mia, 21, she/her, daughter of cain, raccoon girl, writer
writing for: a knight of the seven kingdoms, house of the dragon, game of thrones, jujutsu kaisen, top gun, outer range, the pitt, criminal minds, & marvel
rules: i do not condone hate or bullying, please scroll if you dislike my content. minors and trolls will be blocked from interacting with me. i will write darker/mature content however i refuse to write for/about the following topics: rape/genuine noncon, gore, sexual torture, and anything about human excrement (especially in fetish content). my requests will reflect these rules.
yay!! thank you for coming to every lesson, class dismissed (for now ;) ) also so sorry for the inconsistency, i've been so busy, nonetheless i love you guys and hope i can make more for you soon!!
(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)
read on ao3
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ৡঌ༄.°• ✸ .°•༄ঌৡ
night fell again, painting the bedroom in shades of deep blue and shadow. the rain had stopped, leaving the city quiet, almost reverent. aerion had carried you to his massive bed, laying you down on the dark silk sheets. he loomed over you, completely bare now, his silver hair reflecting the moonlight, his violet eyes burning with a terrifyingly pure intensity.
"are you ready, sweet thing?" he whispered, his hands pinning yours above your head, interlocking his fingers with yours.
you trembled beneath him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. you looked up at him, feeling so incredibly small under his heavy, powerful frame. "aerion... i'm scared."
"i know," he murmured, his voice softening, though the possessive grip on your hands didn't loosen an inch. he leaned down, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to each of your eyelids. "but i’ve got you. i've always had you. i'm going to be gentle, darling, but i am going to claim you. there's no turning back from tonight."
he freed your hands only to cradle your face, his thumbs wiping away a stray tear of anticipation. he parted your thighs slowly, settling his weight between them. the sheer heat of him made your breath hitch.
"look at me," he commanded softly, the familiar rule keeping your focus locked onto him. "keep your eyes on mine. don't look away from what we're doing."
he pressed forward, the initial intrusion making you gasp and tense up, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders. he stopped immediately, his jaw clenching as he held himself back, waiting for you to adjust.
"breathe, darling," he whispered, kissing the corner of your trembling mouth. "just breathe me in. let me take the pain. let me take all of your firsts."
as you slowly relaxed, yielding to him, he pushed deeper, filling the space he had guarded for so many years. a soft sob escaped you, but it was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you deeply, holding you so tight against his chest that you couldn't tell where your body ended and his began.
"you're mine," he growled against your lips, his pace starting slow, a heavy, hypnotic rhythm that began to turn the ache into a deep, radiating warmth. "only mine. say it."
"i'm yours," you gasped out, your hips moving instinctively with him, completely lost in the overwhelming tide of his touch. "aerion... i'm yours."
he smiled as he pulled himself in and out of your achingly tight cunt, hissing at how you stretched beneath him.
he screwed his eyes shut, savouring the way you twitch and writhe around his cock. stretched taught you can do nothing but nod and babble as he continues talking about claiming you.
“all yours,” you manage to say through bated breaths, you feel as if you’re submerged in water and unable to breathe. your ears ring and your cheeks burn up.
through your daze you manage to make out aerion’s words, he urges you to cum and your body can do nothing but obey as you shatter beneath him.
he finishes right after you, your folds drip with love, sweat, and both of your releases. you’re still shivering when aerion wakes you from your trance with a gentle kiss on the forehead.
you hadn’t fallen behind, you simply needed a good teacher.
a/n: guess who's finally free from laptop-chargerless hell. ITS PTOLOMIAAAAA. eat up pretties this fic has been marinating all month.
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The war for the Iron Throne was fought in mud, blood, and the ashes of broken families. When King Daeron’s crown was threatened by his bastard brother, alliances were forged in a hurry, sealed with steel and marriage vows. You were a warrior of an ancient house of the Stormlands, bred for battle as much as Baelor was. Your union was meant to be one of cold military convenience—your house’s swords in exchange for the Targaryen prince’s favor.
But war has a strange way of melting the coldest armor.
In the quiet hours between bloody skirmishes, you and your husband found a strange sort of rhythm. He was the chivalrous shield of the realm, and you were the blade at his side. You shared the heavy silence of the battlefield, the dust of the road, and eventually, a fierce, desperate love that neither of you had anticipated.
"When this is over," Baelor had whispered one night, his calloused fingers tracing the scar on your collarbone, "you will be my queen, I will whisk you far from here and you will know no more bloodshed."
But the gods are rarely so kind.
The Targaryen host had established a temporary base near Tarth. It was a humid, stifling week of stagnant heat. After days of wearing heavy plate armor in the stifling humidity, your skin was raw, burning with sweat and dirt.
During a lull in the patrols, you slipped away to the nearest body of water—a deep, mist-veiled tributary hidden by a thick canopy of weeping willows. The water was cool, offering a fleeting, blissful relief. You unbuckled your armor, leaving your sword resting against a mossy stone, and stepped into the water, letting the grime of war wash away.
