangy puppy with one ear pointing north and the other pointing south, looking up at Alexia with those massive, dark, completely defenseless eyes that matched the dog's perfectly. She hadn't said a word. She had just shifted her grip so the puppy’s small, pink tongue poked out, licking a stray bit of dirt off Y/N’s tattooed wrist.
Alexia had lasted exactly four seconds. She had let out a long, defeated groan in Catalan, rubbed her temples, and walked into the kitchen to find a clean towel and a bottle of specialized puppy milk. "You are a manipulative woman," she had yelled from the pantry. "And this creature is sleeping on your side of the bed."
By the spring of 2026, the temporary resident of the Castelldefels fortress was Benny.
Benny was a mistake of genetics and geography—a tiny, chocolate-brown ball of absolute chaos who was supposedly a cross between a Labrador and a Weimaraner, though he mostly resembled an oversized brown bean with massive, floppy ears and the clumsy coordination of a drunken sailor. Y/N had found him tied to a rusted bench outside her clinic in the Eixample on a rainy Tuesday morning, shivering so violently his tiny teeth were chattering. He had a severe case of sarcoptic mange, a parasite load that would have killed a smaller pup, and an absolute, terrifying attachment to the sound of Y/N’s voice.
The first video Y/N uploaded to TikTok was an absolute technical disaster. It was a three-minute, unedited clip of Benny’s first bath at the clinic. Y/N hadn’t known how to cut the footage, so the video began with twenty seconds of her large, tattooed face staring directly into the lens, her forehead creased in profound concentration as she muttered, "Is the red dot mean it’s saving, or is it broken? Ale said press the button... right, okay, I think it’s doing it."
The rest of the video showed Y/N, with her sleeves rolled up to reveal her massive, ink-covered forearms, gently lifting the tiny, hairless, scabby brown puppy into a stainless-steel sink. Her voice shifted instantly from her awkward, tech-confused rumble into this incredibly soft, high-pitched, British-accented coo that she reserved exclusively for things that weighed under ten kilograms.
"There we go, my little chocolate candy," she whispered, her large fingers incredibly delicate as she worked a specialized medicated oatmeal shampoo into Benny’s raw skin. "I know it stings, darling. I know you’re a bit worried about the water, but you’re quite safe now. Look at those ears. You’re going to be a very handsome boy when we get your jacket grown back, aren't you? Yes, you are. Don't eat the bubbles, you silly goose."
She didn't use music. She didn't use captions. She didn't use any of the trending algorithms that the youth of 2026 used to gain traction. She just uploaded the raw, honest footage because her shelter coordinator had told her that 'content drives adoptions.'
Within forty-eight hours, the video had reached three hundred thousand views.
The algorithm had stumbled upon a goldmine of contrast: a tall, remarkably striking woman who looked like she could clear out a nightclub single-handedly, possessing a deep, gravelly voice, who was currently treating a tiny, pathetic street dog with the maternal gentleness of an angel. The comments section was an absolute mess of people having an existential crisis over her appearance.
“Right, who is this absolute unit of a woman and why am I crying over a mange puppy at 3 AM?”
“The tattoos? The accent? The way she’s cradling that dog like it’s made of glass? I am incapacitated.”
“Is she single? Does she need a wife? Does she need another stray dog to look after? Because I can bark.”
Y/N, entirely unaware of how the platform worked, didn't notice the numbers. She just kept uploading videos because she thought it was a digital filing cabinet for Benny’s medical chart. She posted a clip explaining how to safely clean a dog’s ears after a chronic infection, standing in her clinic uniform—a fitted black scrub top that showed off her sleeve tattoos to perfection—holding a very calm golden retriever while she spoke directly to the camera with her clear, articulate, and completely professional veterinary authority. She gave practical, no-nonsense advice about canine nutrition, warnings about local Mediterranean parasites, and detailed logs of Benny’s fur slowly growing back into a rich, shiny coat the color of dark chocolate.
She became known as "The hot Vet" across Spanish social media. People loved her no-nonsense, deeply educational style, mixed with her total lack of presentation skills. She would routinely drop her phone into the kibble bin, or Benny would jump up and lick the camera lens until the video cut out entirely.
Then came the comment that changed the nature of the digital filing cabinet.
A user with the handle Maria_BCN94 left a message on a video of Benny learning how to fetch an old tennis ball in a quiet park: “Your husband must be the most fortunate man in Barcelona. Imagine coming home to this gorgeous, talented woman and a house full of puppies every day. Literal dream life.”
Y/N saw the comment while she was sitting at the kitchen island after a long day of surgeries, her feet propped up on a stool, a glass of red wine within reach. Alexia was currently in the living room, supposedly watching film on Chelsea’s defensive block, though in reality, she was lying flat on her back on the designer rug with Benny asleep directly on her stomach, his giant brown paws twitching under her chin.
Y/N decided to do a 'video reply' because she had finally figured out how that specific button worked.
She hit record, the phone resting against a fruit bowl. She was dressed in her evening uniform—a black tank top that exposed her broad, inked collarbones and the soft, silver scars on her shoulders from an old horse-riding accident during her youth. Her dark hair was messy, tied back with a rubber band from the clinic.
"Bona tarda, Maria," Y/N said, her British accent thick and relaxed as she took a sip of her wine. "Just saw your comment about the husband. It’s very sweet of you to say, really. But there’s no husband here, I’m afraid. I don't think a man would survive the amount of dog hair that enters this household, to be quite honest. I have a girlfriend, actually. We’ve been together going on four years now."
She smiled, a soft, private expression that made her sharp features look incredibly tender. "She’s the one who actually handles the administrative side of the fosters—mostly by complaining very loudly in Catalan that we have no more room, and then secretly buying the most expensive orthopedic dog beds from my shop when she thinks I’m not looking. She’s currently through in the lounge being held hostage by Benny because he’s fallen asleep on her sternum and she’s convinced she’ll disrupt his circadian rhythm if she moves. So, yes. No husband. Just two women and an increasingly large grocery bill for premium tripe."
She hit stop. She uploaded it. She didn't tag anyone. She didn't mention that her girlfriend was currently featured on a forty-foot billboard overlooking the Diagonal.
The internet, however, is an investigative body that rivals MI6.
The comment section under the 'girlfriend' revelation went into absolute hyperdrive. People began analyzing the background of the kitchen. The sleek, dark marble countertops. The specific view of the hills behind Castelldefels visible through the high glass windows. The very distinct, modern gold light fixtures hanging over the island.
“Wait a minute... that kitchen looks incredibly familiar.” “Hold on. Is that the same marble from the house tour that a certain Catalan athlete did for a sports magazine last year?” “No, don't start this. There are thousands of houses in Castelldefels with dark marble. Don't be unhinged.” “But the accent... the vet clinic in Eixample... didn't someone see Mapi León leaving that exact clinic last month with her bulldog? Guys. GUYS.”
Two weeks later, Y/N decided to do her very first 'TikTok Live.' She had reached fifty thousand followers, and her shelter coordinator had told her that doing a live Q&A would be an excellent way to raise funds for the upcoming spring vaccination drive for the local street colonies.
She set up the phone in the living room, propping it against an expensive ceramic vase on a side table. She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a pile of donated chew toys, looking entirely comfortable as the viewer count began to climb from five hundred to five thousand within three minutes.
"Right then," Y/N said, leaning forward to read the tiny text on the screen, her dark eyes squinting. "Hullo everyone. Thanks for joining. We’re raising money for the Eixample Rescue Fund today. If you drop those little digital gifts or whatever they are, the money goes straight to the antibiotic treatments for our senior dogs. Ask whatever veterinary questions you like, and I’ll do my best to answer between checking my spelling."
For forty minutes, the live stream was a masterclass in professional competence. Y/N answered questions about feline leukemia, the correct way to clip a nervous dog’s nails, and what to do if a puppy eats a chocolate wrapper. She was articulate, charming, and completely in her element, occasionally reaching out to scratch Benny behind the ears as the puppy rumbled past her lap like a small, brown freight train.
Then, the background of the video shifted.
The heavy glass door leading from the home gym opened. A woman walked into the frame, completely oblivious to the fact that the phone was recording. She was dressed in an oversized, faded grey training top with the emblem of the Spanish National Team partially peeled off the chest, a pair of worn-out black cotton shorts, and a pair of white Nike slides. Her hair was pulled back into a chaotic, messy bun held together by a pink scrunchie, and she was carrying a half-empty shaker bottle of protein mix.
It was Alexia Putellas. The captain of Barcelona. The two-time Ballon d'Or winner. Looking exactly like a woman who had just spent two hours doing leg presses in her basement and desperately needed a shower.
Alexia didn't look at the phone. She looked straight at the floor, where Benny had immediately abandoned Y/N to go trotting over, his tail wagging so hard his entire rear end was shaking.
"Hola, mi pequeñito," Alexia murmured, her voice dropping into an incredibly soft, completely uncharacteristic baby-talk register that no football journalist had ever heard in their life. She immediately dropped her shaker bottle onto the sofa and sank down onto her knees on the rug, entirely unconcerned with her athletic dignity. She caught Benny by his front paws, letting the brown puppy launch himself into her chest, his wet tongue instantly covering her jawline in sloppy kisses.
"Ay, qué bruto eres," Alexia laughed, a warm, bright sound that echoed through the quiet living room. She rolled onto her side on the floor, letting the puppy climb over her shoulder, her hands gently grabbing his massive, floppy ears, massaging them with the practiced familiarity of someone who spent every evening doing exactly this. "Are you being a good boy for mummy? Huh? Did you eat your kibble or did you give it to the cats? You are a beautiful monster, yes you are."
Y/N froze on the screen. She looked down at the live chat, which had suddenly transitioned from standard questions about dog food into an absolute, vertical wall of capital letters moving so fast it looked like a glitching computer program.
“IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS.”
“ALEXIA PUTELLAS IS ON THE FLOOR BABY-TALKING A LABRADOR MIX IN HER SLIDES. I AM HAVING A STROKE.”
“THE NATIONAL TEAM SHIRT. THE SCRUNCHIE. THE ACCENT. OH MY GOD THE EIXAMPLE VET IS ALEXIA’S GIRLFRIEND.”
“LOOK AT THE BACKGROUND LOOK AT HER CONCEALING THE RELATIONSHIP FOR FOUR YEARS ONLY FOR IT TO BE RUINED BY A PUPPY CO-DEPENDENCY.”
Y/N cleared her throat, her broad, tattooed shoulders turning slightly as she looked over at her girlfriend, who was currently letting Benny chew on the sleeve of her shirt.
"Ale," Y/N said, her deep voice carrying a trace of suppressed laughter.
"Qué?" Alexia replied, not looking up from the puppy. "He’s hungry, Y/N. His belly is making noises. Did you feed him the expensive wet food or the cheap one from the supermarket? Because he prefers the one with the duck."
"Ale, darling," Y/N repeated, pointing a large, tattooed finger toward the ceramic vase. "I’m currently doing that live broadcast for the shelter. The one I told you about at breakfast."
Alexia froze. Her entire body stiffened on the floor. Slowly, like a character in a horror film, she turned her head toward the side table, her hazel eyes locking directly onto the tiny lens of the iPhone 15 Pro Max. She stayed entirely still for three seconds, her brain processing the fact that her current appearance—messy bun, slides, and puppy drool—was being broadcast to approximately twelve thousand live viewers.
Without saying a single word, Alexia let go of Benny, rolled backward with the athletic agility of a seasoned midfielder, stayed low beneath the line of the sofa, and scurried out of the room toward the kitchen like a tactical commando.
Y/N burst into a loud, booming, British laugh that shook her entire chest, her hand coming up to cover her face as she looked back at the screen. The viewer count was now climbing toward twenty thousand.
"Right," Y/N muttered, her cheeks completely flushed a lovely shade of pink, her tattoos catching the light as she rubbed her neck. "Well. That’s Alexia. She’s... she’s a bit shy when she hasn't had her shower, as you can see. Let’s go back to the question about the German Shepherd’s hip dysplasia, shall we? Before I get murdered in my sleep."
The internet did not go back to the German Shepherd’s hip dysplasia.
By the next morning, TikTok and Twitter were completely flooded with screen recordings of the "Castelldefels Commando Roll." The contrast between Alexia’s fierce, untouchable public persona as the stone-faced captain of Barcelona and her reality as a woman who rolled around on a rug in slides while singing to a brown mix dog became an overnight sensation. The fans were absolutely enchanted. They loved Y/N’s calm, laughing reaction; they loved the sheer domesticity of the scene; and most of all, they loved how Y/N had casually referred to the most famous woman in women’s football as 'darling' while she scurried out of the room.
A few days later, Y/N uploaded a video titled "A Day in the Life of a Barcelona Vet."
It was a compilation of her day: starting at 6 AM, loading her Land Rover with medical supplies, performing a dental cleaning on an elderly cat at her Eixample clinic, and then—the clip that everyone was waiting for—showing her afternoon routine. The video tracked her driving toward the Estadi Johan Cruyff.
She didn't film from the luxury VIP boxes. She filmed from the standard parking area, dressed in her usual heavy leather jacket, boots, and a simple black beanie, walking toward the stadium gates with a completely calm, detached demeanor. She didn't look like a fanatic fan; she looked like a woman who was going to watch her partner do her job, carrying a small tupperware container of homemade protein bars she’d baked because she was convinced Alexia didn't eat enough density after her matches.
The camera showed a brief snippet of the match from her perspective—the crowd roaring as the team took the pitch—and then a very short, shaky clip after the final whistle. Y/N was standing near the private tunnel, where the families usually waited.
The camera was slightly tilted, capturing Y/N’s boots, when a pair of standard Barcelona training tracksuits entered the frame. A hand reached out, grabbing Y/N’s tattooed wrist with a familiarity that made the screen shake slightly.
"Did you bring the bars?" Alexia’s voice asked off-camera, sounding tired but instantly lighter.
"In the bag, love," Y/N’s deep voice replied. "Good match. Your positioning in the second half was a bit deep, wasn't it? You looked like you were playing center-back at one point."
"Mapi wasn't shifting," Alexia grumbled, her face briefly flashing into the top corner of the frame—sweaty, her hair sticking to her forehead, but looking at Y/N with an expression of such total, relaxed safety that it felt almost intrusive to watch. "Give me the keys. I want to drive the truck home. Your car smells like wet dog today."
The video cut out there, but the casual confirmation of their four-year routine sent another wave of warmth through the fanbase. There was no grand statement, no formal press release from the club. It was just an honest, comfortable glimpse into a relationship that had survived the highest levels of sporting pressure by simply focusing on who was going to drive the Land Rover home.
The true peak of the technical incompetence, however, happened the following Tuesday.
Y/N was attempting to record an educational video about the correct dosage of tick medication for larger breeds. She had set up the phone on the kitchen counter, but the device kept slipping against the smooth marble, tilting backward until it was filming nothing but the ceiling extraction fan.
"Bloody hell," Y/N muttered, her large hand entering the frame, trying to wedge a piece of cardboard under the case. "Stay still, you stupid thing. Ale said turn the grid on, but I don't see any grid... it’s just black lines..."
Alexia walked into the kitchen, dressed to head out to the morning training session. She was wearing her official club tracksuit, her training bag slung over one shoulder, looking sharp and professional. She stopped behind Y/N, watching her partner struggle with the settings with an expression of amused exasperation.
"What are you doing with the configuration, Y/N?" Alexia asked, her voice rich with fondness as she dropped her bag onto the floor. "You have adjusted the aspect ratio to cinematic mode. You are trying to film a tick tutorial like it is a feature film by Pedro Almodóvar."
"I just pressed the button, Ale," Y/N grumbled, her broad shoulders slumping as she held her hands up in defeat. "Technology is a farce. If it doesn't have a heartbeat or four legs, I don't understand how it functions. Fix it for me, would you?"
Alexia let out a soft chuckle, stepping into the frame completely. She leaned over Y/N’s shoulder, her smaller, nimbler fingers tapping the screen with practiced ease, resetting the video parameters while Y/N stood beside her, looking down at her with an expression of absolute, puppy-like gratitude.
"There," Alexia said, her hand resting naturally against Y/N’s hip as she stood close. "It is recording normally now. Don't touch anything else."
Before she turned to grab her training bag, Alexia stood on her tip-toes, her hand moving up to cup Y/N’s sharp jawline. She pressed a soft, lingering, and incredibly sweet kiss directly onto Y/N’s cheek—the kind of unvarnished, domestic kiss that belonged entirely to a quiet kitchen before work. It was slow, romantic, and thoroughly 'ñoño,' her nose nuzzling against Y/N’s skin for a second before she pulled away.
"I am going to be late," Alexia murmured, her eyes softening as she looked at Y/N’s pink cheeks. "Don't let Benny dig up the rosemary bushes while I am gone. I see him looking at them from the window."
"No promises, love," Y/N chuckled, her deep voice vibrating as she watched Alexia grab her bag. "Have a good session. Don't let Mapi tackle you too hard."
"Mapi wishes she could catch me," Alexia shot back from the hallway, the front door clicking shut a moment later.
Y/N turned back to the phone, intending to start her tutorial, but she realized with a jolt that the camera had been recording the entire time. She stared at the lens, her large hand coming up to touch her cheek where Alexia’s lips had just been.
"Oh," Y/N said to the camera, her forehead creasing. "Right. Well... I don't actually know how to clip that bit out without deleting the whole file. So... we’re just going to leave it in, I suppose. Moving on to the tick prevention..."
When she uploaded the video later that afternoon, the comment section completely disintegrated. The raw sweetness of the interaction—the casual way Alexia helped her tech-challenged partner, the soft kiss, the total lack of performative behavior—was more effective than any public relations campaign. The fans weren't looking at an elite sports celebrity anymore; they were looking at a woman who was deeply, securely, and happily in love with her partner of four years.
The final chapter of the great foster experiment occurred three weeks later.
The video began with Y/N sitting on the floor of the Castelldefels living room, a sheet of official adoption paperwork resting on her knees. Benny was currently sitting directly on top of the paper, his giant brown head tilting as he looked into the camera lens.
"Hullo everyone," Y/N said, her voice holding a mixture of defeat and immense joy. "This is an official update regarding Benny’s foster status. As you know, he’s spent the last four months recovering from his mange, his parasites, and his general lack of common sense. He is now completely healthy, his coat is beautiful, and he was officially cleared for permanent adoption this morning."
She let out a heavy, dramatic sigh, though her dark eyes were dancing with light. "The shelter had three wonderful families lined up to meet him this weekend. A lovely couple from Girona with a massive garden and two older dogs for him to play with. It would have been perfect for him."
She reached out, her large, tattooed arm wrapping around Benny’s neck, pulling the brown puppy close against her side. "However... the foster process has encountered a major administrative roadblock. And that roadblock is currently sitting on the floor behind me."
The camera panned down slightly to reveal Alexia. The captain of Barcelona was lying flat on her stomach on the rug, her chin resting on her hands, her hazel eyes fixed entirely on Benny with a stubborn, defensive expression that she usually reserved for referee disputes.
"He is not going to Girona, Y/N," Alexia said directly to the camera, her tone completely final. "The people in Girona might have a garden, but they do not have our specific couch. And Benny is accustomed to the couch. He understands the layout of this house. It would be a psychological trauma for him to relocate at this stage of his development."
"Ale," Y/N’s voice said from behind the lens, full of laughter. "He’s a dog. He doesn't have a mortgage. He will adapt to a new garden within twelve minutes."
"No," Alexia repeated, her jaw tightening as she slid forward on her stomach until she could wrap her arms around Benny’s rear legs, anchoring him to her body. "He is my son. I have decided. We are signing the paper. Amor, come down here and tell him he is staying. Come play with Benny."
The sheer, unadulterated sweetness of the phrase—"Amor, ven a jugar con Benny"—spoken by a woman who spent her weekends commanding forty thousand people from the center of a pitch, was the final blow to the internet’s collective sanity.
Y/N dropped the phone onto the rug, the video continuing to record sideways as she slid down beside Alexia. Her large, tattooed arms wrapped around both the footballer and the brown puppy, the three of them forming a chaotic, laughing pile of limbs, paws, and soft Catalan murmurs in front of the fireplace.
The video racked up four million views in twelve hours. The 'Eixample Vet' and her 'stubborn footballer girlfriend' had officially become the favorite domestic narrative of the country.
The next afternoon, Alexia decided that the privacy of their relationship no longer required the protection of silence.
She opened her official Instagram account—the one followed by millions of football enthusiasts across the globe—and uploaded a single photograph.
The image was taken in the garden of their Castelldefels home, the late-afternoon sun casting a golden, ethereal glow over the grass. Y/N was sitting on a wooden bench, looking relaxed and handsome in a dark green utility shirt, her sleeve tattoos vibrant against her skin, her large frame holding Benny across her lap. Alexia was sitting right beside her, her head resting securely on Y/N’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around Y/N’s waist, her face clear, radiant, and completely free of the pressure of her world. Both women were looking down at the brown puppy, who was currently trying to lick Y/N’s chin, their expressions identical in their soft, unshielded happiness.
The caption was short, written in elegant Catalan:
@alexiaputellas: Benvingut a casa, Benny. Gràcies per no deixar-nos espai al llit, i gràcies a la millor veterinària del món per trobar-te a la pluja. T’estimem, Y/N. (Welcome home, Benny. Thank you for leaving us no room in the bed, and thank you to the best vet in the world for finding you in the rain. We love you, Y/N.)
In the quiet kitchen of their home, away from the notifications, the retweets, and the roar of the upcoming match, Y/N sat with her new iPhone 15 Pro Max, staring at the screen with a slight frown.
"Ale," she called out, her deep voice echoing down the hallway.
"Sí, el meu amor?" Alexia replied, walking into the room with a fresh basket of laundry, Benny trotting right at her heels like a small, chocolate shadow.
"How do I leave a comment on this photo?" Y/N asked, her forehead creased in profound confusion as she tapped the glass with her thumb. "I’ve pressed the little heart thing, but now the screen has gone all blue and I think I’ve accidentally ordered a set of winter tires for the Land Rover."
Alexia set the laundry basket down, a warm, bright laugh shaking her shoulders as she walked over to the island. She slid into Y/N’s space, her arms wrapping around her neck from behind, her chin resting on Y/N’s broad shoulder as she took the phone from her calloused hands.
"Give it to me, you beautiful disaster," Alexia whispered, her lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss right into the side of Y/N’s neck. "I will write the comment for you. You just focus on the dogs. I will handle the technology."
Y/N leaned back against her girlfriend’s chest, her long arms reaching up to touch Alexia’s ears, her fingers beginning that old, rhythmic rub that always brought the captain of Barcelona completely to her knees. "Sounds like a fair trade, Putellas," she murmured into the quiet house. "Sounds like a fair trade."
when the project ends, you’re sure you and daniela won’t talk anymore.
she has her own life outside of you, her own friend group and other stuff that is more important than you. you know that. people drift apart all the time.
but to your surprise, daniela doesn’t let that happen.
she starts saving you a seat in class. she walks with you across campus. she texts you. she even eats lunch in the cafeteria with you sometimes.
one day, when you’re walking back to campus, your hands brush. neither of you pulls away immediately.
it’s barely anything. just your fingers grazing hers as you walk side by side. but the contact lingers for half a second too long to be accidental.
you feel it everywhere.
she doesn’t say anything. neither do you. but when you glance at her, her expression is unreadable. thoughtful, almost. like she’s wondering something too.
you don’t understand it. why does she keep choosing you?
—
other people start noticing it too.
it’s subtle at first. a glance here, a raised eyebrow there. the way her friends look between the two of you when you walk up together.
one day, you’re standing beside her after class when a girl from her friend group, sophia, smiles knowingly.
“you’ve been stealing her from us.” she teases kindly.
you freeze.
daniela just rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “i’m allowed to have other friends.”
other friends. the word friends lands softly. gently. like something that shouldn’t hurt, but still does.
you nod and smile slightly, pretending it doesn’t settle in your chest.
—
the weeks pass quickly after that, and it only becomes more and more unbearable to try and hide your feelings from daniela.
you can’t help it.
if she forgot to take notes one day in class, you immediately send yours.
if she doesn’t understand a reading, you help her with it by explaining.
if she’s cold, you’re quick to give her your sweater.
“you’re actually an angel.” she murmurs thankfully one time while you’re on call, studying for a test together.
you barely get any sleep that night.
—
when you think it can’t get any worse, your professor announces a class trip.
it’s only for two days, over the weekend, but still it makes your heart beat a little faster.
the first activity starts almost immediately after you arrive.
your professor gathers everyone outside the building, talking about observation, documentation, and engaging critically with the environment.
you try to listen. you really do. but daniela is standing next to you, wearing your hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands.
you can’t focus on anything else.
luckily for you, your professor doesn’t talk for long and instead gives you tasks you need to work on. pairs, once again.
at one point, you stop near a small outdoor installation: something abstract, layered with text and images.
you start analyzing it out loud without thinking.
daniela watches you instead of the piece.