You never heard them approach.
Blackfyre scouts, lingering like shadows in the brush, descended upon you before you could reach your blade. Cold iron clamped around your wrists. A heavy sack was thrown over your head, cutting off the light and the air, suffocating your screams before they could echo back to the camp.
When Baelor realized you were gone, the sun had already dipped below the horizon. The discovery of your discarded armor and the trampled reeds by the water’s edge sent a cold terror through his chest that no army of Daemon’s ever could.
He did not call for an army. He simply rode out into the dark, tracked the broken branches, and walked straight into the enemy's territory alone.
It was a madness born of pure devotion. When the Blackfyre knights surrounded him in the dark woods, their swords drawn, Baelor did not draw his own. He stood before them, unarmed, his violet eyes burning with a desperate, singular focus.
"I am Baelor of House Targaryen," he announced, his voice carrying the commanding weight of a prince, though it trembled with a raw, bleeding edge. "Take me. Kill me if you must. But let my lady go. She is no longer of use to you, I am."
The Blackfyre commander, a scarred knight loyal to the bastard prince, stepped forward. He looked at the Targaryen heir, amused by the sheer folly of a prince risking the realm for a single soul. Yet, there was a cruel, poetic streak in the rebel knight.
"We do not want your head tonight, Prince Baelor," the commander sneered. "But we want your stronghold. The base you hold at the edge of Tarth. Yield it, and you may both live."
"It is yours," Baelor said without a shred of hesitation. To give up a strategic base was treason to his father’s cause, but to Baelor, the world was empty without you in it.
"Not so fast," the commander laughed, his voice dripping with malice. "There are conditions to this trade. A test of your legendary discipline."
The commander laid out the terms, a twisted game designed to break them.
"You will lead us to the base. You must walk on foot, guiding our vanguard. Your little wife will walk behind you. But you are not to look at her. Not once. Not a single glance, not a turn of the head to ensure she is still there, until your feet have fully stepped onto the wooden threshold of your camp. If you turn your head, even for a moment, she die."
Baelor’s jaw tightened. "And how do I know you won't kill them the moment my back is turned?"
"You don't," the commander replied. "You have only my word. Do we have a bargain, Prince?"
From the shadows, you were dragged forward. Your hands were bound behind your back, your lip split and bleeding, but your eyes burned with a fierce warning. No, your gaze pleaded. It is a trap.
Baelor met your eyes for one final, agonizing second. "I accept," he whispered.
The march began.
It was a journey of pure torment. The forest was pitch-black, illuminated only by the flickering torches of the Blackfyre knights riding behind you. Baelor walked at the front, his back straight, his eyes fixed resolutely on the dark path ahead.
You walked a pace behind him, your bare feet cutting on the sharp rocks and brambles.
The silence was deafening. The only sounds were the heavy thud of Baelor’s boots, the dragging of your feet, and the quiet sneers of the rebel soldiers.
Are you there? The question burned in Baelor's mind, a constant, agonizing thrum. Every time you stumbled, every muffled gasp of pain that escaped your lips, Baelor’s muscles locked. His instinct—his entire being—screamed at him to turn around, to catch you, to shield you in his arms.
Just look, a voice whispered in his ear. They have already slain her. You are walking a corpse back to camp.
"Keep walking, Breakspear," a Blackfyre knight hissed from the shadows.
Baelor clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, his nails digging into his palms until they bled. He kept his eyes locked onto the horizon, where the faint, warm glow of his camp's watchfires began to pierce the heavy mist.
Just a little further, he told himself. Just a few more steps.
Behind him, your breathing was shallow and ragged. You wanted to call out to him, to tell him you were there, but the rebel knights had pressed a dagger to your throat, warning you that a single word would end the game. You could only march, watching the broad, familiar shoulders of your husband, so close yet entirely unreachable.
The trees cleared. The wooden palisade of the Targaryen base loomed ahead. The guards on the watchtower called out in alarm, seeing the Blackfyre banners, but Baelor raised a hand, signaling them to hold their fire.
The threshold was right there. The heavy wooden fence had been opened slightly, casting a long line of warm light across the dirt.
Baelor’s heart hammered against his ribs. The tension that had held him in a vice-grip for hours finally began to fracture. He could taste the safety of the camp. He could feel the warmth of the fires.
His boot crossed the wooden threshold of the gate. He stepped onto the solid wood of the base's entrance.
In a rush of overwhelming relief, his mind short-circuited. The agony of the walk, the terror of the night, the sheer joy of survival erupted within him. He forgot the exact phrasing of the cruel bargain. He forgot the shadow that still lingered in the darkness. He only knew he had made it.
Baelor turned around, a radiant smile breaking across his weary face. "We are safe—"
The words died in his throat.
You were still one step behind. Your foot was raised, poised to step onto the wood, but you were still in the dirt. Still in the dark.
Your eyes met his, wide with sudden, catastrophic realization.
"Baelor," you whispered.
Twang.
The sound of releasing bowstrings shattered the morning air.
From the treeline, three black-fletched arrows tore through the mist. They struck with sickening, heavy thuds. One pierced your shoulder, another your chest, and the final one sank deep into your stomach.
Your breath caught. The light in your eyes, once so fierce and untamable, began to flicker like a dying candle.
"No!" Baelor screamed, a sound so raw and shattered it didn't sound human.
He lunged forward to catch you, but the world dissolved into chaos. With the bargain broken, the Blackfyre knights drew their swords with roaring battle cries. The vanguard surged forward, riding their warhorses straight into the opening gate.
Baelor collapsed to his knees on the wooden threshold, catching you just as your knees buckled. He pulled your bleeding body against his chest, his hands desperately trying to cover the wounds, to stem the torrent of crimson staining your tunic.
"No, no, no, please," Baelor choked out, tears blinding his vision. "I am sorry. I thought—I thought we were across. Please, look at me. Stay with me."
You coughed, blood staining your lips, your hand feebly rising to touch his cheek. Your fingers left a smear of red against his pale skin. You tried to speak, to tell him it wasn't his fault, but the strength was draining from you too fast. Your eyes slowly closed, your head falling heavy against his shoulder.
Around you, the base was trampled. Targaryen soldiers screamed as they were cut down, caught entirely unprepared. Horses hooves thundered past, kicking up dirt and blood, splattering Baelor’s face. The camp was falling, burning, being torn to pieces.
But Baelor heard none of it. He only rocked your lifeless body in his arms amidst the ashes, staring blankly into the dark woods, forever haunted by the single step that parted you.
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the pitt x off campus fanfic where tucker gets injured and victoria is taking care of him? mavadi in the big 26? or even better “the goal” rewrite with victoria as sabrina? walk with me. i want to write this….
I write these words to you with a heart filled with pain and loss.
Here in the heart of the Gaza Strip, from the heart of suffering, pain, hunger, and a severe siege.
I lost my mother, who meant life and hope to me.
I lost the eldest who was my support in this life.
Now I am alone in this life. My family is suffering and going through very difficult circumstances. I have a young child and a wife who is three months pregnant. We are exhausted from hunger due to the lack of food and medicine.
My baby won't stop crying because he's hungry and wants baby milk. My wife needs healthy food, vitamins, and protein for her unborn child's health.
Because of the war, I lost my job and everything I owned, and I can't provide them with even the most basic necessities.
I ask for your help with a broken heart, a heart wracked with pain and loss.
We urgently need 500 euros to save my family from hunger and the dire need for medicine. We ask nothing of you but your help to save us and keep us alive.
Oh my God, my little baby won't stop crying. He desperately needs baby formula, but I can't provide even the most basic necessities because of the high prices and food shortages here in Gaza.
My family is going through difficult times.
There is no food or medicine; everything here is expensive.
I haven't been able to provide food for my family yet. Please help me, even with a small amount, so I can provide food for my family. They are truly hungry. 😭😭
hello friends!!!! so sorry i’ve been gone a while ! my laptop charger broke and i don’t get my new one until tomorrow. + tumblr cleared my queue of posts so i’ll have to reformat and space out all the posts i intended do come out during my trip. please bear with me. :’> i just wanted to affirm that i am still here and i will keep writing since i’ve seen your asks and dms. i’m very grateful for the concern!!! i love you all very much!! (for my the pitt readers, i will be writing for shen soon bcs i am so shen-pilled rn i love him sm)
ps: enjoy this mini dump of my trip and life lately as a consolation <33 (mini author reveal)
Hunger is growing, illness is spreading, and fear never leaves
We are living in conditions no human should endure
Insects, rats, disease, and no real way to protect ourselves
My father is still very sick
He urgently needs treatment, but in a place like this, even basic medicine is out of reach
I try every day to keep my family going, but this is bigger than what we can handle alone
Please don’t scroll past this🥺🙏
Let your humanity speak💔
Donate and share
Dear Esteemed Donors,
My name is Ahmad, and I am a 16-year-old from northern Gaza… Ahmad family needs your support for Support Ahmad’s Fami
📌📌📌 Fundraiser vetted (#167 by el-shab-hussein & nabulsi), But we created a new GoFundMe page because GoFundMe suspended the beneficiary’s account on the platform, which put us in a very difficult situation.
📌📌📌 My main account @ahmadwaleed55 was suspended, so I will be using this account to continue sharing my family’s campaign and updates.
or: you know just how to get robby to shut up when you fight
(pre-schedule post 2!! i hope you guys enjoy this and all the upcoming content. love u guys lotsss)
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ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
the rain was still slicking the windows of the house when the door slammed. you didn’t even have your coat off before robby was filling the doorway of the kitchen, looking weary. his arms were crossed over his chest, his presence as immovable and imposing as the hospital walls he practically lived within.