“you should talk more in class.” she says suddenly.
you blink. “what?”
“like this.” she gestures slightly toward you. “you have so much to say that people should hear.”
you shake your head quickly. “i’m fine.”
“i mean it. you’re smart.” she says, softer now.
as usual, you don’t know what to say to that.
after an hour or so, there’s a group discussion.
everyone gathers in a loose circle, sitting on cold benches, notebooks in their laps.
you stay quiet. you always do.
until…
“what do you think?” he asks. your head snaps up.
the professor is looking at you. your stomach drops.
“um…” you start quietly, suddenly forgetting every thought inside your head.
before you can panic completely, there’s a small nudge against your knee.
daniela.
you glance at her. she’s already looking at you, expression steady. encouraging.
“you were explaining it earlier.” she says gently. “the thing about layered messaging?”
your heart is pounding as you swallow, slowly starting to speak.
you explain the idea you told her earlier, your voice still soft but clearer now, more certain.
when you finish, there’s a brief pause until the professor nods.
“good. that’s a strong observation.” he praises, a little impressed and surprised.
heat rushes to your face as you look down quickly.
“see? i told you.” daniela whispers eventually, nudging your foot lightly.
—
the afternoon is lighter. less structured.
you’re given time to wander and have some free time for a while.
you and daniela walk side by side without a clear direction.
close enough that your hands brush every few steps. neither of you pulls away.
“i liked what you said earlier.” she says after a while, breaking the silence.
you shrug slightly, trying to bite back a smile. “it was nothing.”
“you always say that.” daniela mutters, a bit sadly.
you don’t respond. you don’t know how to explain that minimizing yourself feels safer than believing her.
after a few more minutes, you stop near the water close to a park.
it’s quieter, the sounds of the others fading into the background.
she leans against the railing, looking out. you stand beside her.
“can i ask you something?” daniela says.
your heart stutters as you softly nod. she turns slightly toward you.
“why do you act like you’re… less than you are?”
your brows furrow, slightly taken aback by her question. “i don’t—” you start.
“you do.” she interrupts gently. “you brush everything off. like none of it matters.”
you look down at your hands. you don’t know how to answer that.
because it’s easier to be small. because if you expect nothing, you can’t be disappointed. because wanting more, wanting her, feels like too much.
“i guess i just don’t like attention that much.” you sigh out.
she studies you, like she’s trying to see past that answer. like she knows it’s not the whole truth.
but she doesn’t push. not this time.
instead, she reaches out just slightly.
her hand reaches for yours, fingers brushing yours. it feels like everything.
you don’t look at her. you don’t trust yourself to.
“you deserve to take up space, you know.” she says quietly.
you don’t know if she means only in class, or in her life too.
It had been exactly seven days since the living room went quiet. Seven days since the last shimmer of light faded from the air, seven days since the warmth that always lingered near your side vanished, and seven days since Daniela left you with nothing but cold, empty space and the echo of her last words bouncing off the walls.
"Pinky promise."
You hadn't slept properly since.
You hadn't eaten much either.
Every hour of every day was spent buried under piles of old newspapers, hospital directories, and phone books, your eyes burning as you scanned every single page, looking for anything that said Avanzini.
You were desperate to know— did her soul make it back? Did she wake up? Was she breathing right now somewhere, unaware that you were going crazy trying to find her?
Although, the thought that hurt the most, the one that kept you awake at night, twisting in your chest like a knife, was simple and cruel:
If she did wake up… did she remember you?
To Daniela, if she was awake now, the last thing she might remember was stepping out of the house in the rain, slipping on the porch steps, the crash, the darkness.
No three years of being stuck in the house as a lost spirit.
No memory of meeting you.
She wouldn't remember the kitchen where she danced on countertops. She wouldn't remember teasing you until you were red in the face. She wouldn't remember how you'd stay up late just talking to thin air, or how you held her even though your hands passed right through her chest.
She wouldn't remember falling in love with the person who moved into her house.
And going back to her family was out of the question despite how much those thoughts were killing you. You were just the new tenant, the stranger who moved in after they left. The girl who was curious enough to appear at their doorsteps before.
Showing up again, and this time, asking personal questions about their daughter who'd been in a coma for years?
That would look suspicious. That would look crazy.
You would look crazy.
And you already had enough of that with Megan still avoiding you like you were carrying the new Hantavirus.
And so, you searched alone. You suffered alone. You hoped alone.
And then, finally, after what felt like a lifetime of dead ends, you found it.
It happened at the local library. You'd been talking to one of the librarians, a sweet old woman named Helena who had been helping you look up old neighborhood records. You mentioned you were looking for an old family that used to live in the area, describing the name, the house, anything you could. Her eyes lit up instantly behind her glasses.
"Oh! The Avanzinis? Of course I know them! Good, warm people. I've been friends with Mrs. Avanzini for decades, dear. I was heartbroken when the accident happened."
She leaned over the counter, lowering her voice gently but with certainty. "Daniela was in a coma, you know. They took her to St. Jude’s Hospital downtown. That’s where they kept her all this time. I visited them once or twice. Beautiful girl, that one. Always had a smile."
Adrenaline rushed through you before you know it at those words.
You listened intently. Hoped intently. Your heart hammering against your chest as if it wants to jump out of you to find Daniela on its own while Helena tells you everything. Which hospital. Which wing. Even the room number.
You didn't even finish your coffee as you got the information. You practically ran out of the building while fumbling with your keys, heart hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears, blood rushing so loud you almost couldn't hear your own thoughts. You drove faster than you ever had before, barely obeying speed limits, your hands shaking so bad you almost missed the turn twice.
You threw the car into park with a sharp, jerk, barely waiting for it to roll to a full stop before you yanked the door open and stumbled out. You didn't even spare a second to pull the key from the ignition or press the lock button. You couldn't care less at this point.
Your feet hit the pavement hard, and you sprinted toward the entrance, legs pumping, breath coming in ragged, burning gasps, your mind fixed on only one thing:
Daniela.
You burst past the automatic sliding doors, the sharp whoosh of glass barely registering, as you sprinted into the long, sterile hallways that stretched out endlessly before you. The thick, smell of antiseptic and cold, hospital air hit your nose instantly, invading your nostrils and making your throat tighten, but you didn't care, you barely even noticed.
Run, just run. Don't stop running.
Every white wall, every glowing overhead light, every muted beep of machines only made your chest tighten more, each sound and sight a reminder of why you were running so desperately. Your eyes darted wildly left and right, searching for a familiar face, a familiar room number, any sign that would lead you straight to her.
Please...
In your reckless, panicked haste, you didn't watch where you were stepping. Your foot caught hard on a step you didn't saw and you stumbled forward, completely off balance. You crashed down hard, colliding heavily into someone walking past— your shoulder slammed into theirs, sending you into the ground with a burning pain searing on your side that you can barely register.
You scrambled up immediately despite the ache on your body, hands shaking, face burning with panic and guilt, words spilling out of your mouth before you could even catch your breath.
"I'm so sorry— oh my god, I'm so, so sorry, I didn't mean it, I wasn't looking, I'm just— please, forgive me, I need to be somewhere—" You rambled, voice cracking, barely coherent as you bowed your head repeatedly, apologizing profusely, your eyes already darting back toward the corridor ahead even as you spoke.
You didn't wait for their reply, didn't pause to explain, you just had to keep going. Every second you spent stumbling or apologizing felt like an eternity stolen away from her, and the fear just started to eat you up even more from the inside.
You pushed yourself forward again, faster this time, ignoring the sharp pain in your side from the fall, ignoring the way your lungs burned, ignoring everything except the desperate, overwhelming need to find her.
Please, just let me get to her, just let me see her, please.
You don't care about anything else anymore. You'd run through a hundred more hallways, trip over a hundred more steps, crash into a hundred more people— anything, everything— if it meant you could reach her side, hold her hand, and tell her you were finally there.
You promised you'd find her.
You pinky promised.
And you will.
You reached the front desk, breathless, chest heaving, lungs burning, and managed to gasp out, "Daniela Avanzini— can you tell me what room she's in? Please? It's urgent."
The nurse behind the counter typed something quickly, glanced at the screen, while your heart beat erratically against your chest as you waited.
After a few short minutes that felt like years to you, the nurse only looked back at you with a polite, apologetic smile that made your stomach drop.
"I'm sorry but Ms. Avanzini is no longer a patient here. She was discharged three days ago."
Discharged.
The word echoed in your head.
Gone. She was gone.
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. It felt like the floor had fallen out from under you, like gravity had just given up on you entirely. You gripped the counter to keep from collapsing, vision blurring for a second.
She was alive, she was awake, she was free…
But she was gone.
Panic surged through you, sharp and hot and without thinking, without caring anymore if you looked weird or suspicious or like a total nutjob, you ran back to your car and drove straight to the Avanzini's house— the one you visited before, the one you got answers from, the one where Daniela might be right now.
But when you pulled up, tires screeching a little on the pavement, your breath caught in your throat and died there.
There were moving trucks parked out front.
Big, white, industrial trucks were everywhere. Boxes were stacked high on the lawn. Men in uniforms were carrying furniture out the door and loading them onto the vans. The house that allowed you to see theough Daniela's past, the house that allowed you to fully know her was half-empty already. Windows were bare. Curtains gone. It looked cold. Lifeless.
You got out of your car, legs wobbly, and walked up to one of the movers, your voice cracking, barely audible. "Excuse me… the Avanzini family? Where did they go? Why are they moving? I just– I need to know, please."
The man just shrugged, taping up a cardboard box labeled KITCHEN in big black letters. "Don't know, lady. We were just hired yesterday. Got a call saying the client needed everything moved out urgently. Paid extra for speed. Said it was a long-distance move. That's all we got, sorry."
You stood there, frozen, helpless, watching them pack up her entire life, her history, her memories, and drive them away piece by piece.
You had no idea why they left so fast. No idea where they went. No way to follow. No trail left behind. Your chest ached so bad you thought you might crumble right there on the sidewalk and never get back up.
Then, your eyes fell on a box being carried past you. It was open, taped shut at the bottom but flapping at the top, and sitting right on top, visible for only a second, was a framed photograph.
Daniela.
She was younger in the picture, maybe eighteen or seventeen, before the accident, standing right on the porch you knew so well, grinning so bright it could light up the whole neighborhood. Her dark curls were wild and messy and windblown, arms wide open like she was ready to hug the whole world, like nothing bad could ever touch her.
She looked alive. She looked real.
She looked like the girl you knew, just… solid. And seeing her face like that, captured in time, tangible and permanent, almost broke you right then and there.
You didn't know it then, but that image would be burned into your mind, your heart, your soul, for the next four months.
Four whole months.
One hundred and twenty-two days since she faded away. Two thousand, nine hundred and twenty-eight hours of wondering, of hoping, of missing her so much it physically hurt.
You never stopped searching.
You called every hospital within a hundred miles. You checked every new address registry. You asked every neighbor, every shopkeeper, every mailman. But the Avanzinis had vanished completely. Like they'd never been there at all.
Like Daniela had never existed at all.
Slowly, though, the frantic searching turned into… something else.
Something softer, sadder, but still full of so much love.
You started bringing her into the house. You couldn't have her standing in front of you, not yet, so you made sure every single corner of the place had a piece of her instead. You turned your home, her home, into a living memory of everything she was, everything she loved, everything she meant to you.
The house became Daniela.
You hung paper flowers everywhere— bright pinks, sunny yellows, warm blues, deep purples, covered head to toe in glitter, just like she used to ramble about wanting to make, saying "Glitter makes everything better, duh. If it doesn't have glitter, is it even worth looking at?"
They dangled from the ceiling in the kitchen, lined the hallway walls, decorated every mirror and window frame, sat in vases on every table. Even the bathroom had them.
She would've called it excessive.
She would've loved it.
You also kept soft salsa music playing almost constantly, the same old tracks she'd hum while floating around, the rhythm she'd drag you into dancing to even when you were exhausted from work, even when you were grumpy, even when you told her you had two left feet. "There's no such thing as bad dancers, only boring ones." she'd say, spinning you around until you were dizzy and laughing.
Now, the music just filled the silence she left behind.
Out back, in the garden that had been a mess of weeds when you moved in, you planted irises and jasmine. You remembered her telling you once, rambling through a half-memory she barely held onto before, eyes faraway and soft, that those were her absolute favorites. Said that talking to them would make them grow faster as per her abuelita's advice.
You thought she was being dramatic. You thought it was just another one of her silly, adorable thing she did as a child.
But somehow, you found yourself talking to them every single day.
Every morning while watering them. Every afternoon while pulling weeds. Every evening before going inside. You told them about your day, about how much you missed her, about how you were still waiting, still hoping, still loving her. You told them to grow strong and tall and beautiful, because she was going to come home one day and she deserved to see them perfect.
And lastly, at the very front of the house, you didn't renovate the porch like you originally planned.
You remembered exactly how she scolded you when you mentioned changing the steps, how she insisted that you were offending her whole entire bloodline by remodeling it. So instead, you just cleaned it up, sanded the wood, and painted it. Bright, beautiful, blue — her favorite color, the color of her old diary, the color of her old swing, and the color of her fading, translucent figure that broke your heart as it left you four months ago.
And remembering exactly why she ended up in that accident three years ago, remembering her telling you about slipping on the wet, slick wood, hitting her head, and everything going black… you installed thick, rubber, anti-slip mats on every single step.
You nailed them down tight.
You checked them twice.
No more slipping. Not here. Not ever again. Not where you could prevent it.
Life moved around you, too.
Slowly, normally, healingly.
And, also, thankfully, Megan came back around.
At first, when Daniela was still there with you, she thought you were, you know, messed up in the head— talking to yourself, staring at empty space, laughing at nothing, crying at nothing, rearranging things for no reason.
She looked at you like your head was up on your ass, to be honest, told her grandma about it, and started keeping her distance.
But after a few months, after you started acting a little more "normal" (even if your definition of normal had changed completely), she just… forgot.
Or maybe she decided you were just quirky.
Or maybe she missed her best friend so much she just wanted you around anyway.
Either way, you became friends again, properly this time. You hung out, chatted almost every day, went out for coffee, walked around the neighborhood. You even went over to her place every Sunday to play mahjong with her grandma, who kept trying to set you up with distant cousins and neighbors and you'd always just smile and shook your head. You couldn't explain that your heart was already owned by someone who was technically missing.
Speaking of that, you never told Megan the truth—that you had fallen in love with the soul of her best friend while she was in a coma.
You couldn't.
Part of it is because you don't want her looking at you crazy again, you don't want that, god no, not again. And the other part, on the other hand, is just knowing that some things were just meant for you to carry.
That some love stories make sense only to the two people living them.
But even with Megan around, even with the house filled with things that reminded you of her, even with the plants growing tall and beautiful at the back...
It was still quiet.
Too quiet.
The silence was heavy. The house was perfect, but it was waiting.
Until that morning.
It was sunny, warm, breezy— the kind of weather Daniela always said was "perfect for being chaotic and causing crazy shits." You were out back, kneeling in the dirt, your hands covered in soil, knees dirty, hair messy, gently adjusting the jasmine vines so they'd climb the trellis better. You were talking to them like usual, soft and low, like you were talking to an old friend.
"She'd be proud of you guys, you know. She'd probably say you look fabulous. She says everything looks fabulous, honestly. Even weeds. She'd probably call weeds 'free flowers' or something ridiculous."
You chuckled softly to yourself, brushing sweat and hair out of your face, smiling sadly at the memory. You were about to stand up and get the watering can when you heard it.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three solid, heavy, real knocks on your front door.
Your heart skipped a beat.
You froze completely.
No one really came over unannounced except Megan, and she usually just yelled from the gate or texted you first. So, slowly, wiping your hands clumsily on your jeans, standing up stiffly after kneeling so long, you walked toward the front of the house, every step feeling like it was in slow motion, like your body knew something your brain was too scared to hope for.
You reached the door, took a deep breath that shook in your chest, and pulled it open.
And the world stopped turning.
Stopped spinning. Stopped existing in anything but this exact second.
Standing right there, on the blue-painted porch, standing right on the anti-slip mats you'd put down just for her... was Daniela.
Not translucent. Not glowing. Not cold or see-through or floating inches off the ground like she had been for years.
Daniela.
Your Daniela.
She was warm. Solid. Real.
Her skin was flushed with color, healthy and glowing, sun-kissed and alive, no longer the pale, ghostly shade you'd gotten used to. Her cheeks were full, her lips pink, her eyes bright and shining. Her curls were longer now, falling past her shoulders, bouncy and wild and absolutely untamed just like before, framing her face perfectly. And because she wasn't floating anymore, because her feet were actually planted firmly on the floor, touching the ground, connected to the earth, you realized that she was shorter than you. Just by a few centimeters, allowing you to fully see her.
She was breathtaking.
She was everything.
She was here.
You stood there, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and wet, heart hammering so hard you thought you might pass out right there on the spot. You wanted to speak, wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to reach out and check if she was real, wanted to ask a million questions, wanted to say everything and nothing all at once… but nothing came out.
You just stared, drinking her in, terrified that if you blinked, if you looked away for even a split second, she'd vanish again like she did before.
Then, her lips curved into that familiar, cheeky, cocky, trouble-making smile— the same one that had annoyed you and captivated you and driven you crazy from the very first second you saw her.
Daniela leaned casually against the doorframe like she owns the place (because she still kinda does) before crossing her arms over her chest, her voice warm, rich, and loud, exactly how you remembered it as she spoke.
"Hey, Watson."
The nickname.
The stupid, perfect, nickname she gave you before because she claimed you were her sidekick, because you were always figuring things out, always solving the mystery of her.
"You took too long to find me, you know." She said, clicking her tongue playfully, shaking her head like she was scolding you, though her eyes were already listening with tears she was barely holding back.
"I'm impatient, remember? I told you that from day one. I hate waiting. So this time… I decided I'd be the one to find you instead. Figured you needed a little help this time."
Your legs almost gave out completely.
You reached out, hesitating for half a second, terrified your hand would pass right through her like it had so many times before, before your palm landed flat on her arm— firm, warm, solid. You felt her skin under your fingers, the weight of her muscle, the heat radiating off her, the pulse beating steadily under her skin, fast and alive and real.
She's really here.
"I tried." You choked out, voice trembling, breaking, tears immediately spilling over and running down your face. You pulled her closer until you were practically holding her, terrified she'd slip away if you let go for even a second. "Daniela, I swear I tried. I searched everywhere. I found the hospital but you were gone, and the house was empty, and I didn't know where you went or if you were okay or if you even remembered me… I looked for four months. Every single day. I never stopped."
"Shh, hey, I know. I know, cariño." Daniela soothed instantly, her hands coming up to cup your face— warm hands, real hands, hands that actually touched you back — thumbs wiping away your tears gently, just like you used to try to wipe hers when she got upset or scared.
"It wasn't your fault. Everything happened so fast, it was crazy. No one had time to tell anyone anything."
She stepped past you into the house, looking around slowly as she spoke, her eyes scanning every detail, soaking everything in. "They moved us so fast because the doctors recommended a specialized facility in another state. I was a rare case, apparently. Three years in a coma and then suddenly waking up with full cognitive function? Unheard of. Medical miracle or something. They wanted to run more tests, do more therapy, keep an eye on me. We had to pack up and leave overnight basically. Couldn't tell anyone, couldn't leave a trail, didn't want media or attention or anything."
She paused, grinning a little sheepishly, looking down at her legs as she wiggled her toes inside her sneakers, kicking her feet a little like she was embarrassed. "And for weeks after I woke up… I was stuck in a wheelchair. Couldn't walk, couldn't stand, couldn't even wiggle my toes properly."
"Had to relearn how to move everything, you know? Physical therapy was crazy. I don't float anymore, I have to use gravity like a normal person now. So, I gotta do leg day all over again. Which is shitty, by the way. Worst part of waking up."
You laughed through your tears, following her as she walked further into the house, turning in a slow circle, taking it all in. She saw the paper flowers hanging everywhere, covered in glitter. She heard the soft salsa music playing low from the speakers, the exact song she used to play over and over. She looked out the big living room window and saw the backyard, the neat rows of irises and jasmine blooming tall and vibrant and sweet-smelling, swaying in the breeze. She saw the blue paint on the walls, the little touches everywhere that were unmistakably her.
Everything was her.
She turned back to you, her expression shifting from amusement to something much softer, something deeper, something raw and aching and full of so much love it almost hurt to look at.
She was planning to tease you, call you a weirdo for all of that, joke that you were really batshit crazy about her, but it all just faded and melted completely as her eyes found you again.
She looked at you, really looked at you, taking you in after months and months of longing, wondering, if you were really looking for her, or if you had given up, or if you were just waiting for her just like she is in the same living room she disappeared in.
She notices how your lips still continues to tremble slightly, subtly, as if you're trying to swallow your sobs down.
How your fingers were fidgeting the hem of your sleeves, itching to hold her, to feel her again after being able to finally touch her properly for the first time.
How your teary eyes were brimming with nothing but pure happiness and raw... love just at seeing her.
And Daniela's teasing smile faded into something gentler, something reverent.
"You remembered." She whispered, awe in her voice, like she couldn't believe it, like she couldn't believe you. "Every single thing I ever told you. Every little thing I mentioned liking, or wanting, or remembering, or hating… every stupid detail I rambled about… you remembered all of it."
She walked closer, slowly, like she was approaching something precious, and reached out to touch a paper flower hanging near the doorway, her fingers brushing the glitter gently.
"I barely remembered half these things myself, even as a ghost. They were just little bits and pieces floating around in my head… but you held onto them. You kept them safe. You built this whole house around them. Around me."
"Of course, I did." You said quietly, walking closer until you were standing right in front of her again, close enough to feel the heat coming off her body, close enough to take her very presence in again. "Every time you'd get a memory back, every time you'd ramble about something from before, every time you'd tell me about your favorite things or your mom or your childhood… I kept them. I thought if I collected enough pieces… maybe one day I could give them all back to you. They were pieces of you. And I wasn't gonna let any part of you get lost again. Not on my watch."
You nodded toward the back door, where the garden was visible, vibrant and green and blooming. "And you were right, by the way. About the plants. They really do grow faster when you talk to them. I talked to them every single day. Told them about you. Told them stories. Told them to hurry up and bloom because you were coming home one day and you deserved to see them perfect. And look at them now, they're huge."
That was it. That broke her completely.
Daniela stepped forward and crashed into you, wrapping her arms tight around your waist, burying her face deep in your chest, and suddenly she was crying— happy, messy, relieved, loud sobs that shook her whole body, tears soaking right through your shirt, just letting everything go.
You held her back just as tight, your hands running up and down her back, tangling in her long curls, pressing her as close as physically possible, trying to make up for four months of emptiness, seven days of heartbreak, and three years of being lost and alone.
She's here and you won't ever allow her to disappear again.
You held her even tighter, savoring every detail: how warm she was, how real she felt, and how naturally she fit against you.
"You made it home." She mumbled against your shirt, voice thick and muffled. "You made this house feel like home again. Even when I wasn't here… you made it mine. You made it ours. You made me feel home even before I was here."
Daniela pulled back just enough to look up at you, her hands resting on your shoulders, eyes red, shiny with tears, and swollen but full of so much love it almost hurt to look at. The teasing was gone for a moment, replaced by absolute sincerity, by something heavy and true and forever.
"I remembered you, you know." She said softly, seriously now, her hands sliding down your arms until she found your hands, lacing her fingers through yours — real fingers, warm skin, no passing through, just grip and connection. "The second I opened my eyes in that hospital bed, the second I took my first breath… you were the first thing I thought of. Not my family, not the accident, not where I was… just you. I was scared I'd made it back but lost you anyway. I was terrified it was all just a dream or a hallucination or something my brain made up somehow to keep me sane."
She chuckled brokenly, squeezing your hands, stepping even closer, until there was absolutely no space left between you, chest to chest, heart to heart.
"But I remembered everything. The living room. The dancing. You yelling at me for moving things around or hiding your keys or eating imaginary food. You holding me even though you couldn't touch me. You staying up with me when I was scared. You listening to every single stupid thing I had to say. All of it. You weren't just a passing memory, you were someone who stayed in me. You were the reason I fought so hard to get back."
Daniela sniffed softly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she flashed you a soft, wobbly, broken smile. "I had to come back… I knew I had to because I left my heart here with you."
This was it. It's now or never.
She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, her nerves were acting up but she didn't care. You're here, she's here, physically now, and she'd be stupid to waste the chance.
She looked at you dead in the eye after gathering enough courage, saying the words you'd been dying to hear for months, the words that had been hanging in the air between you since she left.
"I love you."
Daniela said it loud and clear and sure, like she was announcing it to the whole world, like she was carving it into stone. "I think I loved you since the first time I floated through you and you screamed so loud the neighbors probably called the cops. I loved your stupid brain and your patience and the way you take care of everything, including me. I love that you turned our house into a shrine of everything I love. I love that you talked to plants for me. I love that you remembered every single thing about me when I couldn't even remember myself. I love you. Every part. Even the parts that are grumpy or quiet or stubborn. Especially those parts."