"you went over my head," he growled, his voice a low vibration that usually made residents and interns tremble. "i told you that patient in south 14 was a flight risk, and you signed the discharge papers anyway."
"i signed them because he was medically stable, robby. we have a waiting room full of people bleeding out in the hallway because there are no beds," you snapped back, kicking your shoes off. the adrenaline from the chaotic shift had just curdled into a sharp, jagged frustration.
"he’s going to ghost before the follow-up, and it’s going to be your license on the line when he ends up back in trauma because you were 'clearing the board,'" he stepped closer, his shadow looming large against the cabinets. he was still in his dark scrubs, the fabric tight across his shoulders, his jaw set in that stubborn, clinical line that had earned him his reputation. "i’m trying to keep you from making a mistake that sticks."
"i don't need you to micromanage me at home, robby. i've spent twelve hours being your student; i'm not doing it here," you yelled, the heat rising in your chest. you were tired of the hovering, tired of the way his protective instincts felt like he was treating you like a first-year. "you want to talk about hospital policy? let's talk about how you can't seem to stop bringing the job home with us?"
"i don't stop being responsible for what happens in that unit," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerous. "and i don't stop seeing when you’re being naive about the people we treat."
"is that what you think?" you marched right up to him, your heart hammering against your ribs. the air between you was thick, charged with the kind of friction that only comes from two people who spend their lives fighting death together—and then come home to fight each other.
the argument was circular, exhausting, and beneath the anger, there was a desperate, pulsing need to just stop the clinical talk. you looked at his mouth—the hard, uncompromising line of it—and then back up to those dark, relentless eyes that had seen too much.
"you think i'm too soft for the pitt?" you challenged, your voice dropping to a provocative whisper.
"i think you're reckless with your own career," he countered, though his gaze flickered down to the pulse jumping in your neck for a split second.
"reckless," you repeated. a slow, reckless smile spread across your face. "how’s this for irresponsible?"
your hands flew to your back, quickly undoing your bra. then, without breaking eye contact, your hands went to the hem of your shirt. robby didn’t move, his expression stony, until you gripped the fabric and yanked it upward in one fluid motion, letting it drop to the floor.
you stood there, bared to him in the dim light of the kitchen, your chest heaving with lingering anger and new, sharp intent. the shift in him was instantaneous. his pupils blew wide, swallowing the iris whole, and the hand that had been resting on the counter gripped the edge so hard his knuckles turned white.
"what’s the matter?" you breathed, watching the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, "you’re so quiet now, robby." your grin spread to your eyes as you watched his bated breaths.
he didn't say a word. he didn't have to. the way he lunged across the small gap between you, his large hands bruising your waist as he hauled your body against the heat of his scrubs, told you everything you needed to know.
“y’ think you’re cute huh?” he teased against your neck, big hands pinching the sensitive buds of your nipples. “don’t you?” you shoot back, a whimper cracking through the teasing tone of your voice. he flips you to face away from him then, pressing your back into his chest.
“only when you shut up,” he says, digging his rough palm into the fabric of panties. you whimper as he drags a calloused finger around the soft pearl of your clit. the sound eggs him on more, pace quickening as he presses into your dripping cunt. “see? so easy for me now, so obedient.” he praises emptily, his free hand drags your clothes down to your thighs—his fingers push into your hole the second he frees you, index curling into you as his thumb draws circles against your clit.
the heat of the moment does nothing to stop the goosebumps decorating your skin as you clench your thighs together and trap his hand in. he chuckles then, a faint primal sound as he curls his finger into you faster. the coil in your stomach is about to break as he pulls his hand out. your legs wobble at the loss of him, skin on fire as he bends you over into the marble counter.
you watch his hungry eyes through the darkened window above the sink, your cunt salivating in anticipation as he fumbles with his scrubs. you’re so dazed that you don’t notice the way he slaps his hard cock against the delicious curve of your ass. his tip leaks precum against your wanting skin as he teases you.
he runs the crown of his cock against your wet slit, teasing your clit as you leak onto him. “want my cock, little brat?” he tsks at you. you nod at him, eyes meeting his in the faint reflection of the window. “gonna have to beg for it” he says, big hands cupping your face as he pushes your jaw up. you see him through the window, his skin stretching taught against his bulging veins. “please, ‘ll be good, i’ll be so good mikey please,” his name slips softly from your lips and straight to his angry cock.
he pushes into you without warning. hammering in and out so aggressively he doesn’t feel the drool falling from your chin. his eyes are half-lidded and unfocused as you constrict around him, babbling and moaning unintelligibly.
“s’ fuckin’ good for me sweetheart.”
thrust
“knew you could do it.”
thrust
“you just need me to fuck you dumb huh?”
thrust
“yes s…sir” you stutter out, eyes shutting instinctively.
he slaps you awake “uh-uh” he tuts, pounding into you. “look up there, want you to see how ruined you are for me.”
you try your hardest to focus on the image of you guys, sweaty and lustful against the glass, but he’s fucking you so good. your legs wobble as he hammers into you further, “can…t, s’ too good mikey, can’t help it”
the words come out fast and barely coherent, he presses into you more, “yeah? god y’re so fucking tight.” your body is warm all over and your muscles contract, your limbs shake as you exhale a final “c..cumming”
he groans in response wrapping his palm around your neck as he lifts you flush against his chest. he hugs you into him with his free arm, face buried in your neck as he relishes the way you tighten around him.
“tha’s it, good fucking girl.” he praises you—his tip shooting ropes of seed into your hungry cunt, walls closing up as you drink it all in.
he pants before kissing your cheek, big arms lifting you into his embrace as he carries you into the bathroom to clean up.
he lays you in the tub, turning the faucet up to the max as he undresses. the warm water surrounds you fast, your aching body easing into the sensation, but as michael sinks behind you, his fat cock presses against the small of your back—already prepared to bully your cervix.
this is gonna be a long night–you think to yourself as you feel him bottom out into your cunt once more.
request: hello hello! not sure if you’re taking requests, but could you do something in a modern setting? maybe baelor x reader where she gets into an accident and loses her memory, and the last thing she remembers is from 10 years ago; before she ever met him. and now he has to win her love back all over again. would be nice if there’s a drama like she remembers her ex but not him (ending is up to you hehehe) tq!!
a/n: hiii!! this was in the works for a VERYYYY long time.... i tried my best to do this plot justice and i'm quite happy with how it turned out. i hope you love it!!!
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Baelor stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his reflection ghosted against the rainy skyline of the city. He still had his suit jacket on, though his tie was loosened, a rare sign of disarray for a man whose public image was surgically maintained. Even in his distress, he looked every bit the Prince of the City—dark, regal, and immovable.
"You weren't there, Baelor," you said, your voice cracking as you threw a few essentials into a designer tote. "It was our anniversary dinner. I sat at that table for two hours while the waitstaff looked at me with pity. Two hours."
"I was in a closed-door meeting with the board of directors," Baelor replied, his voice low and vibrating with a controlled frustration. He didn't turn around. "The merger with Blackwood-Bracken is at a critical juncture. If I had walked out, it would have signaled weakness. My father’s legacy, the stability of the entire firm—"
"It’s always the firm, Baelor. Or the council. Or your father’s legacy," you snapped, cutting him off. "I’m not a wife to you. I’m a decorative piece of your brand. I’m the woman who smiles at the charity galas and wears the right colors to match your tie. I don’t even remember the last time we talked about something that wasn't a press release or a political strategy."
Baelor finally turned, his dark eyes weary, harboring a flicker of hurt he was too proud to voice. "That is unfair. Everything I do, I do to ensure we are untouchable. You knew the life I led when you married me."
"I knew I was marrying a man, not a monument!" you shouted, the frustration finally boiling over. You grabbed your car keys from the marble island, the metal jingling sharply in the quiet room.
"Where are you going?" he asked, stepping toward you. The authority in his voice was instinctual, the tone of a man used to being obeyed. "It’s nearly midnight and the weather is worsening."
"Anywhere where I can breathe without feeling like I'm being managed by a PR team," you said, heading for the door.
"Don't be dramatic," he sighed, the dismissal in his tone being the final straw. "We'll talk in the morning when you're less... spirited. We have the Ashford foundation gala tomorrow evening; you need your rest."
You stopped at the threshold, looking back at him with eyes bright with tears. "No, Baelor. That’s the problem. You always think there’s a tomorrow to fix what you’re breaking today. You think you can just schedule a 'reconciliation' into my calendar for next Tuesday."
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind you, a final, sharp punctuation to the decade you had spent trying to reach him.
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The city was blurred by a sudden, torrential downpour. Your hands were shaking on the steering wheel, tears making the neon lights of the street bleed together into streaks of gold and red. You felt a desperate, hollow ache for a time when things were simple—before the NDAs, the security details, and the coldness of the penthouse.
The anger had begun to drain away, replaced by a hollow, aching regret. You didn't want to be alone. You wanted your husband, your Baelor.
You reached for your phone and hit his contact at the top of your favorites. It rang. And rang. Then, the clinical click of his voicemail. He was likely already back in his office, phone silenced, buried in the Blackwood merger.
"Baelor," you whispered into the car's Bluetooth, your voice thick with tears as you pulled into the intersection. "I’m sorry for screaming, I should be more articulate but I just...I need some space to remember who we are. I’m going to stay at the—"
A pair of blinding white headlights suddenly illuminated the interior of your car from the left. There was a screech of tires on wet asphalt, a frantic crunch of metal, and the sound of the voicemail recording cutting into a sharp, static-filled silence.