She grinned a little, that cheeky spark coming back instantly, lighting up her whole face. "And for the record… I already loved you even when I was a ghost. Thought I made that clear when I was literally vaporizing like I was part of the half of the universe that Thanos snapped in Infinity War."
You laughed, crying and smiling all at once, leaning down until your forehead rested against hers, breathing her air, feeling her warmth, grounding yourself in the fact that she was really, truly here.
"You're so stupid." You whispered, your voice steady and sure now. "I love you too, Daniela Avanzini. More than anything. I loved you when you were a ghost terrorizing my kitchen. I loved you when you were fading away and I thought I'd lost you forever. I loved you while I waited four months for you. I love you now that you're here, annoying me in person. You're my favorite chaos. You're my favorite comfort. My home."
Daniela beamed, bright and proud, that same cocky grin tugging up at her lips as she poked your chest playfully. "Good answer. Ten out of ten. Very romantic. Now… since I am alive, tangible, and very much capable of being touched now… "
She trailed off, her expression turning into that familiar teasing look she'd always terrorized you with. "... You gonna kiss me or are we gonna stand here crying all day? Because I've been waiting months for this part and like I've said, I'm impatient."
You didn't waste another second.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to hers—messy, wet, and salty from tears, but so incredibly perfect. It was desperate and relieved, carrying every word and every feeling you'd held back for months. Soft, warm, and exactly like what you'd dreamed of a thousand times over, but a million times better because it was real.
Daniela's arms flew tight around your neck, pulling you down closer until there was zero space left between you. Her fingers tangled deep in your hair, and she kissed you back just as hard, just as hungry, like she'd been waiting just as long and needed this just as much.
For the first time, when you held her, she held you right back— firm, sure, and completely hers. For the first time, you weren't kissing empty air or just a memory. It was her — warm, alive, and everything you ever wanted. Every touch sent shivers running through you, every breath tasted like home, and it felt so beautiful, so right, like your whole world finally clicked into place.
She was here. She was real. She was yours.
And before you knew it, two years had already passed.
Time blurred together, soft and sweet and painted in every color Daniela ever loved, and if someone asked you now what your life looked like, you'd just smile and say: "It looks like her."
The house never stopped being loud. It never stopped being messy, glitter-covered, filled with music, laughter, and her voice bouncing off every wall. The paper flowers were still there, always fresh, always sparkling, because Daniela made it a weekly ritual to sit on the floor surrounded by craft supplies and glue, saying it was "art therapy" and forcing you to help even when you were terrible at it.
The salsa music also never left the speakers; it was the soundtrack to every morning, every evening, every celebration, and every quiet Sunday where you just swayed together in the kitchen while she hummed off-key and stole bites of your food.
The blue porch, on the other hand, remained exactly as you painted it, bright and bold, the anti-slip mats still firmly in place, a quiet promise kept every single rainy day or winter season.
Daniela checks them weekly just to be safe, and when the rain or snow came, she'll just be laughing and spinning, yelling over the skies that she was invincible now, that she was here, that she was safe, that you were always there to catch her anytime.
"SEE?! NO SLIPPING! I AM SAFE! YOU ARE SAFE! WE ARE GENIUSES! BEST DECISION WE EVER MADE!"
You'd always just be there, laughing at her theatrics, watching her with your heart full, knowing that this exact spot was where everything changed, where you found each other, where you started forever.
And the backyard? It's a wild, beautiful jungle of irises and jasmines now, tall and fragrant and blooming like crazy, because now two people talk to them every single day, competing over who encourages them better.
Daniela swears she's better at it because she has more personality and better jokes, and you just let her win because seeing her kneel in the dirt, curls falling in her face, rambling happily to flowers like they're her best friends, is easily your favorite sight in the whole universe. She even planted new ones, roses and sunflowers, claiming that your garden should be as loud and colorful as you both are.
You couldn't agree more.
Megan was still your friend, well, best friend now, actually, still teasing you about the "weird phase" you went through, still convinced you were just lonely and weird back then. She still had no clue, and you and Daniela still shared that secret smile every time she mentioned it.
Sometimes, though, Daniela would just be a straight up menace, saying that if she was a ghost, she'd sneak in and chop Megan's bangs way shorter while she slept. She'd drop random inside jokes too all the time, leaving the Hawaiian totally lost and wondering what on earth was going on. You'd just kiss her right then and there to make the teasing stop, though she usually just smiled and kept it going even more afterwards.
Oh, and her family became your family as well.
Mrs. Avanzini treated you like her own child, always hugging you a little longer, always thanking you quietly, always looking at you with that knowing look in her eyes that told you she understood everything, even without words.
She didn't know how but she knew you kept her daughter's heart safe when she couldn't.
She knew you brought Daniela home.
And speaking of the devil, She never did get rid of the ghostly floating habit entirely, now she just jumps or climbs or stands on furniture or balances on railings instead.
"It's basically the same vibe, baby. I'm just defying gravity legally now."
Oh, she won't be defying any shit in your watch.
Those would always be the stressful part of your days, really. Watching her intently in every small parkour she does in your bedroom, supporting her every time she'd slide in the railings of the stairs. Always making sure you catch her every single time and not let her fall and potentially turn her into a ghost again.
God, she was still dramatic, still loud, still chaotic, still the most beautiful, annoying, brilliant person you had ever known.
And you wouldn't change a thing about it.
One evening, months later, when the sun was setting and painting the whole world in gold and blue and pink, you were sitting together on those blue porch steps, just like you did a thousand times before.
Daniela was leaning back against your chest, your arms wrapped tight around her, her hands resting over yours, fingers laced together perfectly. The air smelled like jasmine and flowers and home. She was quiet, which was rare, and you could feel her heart beating steady and strong against your arms.
"You know." She started softly, her voice warm and thick with emotion, "Sometimes I close my eyes and I can still remember what it felt like to be just… light. To be cold. To be invisible. To reach out and feel nothing but air. To watch you from the corner of the room, wanting so badly to touch you, to hold you, and knowing I couldn't."
She turned in your arms then, kneeling between your legs, her hands coming up to cup your face exactly like she did the day she arrived. Her dark brown eyes were shining, bright, and full of everything you had ever meant to her.
"I remember the fear of fading away. I remember the pain of leaving you, thinking it was forever. I remember waking up in that hospital room and the very first thought in my head wasn't 'where am I?' or 'what happened?'... It was you. I knew I had to get to you. I knew I had to find my way back, no matter how long it took, no matter how hard it was."
Daniela brushed her thumb over your cheek, gentle and loving and eternal, the same dimple that you love so much appearing on her right cheek as her lips curved up into a soft, shy smile.
"And then I stood right here, on this very spot, and I saw you. You looked exactly the same, but different too— softer, sadder, but still the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And I knew, right then… that every second of loneliness, every second of pain, every second of fear… it was worth it. Because it led me here. Because it led me back to you."
She looked around at the house, at the flowers, at the garden, at the life you built together.
"You didn't just love me when I was whole, when I was solid, when I was easy to love. You loved me when I was nothing but spirit and memories and cold air. You built this entire world around the pieces of me that I had forgotten or lost. You kept my heart safe when I couldn't carry it myself. You remembered every little thing, every silly word, every quiet moment… and you turned it all into home."
Her voice cracked a little, eyes shiny but she smiled— the brightest, most genuine smile you had ever seen.
"Most people get to fall in love once. But us? We fell in love twice. Once as a ghost and a girl… and once as two people, solid and real and alive. I got to be loved by you in every form I ever took. I got to see your love stretch across worlds, across states, across months of silence and years of time. There is no love bigger than that. No love stronger. No love more mine."
She leaned in, pressing her forehead against yours, breathing you in, grounding herself in you, holding you in every bit of way that she can.
"You're my miracle, Y/n. Honestly, you're the whole reason I woke up and why I'm here today. I promise I'll spend every single day loving you just as much as you've always loved me. You were always my home, my safe place, and my everything — and now I'll be exactly that for you, always."
Then, she kissed you, slow and deep and soft, a kiss that held every memory, every tear, every laugh, every I love you ever spoken or unspoken. It was a kiss that said we made it. It was a kiss that said forever.
And as you sat there, holding her, warm and solid and real in your arms, listening to the music drift out the windows, smelling the flowers you planted together, feeling the wind brush against the blue paint of the porch… you knew.
You knew that love wasn't just about what you could touch or see or hold. It was about what you carried in your heart. It was about waiting. It was about remembering. It was about building a home for someone even when they weren't there.
You had loved a ghost, and in return, you got the whole world.
And you knew that no matter what life threw at you, no matter what form she took, no matter where you went… you would always find each other.
Because you were hers. And she was yours.
And now, you get to be happily haunted by her love for the rest of your life.
Alicent Hightower x Fem Zombie Reader x Rhaenyra Targaryen
Summary: A public resurrection experiment authorized by King Aegon ll is held in a dragonpit before a crowd of nobles. Eleven dead young women, including the reader, are brought back to life using a mysterious Valyrian substance said to contain the essence of lightning. The experiment quickly goes wrong as several resurrected girls become violent undead creatures, attacking guards and spectators in a bloody panic. Unlike the others, the reader regains consciousness and escapes, only to discover that she has unnatural strength and can no longer truly die. Fleeing into the woods, she finds a graveyard where she learns that her beloved Juliet is dead and buried. Overcome by grief and rage, she realizes Aegon is responsible for both her cursed existence and Juliet’s death. Surrounded by the other resurrected girls, she vows revenge and begins planning to overthrow and kill the king.
Warnings: Angst, violence, gore.
You walked the marsh’s edge with the knight’s shadow stretching long behind you, his footsteps silent despite the weight of his armor. The widow’s lace in your pouch pressed against your hip with every step, their petals bruising sweetly against stolen leather. The scent—honeyed decay, like funeral roses left too long in the sun—lingered in the damp air between you. He carried his sword unsheathed, its edge catching the moonlight in jagged increments, as if counting the graves you passed.
The more time you spent with the knight, the more you noticed about him which was his size. Even among the dead, he seemed impossibly large—a towering thing of rusted steel and ruined flesh that would forced the wreck’s rotted beams to groan beneath his weight. Nearly seven feet tall, broad enough to block the lanternlight entirely, he looked less like a man and more like a siege weapon dragged back from the grave. Ancient plate armor encased him from throat to heel, the metal split open in places where something massive had once tried to carve him apart. Chains hung from his waist like funeral ribbons, clinking softly whenever he moved.
When he removed his battered helm, the face beneath was terrible in its stillness—skin grey and scarred, one eye clouded white, the other glowing faintly blue beneath the moonlight. Yet there was something unmistakably human in the way he bowed his head toward you, massive gauntlet pressed over the hollow place where his heart should have been.
The Blackwater marsh breathed around you in slow, hollow sighs as you wandered through the drowned reeds beneath the moonlight. Fog curled low across the water, silver-blue beneath the night sky, and every step sent ripples shivering through the black shallows. You crouched beside a pool of still water to wash the mud from your hands, but the reflection staring back made your breath hitch in your dead chest.
Your eyes had turned red.
Not bright with hunger like the others after feeding, but darker—strained, raw, the color of dying embers beneath ash. Thin crimson cracks webbed beneath them where the lightning in your veins pulsed too violently against flesh that no longer truly lived. You had denied yourself the feasting the others embraced, refusing to gorge on the living no matter how the cold ache inside you sharpened each night. And now the storm trapped beneath your skin was beginning to burn through you instead.
The reflection in the water trembled. For a moment, it looked less like a woman and more like lightning wearing a corpse.
You stood, shaking the image away, and turned toward the ship. The knight followed silently, his sword scraping against the hull’s warped wood as he climbed aboard. The captain’s cabin smelled of salt and old grief—Juliet’s urn rested on the table beside the carved statue, her ashes mingling with the scent of widow’s lace strewn across the floor. You tucked the newest flowers beside the jar, their petals brushing the inscription you’d scratched into the wood: *Here lies what kings feared most.*
Meanwhile, deep beneath the Dragonpit’s ruined arches, Alicent’s lantern guttered against the damp. The Valyrian lightning essence pulsed in its glass prison like a trapped storm, casting jagged shadows across Rhaenyra’s face as she traced the fractures in its containment runes. "It remembers," she murmured. The substance recoiled from her touch, hissing against the glass. Alicent’s breath hitched—she’d seen that same recoil once before, in the eyes of a condemned woman shrinking from the executioner’s blade.
Rhaenyra’s fingers stilled. "Did he ever tell you," she asked without turning, "what they carved into Subject Eleven’s bones?" The question hung between them like a noose. Alicent’s grip tightened on the lantern until the brass frame groaned. She remembered the autopsy scrolls Aegon had tossed into the hearth after reading them—how the parchment had curled like screaming mouths as it burned.
The lightning essence surged against its glass prison, casting jagged shadows that made the Valyrian runes seem to writhe. "He lied," Rhaenyra whispered. The substance pulsed once—a heartbeat out of time—and for a breath, the Dragonpit’s foundations trembled. Somewhere far above, a loose stone clattered down the steps. Alicent stared at the cracks spreading through the glass. The lightning wasn’t just reacting. It was *answering*.
"Look." Rhaenyra pressed her palm flat against the container. The lightning recoiled violently—not from her touch, but from the faint silver scar curling around her wrist. A mark from the same blade that had once carved Valyrian glyphs into Subject Eleven’s ribs. "It remembers the knife," she murmured. "Just like she did."
Alicent slammed the lantern onto the stone shelf hard enough to shatter the glass. "Gods damn your riddles!" Flames licked up the spilled oil, painting her face in furious gold. "What are you *saying*? That the lightning—that *thing*—has memories? That it’s *alive*?"
Rhaenyra caught her wrist before the fire could spread. "Alive?" She snorted—a sharp, ugly sound. "No. But neither are them." The lightning essence pulsed violently in its fractured container, casting fractured light across the autopsy sketches pinned to the walls—Subject Eleven’s ribs, flayed open to reveal glyphs still smoking with stolen stormlight. "It doesn’t remember being alive. It remembers being *used*."
Alicent recoiled as the substance surged again, its light strobing like a dying heartbeat. "Then why does it react to—" Her voice cracked. The scars on Rhaenyra’s wrist glowed faintly blue where the lightning’s reflection caught them.
"Because it’s not just essence." Rhaenyra’s fingers hovered over the glass. "It’s *her*." The lightning twisted violently at the word, forming jagged Valyrian glyphs against the prison walls—*vengeance*, *storm*, *remember*. "Aegon didn’t bottle lightning. He bottled the moment of death itself." Her thumb brushed the scar. "Eleven times over."
Alicent recoiled as the glyphs flared brighter. "You make no sense," she hissed, wrenching her wrist free. The spilled fire climbed the shelves, consuming autopsy scrolls that curled into skeletal hands. "Let go now before—" The glass shattered. Lightning arced across the chamber, searing the sketches of flayed ribs into the stone like brands. The scent of burning parchment and ozone choked the air.
Five months later, the scent still clung to you—not fire, but lightning. You inhaled deeply as the Blackwater breeze swept through the army gathered at your back: sixty thousand dead women in stolen armor, their hollow eyes reflecting the pyres where Aegon’s scouts burned. The knight stood at your left, his sword planted in the earth like a grave marker; The Subjects at your right. Subject five fingers Trace the Valyrian scars on her ribs where the lightning had first entered her. "We remember," she whispered, and the army exhaled your name like thunder.
You stepped onto the quarterdeck of the Juliet sigh where eleven effigies loomed—one for each original subject, carved from shipwreck wood and crowned with widow’s lace.
"Three weeks," you said, pressing a rusted dagger into the deck’s salt-bleached wood. The blade stood upright, trembling like a compass needle seeking blood. "We send him one last warning. If he’s not gone by the new moon, we carve his reign apart." The Gulltown girl exhaled through her teeth—a sound like a noose tightening—but Subject 4 nodded, her fingers brushing the scarred glyphs on her ribs where the lightning had first writhed.
The knight’s shadow swallowed half the deck as he leaned forward, gauntlets braced on the rail. "The Red Keep’s sewers," he rumbled. "They empty beneath the Tower of the Hand." His ruined eye flickered toward you, clouded but knowing. "I guarded those tunnels once. There’s a grate behind the midden heap where the mortar’s crumbling." He didn’t say *I can get us in*. He didn’t need to.
Subject Five pressed a damp scrap of parchment into your palm—the Silent Sisters’ latest report, stolen from a courier’s saddlebag. The ink blurred where river water had soaked through, but the words *throne room* and *council* stood stark as knife wounds. Subject Two grinned, her teeth glinting like a whetstone dragged along a blade. "He’s holding court," she whispered. "All four of them, gathered like ripe plums in a bowl."
The knight led the way through the sewer’s throat, his massive frame bending the iron grates without sound. The water here ran black with more than filth—centuries of assassins’ poisons and torturers’ runoff had seeped into the stone, leaving the walls pocked with weeping sores that smelled of rust and rotted meat. Subject Five traced a glyph above each one, her fingers leaving faint blue pulses in the mortar cracks—marking the path home for those who’d follow.
Above, through a rust-eaten grate, Aegon’s voice dripped down like spoiled wine. "—like dogs digging up bones," he sneered, followed by Alicent’s hissed rebuke. Subject Two’s lips peeled back in a silent snarl as she pressed her ear to the ceiling, her nails carving grooves into the stone. You held up a hand—one finger, two—then pointed to the alcove where the knight knelt, his gauntlets already working loose the mortar around a forgotten drain.
The gap was barely wide enough for a child, but Subject Five folded herself into liquid shadow and slipped through first, her body dissolving into the darkness like ink in water. You followed, ribs scraping against jagged stone, the scent of mildew and old blood thick in your nostrils. The knight came last, his armor screeching against the narrow passage—until Subject Two muffled the sound with her own cloak, her free hand clapped over her mouth to stifle laughter.
Above, the throne room's heat hit like a furnace blast, thick with incense and sweat. Through the cracked floor grates, you watched Alicent's slippered foot tap an anxious rhythm near the Iron Throne's base—close enough that one good yank on her hem might topple her into your waiting hands. Rhaenyra stood statue-still by the window, her silhouette outlined in afternoon light, fingers tight around a goblet of untouched wine. Neither noticed the faint blue glow pulsing from the grate beneath their feet.
The knight moved first, his armored bulk swallowing sound as he crept toward an alcove hidden behind threadbare tapestries. His blade's tip found the gap where mortar had crumbled—right where he'd promised—and pried open a seam just wide enough for a corpse to slip through. Inside, the air smelled of oiled steel and old blood, the armory's racks gleaming faintly in torchlight stolen from the hall beyond. Subject Two grinned as she snatched a dirk from its mounting, testing its balance with a flick of her wrist that sent reflections dancing across the ceiling like startled birds.
You stole differently. The swordbelt dangling from an unmanned armor stand came loose with a twist of your fingers, its leather sighing against your stolen gambeson as you buckled it low across your hips. The knight watched, approving, as you lifted a slender longsword from its rack—no castle-forged steel, but good Reach work, its pommel wrapped in braided gold wire that felt warm against your dead palm. The second blade was shorter, meaner, its edge notched from parrying blows meant for softer flesh. It settled against your thigh like an old friend, whispering promises of vengeance in the hollows of your ribs.
Subject Five crouched beside you, her fingers hovering over a rack of throwing knives with the reverence of a mourner tending fresh graves. "They won’t suit me," she murmured, tracing the glyph-carved scars beneath her tunic. The lightning in her veins pulsed blue-black beneath translucent skin, twisting through old wounds in shapes too close to Valyrian steel. You knew before she did—the way her breath hitched when her fingertip brushed a dagger’s edge, the reflexive curl of her fingers away from sharpness. Some resurrected things remembered their deaths too vividly to embrace the means of them again.
The knight moved first, his sword scraping faintly against stone as he peered around the armory door. The corridor beyond lay empty save for the flicker of torchlight—no guards, no servants, just the distant murmur of Aegon’s voice drifting from the throne room like spoiled wine dripping from a cask. You slipped forward, boots silent on the worn runner, fingers flexing around your stolen blades. Twenty paces. Ten. The throne room’s arched doorway loomed ahead, its iron-bound oak cracked just enough to spill golden light onto the flagstones—and the shadow of a spear-wielding guard stretched long across them.
Subject Two lunged before he could turn. Her dirk found his throat as her other hand clamped over his mouth, muffling the wet gurgle as she wrenched the blade sideways. The knight caught the falling spear before it clattered, but the damage was done—another guard rounding the corner froze mid-step, eyes widening at the blood slicking the stones. You moved on instinct, your longsword carving up through his ribs before he could shout. His choked gasp was loud enough.
Bootsteps pounded from the adjacent hall. Too many to count. The knight slammed the armory door shut behind you just as the first crossbow bolt splintered the wood. "Plan?" Subject Two hissed, pressing her back to the trembling door. You flipped your grip on the stolen blades—one high, one low—as the knight braced his shoulder against the oak. "We improvise," you said, and kicked the door open into the charging guards.
Metal screamed as the knight's greatsword carved through the first two men like wheat. Subject Five melted into the shadows, reappearing behind the crossbowmen to slit their throats with a rusted hook snatched from the wall. You danced between spear thrusts, your longsword catching torchlight as it opened a guard from groin to gullet—but the spray of blood caught your sleeve, weighing the fabric down just enough to slow your next parry. A dagger bit into your ribs.
You barely felt it. The lightning in your veins writhed hotter where steel met bone, knitting flesh around the blade as you twisted and drove your own dagger up through the guard’s chin. Subject Two laughed as she fought, her movements jagged as broken glass, scattering droplets of blood across tapestries that drank them like wine.
Three floors above, Alicent’s slippered foot stilled mid-tap as the first scream echoed up through the Iron Throne’s hollow base. Rhaenyra’s goblet hit the floor, wine spreading like a bloodstain across stone as the throne room doors burst open—not with guards, but with a single man staggering forward, his cuirass split open above the heart. "They’re—" he gasped, collapsing onto the dais steps, fingers scrabbling at Aegon’s boot. "The dead—the *women*—"
Aegon kicked the dying man onto his back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the skull-lined walls. "Oh, good," he purred, crouching to press his dagger into the guard’s twitching palm. "Tell them I’ll receive their petition." The guard’s mouth opened—whether to beg or warn, no one would know—before Aegon slammed the man’s own blade through his throat, pinning his corpse to the step like a butterfly to cork.
Rhaenyra was already moving, her chair scraping back as she drew the dagger from her boot. The scent hit her first—not blood, but ozone, creeping through the throne room’s cracks like ground lightning. Alicent clutched the throne’s jagged edges, her rings scraping against Valyrian steel as the first blue light pulsed beneath the floor grates. "You fool," she hissed at Aegon. "They’re *in the walls*."
Aegon licked the dead guard’s blood from his fingers, grinning as the throne room’s iron-bound doors shuddered under a massive impact. The wood groaned, splintering around a blade’s tip—not steel, but something darker, its edge gleaming with witchlight. Alicent seized his shoulder, her nails biting through silk. "Barricade the godsdamned door before—"
He shoved her off with a laugh. "Let them come."
Rhaenyra moved first—boots skidding on spilled wine as she flung the nearest bench toward the shuddering doors. The wood groaned, buckling inward as something massive slammed against it again, but she was already dragging a second table into place, her dagger wedged between the planks like a makeshift bar. Alicent's breath hitched as she recognized the blade—Valyrian steel, stolen from their father's tomb years ago, its edge still etched with the same glyphs now glowing beneath the throne room's floor.
Aegon rolled his eyes and leaned back against the Iron Throne, fingers drumming idly on its jagged arms. "Oh, let them in," he sighed, watching the doors splinter with the bored disinterest of a man who'd already calculated how much blood would stain the carpets. "They're just corpses with knives." The ceiling trembled, dust sifting down like fine snow as something heavy—something armored—pounded up the hidden servant's stair behind the tapestries.
The knight didn't burst through the door so much as the door burst around him, oak shattering inward in a hail of splinters that peppered the courtiers like shrapnel. He emerged from the wreckage like a siege tower collapsing forward—massive, inevitable, his greatsword carving a silver arc through the torchlight as guards rushed him. The first died mid-scream, his halberd clattering to the floor in two separate pieces. The knight kicked the second man's severed head toward the throne with the casual precision of a tavern patron tossing dice.
Behind him, you stepped through the smoke and ruin with the unhurried grace of a woman walking to an execution. The stink of spilled wine and burning parchment couldn't mask the ozone crackling in your wake—that sharp, metallic tang that made Alicent's fillings ache. Your stolen blades dripped black where the lightning in your veins seeped into the steel. "Aegon," you said, and the throne room's temperature dropped ten degrees.