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Back at the penthouse, Baelor’s phone buzzed on the marble counter. He didn't pick it up immediately; he was staring at the space where you had stood, feeling the weight of the silence you’d left behind. When he finally reached for it, it wasn't your name on the screen. It was an unknown number from the city’s Level One Trauma Center.
"This is Baelor Targaryen," he said, his voice instantly regaining its professional edge.
The voice on the other end was clipped and urgent. "Mr. Targaryen, there has been a severe motor vehicle accident. Your wife is being prepped for emergency surgery. You need to come to Ashford Memorial immediately."
The phone nearly slipped from his numb fingers.
Minutes later, he was in his own car, tearing through the rain-slicked streets with a reckless desperation that would have horrified his PR team. As the car’s system synced with his phone, a notification flashed on the dashboard: One New Voicemail.
He hit play, hoping for your voice, hoping for a sign of life.
"Baelor," your voice filled the car, trembling and wet with tears. "I’m sorry for screaming. I just... I need some space to remember who we are. I’m going to stay at the—"
Then came the sound. The sudden, violent roar of the impact, the shattering of glass, and your stifled, sharp gasp before the line went dead.
Baelor let out a choked, jagged sound that was half-sob, half-scream. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, the tears finally breaking through his stoic mask. He had ignored the call. He had chosen the merger, the legacy, the silence, and this was what it cost. He was hearing the moment your life—your life—was almost snuffed out because he wouldn't just answer the phone.
By the time he pulled into the hospital’s emergency bay, the level headed Baelor was gone. He was just a man, weeping and broken, stumbling toward the sliding glass doors.
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The days that followed were a blur of sterile white corridors and the rhythmic, mocking hiss of a ventilator. Baelor didn't leave the hospital. He ignored the frantic calls from the office, the mounting pressure of the merger, and the reporters circling the entrance like vultures. He sat in the hard plastic chair by your bedside, holding your cold hand, staring at the bandages that swathed your head.
Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the crunch of the metal from the voicemail. It played on a loop in his mind, a self-inflicted torture. He was haunted by your last words: to remember who we are. You had wanted to find your way back to him, and he had let the call go to voicemail.
On the third night, his brother Maekar found him in the sept, head bowed, shoulders shaking. Baelor, who never broke, was shattered. "I killed her, Maekar," he whispered into the candlelight. "I wasn't there. I’m never there." He had spent seventy-two hours bargaining with every god he didn't believe in, promising to burn his legacy to the ground if only you would open your eyes. He looked aged, the vibrant prince replaced by a hollow-eyed ghost of regret.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
When the light returned, it was clinical and harsh.
You blinked, trying to shield your eyes from the fluorescent hum of the hospital ceiling. A man was sitting in a chair beside your bed. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His hair was a mess, and his expensive shirt was wrinkled and stained with coffee. When he saw you move, he lunged forward, his face breaking into a look of such profound relief it was almost painful to witness.
"Thank the Gods," he breathed, reaching for your hand. His voice was thick with an emotion you couldn't name. "The doctors said...they said the swelling was the main concern. You're okay. You're safe."
You stared at his hand on yours. His wedding ring, a heavy band of Valyrian steel and gold, caught the light. You pulled your hand away, tucking it under the thin hospital sheet. A stranger’s touch felt like an intrusion.
"I’m sorry," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Do I... do I work for you? Did I cause a crash in a company car? Am I in trouble?"
Baelor froze. The relief on his face didn't just fade; it vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow terror that made him look older than the city itself.
"What did you say?"
"I don't know who you are," you said, your voice rising with panic. You looked around the room, searching for a familiar face. "I was on my way to Francis’s house. We’re supposed to go to the music festival tomorrow. I—I need to call him. He’ll be worried."
Baelor stood up slowly. He looked down at you, and for the first time in your life—though you didn't know it—you saw the legendary Baelor Breakspear look utterly defeated.
"Francis," Baelor repeated the name like it was a death sentence. "You think you're still with Francis?"
"Of course I am," you said, frowning. "We’ve been together for three years. We're moving in together next month. Now, please, who are you? Where is my boyfriend?"
Baelor walked to the door, calling for a nurse in a voice that sounded like it was coming from deep underwater. In your head, the last ten years—the marriage, the struggles, the love they had fought so hard to build—had been erased. He was the man who had ignored your final call, and in return, your mind had deleted him entirely.
Baelor’s breath hitched. He tried to stay calm, forcing his hands to remain still even as his world collapsed a second time. "Francis? Darling, it’s me. It’s Baelor. We’ve been married for seven years. We've been together for ten."
"Married?" You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh. "I’m twenty-two. I’m not married to anyone, especially not... a man like you. You look like you belong in a boardroom, not at a music festival. Please, just give me my phone. I need Francis."
Baelor leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "You had an accident. Your brain... the doctors call it retrograde amnesia. You've lost some time. But look at me, please. Look at the way I’m holding you. You know me." He reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, his movements practiced and tender despite his shaking hands. "Here, just a sip. Your throat must be so dry."
You pushed his hand away, the water splashing onto his silk shirt. "I don't want water from you! I want to know why you're keeping me here and why Francis isn't here. Did he get into the accident too? Is he okay?"
"Francis is fine," Baelor said, his voice cracking. He didn't tell you that Francis was three thousand miles away, married with two children, and hadn't spoken to you since the Obama administration. He couldn't bring himself to destroy the only reality you had left. "He just... he isn't the one you call anymore. I am."
"You're lying," you hissed, tears of frustration welling in your eyes. "I don't care who you think you are. You're a stranger. I want to go home. I want my life back."
Baelor stood up slowly, looking down at you with a devastation so profound it felt like a physical weight in the room. He had spent ten years winning you, ten years convincing you that a life with a Targaryen was worth the sacrifice, and in a single night, all that progress had been reset to zero.
"I’m going to take care of you, even if you hate me for it. I'm not leaving you again."
The door swished open and a team of doctors entered. The attending physician, a woman with a sharp but kind gaze, checked your vitals while a nurse adjusted your IV.
"It’s normal to feel disoriented," the doctor said, looking directly at you. "You’ve sustained a traumatic brain injury. We call what you're experiencing retrograde amnesia. Your long-term memories are intact, but your brain has temporarily lost access to the last several years."
"Temporary?" Baelor asked, his voice cracking.
"In many cases, yes. It could be days, weeks, or months," the doctor explained. "But for now, to her, those years simply haven't happened."
"I don't care!" you shouted, the panic reaching a fever pitch. "I care about Francis! Why is he not here? Why is this man claiming we're married? I want my phone. I want to talk to my boyfriend."
The nurse stepped forward, trying to soothe you. "Honey, you need to stay calm. Your blood pressure is spiking."
"I won't stay calm! You're all in on this!" You turned your tear-streaked face to Baelor, your eyes filled with a terrifying mixture of hatred and fear. "If you're who you say you are, call him. Call Francis and tell him where I am. If you don't, I'll scream until the police come."
Baelor looked at the doctor, who gave a small, somber nod. Forcing a patient into a reality they don't recognize can cause further psychological trauma. Baelor reached into his pocket, his hand trembling as he pulled out his phone. He walked out into the hallway, the sterile air feeling like ice in his lungs.
He scrolled through his contacts—not his own, but the ones he had archived years ago from your old life, back when he had first started seeing you and had to deal with the fallout of your breakup with Francis. He found the number.
The phone rang three times before a man answered, sounding distracted, the background noise of children laughing and a television playing in the distance. "Hello?"
"Francis," Baelor said, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel. "It’s Baelor Targaryen."
There was a long, stunned silence on the other end. "Baelor? What the hell... it’s been years. Is everything okay?"
"No," Baelor whispered, leaning his forehead against the cold hospital wall. "There was an accident. My wife... she’s woken up, but she thinks it’s ten years ago. She thinks she’s still with you. She won't stop crying for you, Francis. I need... I need you to help her understand."
He had spent a decade building a fortress around your heart, making sure you felt safe, loved, and chosen. And now, he was calling the one man he had always feared replaced him, begging him to come and break your heart so Baelor could have a chance to mend it again.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Two hours later, the door to your room opened again. You sat up as much as the monitors would allow, your breath catching. "Francis?"
The man who walked in was wearing a fleece jacket and jeans, his face etched with a kindness that felt familiar, but his hair was thinner than you remembered, and he moved with a settled, domestic weariness. He didn't rush to your side to kiss you. He stood at the foot of the bed, his expression a painful mixture of pity and awkwardness.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Francis! Oh thank God," you sobbed, reaching out. "Tell them. Tell this man to leave. We have the festival, remember? Why aren't you taking me home?"
Francis looked at Baelor, who was standing in the corner of the room, shadows clinging to his eyes. Baelor’s jaw was set tight, watching the woman he loved beg for another man.
"Listen to me," Francis said, moving closer but not taking your hand. "That festival was a long time ago. Ten years ago, actually."
You shook your head violently. "No. No, we just talked about it. We're moving in—"
"We didn't move in," Francis interrupted gently. "We broke up, honey. A few months after that festival. It was hard, but... we weren't right for each other. I've been married to someone else for six years now. I have two kids." He pulled out his phone, showing you a lock screen of a blonde woman and two toddlers in a park.
The world tilted. The air in the room felt like it was being sucked out. "No," you whispered. "That's not... that can't be right."