Rhaenyra caught Alicent by the elbow as the queen stumbled backward—not away from the carnage, but into her. Alicent's shoulders hit Rhaenyra's chest with a gasp, silk gown tearing against dragonbone buttons as the two women collided with the awful intimacy of shared terror. Rhaenyra's dagger pressed cold against Alicent's ribs, her other hand fisting in the queen's unraveling braid. "Don't move," she breathed—not a threat to Alicent, but a warning. The knight's sword hovered inches from Aegon's throat, its edge singing with the same blue fire writhing in your eyes.
“There you are,” you spat.
Lightning cracked beneath your dead skin in violent red flashes as you stepped toward the Iron Throne. The air around you smelled scorched, heavy with ozone and smoke. Every guard in the room stiffened.
“Still rotting on a throne you never deserved.”
Your voice dripped with disgust.
Aegon leaned back slightly, wine still staining his mouth, but you could already see the unease crawling into his expression. Good. You wanted him uncomfortable. You wanted him choking on fear.
“Tell me something,” you snarled, another step shaking the marble beneath your feet. “Did the wine taste sweeter while she burned alive?” Your lip curled. “Or were you too busy grinning like the pathetic little coward you are?”
Lightning lashed violently across the floor.
The torches flickered.
“You worthless bastard.” Your breathing had turned rough now, fury bleeding through every word. “You sat there while she screamed.” Your voice cracked sharply. “While she begged.”
The memory hit hard enough to make your body jerk.
Firelight.
Smoke.
Juliet screaming your name.
A nearby goblet shattered from the force of the storm surging beneath your skin.
“You call yourself a king?” you barked out a laugh, ugly and furious. “You’re nothing but a spoiled butcher hiding behind crowns and soldiers.” Another violent step forward. “At least monsters kill because they need to. You ruin lives because it entertains you.”
The lightning beneath your flesh flared brighter, red fractures spreading across your throat and hands.
“You burned her,” you hissed.
The words came out quieter.
Worse.
“You burned the only person I ever loved.” Your dead eyes locked onto his. “And now you still get to sit there breathing like the gods didn’t make a mistake.”
Your hands curled slowly into fists.
The marble cracked beneath them.
“You have three weeks to run.” Your voice trembled with hatred so immense it barely sounded human anymore. “Three weeks before I return with every corpse your kingdom tried to bury.”
You tilted your head slightly, staring at him with open, vicious contempt.
“And when I finally drag you off that throne…” A horrible smile twitched across your face. “I’m going to make you beg louder than she did.”
Rhaenyra’s grip tightened around Alicent’s wrist—not to restrain, but to anchor herself as the throne room’s torches flickered violently in the storm-wake of your fury. The realization hit her like a blade between ribs: *This isn’t rebellion. It’s a funeral procession.* Every word you spat at Aegon carved deeper than Valyrian steel, each syllable another shovelful of dirt atop a grave she’d helped dig. Alicent trembled against her, not with fear, but with the dizzying collapse of denial—the last illusions about her son crumbling beneath the weight of your truth.
Alicent’s breath came shallow, her pulse fluttering like a dying bird against Rhaenyra’s palm. She stared at Aegon’s wine-stained lips, the casual tilt of his head, and saw the boy who’d once hidden behind her skirts now enthroned in monstrous indifference. The scent of burning parchment from shattered lanterns mixed with the ozone crackling off your skin, and for the first time, Alicent understood the lightning essence’s terrible purpose: not resurrection, but *reckoning*. Her fingers dug into Rhaenyra’s arm—not to push away, but to confirm the solidity of another sinner still standing.
Aegon’s smirk wavered as the lightning fractures spread up your arms, but his laugh was all spoiled wine and rotting teeth. "Beg?" He leaned forward, the Iron Throne’s blades biting into his forearms as he spread his hands in mock invitation. "You’re the one crawling through *sewers* to reach me." His tongue flicked over a canine, tasting the lie even as he said it. The knight’s sword pressed closer, its edge singing against the hollow of his throat. Aegon didn’t flinch. "But by all means—bring your army of dead whores. I’ll build a new throne from their bones." His grin widened, bloodied and brilliant. "You can kneel at *Juliet’s* feet while I fuck her ashes."
The throne room shattered into movement—Alicent’s scream, Rhaenyra’s lunge, the knight’s blade scraping bone—but you were already airborne. Your fist connected with Aegon’s jaw before his lips could shape another curse, the impact cracking his head sideways into the throne’s jagged spines. Blood sprayed, bright as poppies, as you seized his throat and hauled him bodily from the seat, your fingers crushing his windpipe with a wet, crunching pop. His legs kicked wildly, silk slippers scrabbling against the dais as you slammed him onto the marble—once, twice, his skull bouncing like a dropped melon—before driving your knee into his ribs. The sound was obscene: splintering bone, tearing flesh, his breathless shriek as you reared back and struck him again with the full weight of your resurrection-strength.
"You don’t get to die yet," you hissed, dragging him upright by his hair. His face was a ruin—nose smashed flat, teeth scattered like pearls across the marble—but his remaining eye still burned with defiance. You let him see it then: the marsh flowers wilting in your pocket, the Valyrian glyphs carved into your ribs, the sixty thousand dead women waiting beyond the city walls. "Three weeks," you whispered, your lips brushing his mangled ear. His body spasmed as lightning arced between your fingertips, searing flesh but not killing, never killing. "Run while you still can."
Alicent watched from the floor, her knees skinned raw where she'd fallen, the taste of Rhaenyra's dagger still metallic against her tongue. The queen in her screamed to intervene, to shield her son—but the woman beneath remembered the autopsy scrolls curling in the hearth, the way Subject Eleven's ribs had gleamed like storm-lit porcelain beneath the knife. Her hands twitched, caught between reaching for Aegon’s broken form and the half-moon scars her own nails had left in Rhaenyra's palm.
You denied Aegon death, forcing him to witness the scope of your undead army before warning him to flee in three weeks. Alicent, torn between maternal instinct and guilt over the resurrection atrocities, she remained paralyzed—her hands hovering between her son and Rhaenyra’s scars.
Rhaenyra didn’t move toward the throne. She moved toward *you*, stepping over the shattered remains of Aegon’s goblet with the slow precision of a woman walking toward a gallows. Her dagger hit the marble with a clatter, fingers splayed empty at her sides. The scar on her wrist—the one that matched the carvings on Subject Eleven’s bones—glowed faintly as she reached for your face, stopping just shy of touching the lightning fractures splitting your skin. Her breath fogged in the unnatural cold radiating off your body. “She begged for you,” Rhaenyra whispered, so softly only the dead could hear. “At the end. Not for mercy. Just for you.”
The knight’s gauntlet closed around your shoulder, his grip firm enough to ground you without restraint. Behind him, Subjects Two and Five waited at the shattered doors, their silhouettes framed by the smoke of burning tapestries. You inhaled—ozone, blood, the salt-stink of Alicent’s tears—and exhaled Juliet’s name like a vow. The marble cracked beneath your boots as you turned away, leaving Aegon choking on his own blood at the foot of the throne he’d desecrated.
Rhaenyra’s hand fell slack at her side, her fingers brushing the damp hem of your cloak as you passed. Alicent made no move to rise, her gaze locked on her son’s twitching form, but her lips shaped silent words too shattered to be prayers. The knight kicked Aegon’s dagger toward them, its blade snapping against the dais with a sound like breaking teeth. “A gift,” he rumbled. “For the funeral.”
Outside, the sky had turned the color of a fresh bruise—purple-black and throbbing with distant lightning. The Gulltown girl waited at the base of the serpentine steps, her hands stained with the blood of the guards she’d strung up along the parapets like macabre banners. She grinned as you descended, tossing you a rusted key plucked from a dead man’s belt. “The dragonpit,” she said. “His whore sister’s been digging up the rest of the essence.”
The knight moved like a landslide behind you, his greatsword dripping onto the cobblestones in steady, rhythmic splashes. Subject Five ghosted ahead, her fingers trailing along the alley walls, leaving faint blue sigils that pulsed like heartbeat. The scent of salt and rotting fish grew thicker as you neared the Blackwater—the docks were littered with half-sunken ships, their hulls picked clean by time and your army of drowned women.
Subject Two leaned against a listing mast, sharpening her dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. The rasp of steel against whetstone stopped as you approached, her eyes flicking up—not in deference, but recognition. "You smell like him," she observed, tilting her head. "Iron and spoiled wine." Her nostrils flared slightly, as if catching the stench of Aegon’s fear still clinging to your clothes.
"Well, I beat the shit out of him." You said.
The knight wordlessly extended a rag—once part of a sail, now stiff with salt and old blood. You scrubbed your hands roughly, watching flecks of Aegon’s teeth flake off into the harbor’s brackish water. The Gulltown girl chuckled low in her throat, kicking a severed rope coil aside. "Should’ve brought his tongue as proof," she mused. "But I suppose broken jaws tell their own stories."
You flicked the rag into the tide and unsheathed your stolen longsword, laying it flat across a barrel stenciled with the Velaryon seahorse. The blade caught the dying light, its edge notched from the throne room skirmish. "We need battle plans," you said, tracing a fingertip along the steel. "Not just knives in the dark." Subject Five materialized beside you, her fingers sketching rapid Valyrian glyphs in the air—*here* a bottleneck by the Mud Gate, *there* the underground canals where the knight’s old garrison once stored wildfire.
The Gulltown girl cracked her knuckles, grinning at the map forming in salt-rime on the barrel. "Sixty thousand soldiers, correct?" she asked, toeing a dead fish toward the dockside with her boot. You exhaled sharply—not a laugh, but something darker. "Sixty thousand *corpses*," you corrected. The distinction mattered. Living men broke ranks when the killing started. Dead women remembered every slight carved into their flesh.
"Do we have enough armor for each soldier?" You asked
Subject Two tapped her dagger against a rusted anchor chain, the sound echoing across the harbor like a death knell. "No need for armor when the blades pass through you like mist," she mused, flicking her wrist—the dagger dissolved into blue-black smoke before reforming in her grip. The knight grunted, hefting his greatsword. "Some of us prefer steel," he rumbled. You nodded—his armor had stopped three crossbow bolts in the throne room. Practicality won wars as much as terror did. "What about horses?" You asked.
The Gulltown girl snorted, kicking a barnacle-crusted crate open with her boot. Inside, the corpses of drowned stablehands lay bloated and still, their waterlogged fingers curled around bridles slick with algae. "They won't ride," she said, peeling a strip of seaweed from a dead boy's face. "But they'll pull siege engines well enough." Subject Five crouched, tracing glyphs on the boy's forehead—his eyelids fluttered, pupils flooding with the same blue-black lightning that writhed in her scars.
You shrugged, flipping your stolen blade in the air. "Whatever works, I guess." The sword landed point-first between your boots, quivering. The knight exhaled through his nose—a sound like a forge bellows—and dragged a waterlogged cart from the shallows. Its wheels groaned, spitting out eels and river mud. "Weapons?" you asked, watching a dead fish float belly-up in the cart's bed.
Subject Two grinned, kicking open another crate. Inside, rusted farming tools lay tangled in netting—scythes with blades like crescent moons, pitchforks blackened by fire, butcher's cleavers crusted with old blood. "Peasant steel," she said, running a finger along a scythe's edge. The metal sang faintly, recognizing the lightning in her touch. "Perfect for butchering kings."
The knight grunted, lifting a warhammer from the muck. Its head was split down the middle—not from battle, but from some executioner's block. He tested its weight, then tossed it to you. The handle was still warm. "These aren't weapons," you murmured, turning it over in your hands. The realization hit like dawn breaking: every tool in these crates had once been used to kill women. Now they'd kill for them.
Across the bay, lights flickered in the Red Keep's highest windows. Somewhere up there, Aegon was having his jaw wired shut by maesters who'd never ask why his teeth were embedded in the throne room's marble. You smiled. Let him stare at those lights all night, wondering which shadows moved on their own. Sixty thousand corpses didn't need to march—they were already here, tucked into flea-bottom hovels and silk-draped manors, their wounds stitched shut with stolen thread. Milk nurses with slit throats. Stable girls who'd "drowned." They'd been waiting longer than Aegon had been alive.
"What about our sleepers, the undead who look human and alive?" You asked.
One such corpse stood behind you now—a fishmonger's daughter from Pisswater Bend, her neck unbroken, her lungs still inexplicably full of brine. She handed you a salt-crusted ledger without a word. You flipped it open, tracing the names: servants dismissed for "hysterics," kitchen staff fired for speaking of lights in the graveyard. Every entry dated after Juliet's execution. Every one a recruit. The Gulltown girl plucked the book from your fingers and tossed it into the harbor. It floated for three heartbeats before sinking, the ink bleeding into the Blackwater like a confession.
"Dragons?" you asked, watching the ripples spread. The knight exhaled sharply—less dismissal, more acknowledgment of the sheer fucking audacity. Subject Five's fingers twitched, glyphs flaring blue against her thighs. "We have their bones," she murmured. The Gulltown girl grinned, wide and wicked, and kicked a barnacle-encrusted crate. Inside, something massive shifted with a wet, leathery sound. You'd assumed it was another corpse. You were wrong.
Rhaenyra's stolen key burned in your palm as you turned toward the dragonpit's silhouette. The storm above mirrored the one in your chest—lightning spiderwebbing across bruised clouds, thunder rattling your dead ribs. "You realize," Subject Two drawled, sharpening her dagger against a rusted anchor, "this is how we all die *again*." The knight shouldered his greatsword, its edge still crusted with Aegon's blood. "Then we'll die standing," he rumbled. The fishmonger's daughter blinked, brine dripping from her lashes, and took her place at your left.
The dragonpit stank of charred meat and wet stone—a reek that clung to the back of your throat like guilt. You stepped over blackened bones, some still webbed with scraps of skin, and let the lightning in your veins guide you toward the deepest pit. Something massive shifted in the darkness, chains groaning like dying men. Then you saw her: a dragon not much larger than a warhorse, her scales dull as tarnished copper, one wing twisted at a brutal angle. She hissed, revealing teeth filed down to nubs—but her eyes held the same blue-black fire as Subject Five's glyphs.
Rhaenyra's key slid into the rusted lock with a screech that made the dragon flinch. "Easy, little sister," you murmured, pressing your palm to her snout. Her scales burned colder than grave dirt, but the lightning in your touch sparked recognition—she shuddered, exhaling a plume of sulfurous air that reeked of lightning essence. Behind you, Subject Two muttered, "Oh, fuck me sideways," as the dragon's pupils dilated into vertical slits, her nostrils flaring at the scent of Valyrian steel on your stolen blade.
The Gulltown girl vaulted onto the dragon's back without hesitation, her boots finding purchase between jagged scales. "She's starved," she observed, running a hand along the creature's protruding ribs. The dragon hissed but didn't buck—too weak for fury, but not for memory. You traced the brand on her flank: a crude crown seared over older glyphs. "Aegon's men broke her wings, not her spirit," the knight rumbled, hefting a rusted chain. It snapped like rotten thread beneath his gauntleted fists.
Subject Five pressed her lightning-scarred palms to the dragon's chest, whispering Valyrian words that made the air hum. Blue-black veins pulsed beneath scaled flesh as the creature shuddered—not in pain, but recognition. Her head lifted, milky eyes clearing as the essence in her blood answered the call in Subject Five's fingers. The Gulltown girl whooped as the dragon's nostrils flared, exhaling a plume of sulfur that reeked of marsh flowers and Juliet's grave dirt.
You climbed astride the dragon's back, feeling her spine shift like a drawn bow beneath your thighs. Her scales were colder than grave dirt, but when you pressed your stolen dagger to her neck, she didn't flinch—she purred, the vibration rattling your dead ribs. "Little sister," you murmured, and the dragon's pupils dilated at the name, her wings twitching despite the broken bone. Subject Two snorted. "Fuck me, she likes you." The knight said nothing, but his greatsword scraped the ground in what might've been approval.
The Gulltown girl leaned over the dragon's shoulder, her grin sharp as a fishhook. "What's her name, then?" You ran your fingers along the jagged brand—Aegon's crude crown still weeping rust-colored pus. The dragon shuddered, exhaling sulfur thick with the scent of marsh flowers and lightning. "Juliet," you lied, because the truth was worse: she had no name left, just like you. The dragon didn't correct you. Her claws scraped the stone, carving Valyrian glyphs none of you could read but all understood.
Blackwater's shallows swallowed them whole—dragon and dead women sinking into the brackish dark where drowned stablehands still clutched bridles in bloated fists. Subject Five's glyphs pulsed blue-black against the murk, stitching broken wings with threads of lightning essence. The dragon thrashed once—not in pain, but memory—as the Gulltown girl shoved eel after rancid eel down her throat. "Eat, little sister," she crooned, wrist-deep in gills. "We've got kings to burn."
Up in the Red Keep's sept, Alicent scrubbed Aegon's blood from her nails with holy oil gone rancid. The scent—cloying lavender undercut with rot—made Rhaenyra's stomach heave. "They'll come back," Alicent whispered, watching her son's shattered teeth roll like pearls across the marble floor. Rhaenyra caught one midair, the enamel still warm from your fist. "I know," she said, pocketing it. Somewhere below, the throne room's shattered doors groaned on broken hinges.
Alicent's fingers found Rhaenyra's wrist, tracing the scar that matched Subject Eleven's autopsy sketches. "Why show me the lightning essence?" she demanded, voice cracking like a girl's. Rhaenyra turned her palm up, revealing the faint blue pulse beneath her skin—the same rhythm as the glyphs now glowing beneath the castle's foundations. "Because you deserved to know," she said simply, "before the graves open."
The queen recoiled, her heel catching on Aegon's discarded wine cup. It rolled toward the shattered throne, spilling dregs that hissed against glyph-carved marble. "You knew this would happen." Not a question. Rhaenyra watched the liquid evaporate into acrid steam. "I knew he'd dig up things that should've stayed buried." Her thumb brushed Alicent's pulse point—too fast, too human. "Just like you did."
Alicent wrenched free, silk tearing at the shoulder seam. "They could've slit his throat tonight." The words tasted like the sept's incense—thick, cloying, meant to mask rot. Rhaenyra caught her wrist again, pressing Alicent's palm against the glowing scar. "Yet they gave him mercy?" Lightning flickered beneath their joined hands, casting shadows like ribcages on the wall. "Let her have him. Let her take her time."
The queen's laugh hit like a shattering goblet. "You think this is about justice?" She dug her nails into Rhaenyra's pulse, drawing beads of blood that sizzled where they touched the glyphs. "That girl doesn't want the throne. She wants him to *see*—" A gust through the broken window sent Aegon's scattered teeth skittering. Rhaenyra watched one roll into a crack in the marble, vanishing like a secret. "She wants him to kneel in Juliet's grave before she guts him."
Alicent's breath fogged the air between them—too warm, too alive. "She'll burn the city down." Her grip tightened, the holy oil smearing between their palms like a pact. Rhaenyra didn't pull away. She remembered the way Subject Eleven's ribs had arched toward the lightning, how her heart had pulsed blue through parchment-thin skin. "Let her," she murmured. The scent of marsh flowers clung to her sleeves, though she'd never touched Juliet's grave.
Aegon spat a mouthful of blood onto the sept's tiles, the droplets sizzling where they met the glyphs Rhaenyra had carved beneath the marble years ago. His laughter sounded wet, broken. "Should've fucked her while she screamed." The words slurred around missing teeth. Alicent flinched, but Rhaenyra just tilted her head, studying her brother like a maester might examine a rotting wound. The lightning in her veins hummed, answering the distant thunder over Blackwater Bay.
"That mouth," Rhaenyra said softly, crouching to flick a shattered molar off his ruined lip, "is the exact reason you got the shit beat out of you." She pressed her thumb into the split skin of his chin, smearing blood down his throat. His breath hitched in pain. Alicent made a sound like a dying bird.
Three weeks later, sixty thousand corpses marched through King’s Landing without a single blade drawn. The harbor stank of rotting fish and wet lightning as your dragon circled overhead, her monstrous shadow swallowing entire streets whole. Her wings—stitched together with stolen sailcloth and Subject Five’s blue-black glyphs—beat slow as a funeral drum, scattering petals from Juliet’s grave over the Red Keep’s towers. Aegon’s guards dropped their spears when they saw what rode behind you: drowned stablehands astride bloated warhorses, their bridles woven from seaweed and old nooses.
The knight rode beside you on a stallion that had died screaming at the Gullet, its ribs still visible beneath necrotic flesh. His greatsword rested across the saddle, its edge crusted with rust instead of blood—today’s work required no sharpness, only inevitability. You glanced sideways at him as the Horse Gate groaned open without resistance; his helm hid the grin, but you heard it in his voice when he muttered, "Should’ve brought a banner." You kicked your mount forward, its hooves crushing Aegon’s discarded crown beneath skeletal feet. "We *are* the banner," you said.
Your warhorse had been a destrier once—massive enough to carry a knight in full plate, loyal enough to charge a dragon. Now its eyes burned with the same blue-black lightning that split your veins, its breath reeking of gravedirt and the iron tang of butchered stableboys. It sidestepped a puddle of vomit left by some fleeing noblewoman, the motion eerily graceful for something that should’ve been rotting in a midden. The Gulltown girl whooped ahead, her own mount—a piebald mare missing its lower jaw—kicking up cobblestones with cadaverous glee. You didn’t need spurs; the corpses remembered their training better than the living ever had.
The castle loomed, its gates reinforced with fresh timber and Valyrian glyphs that pulsed an angry red as you approached. Aegon had learned. Crossbowmen lined the battlements, their bolts tipped with dragonglass that shimmered like frozen lightning. Behind them, maesters hurled clay pots of wildfire that burst against the advancing dead—only for Subject Five to step forward, her fingers weaving glyphs that turned the green flames blue-black and sent them slithering back up the walls like living serpents. The stench of burning hair and melted stone choked the air. You pressed onward, your stolen sword humming in time with the dragon circling overhead.
Inside the throne room, Alicent gripped Rhaenyra’s wrist hard enough to bruise. Aegon stood between them, his once-shattered jaw now wired shut with Valyrian steel, his crown askew. The floor trembled as sixty thousand dead feet struck the cobbles in unison—a drumbeat that shook dust from the rafters. Alicent’s lips moved soundlessly; Rhaenyra caught the shape of the word *mercy* and crushed it between her teeth. The glyphs beneath their feet flared brighter, casting their shadows tall against the wall—Alicent’s slender, Rhaenyra’s crowned, Aegon’s grotesquely elongated and twitching like a hanged man.
Rhaenyra leaned in, her breath warm against Alicent’s ear despite the tomb-like chill. “You prayed for him to live,” she murmured, thumbing the scar on her wrist—the one that matched Subject Eleven’s autopsy sketches. Alicent shuddered, watching Aegon’s hands tremble around his wine goblet. The liquid inside had turned black, swirling with the same blue-black veins that pulsed in the castle’s foundations. “I didn’t know,” Alicent lied, her voice cracking like a girl’s. Rhaenyra smiled, slow and terrible. “You knew he dug up graves. You just didn’t care whose.”
The throne room’s doors groaned, hinges screaming like the women Aegon had buried alive. Alicent’s fingers dug into Rhaenyra’s forearm, her nails drawing blood that sizzled against the glyphs beneath their feet. “You could stop this,” she hissed. Rhaenyra tilted her head, listening to the distant thunder of sixty thousand corpses marching. “Why would I?” she asked, flicking a glance at Aegon’s wired-shut jaw. His remaining eye rolled toward them, wild with understanding. “You made him a king. Let her make him a lesson.”
Aegon tried to speak—mouth working around steel sutures, tongue probing the gaps where teeth should’ve been. What emerged wasn’t words but a wet, clicking sound, like a corpse trying to swallow its own tongue. The stench of infected gums and sour wine filled the space between them. Alicent recoiled; Rhaenyra leaned closer, her smile a blade. “Say it again,” she murmured. “Louder.” Aegon’s fingers spasmed around his goblet, the blackened wine sloshing over his wrist. The liquid burned where it touched his skin, etching fresh glyphs into his flesh.
The throne room doors exploded inward. Six guards in Targaryen-red cloaks staggered through the wreckage, their swords drawn, their faces slick with sweat and panic. One clutched his side—blood seeped between his fingers, too dark, too thick. The knight had taught them how corpses bled. Their captain’s eyes darted from Aegon’s ruined face to Rhaenyra’s scarred wrist, then to Alicent’s torn silk sleeve. “Your Grace,” he gasped, “the dead—”.
Alicent lunged first, snatching the nearest iron brazier and hurling it toward the shattered doorway. It skidded across the glyph-carved floor, scattering embers that hissed where they touched Aegon’s spilled wine. The guards scrambled—two hauling a splintered oak table toward the entrance, another dragging a fallen tapestry over the gap. The fabric caught on a jagged piece of doorframe, tearing with a sound like fingernails on slate.
Rhaenyra didn’t move. She watched Aegon’s fingers twitch toward his dagger, the blade’s pommel shaped like a dragon’s skull. The same hand that signed Juliet’s execution order. The same fingers that had traced lightning essence formulas while girls screamed in the dragonpit. She exhaled through her nose—once, sharp—and the glyphs beneath her feet flared brighter, casting her shadow across Aegon’s face like a brand. “Draw that steel,” she murmured, “and I’ll let them take you alive.”
Beyond the barricade, the marching stopped. Silence pooled like spilled blood. Then—a single, resonant *thump*, as if sixty thousand corpses had dropped to their knees in unison. The guards exchanged glances, sweat glistening on their upper lips. One whispered a prayer to the Maiden; his voice cracked on the last syllable. The Gulltown girl’s laughter slithered through the cracks in the barricade, bright and vicious as a gutting knife. “Little lordlings,” she sang, “we brought flowers for your king.”
The barricade shuddered. Not from force—from within. The oak table sprouted thin blue-black tendrils, veins of lightning essence snaking up its legs. A guard screamed as his gauntlet fused to the wood, flesh sizzling where the glyphs reached his skin. Subject Five’s work. The tapestry ignited without flame, its threads unraveling into smoke that curled into Valyrian letters above Aegon’s head: *Juliet*. Alicent made a sound like a rib cracking.
You came through the wall. Not around, not over—*through*, the stone parting like rotten fruit beneath your hands. Dust billowed as the masonry dissolved into blue-black mist, revealing the knight behind you with a torch and his greatsword sheathed. No need for steel when the castle itself remembered the lightning in your veins. Aegon’s wine goblet hit the floor with a dull thud, the black liquid slithering toward your boots like a living thing. “Wrong grave,” you said, stepping over it.
The stench hit you first—infected sutures, sour wine, the coppery tang of Alicent’s bitten-through lip. Aegon’s wired jaw clicked as he tried to speak, his remaining eye rolling toward the dagger at his belt. You let him reach for it. Let his fingers brush the dragonbone hilt. Then you caught his wrist, your grip colder than grave dirt, and squeezed until the bones ground together. His scream came out as a wet hiss, the sound of a man drowning in his own blood. “Juliet begged too,” you murmured, snapping his index finger backward. The break sounded like a twig underfoot.
The knight materialized at your shoulder, his torch stolen from some hallway sconce. The flames cast his shadow tall against the ruined throne—a monstrous thing with too many teeth. He said nothing, just offered you the fire with a tilt of his helm. You took it without looking, your fingers brushing the charred wood where Subject Five’s glyphs still pulsed blue-black. Aegon thrashed, his free hand clawing at your face. You let him. His nails ripped grooves in your cheek, but no blood came—just wisps of lightning essence, curling like smoke from a doused candle. “Look,” you whispered, pressing the torch to his silk doublet. The fabric caught fast, flames licking up his chest like eager dogs. “She’s here.”
Aegon’s scream wasn’t human—a high, wet sound like a pig stuck mid-squeal. The fire climbed his throat, chewing through flesh that bubbled and split. His crown slid sideways, molten gold dripping onto his shoulders. You watched his remaining eye roll wild in its socket, the pupil dilating as the flames reached his lashes. The stench hit you—burning hair, roasting meat, the underlying reek of his shit as his bowels let go. Somewhere behind you, Alicent made a noise like a dying bird. You leaned closer, the torchlight reflecting in Aegon’s panicked gaze. “Juliet smelled like this too,” you said. The flames reached his tongue.
The knight’s gauntlet tightened on your shoulder—not to stop you, just to steady you as Aegon thrashed. His boots kicked splinters from the throne’s steps, his wired jaw clacking uselessly. The fire spread faster now, fueled by the lightning essence in his veins. Blue-black veins pulsed beneath his blistering skin, matching the glyphs glowing beneath your feet. You inhaled deep—charred silk, crisping fat, the ozone tang of Valyrian magic unraveling. Aegon’s remaining hand clawed at your wrist, his fingers blackening like twigs in a hearth. You let him burn there, your flesh searing where he touched you. It wouldn’t scar. Nothing could mark you anymore.
Rhaenyra watched from the shadows, her fingers tracing the matching glyph on her wrist. Alicent had collapsed against the Iron Throne, her silk sleeves smoldering where embers had caught. She didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. Just stared as Aegon’s skin split like overcooked sausage, revealing the same blue-black lightning that had once revived you. The Gulltown girl’s laughter echoed through the shattered doors, mingling with the wet pop of Aegon’s eyeball bursting in its socket. “Crown’s melting,” she singsonged, kicking a chunk of molten gold toward Alicent. It sizzled against the queen’s slipper, branding the leather.
You stepped back, letting the knight’s torch finish the work. Aegon’s body convulsed once—a puppet with its strings cut—before slumping against the throne’s jagged blades. The stench of burning hair gave way to something deeper, fouler: the reek of lightning essence boiling out of his marrow. Subject Five materialized at your elbow, her fingers twitching as she caught the escaping magic in glyph-lined palms. “Waste not,” she murmured, weaving the smoke into a noose that settled around the throne’s hilt. The Gulltown girl whistled. “Looks better on him than the crown did.”
You expected triumph. Vindication. The storm inside you to still at last. Instead, your hands felt strangely light without Aegon’s throat beneath them. The throne room was silent save for the drip of molten gold and Alicent’s ragged breathing. Even the undead army at your back had gone still, their thousandfold hunger momentarily forgotten. The knight shifted beside you, his greatsword scraping the floor in question. You opened your mouth to speak—then froze. A laugh cut through the smoke, bright as a blade through silk.
Not the Gulltown girl’s jagged cackle. Not Subject Two’s wet chuckle. This was lighter, sweeter, the sound of fingers brushing harp strings in a sunlit garden. Your head snapped up so fast your neck cracked. The mist curling off Aegon’s smoldering corpse thickened, coalescing into a shape that stepped forward on bare feet. Juliet’s toes wriggled against the blood-slick marble, exactly as they had when she’d danced in puddles after summer rains. Her shift was clean. Her hair smelled of rosemary. There was no rope burn on her throat.
You fell. Not gracefully—your knees hit stone with a crack that would’ve shattered living bone, your fingers scraping through Aegon’s ashes as if they could anchor you. The dead army rustled like dead leaves, but you barely heard them. Juliet tilted her head, the way she always did when you said something particularly stupid and she was too kind to laugh. A scar—no, a glyph—glowed blue-black at her collarbone, pulsing in time with the one on your wrist. “You kept me waiting, love." she said, and her voice was exactly as you remembered: honey warmed by sunlight.
The knight’s gauntlet tightened on your shoulder—not to steady you this time, but because he was shaking too. Juliet’s bare feet left bloody prints as she stepped over Aegon’s melted crown, her toes wriggling in the gore the way they’d once danced in puddles. She reached for you, and for the first time in months, you flinched. Her fingers paused midair, close enough for you to see the lightning essence swirling beneath her skin—not the stolen Valyrian kind, but something older, purer. “You think I’d leave you to mourn alone?” she murmured, and the glyph at her throat flared brighter.
"I never left." Juliet revealed.
She has been quietly following the your journey the entire time, unable to interfere but unwilling to abandon you.
Juliet's hand—real, warm, impossibly alive—touched your cheek where Aegon's nails had torn grooves. The wounds stitched themselves shut beneath her fingers, lightning essence dissolving like sugar in tea. "Come on," she whispered, her breath smelling of rosemary and the lemon cakes she'd stolen for you months ago. The Gulltown girl made a strangled noise behind you; Juliet winked at her over your shoulder.
"The tide is waiting." Juliet stepped back, her bare feet lifting from the blood-smeared marble as if it were a summer stream. She nodded toward the shattered windows where Blackwater Bay churned beneath a storm-lit sky. "You must do one last thing before we can be reunite, my love." The glyph at her throat pulsed once—brighter than Aegon's melted crown—before she dissolved into mist that curled toward the ceiling like inverted rain.
For the first time since your resurrection, you are no longer afraid.
Rhaenyra’s fingers curled around Alicent’s wrist—not to restrain, but to feel the rabbit-quick pulse beneath her skin. The queen’s breaths came in shallow gasps, her gaze locked on the spot where Juliet had stood. Aegon’s molten crown pooled at her feet, its gold searing her slippers, but she didn’t flinch. “She was real,” Alicent whispered, more to herself than to Rhaenyra. The words tasted like absolution and bile. Rhaenyra pressed her thumb to the glyph on Alicent’s inner wrist—the one that matched her own, the one that had glowed when Subject Eleven’s heart stopped. “You always knew some graves won’t stay shut.”
Alicent jerked free, her torn sleeve catching on the Iron Throne’s jagged edges. The fabric ripped further, revealing the lattice of old scars beneath—some from Aegon’s rings, others from her own nails. “You planned this,” she hissed, though the accusation lacked heat. The throne room reeked of charred flesh and lightning, the air thick with the static that clung to Juliet’s ghost. Rhaenyra watched a drop of molten gold slide down Alicent’s ankle, branding her skin. “Planned?” She caught the queen’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. “I just didn’t stop it.”
You return and waded into Blackwater’s shallows, the brackish water hissing where it touched your lightning-lit veins. The drowned stablehands parted for you, their seaweed bridles swaying in the current. Juliet’s voice lingered in the salt-sting wind, her words dissolving into the thunder rolling inland. The dragon—your little sister—nudged your shoulder with her snout, her breath warm as a funeral pyre. You pressed your forehead to her scaled hide, letting the Valyrian glyphs beneath her skin hum against your own. “One last thing,” you murmured, and the dragon rumbled in agreement.
The tide pulled at your legs, whispering secrets in a language only the dead could parse. You realized then what Juliet couldn’t say aloud: to follow her, you had to leave everything behind—not just Aegon’s corpse, not just the rebellion, but the unnatural life he’d forced into your veins.
The letter arrived three days after Aegon's death.
No seal. No signature. Only a single line written in a hand both women recognized immediately:
Blackwater Bay. The Juliet's Sign. I need your help.
By sunset, Alicent and Rhaenyra stood upon the weather-beaten deck of the wrecked flagship. The sea rolled dark beneath a blanket of cloud, and dozens of pale figures watched their arrival from the surrounding ships. The dead lined the rails and gangways in silence. Hollow eyes followed every step, yet none moved to stop them.
The only sound was the groan of old wood and the distant crash of waves against broken hulls.
As they crossed the deck toward the captain's cabin, another sound drifted through the salt-heavy air.
A woman's voice.
Soft.
Melancholy.
Familiar.
Inside the cabin, someone was singing an old ballad about a hanging tree, lost love, and a midnight meeting between the living and the dead. The voice carried through the warped timbers like a ghost moving through a graveyard.
Alicent stopped.
Rhaenyra's hand tightened at her side.
"Are you, are you."
"Coming to the tree."
"Where the dead man called out for his love to flee."
"Strange things did happen here."
"No stranger would it be."
"If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."
"Are you, are you."
"Coming to the tree."
"Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free."
"Strange things did happen here."
"No stranger would it be."
"If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."
For the first time since Aegon's death, neither woman heard rage in that voice.
Only exhaustion.
Only grief.
And behind the cabin door, the woman who had brought a kingdom to its knees continued to sing alone.
The Gulltown girl leaned against the quarterdeck rail, picking at her fingernails with a rusted dagger. "Took you long enough," she said, jerking her chin toward the cabin. Inside, the singing voice hitched on a note—not from grief, but from laughter. The dagger paused. "She keeps thinking she's done. Then she remembers."
Rhaenyra pushed the warped door open without knocking. The air inside smelled of rosemary and wet lightning, the scent so thick it coated her tongue. You sat cross-legged on the captain's table amidst scattered maps, tracing a glyph over and over in Aegon's ashes. Your fingertips left smears of blue-black where they touched the wood. "He's still in my veins," you said without looking up. The dragon skull mounted above you pulsed in response, its hollow eye sockets flickering with stolen lightning.
Alicent saw it first—the statue standing where the stern windows should've been. Juliet's hands cradled an porcelain urn carved with Valyrian funerary runes, her bare feet resting on a pillow embroidered with golden roses. The details were too perfect: the way her left pinky crooked slightly from when she'd broken it falling off a horse, the tiny scar above her lip. Beside her, a glass jar suspended in netting throbbed with slow, rhythmic light. Alicent's stomach lurched when she realized what it contained.
You didn't look up from the glyph you were tracing. "I'm sorry about your son," you said, pressing your palm flat over Aegon's ashes. The lightning in your veins crackled visibly beneath your skin. "But he took her from me first." The urn in Juliet's hands trembled as the dragon skull above you groaned, its jaw creaking open to reveal a tongue of blue-black fire.
Alicent swayed—not from the ship's rocking, but from the sudden vertigo of understanding. Her fingers found the Iron Throne's newest scar on her forearm, the one that matched Rhaenyra's glyph. "You..." She swallowed, tasting rosemary and burnt silk. "You weren't bringing her back." The realization hit like a gut punch: the resurrection wasn't for vengeance. It was a farewell.
The urn in Juliet's hands pulsed brighter as you stood, scattering ashes that swirled into the shape of a hanged man's noose before dissipating. "She was never gone," you said, watching Rhaenyra trace the same glyph on her wrist that glowed on yours. "Just waiting." The dragon skull's jaw yawned wider, blue-black flames licking at the glass jar where Subject Eleven's preserved heart beat in time with the storm outside.
You turned to Alicent, your fingers curling around the rusted dagger the Gulltown girl had left embedded in the table. "Would you condemn her to this?" The blade's tip hovered over your own wrist, where veins shimmered with stolen lightning. Beneath your skin, Valyrian essence slithered like a caged thing.
Alicent recoiled—not from the dagger, but from the absence of malice in your voice. The cabin's dragon skull exhaled blue-black embers that swirled around Juliet's statue, illuminating the delicate bones of her porcelain fingers. "You want me to..." Alicent's throat worked around the word like it was made of thorns. *Kill you.*
You smiled—not the baring of teeth from the throne room, but something tired and tender. The dagger's tip traced a lightning glyph onto your own wrist, splitting skin that refused to bleed. "Yes," you said softly. "I want you to set me free, it's the only way I can be reunited with my beloved." The glass jar pulsed faster, Subject Eleven's heart thudding against its confines as if agreeing.
Rhaenyra stepped forward, her boots crunching on the salt-strewn floor. She didn't reach for the dagger—instead, she pressed her scarred wrist against yours, the matching glyphs flaring like struck flint. "You know what happens when Valyrian lightning leaves a vessel," she murmured. Alicent's breath hitched; she'd read the same scrolls. The body doesn't just die. It unravels.
The Gulltown girl kicked the cabin door shut with her heel, plunging them into blue-black darkness save for the pulsing urn and jar. "Would you like to know something, Alicent?" you asked, your voice softer than the creak of a hanged man's rope. You lifted the dagger—not toward your wrist, but toward the glass jar.
“I killed the man who stole my life,” you whispered. “And all I found beneath his bones was silence.”
The blade's tip hovered over Subject Eleven's beating heart, casting jagged shadows across Alicent's face. "Revenge made me dig up graves," you murmured, watching the light pulse faster as the dagger neared. "But it never taught me how to bury anything."
"Revenge cannot restore what was lost." You said.
“I thought vengeance would make me feel alive again. But I am still dead.” you spoke.
“I am tired,” you whispered. “And she has waited long enough.”
Alicent’s fingers trembled as she reached for the dagger—not to take it, but to press her palm over yours, her skin warm where yours was corpse-cold. The scent of rosemary thickened in the air, mingling with the salt of her unshed tears. “You loved her,” she said, voice breaking over the realization. Not a question. A truth, sharp as the blade between your hands.
Rhaenyra exhaled through her nose—once, sharp—and pried the dagger from your grip with surprising gentleness. Her scarred thumb brushed the lightning glyph on your wrist, tracing the path of veins that pulsed with stolen life.
Both Alicent and rhaenyra pity you.
The realization hits like cold seawater—your unnatural grip on life isn’t just sustaining you; it’s tethering every corpse you resurrected. The glyphs in your wrists aren’t mere scars; they’re shackles. You watch Rhaenyra’s thumb trace the pulsing lines and understand why Subject Eleven’s heart still beats in that jar: your vengeance forged a cage for the dead, and you’re the lock.
"My death will becomes a final act of leadership and mercy" you spoke to rhaenyra, turning your wrist to expose the glyphs pulsing beneath your skin like trapped fireflies. The dragon skull above creaked as if straining against invisible chains. "I promise you that all of the Dead will finally rest." Your fingers brushed the glass jar where Subject Eleven's heart quickened its rhythm, beating in time with the distant thunder over Blackwater Bay.
Alicent's nails dug into her palms hard enough to draw blood. She stared at Juliet's statue—the crooked pinky, the scarred lip—then at Rhaenyra's matching wrist glyph. "You'll need help," she said abruptly. Her voice cracked like thin ice. "For the ritual." The unspoken truth hung between them: this wouldn't be murder. It would be a mercy killing performed by the only two people left who understood the cost of stolen lives.
"We will set you free." Alicent spoke.
Three days later, the storm arrived before midnight.
Black clouds swallowed the sky above Blackwater Bay, turning the sea into a shifting expanse of black glass. Lightning flashed beyond the horizon, illuminating the wrecks of the dead fleet for brief, ghostly moments.
The dead had gathered along the shore.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Every corpse that had answered the call stood silent beneath the rain.
No weapons.
No banners.
No war cries.
Only waiting.
At the water's edge stood Alicent and Rhaenyra. Between them stood you.
The lightning beneath your skin pulsed with every flash overhead, crimson cracks spreading across your arms and throat like fractures in a breaking statue. The storm answered the storm.
For many months, the power stolen from death had anchored you to the world.
Tonight, it would be returned.
Alicent's hand closed around yours.
Rhaenyra took the other.
Neither let go.
Ancient words rolled across the shore as the ritual began. The sea surged around your ankles. Thunder shook the bay.
Then the first bolt struck.
Lightning exploded from the heavens and slammed into the water around you.
The dead did not move.
The storm inside your body awakened.
Red light burst from every crack in your skin, rising into the sky in twisting streams. The sea churned violently as if trying to drag the power back into its depths.
A second bolt struck.
Then a third.
The force nearly drove all three of you to your knees.
You could feel it leaving.
The lightning.
The rage.
The grief that had become your entire existence.
Across the shoreline, the dead began to change.
One by one, they smiled.
Some closed their eyes.
Others lifted their faces toward the rain.
The unnatural force animating them was fading
At last.
The Gulltown girl was among the first. She touched the knucklebone necklace at her throat and laughed softly. Then she crumbled into ash that scattered across the waves.
Subject Two lowered her dagger.
Subject Seven released the reins of a skeletal horse.
All across the bay, the dead began returning to the silence that had been denied them.
The final bolt struck directly above you.
The world became light.
The storm trapped within your body surged upward and vanished into the heavens.
For the first time since your execution, your heart was quiet.
Your knees gave way.
Alicent caught you.
Rhaenyra held you upright.
The rain no longer felt cold.
The sea no longer felt distant.
Everything was becoming still.
As your vision dimmed, you saw someone standing beyond the waves.
Waiting.
Smiling.
The last thing you felt was Alicent's hand in yours and Rhaenyra's arm around your shoulders.
Summary: Where at least twice a week, Daniela would receive anonymous letters from a secret admirer, and other times she'd get huge bouquets of flowers and chocolates. Daniela had absolutely no idea who was behind it all, but she seemed determined to find out.
Note: English is not my first language.
Warning: Mention of Hierarchical Difference (Popular x Nerd), Daniela is a bit spoiled, Reader is described as Tall and Muscular, Clumsy Reader, Secret Crush, Some Angst and Comfort!
Katseye Masterlist
Saint Claire Academy was a masterpiece of Gothic architecture that seemed to have been ripped straight out of some ancient European city and planted in the middle of the bustling metropolis. Polished marble hallways reflected the light streaming through arched windows, painting geometric patterns on the floor. On the ceiling, frescoes told stories of saints and sages, as if every step taken there were a sacred act of learning.
But any student who had spent more than a week at that institution knew that Saint Claire's true belief system wasn't in the frescoes.
It was in the invisible, yet fierce, hierarchy that governed every interaction, every laugh, every glance.
And at the top of that social pyramid, breathing the rarefied air of the gods, was Daniela Avanzini.
It wasn't just her beauty, though that alone was enough to stop traffic. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders, as if even gravity refused to disrespect her. Her honey-brown eyes held a lively, intelligent sparkle that seemed to say, "I know exactly what you're thinking," and usually, she did. Her smile was an event, something that made the people around her hold their breath, waiting for a glimpse of divine approval.
Daniela Avanzini wasn't popular.
Daniela Avanzini was popularity.
She walked through the hallways as if she owned the place, and in a way, she did. Students stepped aside to let her pass, not out of fear, but out of a kind of reverential respect. Girls wanted to be her. Boys wanted to be with her. And Daniela, generous in her benevolent royalty, occasionally granted crumbs of attention to her subjects.
You, on the other hand…
Well, you existed in a completely different universe.
Your world didn't have polished marble or ceiling frescoes.
Your world had the smell of aged paper, printer ink, and the comforting silence of the third-floor library. There, books didn't judge. There, equations had no hierarchies. A Pythagorean theorem was immune to your social standing.
That was where you felt at home.
You were tall. Not in that elegant, model-like way, like the girls in Daniela's group. You were tall in a gangly way, with broad shoulders you didn't quite know what to do with, long arms that seemed to have a life of their own, especially when you got nervous, which was whenever Daniela Avanzini was within a ten-meter radius.
Hours at the gym had sculpted your body in a way that other people might find intimidating. Defined muscles under pale skin, large hands that could lift impressive weights but trembled like green twigs when you tried to, I don't know, grab a glass of water in front of Daniela.
A paradoxical combination: the muscular nerd.
And clumsy. Very clumsy.
Once, you were leaving the chemistry room with your books when Daniela passed you in the hallway. Her perfume, something citrusy and floral, you spent weeks trying to identify the brand, you later found out it was a French import, invaded your senses. Your brain short-circuited. You tripped over your own feet, dropped a stack of notebooks, and nearly took a decorative plant pot with you.
Daniela didn't even notice.
She walked past you as if you were part of the furniture.
And, in a way, you were.
To Daniela Avanzini, you were just another piece of the scenery. The tall, clumsy girl who carried books that were too heavy and avoided eye contact. Invisible. Harmless. Irrelevant.
And that was fine.
Really.
You repeated that to yourself every night, before going to sleep, as you replayed every tiny detail of those seconds of indirect interaction. It's fine. I don't need her to notice me. I don't need her to see me. I can admire from afar. Like a work of art. Like something beautiful and unattainable.
But Daniela's honey-brown eyes, when they occasionally swept the room and ignored you, left an emptiness.
An emptiness that began to grow.
An emptiness that began to hurt.
Until, one day, the emptiness became unbearable.
It was on a rainy Tuesday. You were sitting in your usual spot in the library, the table in the corner, near the window, where the light was good and no one bothered you. Your calculus notebook was open to page twenty-three, but your mind was elsewhere.
On Daniela.
She was wearing a beige sweater that day, you remembered. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun that, on anyone else, would be sloppiness; on her, it was style. She was laughing at something Sophia had said, and that sound, a laugh that sounded like musical notes, had followed you through every class, chased you to the library, haunted you in the silence.
And then, without thinking much, maybe that was the problem, you never thought when it involved Daniela, you grabbed a pen and started to write.
"For you," the letter began, the handwriting hesitant, trembling. "For the girl who makes the sun look dull. For the girl whose laugh I would hear in the middle of a noisy crowd. For the girl who doesn't know my name, but who makes me want to shout it from the rooftops."
You wrote about the way the light hit her hair during sunrise, creating a false halo of a saint. You wrote about the way she bit the tip of her pen when she was focused on reading, the little furrow of her brow, the slight biting of her lips. You wrote about how beautiful she was and how distant she was and how it broke your heart in a way you didn't even know was possible.
When you finished, you read it all over again, felt your face burn, and thought about tearing it up.
But you didn't.
Instead, you folded the paper into three parts, found a purple envelope in your backpack, when did you buy purple envelopes? and, the next day, before the first bell, you left the letter in her locker.
Your heart hammered so hard you were sure someone would hear. Your hands trembled. You nearly dropped the envelope three times before managing to slide it through the slit of the locker.
You ran to the classroom as if the devil were chasing you.
And spent the rest of the day with your stomach in knots.
The reaction was… bigger than you imagined.
The next day, during break, you were sitting in the courtyard eating a cheese sandwich when Daniela appeared. Not near you, of course. Daniela appeared in the epicenter of the courtyard, surrounded by her usual entourage: Manon, with her watchful eyes and calculating smile; Sophia, the sweetest of the group, with her easy laugh; and other faces you only knew by sight.
Daniela was holding the letter.
Your letter.
"Guys, look what I found!" She exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Someone left it in my locker!"
Manon took the letter first, reading quickly, a smile appearing on her lips.
"'For the girl whose laugh I would hear in the middle of a noisy crowd.'" She read aloud, and you felt your stomach twist. "Wow, Dani. Someone's in love."
"It's so cute!" Sophia practically jumped, trying to read over Manon's shoulder. "Who do you think wrote it?"
Daniela took the letter back, a smug smile curving her lips. She examined the handwriting, turned the paper over, smelled it, she smelled the paper, and you nearly died right there.
"No perfume." She observed, with a small furrow of her brow. "Guys usually put perfume on letters, don't they?"
"Or more clueless." Manon added, but there was a playful tone in her voice.
Daniela tucked the letter into her bag carefully, as if it were a treasure. Her honey-colored eyes swept across the courtyard, examining every face, every possible suspect.
"I'm going to find out who it is." She declared, and there was determination in her voice. "I always find out."
You sank a little lower in your seat, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you.
—
Twice a week. Religiously. Like a sacred ritual.
Monday and Thursday.
Those were the days for the letters.
You developed an elaborate system. You watched Daniela, but not in an obvious way, at least, you hoped it wasn't obvious. You took note of small details: the book she mentioned reading in literature class (Pride and Prejudice, she said she adored Darcy), the flower she pointed out on the way to the parking lot (pink gerberas), the chocolate she always ordered at the school cafeteria (salted caramel, Belgian, from a specific brand).
Every piece of information was cataloged in your brain, archived, transformed into material for the next letter, the next gift.
The letters evolved quickly.
A week after the first, you left a bouquet of pink gerberas in her locker. The bouquet was enormous, almost ridiculous, with thirty-six carefully arranged stems. You saved up for weeks to pay for it.
When Daniela opened her locker and saw the flowers, the scream she let out echoed through the entire hallway.
"GERBERAS!" She held the bouquet as if it were a trophy, spinning around to show everyone. "How does he know? How does he know they're my favorites?"
Manon raised an eyebrow.
"He? Or she?"
Daniela blinked.
"What?"
"Sophia mentioned it the other day." Manon continued, with a mysterious smile. "That maybe your secret admirer wasn't so… masculine after all."
Daniela frowned, confused. Her honey-brown eyes scanned the hallway, sweeping over the curious faces watching the scene.
"No." She said, finally. "Is the handwriting feminine? I don't know. Maybe it's a sensitive guy. There are sensitive guys, Manon."
"There are." Manon agreed, but there was a glint in her eyes that suggested she still had her doubts.
You were just five meters away, leaning against the water fountain, holding a water bottle tightly enough to crumple the plastic. A part of you wanted to run. Another part wanted to confess everything right there, shout "IT WAS ME!", see the surprise in her eyes, the recognition.
But you did none of that.
You just watched, invisible, as Daniela smiled at the bouquet of gerberas with a happiness that wasn't for you.
—
It was inevitable.
Daniela wasn't the type to leave mysteries unsolved. She was determined, stubborn, and loved a challenge. And the secret admirer, that anonymous being who knew her tastes, her preferences, who made her feel special in a way no boy at school had ever managed, was the perfect challenge.
She started interrogating people.
Not aggressively, but with the disarming charm that only Daniela Avanzini possessed. She would approach someone during break, tilt her head, smile that smile that made knees go weak, and ask in a casual tone:
"You wouldn't happen to have any idea who's been sending me flowers, would you?"
Most people stuttered, blushed, denied vehemently. Some even confessed false affections, hoping it would bring them closer to her.
Daniela laughed, thanked them, and crossed names off an imaginary list.
You watched everything from afar, feeling your heart in your throat every time she approached your danger zone.
And then, the day came.
You were in the cafeteria, sitting at a corner table with your calculus companions, Yoonchae, who was quiet and brilliant, and Lara, who was loud and also brilliant, and Megan, who was both. You were distractedly biting into an apple when you felt the shadow.
A shadow of French perfume and overwhelming presence.
"Hey."
You looked up.
Daniela Avanzini was standing right in front of you, arms crossed, head slightly tilted. Her honey-colored eyes examined you with an intensity that made your brain melt into a useless puddle inside your skull.
"H-h-hey." You managed to articulate, after an awkward pause.
"You're the big girl who's always in the library, right?"
Big girl.
The word hit you like a punch. But you swallowed hard and nodded.
"Y/n," you managed to say your own name, which was already a miracle. "My name is Y/n."
"Y/n." Daniela repeated, as if tasting the word. Her smile widened slightly. "Right, Y/n. Tell me something."
She leaned forward a little, reducing the distance between you. You could see the tiny golden reflections in her eyes, could smell her perfume, could count the seconds your heart stopped beating.
"You wouldn't happen to have any idea who's been sending me flowers, would you?"
The words got lost somewhere between your brain and your mouth. You opened and closed your lips like a fish out of water. Your ears started to burn, oh, no, you knew what was coming next. First the ears, then the cheeks, then the neck. You were going to turn into a tomato right in front of her.
"F-flowers?" The word came out strangled. "I'm… allergic."
The lie was so absurd, so senseless, you almost laughed at yourself.
Beside you, Lara and Megan exchanged glances. Yoonchae hid her face behind her book.
Daniela watched you for a long moment. Her eyes traveled over your red face, your broad shoulders, your trembling hands.
"Of course not." She murmured, more to herself than to you. Her voice had a tone of disappointment. "Too clumsy to be that romantic."
She turned and walked away.
Manon and Sophia, who had been watching from afar, followed her.
You stood still, the apple forgotten on the table, the words echoing inside you like a painful mantra.
Too clumsy to be that romantic.
Too clumsy.
Clumsy.
That night, you didn't sleep.
Not because of the embarrassment, although that certainly contributed. But because something inside you had broken. Not the admiration. Not the affection. But the illusion that, maybe, one day, Daniela might see you as something more than a clumsy big girl.
Maybe she was right. Maybe you were incapable of a caring gesture. Maybe everything you felt was just… inadequate.
But the next night, you wrote another letter.
—
Weeks turned into months.
Daniela Avanzini's secret admirer became a legend at Saint Claire. People speculated in the hallways, bet money during breaks, kept suspect lists that were updated weekly.
No one, absolutely no one, put Y/n's name on that list.
Because how could it be? The tall, clumsy girl who could barely form a full sentence near Daniela? The nerd who spent breaks in the library while normal people socialized? It was ridiculous.
It was perfect.
You took advantage of this invisibility masterfully.
The gifts became more elaborate. Not just letters and flowers, but small gestures that demonstrated an intimacy that bordered on obsessive. One day, Daniela casually mentioned she had lost her favorite bookmark. The next day, a new bookmark, identical to the old one, appeared inside her literature book, with a note: "So you can pick up where you left off. Literally."
Daniela took the bookmark home and slept with it under her pillow. Manon found out later and didn't stop laughing for a week.
Another time, Daniela commented about a thermal mug that had broken. A week later, a new mug, exactly the same model, appeared on her desk in the classroom. The note said: "Hot coffee is a necessity, not a luxury."
"This is creepy." Sophia admitted, watching Daniela hug the mug like it was a puppy. "Whoever it is is watching you. For real."
"It's romantic." Daniela countered, but there was a slight tremor in her voice. "It's… attention. No one's ever given me this much attention."
Manon raised an eyebrow.
"Dani, everyone gives you attention."
"Not like this." Daniela said, and her honey-colored eyes drifted away, lost in thought. "Not in the way that… that seems like they really see me."
You heard this conversation from behind a pillar, where you were hiding, not intentionally, you were just trying to get to the chemistry room and the path passed near them. Your hands sweated. Your heart raced.
She was starting to understand.
Or maybe not.
Because the next day, Daniela was back to her usual interrogation, approaching a boy from the soccer team with a charming smile.
"You wouldn't happen to have any idea who's been sending me flowers, would you?"
The boy, a tall blond named Mateus, blushed intensely.
"I… I mean… maybe…"
Daniela's eyes widened.
"It was you?"
"No! No, I mean… no, but I wish it had been." He stammered, and Daniela sighed, frustrated.
Another name crossed off the list.
You sighed in relief, hidden behind a column, the bouquet of lilies you planned to deliver later still hidden in your backpack.
—
Autumn arrived at Saint Claire with its palette of warm colors and the smell of dry leaves. The marble hallways grew colder, and students started wearing heavier coats, which, you discovered, was a tactical advantage. The larger pockets made transporting notes easier.
On that specific afternoon, Daniela was sitting in the café inside the school. Not the main one, but the cozy one on the second floor, with velvet armchairs and dark wood tables. Manon and Sophia were with her, chattering about some gossip you couldn't quite hear, even if you leaned dangerously out of your hiding spot behind a bookshelf.
Daniela wasn't paying attention.
You saw it. You always saw it.
Her honey-brown eyes were fixed on a vague point on the floor, her mind clearly elsewhere. She was spinning a pen between her fingers, a nervous habit you had noticed weeks ago, when she was particularly anxious about a math test.
"Dani? Dani!" Manon poked her arm. "Are you listening?"
"What? Yes, of course." Daniela blinked, coming back to reality. "Sophia's going to order the turkey sandwich, and you want the smoked salmon."
"That was five minutes ago." Manon said, with narrowed eyes. "Where is your head?"
Daniela sighed, running a hand through her hair.
"I was thinking about the last note."
"Ah." Sophia and Manon said in unison.
"He mentioned the pink tulips." Daniela continued, almost speaking to herself. "How did he know I talked to you about pink tulips, Manon? It was on Monday, in the hallway, for a few seconds. No one was around."
Manon frowned.
"Maybe someone was and you didn't notice."
"I always notice." Daniela said, but her voice didn't have its usual conviction. She seemed… disturbed. "It's like he's always there. Watching me. Knowing me. And I don't even know who it is."
Sophia touched her shoulder affectionately.
"Does that bother you?"
"No." Daniela answered too quickly. Then, more slowly: "I don't know. Maybe. It's strange to think that someone sees me in a way I don't see myself."
You held your breath behind the bookshelf.
She doesn't know, you thought. She has no idea.
And then Daniela sighed, stretched her arms over the table, and murmured:
"What a boring day. I'd trade everything right now for a hot chocolate and a chocolate chip cookie."
You froze.
A hot chocolate and a chocolate chip cookie.
The information burned itself into your brain like fire. You left the café before they could see you, ran up the stairs, crossed the courtyard in long strides, and arrived at the main canteen breathless.
"One hot chocolate." You ordered, throwing money on the counter. "And three, no, five chocolate chip cookies. And… put whipped cream on the chocolate. Lots of whipped cream."
The employee raised an eyebrow, but prepared the order.
Five minutes later, you were back at the café, hidden behind the same bookshelf, watching.
"Miss Avanzini?" The waitress who worked at the café approached the table, carrying a tray.
Daniela looked up, surprised.
"Yes?"
"Someone sent this hot chocolate and chocolate chip cookies for you."
The silence at the table was absolute.
Daniela looked at the tray, at the waitress, at the tray again. Her mouth opened slightly.
"Who?" She asked, and her voice came out higher pitched than normal.
"The person asked not to be revealed, miss." The waitress replied, with a small smile. She placed the tray on the table and withdrew.
Daniela stood staring at the steaming hot chocolate, the whipped cream slowly melting, the five cookies perfectly arranged on a small porcelain plate.
"This is…" Sophia started.
"Creepy." Manon finished. "I was going to say creepy."
"Romantic." Daniela whispered, but her voice trembled slightly. "It's… it's romantic. But it's also…"
"Insane." Manon said.
"Very attentive." Sophia corrected.
Daniela picked up the hot chocolate with both hands, as if she needed something to warm herself. Her honey-colored eyes were shining in a different way, not the smug sparkle of someone receiving a compliment, but something deeper. More vulnerable.
"How does he know?" She asked in a low voice, almost to herself. "How does he know everything about me?"
Manon and Sophia exchanged glances.
"Maybe it's someone who's been watching you for a long time." Sophia suggested softly.
"Maybe it's someone who's closer than you think." Manon added.
Daniela bit into the cookie, and her eyes widened.
"It's my favorite." She murmured. "It's exactly my favorite."
On the other side of the café, you were sitting at the corner table with Megan, Yoonchae, and Lara. You tried to look casual, stirring your own hot chocolate, which you had bought as a cover, but your hands were shaking so much the liquid threatened to spill.
"Why are you so nervous?" Megan asked, with narrowed eyes. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Cold." You lied. "It's cold."
Lara laughed.
"It's twenty-three degrees."
Yoonchae lifted her eyes from her book for a moment, observed you, and then returned to her reading with a small smile on her lips.
She knows, you thought, feeling the panic rise. Yoonchae always knows everything.
But none of them said anything.
They just drank their coffee, ate their cakes, and pretended not to notice when you spent five minutes staring at Daniela's table as if she were the center of the universe.
Because, to you, she was.
—
The weeks continued. The gifts continued. The notes continued.
But something had changed.
Daniela was no longer just enchanted. She was… obsessed.
Not with the gifts themselves, although they continued to be luxurious and perfectly thought out. But with the mystery. With the person behind them.
She started observing people in a different way. Her honey-colored eyes no longer just cataloged; they investigated. She paid attention to who looked at her for too long, who blushed when she passed by, who hid behind books when she approached.
And you noticed.
You noticed that her eyes were starting to land on you more frequently. Not with interest, not yet. But with a hint of… curiosity.
"Did you notice Y/n today?" Daniela asked Manon on a Thursday, while they were drinking juice in the courtyard. "She was looking at me in history class."
"Everyone looks at you in history class." Manon answered, without looking up from her phone.
"No. It was different. She was… studying. But she was also looking at me."
Manon raised an eyebrow.
"You're getting paranoid, Dani."
"Maybe." Daniela admitted. "But… don't you think it's weird? She's tall, has an athlete's build, but she's completely clumsy around me. The other day she tripped over her own backpack when I walked into the library."
"Maybe she's just clumsy." Manon suggested.
"Or maybe she's nervous."
Silence stretched between them.
"Dani." Manon said, finally, with a warning tone. "Y/n is a weird nerd who spends her time in the library. It's not her."
"I know." Daniela sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know. It's ridiculous. But… she's always around, don't you think? Not in an obvious way. But when I look at the corners, at the quietest places… she's there."
Manon didn't answer.
But her gaze followed Daniela's, landing on the corner table, where you were completely absorbed in a calculus book, or pretending to be.
You felt their eyes on you like a physical weight.
Your heart raced. Your hands sweated. You turned a page you had already read three times.
She's watching me, you thought, panic and hope mixing in a nauseating combination. She's starting to see.
—
February fourteenth arrived.
All of Saint Claire was decorated with paper hearts, red balloons, and roses being sold at exorbitant prices in the main lobby. Couples kissed in the hallways, defying all rules against displays of affection, and the singles walked around crestfallen, carrying the weight of loneliness on a day that celebrated love.
For Daniela Avanzini, however, Valentine's Day wasn't about loneliness.
It was about expectation.
Since six in the morning, gifts had started arriving. Red roses from an admirer who signed only "A Senior Boy." A box of generic chocolates from another who, by the trembling handwriting, was clearly nervous. A silver bracelet, pretty but impersonal.
Daniela thanked them, smiled, stored everything in a bag that Manon carried.
But her eyes remained expectant.
"It hasn't arrived yet." Sophia observed, as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.
"He'll send something." Daniela said, with a confidence that didn't seem entirely genuine. "He always sends."
And then, when they opened her locker after third period…
Daniela stopped.
Her entire body froze.
Inside the locker, occupying all the space, was the most beautiful bouquet she had ever seen. Lilies as white as snow, twenty-four of them, tied with a lavender-colored satin ribbon. Beside it, a box of Swiss chocolates, not just any chocolate, but those from a specific brand that was only sold at a confectionery downtown, two hours away.
And, on top of the chocolates, an envelope.
Daniela picked up the envelope with trembling hands. The handwriting was familiar, the same as the letters, the notes, the small gestures that had marked the last few months.
She opened it.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Daniela.
I know you're confused. I know you want to know who I am. And I wish I could tell you, out loud, looking into your eyes. But fear is greater than courage. The fear that, when you find out, everything will change. The fear that you'll look at me and see only what you've always seen: a shadow. Someone invisible.
But today, on the day of love, I want you to know one thing.
I see you. Not the way others do. Not the popular girl, the queen of Saint Claire, the prettiest girl in the room. I see Daniela. The girl who laughs with her eyes. The girl who bites her lips when she's nervous. The girl who keeps the notes she receives in a box under her bed, yes, I know about that.
I see you. And I love you. Silently. Secretly. Possibly forever.
If you want to know who I am… meet me in the isolated room on the top floor. After the last class. I'll wait.
— Your Silent Admirer"
—
Daniela spent the entire day in a state of nervousness that bordered on a nervous breakdown. She could barely concentrate in class, barely eat, barely breathe. The note was folded in her pocket, the paper already crumpled from how many times she had reread it.
Manon and Sophia tried to go with her, but Daniela refused.
"I need to do this alone." She said, and there was a fierce determination in her eyes.
The stairs to the top floor were narrow and dusty. No one frequented that part of the school since they had deactivated the art rooms the previous year. The light came in weakly through dirty windows, creating elongated shadows on the creaking wooden floor.
Daniela walked down the empty hallway, her footsteps echoing in the stillness.
The isolated room was at the end, on the left. The door was ajar.
She took a deep breath. Once. Twice.
She pushed the door open.
And froze.
You were there.
Sitting at an old desk, in the corner of the room, your hands resting on your knees and your head bowed. The light from the dirty window fell on your broad shoulders, on the gray sweater you were wearing, on your large hands that trembled slightly.
Daniela stood in the doorway for a long moment, processing.
"You." She finally said, and her voice came out strange, not surprise, not anger, not… anything she expected to feel.
You lifted your eyes.
Your face was red, not just your cheeks, but your neck, your ears, even the top of your forehead. Your eyes were glistening, as if you had been crying, or were about to.
"Daniela." You said, and her name came out of your mouth like a prayer. "I… I can explain."
"It's you?" Daniela took a step forward, her honey-colored eyes wide, incredulous. "The clumsy nerd who can't form a sentence around me? The girl who said she was allergic to flowers? It's you who's been sending me letters for months? Who gives me pink gerberas and Belgian chocolates and bookmarks?"
You swallowed hard.
"Yes."
"And you know what kind of cookie I like?" Daniela's voice was getting louder, higher pitched. "And what brand of Swiss chocolates I prefer? And that I keep the notes under my bed? How do you know that, Y/n?"
You stood up from the chair, your fight or flight instincts screaming to run, but your legs refused to obey.
"Because I watch you." You said, and your voice came out firmer than you expected. "Because I've been watching you for two years, Daniela. Since the first day you walked into that history room with a blue sweater and a smile that… that made me forget how to breathe."
Daniela opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
"I know it sounds creepy." You continued, the words pouring out like a waterfall now, impossible to contain. "I know it sounds obsessive. And maybe it is. But it's not… it's not the way you think. I don't want to scare you. I don't want to hurt you. I just… I just wanted you to know that someone sees you. Someone really sees you. Someone cares about the little details, about the way you furrow your brow when you're confused, about the way you hold your pen when you're nervous, about the fact that you hate it when people interrupt you mid-sentence."
Daniela took another step forward. Then another. Now she was just a meter away.
"Why didn't you ever say anything?" Her voice was strangely… fragile. A fragility you had never heard before. "Why stay in the shadows?"
"Because I was scared." You admitted, and a tear escaped, sliding down your hot face. "You're Daniela Avanzini. You're the sun. And I'm… I'm just someone who lives in the dimness, admiring from afar. I thought if you knew, you'd laugh. Or worse, you'd feel pity. 'The clumsy big girl who can't even talk to me properly.' That's what you said. 'Too clumsy to be romantic.'"
Daniela's face changed. Surprise gave way to something you couldn't identify, guilt? Regret?
"Y/n, I…" She started.
"You don't have to apologize." You cut in, wiping the tears with the back of your hand. "You were right. I am clumsy. I am weird. I spend breaks in the library while you're out there, living. But when I write those letters… when I choose those flowers… I don't feel clumsy. I feel… enough. I feel like, for a few minutes, I can be the person who makes you smile. And that…"
Your voice broke.
Daniela took the last step. Now she was right in front of you, so close you could feel the heat of her body, could see the tiny particles of gold in her honey-brown eyes.
"And that what?" She asked softly.
"That's all I ever wanted." You whispered. "Not to be loved back. Not to be corresponded. Just… to know that I can make you happy. Even if you never know my name."
The room fell silent.
The wind blew outside, making the dirty windows tremble. A dry leaf danced across the floor.
And then, before you could say anything else…
Daniela leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn't a soft kiss, nor hesitant. It was a determined kiss, as if she was trying to prove something to you, or to herself. Her lips met yours with an intensity that made you take a step back, your back hitting the dusty wall.
Daniela followed the movement, her hands coming up to grab your sweater, pulling you closer.
You stood paralyzed for a second, two, three, your brain overloaded, unable to process what was happening.
Then, something inside you broke loose.
Your hands, those large, trembling, clumsy hands, rose and found Daniela's waist. You pulled her against you, harder than you intended, and Daniela let out a small sound of surprise against your lips.
The kiss deepened.
There was no technique there, just two years of frustration, two years of silent desire, two years of "too clumsy" being dismantled in a single gesture.
When Daniela finally pulled back, her lips were red and swollen, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
"Never again." She said, her voice hoarse. "Never call yourself clumsy again. Do you hear me?"
You nodded, unable to form words.
"And never again." She continued, her fingers caressing your face, wiping away the traces of your tears. "Never think you're not enough. You gave me gerberas and chocolates and notes that made me feel… made me feel like someone saw me. Really saw me. No one's ever done that before."
"Daniela…" You started, but she cut you off with another kiss, quicker, lighter, almost a seal.
"You're an idiot." She murmured against your lips. "A romantic, creepy, and… and amazing idiot. How did you manage to hide this for so long?"
"Fear." You repeated, your forehead resting against hers. "A lot of fear."
"Of me?"
"Of losing you. Even though I never had you to begin with."
Daniela laughed, that laugh you had spent two years hearing from afar, which was now so close you could feel the vibration against your chest.
"You're ridiculous." She said.
"I know."
"And clumsy."
"I also know."
"And mine."
You blinked.
"What?"
Daniela pulled back enough to look into your eyes. Her smile was different now, not the smug smile of the queen of Saint Claire, but something more genuine. More vulnerable.
"Mine." She repeated. "You're mine. From now on. Because if you thought you were going to write all those letters, give me all those gifts, know all my secrets, and then just… disappear again… you're very wrong, Y/n."
You laughed, a silly, incredulous laugh, that echoed through the empty room.
"I'm not going anywhere." You promised.
"Good." Daniela said, and her arms wrapped around your neck, pulling you into a hug. "Because I have a huge list of questions. How did you find out about my favorite bookmark? How did you know about the Swiss chocolate? And how the hell did you manage to get into my classroom to put the new mug there without anyone seeing?"
"Professional secrets." You joked, and Daniela laughed against your shoulder.
Outside the room, hidden behind the door, Manon, Sophia, Lara, Megan, and Yoonchae exchanged glances of pure triumph.
"I knew it." Megan whispered, with a huge smile.
"You bet against it." Lara reminded her.
"Details."
Yoonchae just smiled, turning another page of her book, as if nothing had happened.
As if she already knew the ending of this story from the beginning.
—
The next day, Daniela Avanzini showed up at the library.
Not to look for a book, not to interrogate anyone, but to sit at your table. Right in front of you.
"I'm bored." She announced, as if that explained everything. "And you have the most interesting face in the library."
You blushed, you would always blush around her, apparently, but you smiled.
"You hate the library."
"I do." Daniela agreed. "But you're here."
And she pulled up a chair, sat down next to you, and spent the whole afternoon watching you solve calculus equations while eating the chocolates you had brought, "just in case," you said.
Daniela laughed.
And the sun, for the first time, decided that the shadow also deserved a little light.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this. We messed up, Yn. It’s all our fault. I’m so, so sorry.”
Those were the last words Yn heard before the world went silent. Now, the streets are filled with things that used to be human, and the only rule is survival. Yn isn't a hero, she isn't an athlete, and she definitely isn't a leader. But when she stumbles upon a group of elite women’s soccer players fighting for their lives in the ruins of the city, she realizes that her sister’s "mistake" has tied their fates together. In a world where the dead never stop running, how long can they survive ?
Alicent Hightower x Fem Zombie Reader x Rhaenyra Targaryen
Summary:A public resurrection experiment authorized by King Aegon ll is held in a dragonpit before a crowd of nobles. Eleven dead young women, including the reader, are brought back to life using a mysterious Valyrian substance said to contain the essence of lightning. The experiment quickly goes wrong as several resurrected girls become violent undead creatures, attacking guards and spectators in a bloody panic. Unlike the others, the reader regains consciousness and escapes, only to discover that she has unnatural strength and can no longer truly die. Fleeing into the woods, she finds a graveyard where she learns that her beloved Juliet is dead and buried. Overcome by grief and rage, she realizes Aegon is responsible for both her cursed existence and Juliet’s death. Surrounded by the other resurrected girls, she vows revenge and begins planning to overthrow and kill the king.
Warnings: Angst, violence, gore, and self harm.
The first thing you noticed as you awoke was the smell—not rot, not decay, but the sharp, sterile scent of crushed mint and vinegar. Someone had gone to great lengths to mask the stench of death before the audience arrived.
The chains bit into your wrists, cold iron against colder flesh. Around you, ten other women lay motionless on marble slabs, their white silk shifts glowing under torchlight like funeral shrouds. Above, tiers of spectators leaned forward in their seats—lords in velvet, merchants clutching pearls, even a few septas with their heads half-turned as if praying for mercy. The arena wasn’t Roman, no, but something older, wilder: a dragonpit repurposed, its curved walls still bearing the scorch marks of creatures long since chained elsewhere.
A man in maester’s robes stepped forward, his voice booming. “Eleventh subject.” The words echoed. You tried to move, to scream, but your body was a puppet with its strings cut. Behind him, King Aegon ll lounged on a makeshift throne, one leg swung over its armrest, watching with the bored fascination of a child pulling wings from flies.
Your vision blurred, then sharpened—first the torchlight stinging, then the details snapping into cruel focus. The women beside you weren’t just dead. They were *young*. Girls, really. None older than twenty, their wrists delicate as bird bones under the iron cuffs. Grey skin clung too tight to their faces, veins bulging like ink spilled beneath parchment. One had a twist of hair still coiled in a braid, the ribbon frayed but clinging—someone’s daughter, someone’s sweetheart. You wondered if they’d wept when the king’s men came for her.
The maester raised a vial between thumb and forefinger, the glass catching the torchlight like a captured storm. Inside, something *moved*—not liquid, not quite smoke, but a crackling blue-black substance that writhed against its prison. "Volantene glass," he announced, as if that explained anything. "Forged in the fires of Old Valyria, or so they claim." A ripple of awe passed through the crowd. You'd seen better craftsmanship in a Lysene whorehouse.
He tipped the vial slightly, and the substance inside surged, pressing against the glass like a living thing. "The essence of lightning," he continued, voice dropping into the hushed tones of a man who believes his own lies. "Not the petty strikes that split trees and frighten sheep—no, this is the *primordial* spark. Harvested from the skies above the ruins of Gogossos, where the air still hums with the whispers of the Bloodstone Emperor."
King Aegon ll yawned. "Get on with it."
The maester's fingers twitched around the vial, his knuckles white. "Trials were conducted," he said, voice slick with practiced pride. "All subjects prepared in advance. What you witness now is not *experiment*—it is *demonstration*." His eyes flicked to the king, then away, too fast. A bead of sweat traced the hollow of his throat.
The amphitheater erupted when the girl lunged—not you, not yet, but the fifth subject, a dark-haired girl from Gulltown whose name no one would remember. Her chains snapped like dried reeds as she surged upright, head whipping side to side with the jerky violence of a marionette yanked by a drunk puppeteer. The crowd screamed, not in terror but in delight, nobles half-rising from their seats like spectators at a mummer’s farce. Someone tossed a pear core into the pit.
The guards moved in with spears leveled, but one—younger than the rest, his chin still smooth beneath his ill-fitted helm—lowered his weapon first. He had the slack-jawed look of a man who’d never seen a woman’s collarbone before tonight, let alone one bared by a torn shift and slick with unnatural sweat. "Easy now," he murmured, stepping too close, his free hand outstretched as if to stroke a skittish mare. "You’re all right, dove. Let’s get you—"
His fingers grazed her collarbone—gentle, patronizing, the way a man touches something he believes belongs to him—and her teeth found his throat before he could blink. The amphitheater’s gasps folded into a single, shuddering inhale. Blood arced in a slick curve, painting the marble slabs. The guard staggered back, hands fluttering at his neck like wounded birds, his mouth opening and closing around a sound that never came.
The guard's body hit the marble with a wet thud, his blood pooling between the slabs like wine spilled at a feast. The girl—Subject Five, Gulltown’s forgotten daughter—lifted her chin, lips parted in a silent snarl, crimson dripping from her teeth. The amphitheater's collective breath hitched. Then Subject Three sat up, chains snapping like thread, her milky eyes rolling back into focus. Subject Seven followed, her jaw unhinging with a crack that echoed off the dragonpit's scorched walls.
The amphitheater's delight curdled into panic as Subject Five spat out a mouthful of the guard’s flesh. His body twitched at her feet, his life spilling between the cracks of the ancient dragonpit floor. The crowd’s murmurs surged into screams—not the thrilled shrieks of spectacle, but the raw, animal terror of prey realizing the hunt had reversed.
The amphitheater became a butcher’s yard in the span of three breaths. Subject Nine’s fingers curled into claws as she wrenched her wrists sideways, iron cuffs screeching against marble before they shattered. The sound was a dinner bell. Guards lunged forward, spears bristling like the spines of a cornered beast, but the undead girls moved with the jerky, relentless grace of storm-tossed branches—unnatural, inevitable. One guard impaled Subject Six through the ribs, her linen shift blooming red, but she only tilted her head, curious, before gripping the spear shaft and yanking him close enough to kiss. His scream drowned in the wet crunch of his own collarbone between her teeth.
You watched, frozen, as Subject Two—a Dornish girl with sun-faded scars on her knuckles—snapped her chain links like bread crusts and leapt onto the nearest spectator’s lap. The man, some minor lordling in Tyroshi silks, had just enough time to whisper “Mother have mercy” before her thumbs found his eyes. The septas’ prayers turned to shrieks as the lordling’s blood pattered onto their starched wimples like warm rain.
The iron cuff around your right wrist gave way with a sound like a sigh—not the shriek of tearing metal, but the quiet surrender of a rusted hinge. You hadn’t even realized you’d been straining against it until the chain slithered loose, coiling at your side like a dead serpent. Your fingers twitched, the sensation of blood rushing back into them sharp as a thousand needles. The amphitheater’s chaos blurred around you: the wet rip of flesh, the metallic tang of fresh blood, the distant, panicked clatter of armored feet. None of it mattered. The chain was loose.
You rose—not with the jerking violence of the others, but slowly, deliberately, like a woman waking from a dream. The amphitheater was a blur of screaming faces and splattered blood, but your focus narrowed to the gap between the marble slabs and the dragonpit’s curved wall. A path. An exit.
The guard appeared from nowhere, his breastplate gleaming with someone else’s blood, his spear leveled at your throat. “Back,” he snarled, though his voice cracked halfway through. He was barely older than the girls on the slabs, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his gorget like a trapped mouse. “Back, or I’ll—”
You didn’t mean to kill him. You only meant to step past, to brush him aside like a curtain. But your body wasn’t yours anymore—not the way it used to be. Your hand, outstretched to push, met his chestplate with the weight of a falling anvil. The metal crumpled like parchment under your fingers, and the guard’s breath left him in a wet, startled gasp. You felt his ribs splinter beneath your palm, the jagged edges of bone tearing through muscle like parchment. His spear clattered to the marble as he folded around your hand, his face a mask of dumb shock.
You pulled back, horrified, but it was too late. His body slid from your fingers and hit the ground with a thud softer than it should have been, like a sack of half-empty grain. Blood seeped from his lips, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. His eyes—wide, blue, too young—stared up at you, already glassy. You hadn’t meant to. You hadn’t meant to.
The realization hit you like the crack of a whip—sharp, sudden, leaving no room for doubt. You weren’t just alive. You were *wrong*. The guard’s body at your feet, the unnatural strength in your limbs, the way your pulse thrummed not with blood but with something colder, darker—this wasn’t resurrection. This was desecration. And you were the defiled thing they’d dragged back from the silence.
You ran.
The dragonpit’s chaos swallowed your footsteps whole. Screams layered over screams, a chorus of terror and delight, but you wove through them like a shadow through firelight. Your body moved with a precision that should have terrified you—every muscle, every tendon responding not with the familiar hesitance of flesh but with the eerie, effortless grace of a marionette whose strings had been cut and re-knotted by cruel hands. You vaulted over a toppled brazier, embers scattering like startled insects, and landed soundlessly on the other side. The heat should have burned. It didn’t.
Ahead, the amphitheater’s arched exit loomed, half-obscured by a crush of fleeing nobles. You dodged a sobbing septa, her wimple streaked with someone else’s blood, and sidestepped a lord who tripped over his own velvet hem in his haste to escape. The exit yawned before you, a mouth of stone and shadow. Freedom. Or the illusion of it.
The night air hit your face like a slap—cool, damp, smelling of rain-soaked earth and the distant salt of Blackwater Bay. You didn’t pause to breathe it in. Behind you, the dragonpit’s roars had dulled to a muffled chaos, but you knew better than to stop. Your feet carried you down the steep, winding steps carved into the hillside, each stride too long, too effortless, as if the ground itself recoiled to meet you.
The woods swallowed you whole—branches clawing at your shift, roots twisting underfoot like serpents. You ran until your lungs burned with the phantom memory of breath, until the distant screams of the dragonpit faded into the insect hum of the night. Moonlight sliced through the canopy in jagged silver streaks, illuminating the crooked path ahead: a trail of broken twigs and trampled ferns, as if something—or someone—had crashed through here before you.
The graveyard emerged from the gloom like a wound. Weatherworn headstones jutted from the earth at drunken angles, their inscriptions long since worn smooth by rain and neglect. A rusted iron fence encircled the plot, its spikes bent inward like the teeth of some half-starved beast. Beyond it, the trees grew thicker, their trunks knotted with ivy that swayed in the windless dark. No candles flickered here. No mourners lingered. This was a place the living had forgotten.
The first grave you stumbled upon had no name—just a sun-bleached plank of wood driven into the earth at a slant, the crude inscription long since eroded into illegibility. But the second—oh, the second made your borrowed breath catch. The stone was cracked down the middle, split by a sapling that had forced its way up through the fissure, but the letters remained clear enough: *Here lies Lya of the Rose, beloved of the wind and sea.* The epitaph was written in a looping, uneven hand, as if carved by someone who'd paused too often to wipe their eyes. You knew that handwriting.
The third grave was worse. Freshly turned earth, the scent of damp soil still clinging to it, and a marker so new the chisel marks hadn't yet weathered. *Mara of Tarth.* Beneath it, in that same achingly familiar script: *She asked for the moon. I gave her the tides.* You pressed your fingers to the letters, the rough stone biting into your skin—or it should have. You felt nothing. Only the slow, ceaseless pulse of whatever passed for blood in your veins now.
The fourth grave was worse. The name hit you like a forgotten knife between the ribs: *Juliet of the Vale*. The letters swam before your eyes, carved deep into the weathered stone, and something in your chest—some phantom muscle that shouldn't have been able to ache—twisted violently. You knew that name. You knew it in the way a bird knows the shape of its nest after a decade gone, in the way a corpse knows the scent of its own rotting.
The memory struck like a blade between breaths—Juliet’s fingers tangled in your hair as the guards dragged you apart, her voice raw as a fresh wound: *"Run!"* But you hadn’t. You’d let them clamp the iron around your wrists, let the septon spit his verses about unnatural love, let the crowd jeer as they hauled you toward The Noose. Only Juliet had fought, her knuckles splitting on a guard’s helm before they clubbed her down. You remembered the exact shade of her blood in the sunlight—bright as pomegranate seeds, pooling beneath her cheek where she lay crumpled in the dirt.
The grave blurred. You dug your fingers into the earth, tearing clumps of grass and soil like a beast clawing at a trap. They’d promised you’d burn together. Instead, they’d taken her somewhere quiet, somewhere the screams wouldn’t spoil the king’s supper. A crow laughed in the trees, the sound jagged as broken glass. You wondered if Juliet had made that noise when the fire bit her as she was burnt at the stake.
The memory hit like a blade between the ribs—Juliet’s laughter, sudden and bright, as she shook rain from her hair in the doorway of that borrowed Lysene attic. The way she’d pressed her damp forehead to yours, whispering *"I’d drown the world "...to keep you warm"* before tugging you into the nest of stolen blankets. You could still smell the salt on her skin, the cheap perfumed oil from the harbor markets, the ink smudged on her fingertips from the letters she’d scribble by candlelight when she thought you were asleep.
Your hands shook now, fingers splayed over the fresh-turned earth of her grave. They’d buried her ashes in a plain urn —you could tell by the way the soil sank unevenly, as if the urn vault had already begun to deteriorate. No sigil, just a nameless plot in a forgotten graveyard. The king’s mercy. Your throat locked around a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a scream. The wound in your chest—the one that shouldn’t have been able to ache—yawned wider, a chasm where your heart had been carved out and replaced with this cold, pulsing *wrongness*.
The jagged rock jutted from the earth like a broken tooth, its edge honed by wind and rain to a cruel sharpness. You knelt before it, fingers tracing the point—testing, hesitating. The graveyard's silence pressed in around you, thick as the humidity clinging to your stolen shift. Juliet's name blurred on the headstone behind you, the letters swimming in and out of focus as you gripped the rock tighter.
You drove it into your wrist with all the force your unnatural body could muster. The impact should have split flesh, severed veins, sent hot blood rushing to water the weeds at your knees. Instead, the rock shattered like stale bread, crumbling to gravel in your palm. Your skin hadn't even whitened under the blow. You stared at the debris, then at your unmarked wrist, the horror dawning slow and thick as tar. Death wouldn't take you. Not like this. Not ever.
"You are gone, and I am cast out from the light, sentenced to wander the earth in the dark." The words tasted like grave dirt in your mouth. You pressed your forehead against Juliet's headstone, the rough stone scraping skin that could no longer feel. Somewhere beyond the graveyard, a nightingale sang—obscene in its cheerfulness. You wondered if it would sound different if you crushed it in your hands.
"My beloved, my sweet beloved, they have taken you from me." The words slipped from your lips like blood from a wound that would not close. You traced Juliet's name with fingers that could no longer feel the roughness of the stone, only the hollow impression of letters carved too deep. "Aegon has stolen my eternity with you." The night air carried your whisper away, as indifferent as the stars blinking overhead.
The stone beneath your fingers cracked like an eggshell, fissures spiderwebbing out from the point of impact as you dug your nails into Juliet’s headstone. The sound was obscene in the graveyard’s silence—too loud, too final. A crow took flight from a nearby yew tree, its wings cutting the air like a butcher’s knife. You watched it go, the hollow in your chest yawning wider. Aegon had done this. Aegon, with his bored smirk and his wine-stained goblet, lounging in his stolen throne while the maester poured lightning into your veins. Aegon, who had taken the last thing that mattered and left you with this—this *mockery* of life, this body that couldn’t even bleed for her.
You stood, the motion too fluid, too effortless, as if the earth itself recoiled from your touch. The graveyard blurred around you, headstones tilting like drunkards in the moonlight. Somewhere in the distance, a branch snapped—too crisp, too deliberate. You turned, slow as a corpse surfacing in a pond, and saw them: shadows pooling at the tree line, figures hunched and twitching like marionettes with tangled strings. The other girls. The ones who hadn’t been granted the mercy of true death.
The shadows moved wrong. Not with the twitching, puppet-like spasms —these shapes slithered, deliberate as ink bleeding through parchment. They emerged from the tree line one by one, their bare feet soundless on the damp earth. Some still wore the tattered remnants of their white shifts, now stained with mud and old blood. Others had scavenged clothes from the dead: a guardsman’s torn cloak, a merchant’s embroidered vest, even a septa’s wimple, its starched folds crumpled around a face grey as stormclouds. They watched you with eyes that gleamed too bright in the dark, like coins at the bottom of a well.
The realization settled into your bones like winter frost—heavy, inevitable, unyielding. Aegon had done this. Aegon, with his bored smirk and his wine-stained fingers, lounging on a throne built from the bones of those who loved too fiercely. Aegon, who had stolen Juliet’s last breath and left you with this hollowed-out *thing* that could not follow her into the dark. The rage that coiled in your chest was not hot, not wild—it was cold, precise, a blade honed by grief until it could split a hair in midair. He would pay. Not with gold, not with words, but with the one thing kings cherished above all else: his life.
The memory of Aegon's smirk burned behind your eyelids—that lazy, wine-stained curl of lips, the way his fingers had drummed against the armrest of his makeshift throne as the maester poured lightning into your veins. You could still see it: the glint of torchlight on his rings, the careless tilt of his chin as he watched girls' chains snap like dried reeds. A king playing at god with a bored smile.
Your fingers flexed, the graveyard's damp earth crumbling between them like rotted bread. He'd stolen Juliet's laughter, her ink-stained fingers tracing constellations on your bare shoulders, the way she'd whisper "steal me a ship, love" after too much Dornish red. Left you with this—this hollow-chested *thing* that couldn't bleed, couldn't break, couldn't even fucking *die* when it mattered. The rage coiled in your throat, thick and black as the Volantene glass they'd cracked open inside you.
"He'll choke on it," you whispered to Juliet's headstone. The words tasted of grave dirt and lightning. "That smirk. I'll carve it off his face and feed it to his dragons."
The shadows at the tree line stirred. The Gulltown girl stepped forward first, her dark hair matted with old blood, the tattered remains of her shift clinging to limbs gone grey as stormclouds. She moved differently now—not the marionette jerks of the amphitheater, but with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator who'd learned its own strength. The others followed: the Dornish girl with her thumbs still stained from the lordling's eyes, the septa's wimple crumpled around her rotting neck, the merchant's daughter whose jaw clicked when she spoke.
The Gulltown girl's fingers brushed yours—cold, too cold, like river stones in winter. Her voice, when it came, was the scrape of rusted hinges: "They call us monsters." A beetle scuttled from her sleeve, its carapace gleaming blue-black in the moonlight. "But we remember."
"They call us monsters," you said, lifting your hand to let the moonlight carve shadows between your too-perfect fingers. The Gulltown girl's beetle skittered over your knuckles, its legs prickling like static. "But they are the ones who poured lightning into our veins." Your voice didn't shake. It couldn't. The dead have no use for tremors.
The Gulltown girl’s beetle paused on your fingertip, its antennae twitching toward the split headstone. Juliet’s name cracked further apart, the letters fracturing like old bone. The others watched—not with the slack-jawed hunger of the amphitheater’s risen, but with the sharp focus of wolves circling a wounded stag. The Dornish girl spat a fragment of tooth onto the grass. "They burned my brother for stealing bread," she said, her voice a dry rasp. "The king feasted on peacock that night.
The beetle's carapace gleamed like oil as it curled its legs and dropped into the grass. You watched it vanish into the blades, thinking of how Juliet would've laughed at such a tiny, perfect omen—how she'd have cupped it in her palms and whispered some nonsense rhyme about luck and ladybugs. The silence stretched, thick as the humidity clinging to your stolen shift, until the Gulltown girl exhaled a sound like wind through a cracked tomb.
They should have burned us together. That was the promise—our wrists bound with the same rope, our ashes mingling in the same urn. Juliet’s fingers tangled in mine as the flames licked higher, her laughter fierce against my ear: *"Steal me a ship, love—we'll sail through the smoke."* Instead, they buried her ashes in a pauper’s urn and poured lightning into my corpse. Aegon’s mercy: I live, and she does not.
The Gulltown girl’s fingers twitch toward my wrist—not to comfort, but to trace the unbroken skin where I tried to slit my own wrist with a jagged rock. Her nails are black with old blood. "We remember," she repeats, softer now, as if the words are a blade she’s learning not to twist. The others murmur assent, a chorus of rusted hinges and broken teeth. The Dornish girl spits again. This time, it’s a knucklebone.
The beetle vanished into the grass where Juliet’s blood should have seeped into the earth. I knelt there, fingers splayed over the fractured headstone, and understood with crystalline clarity: I was not alive. Not truly. Alive things can die. Alive things can follow their loves into the dark. I was something else—a wick dipped in lightning, burning without consuming. And Aegon had struck the match.
"There was nothing sweeter than our gentle sins," I whispered to the broken stone. The words tasted of stolen apricots and sea-salt skin, of Juliet’s laughter muffled against my shoulder when we hid from the septon’s patrols. "Nothing softer than her mouth on my neck when she thought the world wasn’t watching." The Gulltown girl made a sound like a rusted hinge bending—not agreement, but recognition. Her fingers found mine, cold as gravedirt.
The beetle's carapace gleamed in the moonlight as it crawled over Juliet's fractured headstone—a tiny, living thing moving across the dead letters of her name. I watched its progress with a hunger that had nothing to do with appetite. "They called us unnatural," I murmured, pressing my palm flat against the cold stone. "But what is more unnatural than this? To breathe without lungs, to move without a heartbeat, to grieve without tears."
The beetle crawled over Juliet's shattered headstone, its path tracing the cracks like a priest reading omens in broken bones. I watched its progress with eyes that could no longer weep, hands that could no longer feel the stone's roughness—only the hollow ache of its absence. "Aegon will pay," I whispered, not to the insect, not to the grave, but to the cold pulse of lightning in my veins. "Not just for you. For all of us."
The Gulltown girl's fingers tightened around mine—not comfort, but covenant. Her palm was clammy as a fish belly, her grip strong enough to crush living bone. "They took my sister first," she said, voice like wind through a rusted grate. "Drowned her in the Blackwater for witchcraft. Then they took me for looking too long at her floating hair." Behind her, the others shifted—a Dornish girl picking at the lordling's dried blood beneath her nails, a septa's wimple sagging around a face grey as stormclouds. They had no names now, only wounds.
Aegon II Targaryen's wine tasted of ashes tonight. He swirled the dregs in his goblet, watching the candlelight fracture through the bloody liquid, and wondered idly if his cupbearer had poisoned him. The thought amused more than alarmed—let the boy try. Let them all try. The throne room's torches guttered in the damp draft creeping through the cracked dragonpit walls, their light pooling like spilled gold across the marble floor where his guards had scrubbed away the amphitheater's stains. Not well enough. He could still see the darker patches between the tiles where Subject Five had gutted that fool from the Stormlands.
The throne room doors groaned like dying men when Alicent Hightower swept through them, her emerald skirts hissing against the marble. Aegon didn’t bother looking up—he knew the cadence of her footsteps, the way her rings clicked against her goblet when she was displeased. Behind her, Rhaenyra’s boots struck harder, sharper, the sound of a dagger being unsheathed.
"You turned women into carrion and called it science," Alicent said, her voice low as a cat’s lick. She stopped just shy of the darker stain on the floor, her shadow stretching long over the spot where Subject Five had knelt to lap at the Stormlander’s spilled entrails. The candlelight caught the silver in her hair, turning it to a crown of needles. "Even your father wouldn’t have dared."
Aegon smirked into his wine. "Father preferred his atrocities private. I find spectacle improves the taste." He flicked a glance at Rhaenyra, who stood rigid as a spear beside Alicent, her pallor stark against her black riding leathers. "Sister. You look—"
"Disgusted," Rhaenyra cut in. Her fingers flexed at her sides, the muscles in her jaw jumping like a trapped hare. "Eleven women, Aegon. Eleven graves you robbed for your little—" She gestured sharply, the motion slicing the air between them. "What even was that? Some mummer’s farce gone gruesome?"
Alicent’s rings clicked against her goblet—three precise taps, the sound a ward against worse words. "He wanted to see if he could," she murmured, watching Aegon over the rim of her cup. "That’s all it ever is with him."
Alicent's knuckle tapped once against her goblet—a sharp, silver sound like a blade being set down too hard. "Have they been captured yet?" she asked, too lightly. "Or killed?"
Aegon’s smirk widened as he swirled the dregs of his wine, watching the liquid cling to the silver inlay of his goblet like blood to a blade. "All of them," he said, voice dripping with perverse delight. "Every last one. The guards chased shadows until their torches burned out. The Dornish girl scaled the dragonpit walls like a spider. The septa—oh, you’d have adored this, Rhaenyra—she *walked* through a contingent of spearmen as if they were mist." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, the candlelight carving hollows beneath his eyes. "And the eleventh? She vanished like a sigh. No trail, no blood, nothing. Isn’t it marvelous?"
Rhaenyra's disgust tasted like copper on her tongue—sharp, metallic, the same flavor as when she'd bitten through her own cheek to keep from screaming during her first childbirth. Was the room always this hot? The throne room's torches seemed to pulse in time with the throbbing vein at her temple, their light casting Aegon's smirk into grotesque relief. He lounged in their father's chair like a cat who'd dragged in a half-dead songbird, pleased with the mess. Eleven women. Eleven graves robbed. And for what? To watch them twitch?
Alicent's fingers tightened around her goblet, the silver warming against her palm like a living thing. "And when they kill?" she asked, her voice deceptively soft—the way a cat's paw sheathes claws before striking. "What happens when your puppets turn their teeth on the smallfolk? On children?" The candlelight caught the emerald in her ring as she gestured toward the high windows, where the distant glow of lanterns dotted the city like fallen stars. "That Dornish girl tore out a man's eyes with her thumbs. Imagine what she might do in a nursery."
Rhaenyra exhaled sharply through her nose—a sound like a blade being drawn slowly from its sheath. She stepped over the dark stain on the marble (was that a tooth embedded near the edge?) and gripped the arms of Aegon’s chair, her knuckles whitening against the carved dragon scales. "You arrogant fool. You think this ends with guards and graves?" Her breath stirred the greasy strands of hair clinging to his forehead. "They’re not corpses anymore. They’re *ideas*. And ideas don’t stay chained."
Aegon laughed—not the practiced chuckle he used for court, but the wet, wheezing sound of a man who'd drunk too deeply from his own cup. He leaned back in the throne, the Valyrian steel blades scraping against his shoulders like eager fingers. "Ideas?" His grin showed too many teeth, wine-dark and sharp. "Oh, sweet sister. The only idea here is *mine*." He flicked his fingers toward the high windows, where torchlight stained the distant rooftops the color of old blood. "Let them crawl through the gutters. Let them whisper in the dark. What are dead women to a dragon?"
Aegon's wine-stained fingers traced the rim of his goblet idly as he leaned back in the throne, the Valyrian steel blades catching torchlight like jagged smiles. "Eleven women," he mused, voice dripping with the lazy cruelty of a cat batting at crippled prey. "Eleven pretty little tragedies." His smirk widened as he counted them off on fingers that still smelled of the amphitheater's iron-and-ozone stench.
"The Dornish one—oh, she was *delicious*. Caught trying to smuggle wildfire into Sunspear to burn her brother's killers. They gelded her lover first, made her watch." He licked his lips, savoring Rhaenyra's flinch. "The septa? Oh, sweet pious thing. Wrote poetry to the Maiden with one hand and slit her father's throat with the other when he tried to sell her to a brothel."
Alicent's emerald rings clicked against her goblet like a warning bell. "And the eleventh?"
The noose had been rough hemp, not silk—a small mercy, they'd said. Juliet's fingers had clawed at yours through the smoke as the pyre caught, her lips moving silently with words you'd memorized in the dark of a thousand stolen nights: *"Steal me a ship, love. We'll sail through the smoke."* The rope bit your throat before you could answer. You remember the exact moment her grip slackened—not when the flames licked her boots, but when your legs stopped kicking. She'd chosen to follow you into the dark.
Aegon's wine goblet glinted as he tilted it toward the high windows, where the first blush of dawn stained the sky the color of a fresh bruise. "The eleventh," he mused, "was my favorite." His tongue dragged over wine-dark lips. "A pretty little Sapphic tragedy—caught rutting with some merchant's daughter in the sept. The lover begged for mercy. The eleventh didn't." He laughed, the sound wet and thick as blood in a throat. "They hanged her slow. Made the merchant's girl watch. Then burned the girl anyway—said it was for consistency."
Rhaenyra's nails bit into her palms. She could smell it still—the scorched sugar stench of burning flesh, the way Juliet of the Vale had screamed when they lit the kindling beneath her feet. The eleventh had hung limp already, her neck snapped at an obscene angle, but Juliet had thrashed like a netted songbird until the smoke stole her voice. Aegon had eaten roasted quail that night, picking the tiny bones clean with his teeth.
Alicent's goblet hit the marble with a sound like a headsman's axe biting wood. The wine spread between the tiles like old blood—the same shade, she noted with detached horror, as the stain Juliet of the Vale had left on the pyre's base. "Executed for treason," she repeated, her voice hollow as a gutted bell. "For loving a woman." The words tasted of ashes and absurdity. She'd heard of men burned for stealing dragons, of lords gelded for plotting regicide—but this? This was the pettiness of a child crushing ants beneath his boot.
Aegon's smirk deepened as he swirled his wine, the liquid catching the torchlight like fresh blood. "Would you like to hear the rest?" he asked, his voice a lazy purr that slithered between them like a snake through grass. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne—an uneven rhythm, like a dying man's heartbeat. "Or does the truth spoil your appetites?"
Rhaenyra's jaw clenched so tight she tasted iron. The throne room seemed to tilt around her, the torches flaring brighter as if fed by her rage. She could see it—Juliet's fingers clawing at the noose, the way her body had convulsed when the flames reached her knees. The memory was a blade twisted between her ribs, but she forced her voice steady. "You're enjoying this." It wasn't a question.
Aegon leaned forward, his breath reeking of sour wine and spoiled meat. "Enjoyment is such a small word, sister. Like calling a wildfire a spark." His fingers traced the jagged edge of a throne blade, drawing a bead of blood he licked away with relish. "I *revel* in it. Every scream, every twitch—it's all just proof."
The crow cackled again from the twisted yew, its beak clacking like dice against bone. You didn't look up—your fingers were busy stripping bark from a fallen branch with unnatural precision, the pale wood beneath gleaming like exposed muscle. Around you, the risen girls waited in a loose half-circle, their stillness more unsettling than any fidgeting. The Gulltown girl knelt beside Juliet's shattered headstone, her fingers pressing into the fresh cracks as if reading braille. "She writes to us," she murmured, her voice the scrape of a coffin lid shifting. "In the breaks between worlds."
The Gulltown girl's fingers lingered on the cracked stone, tracing the fractures like a blind woman reading prophecy. "She says the river is wide here," she whispered, her voice rustling like dry leaves in a crypt. "Easy to cross."
The branch snapped clean in your hands—too clean, the break precise as a surgeon’s cut. Pale splinters jutted from the fractured ends like broken ribs. "We find others," you said, turning the wood over in fingers that no longer trembled. "Not corpses. Not puppets. The ones who remember."
The Gulltown girl’s beetle skittered across Juliet’s fractured headstone, its legs tapping out a rhythm only the dead could hear. Around you, the risen shifted—not the jerky twitches of the amphitheater, but the slow, deliberate movements of predators learning their own strength. The Dornish girl spat out a molar. It landed in the grass with a wet thud. "Where?" she rasped, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand still crusted with some lordling’s dried blood. "King’s Landing’s gutters are full of bones."
The beetle's carapace split with a sound like cracking ice. You watched as something pale and many-legged wriggled free of the shattered shell—not an insect, but a fingerbone, its joints clicking as it scuttled across Juliet's broken headstone. The Gulltown girl exhaled a sound like wind through a hollow tree. "They come," she rasped. "The ones who remember."
The beetle's broken shell skittered across Juliet's fractured headstone, its hollow carapace whispering secrets only the dead could hear. You pressed your palm flat against the cold stone, feeling the cracks beneath your fingers like veins beneath skin. "We will create an army," you murmured, not to the beetle, not to the grave, but to the lightning in your veins—the same lightning Aegon had poured into your corpse.
The beetle's carapace split wider—not with the wet pop of insect husk, but the dry crack of a breaking spine. More fingerbones spilled out, knuckles clicking as they skittered down the headstone like pale spiders. They moved in patterns too precise, forming symbols that made the Gulltown girl's breath hitch—ancient Valyrian glyphs, the kind carved into the throats of condemned slaves before dragonfire took them.
The first corpse came to us on a moonless night, dragging herself through the bracken on hands stripped raw to the bone. She wasn't one of ours—not from the dragonpit, not from Aegon's cursed experiment—but when she lifted her face, we knew her all the same. The Gulltown girl touched the newcomer's wrist first, her fingers finding the twin puncture wounds above the vein where the maesters had bled her dry. "They called it fever," the stranger whispered, her voice the scrape of a rusted hinge. "But it was his leeches that killed me."
The beetle's shattered carapace skittered across Juliet's broken headstone like a thrown dice—and the bones answered. First one, then ten, then a hundred crawling from the earth with the slow certainty of roots pushing through coffin wood. They came as whispers at first: a washerwoman drowned for stealing a loaf, her lungs still weeping river water; a blacksmith's apprentice crushed by his own hammer, the ghost of the blow twitching in his shattered spine; a hedge witch burned with her herbs still clutched in petrified fingers. None of them were whole. All of them remembered.
The Gulltown girl’s fingers curled around yours, her grip colder than the grave dirt beneath you. "Eleven," she murmured, her voice like wind through a rusted grate. "Eleven they woke." Her beetle—no, not a beetle, you realized now, but a knucklebone carved with Valyrian glyphs—scuttled up her arm and perched on her collarbone. "But the dead outnumber the living tenfold in these lands. And they *remember.*"
The first dozen came before dawn—peasants with rope burns around their necks, merchants’ daughters with wrists still raw from manacles, a septa whose wimple was fused to her scorched scalp. They moved like shadows given form, their wounds glowing faintly in the dark like banked embers. The Dornish girl greeted them by spitting out another tooth. "Only eleven?" she rasped, kicking the molar toward the newcomers. "Pathetic."
You knelt by Juliet’s grave, pressing your palm flat against the fractured stone. The cracks had spread overnight, branching like lightning across the surface, the letters of her name now intersected by thin black veins. "They won’t be the last," you said, and the certainty in your voice surprised even you. The words tasted of grave dirt and prophecy.
"Be patient," you murmured to the Dornish girl as she paced the graveyard perimeter like a caged sand panther, her bare feet kicking up dust that clung to her peeling skin. Her lips curled back from teeth filed to sharp points—whether by her own hand or some jailer's cruelty, you never asked. She spat another knucklebone into the dirt, this one still slick with old marrow.
The Gulltown girl's beetle—now unmistakably a carved fingerbone—skittered across your palm, its glyphs glowing faintly with stolen lightning. You closed your fingers around it, feeling the hum of ancient power through your unfeeling skin. "Eleven," you whispered, not to the bone, but to the hollow-eyed women encircling Juliet's grave. "Eleven they awoke." The knucklebone pulsed in your grip like a second heart. "But what begins with eleven..." Your voice dropped lower, colder, the way Juliet's had when she swore oaths in the dark. "...ends with more than eleven thousand."
The guard's breastplate was splattered with something too dark to be mud when he staggered into the throne room, his breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "Your Grace—" he choked out, one gauntleted hand pressed to his side where the metal was dented inward like a crushed eggshell. "The woods near the dragonpit—something's—" His words dissolved into a wet cough, and Rhaenyra didn't need to see the red staining his teeth to know what filled his lungs.
Aegon barely glanced up from his wine, swirling the dregs with the idle fascination of a child poking at a dead beetle. "Speak plainly, dog," he drawled. "Or don't speak at all."
The guard's helm rattled as he struggled to straighten, his breath whistling through the visor like wind through a broken flute. "Not—not bandits, Your Grace," he managed, each word punctuated by a wet click deep in his throat. "No campfires. No chatter." His gauntlet squeaked against the dent in his breastplate as he pressed harder, as if trying to hold his ribs together through steel. "Just... shapes. Moving between the trees. Too many to count."
Alicent's fingers tightened around her goblet, the wine inside trembling like a tide pulled by a distant moon. She'd seen that particular dent before—the way the metal crumpled inward in perfect concentric circles, as if punched by something with fist-sized knuckles. The same pattern marred the breastplate of the young guard who'd died trying to restrain Subject Five.
The guard coughed again, a thick glob of something dark spattering the marble between his boots. "Sent scouts at dusk," he rasped. "Only two came back." His voice dropped to a whisper, the words crumbling like old parchment. "One kept repeating 'mother' like a prayer. The other... his eyes were gone. Just—just hollows." His knees hit the floor with a clang, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling like a funeral bell.
Rhaenyra stepped forward, her shadow swallowing the trembling guard whole. "And the shapes?" she asked, her voice low and edged like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. "Did they wear chains? Shrouds? Armor?"
The guard's lips peeled back from teeth slick with blood. "None of those," he whispered. "They wore—" His body convulsed once, violently, as if something inside him had twisted free. He collapsed face-first onto the marble, the back of his breastplate split open like a gutted fish. The wound wasn't fresh. It reeked of grave soil and crushed mint.
Rhaenyra's boot turned the guard's body over with a nudge that sent his helm rolling across the marble like a severed head. The corpse's mouth hung slack, lips parted around a final word that would never be spoken. The stench of spoiled meat and crushed mint coiled through the throne room, thick enough to taste.
"They wore *what*?" Alicent's voice cut through the silence like Valyrian steel through silk. Her emerald rings clicked against her goblet—once, twice—before she realized her hands were shaking. The wine within trembled, casting ruby reflections across the dead man's face.
The guard's corpse stared up at them with clouded eyes, his mouth slack around a word that had died in his throat. Rhaenyra nudged the body with her boot again, watching how the armor clanked hollowly—like a suit of plate left to rust in a tomb. "Well?" she said, voice sharper than the throne's jagged edges. "What in the Seven Hells do you make of *that*?"
Alicent's fingers tightened around her goblet, the wine inside trembling like a storm-tossed sea. She inhaled sharply—the stench of rotted meat and something herbal clinging to the dead man's gambeson. Crushed mint, maybe. The same scent that lingered in the dragonpit after the experiment. Her stomach lurched. "Bandits wouldn't leave a man like this," she murmured. "Not unless they wanted him found."
Aegon snorted, flicking a grape stem at the corpse. It landed in the guard's open mouth with a wet plop. "Oh, please. Some disgruntled smallfolk with a grudge and a sledgehammer." He leaned back, swirling his wine lazily. "Or maybe a bear got loose from the pits. They do love crushing ribs, don't they?" His grin was all teeth, the torchlight catching the red stains at the corners.
The shapes in the wood?" Rhaenyra's voice cut through the throne room's hush like Valyrian steel through silk. She stepped over the guard's corpse, her shadow swallowing the blood-slick marble where his dented breastplate had left a rust-colored smear. "You think *bears* did this?" Her boot tapped the dead man's gauntlet—the fingers curled inward like a burned spider, the nails split down to the quick. "Bears don't leave mint under a man's tongue."
Alicent's goblet hit the side table with a clatter. The wine sloshed over the rim, beading along the carved woodgrain like blood along a blade. She'd seen those fingernails before—on the corpse of a maester's assistant found curled in the ravenry, his throat packed with dried rosemary. "The experiment," she breathed. The words tasted of ashes and absurdity. "You swore they were all accounted for."
Aegon's wine goblet hovered halfway to his lips, the torchlight catching the liquid's slow swirl like a lazy serpent coiling in its cup. "No, no," he murmured, his voice thick with the drowsy amusement of a man watching ants scurry from a kicked hill. "I said they all got away—those eleven little birds." His fingers flexed around the stem, knuckles whitening beneath gold rings. "And besides," he added with a dismissive flick of his wrist that sent wine droplets arcing through the air like miniature blood spatter, "it couldn't have been them. Our dear guard boy said there were too many shapes to count—a hundred, at least." His lips peeled back in a grin that showed too much teeth. "Eleven does not make a hundred."
Rhaenyra turned from the corpse without another word, her cloak snapping behind her like a banner torn from its pole. The throne room's torches guttered in her wake, their flames bending as if trying to follow—as if even fire knew better than to stay in Aegon's presence when truth walked out the door.
Alicent's goblet hit the marble floor with a clang that echoed through the throne room like a funeral bell. Wine spread across the stone in a dark stain, seeping into the cracks between tiles like blood into a battlefield. "You," she said, her voice trembling with something sharper than rage, "will fix this."
Alicent's skirts hissed against the marble as she turned toward the doors, her spine rigid as a sword. "Enough of this madness. I'll not stand here while you—"
"Don't you want to know why I chose them?" Aegon's voice curled around the words like smoke around a pyre. His fingers tapped a lazy rhythm against the throne's jagged edges, each click of his rings echoing in the sudden silence. "The eleven. It wasn't random, mother."
Rhaenyra, already halfway to the exit, froze mid-step. Her shadow stretched long across the bloodstained floor, the torchlight carving her profile into something sharp enough to draw blood. Alicent didn't turn, but her shoulders tensed beneath the emerald silk—a tell Aegon had learned to recognize when he was still small enough to hide behind her skirts.
"Seven hells," Alicent whispered. Her fingers found the sept pendant at her throat, the silver warm from her skin. "You kept records."
Aegon's fingers traced the rim of his goblet idly, the wine-dark liquid catching torchlight like congealed blood. "Subject One," he began, voice dripping with the lazy relish of a cat cleaning its paws after a kill. "A miller's daughter from the Riverlands. Hung herself after her father sold her maidenhead to pay his debts." His tongue flicked out to catch a drop of wine at the corner of his mouth. "She twitched so prettily when the magic took her—like a fish on a hook."
Aegon leaned forward on the throne, the Valyrian steel blades scraping against his shoulders like eager lovers. "Subject Two," he purred, swirling his wine absently. "The Dornish viper—oh, she writhed beautifully when the Volantene poured lightning into her veins. Caught trying to smuggle wildfire into Sunspear to burn her brother killers. They gelded her paramour and burnt her brother at the stake for stealing bread." His grin widened as Alicent's rings clicked against her goblet—three sharp taps like a headsman testing his blade. "She bit through three guards' gauntlets before they subdued her. Quite the fighter... until the noose snapped her spine."
Aegon's finger tapped against his goblet—once for each corpse. "Subject Three," he mused, licking wine from his lips. "A blacksmith's widow from Flea Bottom. Drowned herself in a vat of molten steel after the gold cloaks burned her workshop for sheltering rebels." He chuckled, swirling the dregs of his wine. "She came back... malleable. Like heated iron waiting for the hammer."
Aegon's finger traced the rim of his goblet, leaving a wet smear where wine met silver. "Subject Four," he mused, eyes half-lidded like a sunning lizard. "A Lysene whore caught poisoning her clients. Made quite the mess when she woke—tore out a guard's throat with her teeth." He chuckled, swirling the dregs of his drink.
Aegon's wine goblet caught the torchlight as he tilted it toward Alicent, the liquid inside swirling like slow-spilled poison. "Subject Five," he said, voice thick with amusement. "Our dear Gulltown girl. Executed for slitting her husband's throat on their wedding night—though she claimed he'd earned it. They would have still executed her for looking too long at her sister's floating hair after they drowned her for witchcraft." His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the throne's armrest. "She woke screaming about saltwater in her lungs. Quite poetic, really."
Aegon's fingertip traced the sixth inscription on his goblet—a thin groove worn smooth by repetition. "Subject Six," he murmured, his voice syrup-thick with wine and something darker. "A septa from the Stormlands. Wrote hymns to the Maiden by day, slit her father's throat by night when he tried to sell her to a brothel." He chuckled as Rhaenyra's grip whitened around her own cup. "Her corpse sang while we worked on her. Quite the contralto. She was also the one to get her ribs impaled by a guard."
Aegon's finger tapped the seventh inscription—a shallow gouge that caught the torchlight like a scar. "Subject Seven," he mused, licking wine from his lips. "A hedge witch from the Reach. Burned for cursing a lord's crops when he took her daughter." His chuckle slithered through the throne room. "Her skin crackled so sweetly in the flames. Came back smelling of rosemary and regret with a unhinged jaw that had a crack in it."
Aegon's wine-stained finger tapped the eighth notch in his goblet—a deeper groove where silver had worn thin from obsessive tracing. "Subject Eight," he sighed, as if recalling a favorite dessert. "A Braavosi dancer who gutted a magistrate with her own hairpin after he sold her sister to a pleasure barge." He licked his lips, savoring Rhaenyra's flinch. "She twitched so prettily when the lightning hit—like her old pirouettes. Shame about the legs."
Aegon's finger traced the ninth notch—a deep scar in the silver where the metal had thinned from repeated pressure. "Subject Nine," he murmured, tilting the goblet to watch torchlight bleed through the worn spot. "A fisherman's daughter from Dragonstone. Drowned herself in Blackwater Bay after a knight's son got her with child and left her to the crabs." His tongue flicked out to catch a drip of wine. "She woke with seawater still weeping from her lungs. Delicious irony."
Aegon's fingers drummed against the throne's armrest—one tap for each corpse. "Subject Ten," he mused, swirling his wine absently. "A seamstress from King's Landing. Stabbed herself with her own needles after the Hand's men took her son for 'questioning.'" His smirk deepened as Rhaenyra's nails bit into her palms. "She came back... pliant. Like cloth waiting for the shears."
Aegon's fingertip lingered on the tenth inscription, his nail catching the groove with practiced ease. He sighed, swirling his wine absently. "Subject Ten was malleable as wet clay—but Eleven?" His tongue flicked out to wet wine-dark lips. "Eleven was always special."
Aegon's fingertip lingered on the eleventh inscription—a jagged mark that split the silver like a lightning bolt. The torchlight caught its edges, casting shadows that danced across his face like the ghosts he'd summoned. "Subject Eleven," he murmured, and the throne room seemed to hold its breath.
Aegon leaned forward, his rings clinking against the goblet's rim like coins tossed on a pyre. "Eleven," he murmured, licking wine from his lips with the slow relish of a man savoring his last meal. "My favorite." The throne room's torches guttered as if recoiling from his grin.
The eleventh's neck had snapped clean, he recalled—not the messy strangulation of Subject One's hemp noose, nor the wet collapse of Subject Three's drowned lungs. Perfectly broken, like a doll discarded by a careless child. He'd watched the merchant's girl scream herself hoarse as they lit the kindling beneath the eleventh's dangling feet, but the corpse hadn't twitched. Not even when the flames licked her boots.
Rhaenyra's boots struck the marble like hammer blows, each step cracking the silence left in her wake. The throne room doors groaned open before her—whether from her approach or some unseen hand, she didn't care. Torchlight spilled into the corridor like arterial blood, painting the stones the color of a fresh wound. Behind her, Aegon's laughter unspooled like rotten thread, clinging to her cloak as she strode into the dark.
Rhaenyra's gauntlet creaked where it gripped her sword. She remembered the rumors—how the merchant's daughter had clawed her own eyes out before the flames took her. How they'd found the eleventh's name carved into the girl's forearm with a rusted nail. *Yours*, it said. *Always yours.*
Alicent's heel turned on the blood-slick marble with the precision of a dagger being sheathed. She didn't look back at the ruin of the guard's corpse, nor at Aegon's wine-stained smirk—her gaze fixed on the arched doorway where torchlight pooled like spilled gold. "Summon the silent sisters," she said to no one in particular, her voice colder than the grave soil clinging to the dead man's boots. "And have the maesters burn mint in the braziers. The stench will linger otherwise."
Her emerald skirts hissed against the stone as she walked, each step measured to avoid the worst of the gore. At the threshold, she paused—just long enough for her shadow to swallow the last of the guard's outstretched hand. "Clean your mess, Aegon," she said without turning. The words fell like a headsman's axe between his shoulder blades. "Or by the Seven, I will let whatever comes for you next finish what those corpses began."
The throne room doors boomed shut behind Alicent with a finality that echoed like a tomb sealing. Aegon swirled his wine absently, watching the torchlight refract through the dregs—red as fresh blood, black as rotting veins. Silence pooled around him, thick and syrupy, until even the torches seemed to hold their breath. He flexed his fingers against the throne's jagged edges, savoring the bite of Valyrian steel. The taste of iron bloomed in his mouth—not from the throne's cuts, but from the way his own teeth had sawed into his lower lip.
You're a starting centre back for Arsenal Women's team, composed, vocal, one of the leaders on the pitch. Fans admire you for your intelligence and calm authority.
Online, though, you have a different kind of voice, a hugely respected writer on Tumblr with an alias, known for deeply emotional, character driven smutty women’s football fan fiction. People in the fandom hang on your updates. You've built a reputation for getting players right, their mannerisms, their dynamics, their quiet moments.
No one knows how close you actually are to the source.
syn. daniela clicks a link she shouldn't have, and suddenly she's checking it more than her own notifications. What starts as curiosity turns into late night scrolling, subtle likes she swears were accidents, and a girl who definitely notices she’s watching… and starts posting like it’s for her.
notes. HERE WE ARE AGAIN. I just want to be clear about something, this idea has actually been sitting with me for a while. I first came up with it when I was working on the Lara SMAU, but at the time I didn’t feel confident enough in my writing to fully explore it the way I wanted to. Since then, I’ve grown a lot, especially in how I approach more mature themes, and I feel like I can finally do this concept justice. I also recently came across a story with a somewhat similar premise, and the first few chapters were genuinely amazing. I definitely recommend showing that author some support, especially considering what they’re going through personally. All of that kind of brought me back to this idea, and made me think… maybe it’s time to make another smau….? obviously sexual content
(Holy yap, i definitely forgot about the notes on my sophia and manon smau)
Summary = Getting sold to the girl group KATSEYE? Classis wattpad story. But not for you. Your the daughter of a priest in a small town, you where kind of an wild girl, exploring everything that's forbidden. But when your father founds out through rumors that you've kissed a girl, he had to take serious action. So he sold you to a friend of him, Missy Paramo.
summary: The rising global popstar sensation Lara Raj, who has a boyfriend, is confused with her feelings after meeting her ex-situationship—Y/N in a snowboarding hangout with Manon. Y/N who treated her the best out of all her exes. Y/N who Lara left because she wanted to find someone else new. Y/N who always loved snowboarding and was the one who first taught Lara about it.
content: fem!reader snowboarder!yn x idol!Lara, Katseye, Santos Bravos (Kenneth as y/n's little brother)