"It is," Francis said. He looked toward Baelor. "And that man over there? That’s your husband. You’ve been married to him for seven years. I’ve seen the news, I've seen the photos... you love him. Or, you did."
You looked at Baelor. He looked back at you, and for a second, the raw, bleeding love in his eyes was so intense it terrified you.
"I don't know him," you whimpered, looking back at Francis. "I don't know any of this. Please don't leave me here with him."
"I have to go back to my family," Francis said, his voice firm but sad. "I'm sorry. I really hope you get your memory back. But I'm not your person anymore. He is."
When Francis walked out, the silence he left behind was worse than the screaming had been. You turned your face away from Baelor, staring at the white wall. You felt cold, as if your blood had turned to slush. You didn't feel relief that Francis was okay; you felt the jagged, fresh trauma of a breakup you should have processed a decade ago.
"Leave," you whispered, your voice trembling.
Baelor moved a step closer, his hand reaching out instinctively before he caught himself. "Darling, I know this is a lot to take in—"
"I said leave!" you screamed, snapping your head around to glare at him. Your eyes were red and burning with a pure, concentrated loathing. "You brought him here. You brought him here just to make him say those things. To break my heart just so you could swoop in and be the hero."
"I brought him here because you were in pain!" Baelor’s voice rose, desperate and cracking. "I brought him here to help you!"
"You didn't help me! You destroyed my life!" You clutched the hospital gown over your chest, feeling the hollow ache where your future with Francis used to be. "I don't care if we're married. I don't care if I loved you yesterday. To me, you are the man who just stood there and watched my world end. You're the one who stole ten years of my life and replaced them with... with whatever this is. This sterile, rich, fake nightmare."
Baelor flinched as if you had struck him. Every word was a serrated blade, cutting through the guilt he already carried. He had expected confusion. He had expected sadness. He hadn't expected to become the villain in the only story you had left.
"You're a stranger, Baelor," you said, your voice dropping to a deathly, flat coldness. "And right now, I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone. Get out of my room."
He stood there for a long time, the most powerful man in the city, rendered utterly powerless by the woman he would have died for. He had spent days praying for you to wake up, never realizing that when you did, you would look at him with the eyes of someone staring at a monster. He turned and walked out, the sound of his expensive leather shoes on the hospital tile sounding like the slow, steady beat of a funeral march.
He stood there for a long time, the most powerful man in the city, rendered utterly powerless by the woman he would have died for. He had spent days praying for you to wake up, never realizing that when you did, you would look at him with the eyes of someone staring at a monster. He turned and walked out, the sound of his expensive leather shoes on the hospital tile sounding like the slow, steady beat of a funeral march.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The weeks that followed were his penance.
Baelor didn't return to the office. He didn't take the calls from the board. Instead, he arrived at the hospital every morning at 6:00 AM, before you were even awake. He would bring fresh flowers—yellow lilies, which you once told him reminded you of your grandmother’s garden, though now you just looked at them with suspicion.
He performed the tasks the nurses usually handled, his movements hesitant and deeply humble. He learned how to adjust your pillows perfectly, how to help you sip from a straw without spilling, and how to rub the lotion into your skin to keep it from drying out under the harsh hospital air.
"I can do it myself," you snapped one afternoon when he reached for your hand to help you sit up.
"I know you can," he replied softly. He didn't pull away; he simply waited. "But you don't have to. Let me."
He was constantly repenting, though not always with words. It was in the way he stood by the window when you were angry, letting you scream at him until your voice went hoarse, never once raising his own. It was in the way he brought in your favorite books from the penthouse—books you didn't remember owning—and read them to you for hours, even when you pretended to be asleep.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
"I’m sorry," he whispered one night, thinking you were unconscious. He was sitting on the edge of the hard plastic chair, his head in his hands. "I’m so sorry I didn't pick up the phone. I’m sorry I let the world get between us. I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life making it up to you, if you just... if you just give me a chance to be a stranger you can tolerate."
You felt a lump form in your throat, but you didn't open your eyes. You couldn't. Because if you looked at him, you might see the man Francis said you loved, and right now, the twenty-two-year-old girl inside you was still too busy mourning the life he had stolen.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
He brought you your favorite meals from a small deli three blocks from your old apartment—a place he shouldn't even know about. He had clearly spent hours researching the woman you were ten years ago, desperate to find a bridge back to you.
"Is this supposed to make me like you?" you asked as he set the sandwich down on your tray.
Baelor looked at you, his eyes brimming with a quiet, persistent hope that broke your heart even as you fought to keep it hardened. "No. It’s supposed to make you feel like yourself. If you ever want to leave this room and never see me again, I’ll let you. But until then, please... let me take care of you."
He was a prince begging for scraps of your attention, a man who had everything except the one thing he actually needed: your forgiveness.
Trust returned in tiny, begrudging increments.
It started with the way he handled your migraines. When the hospital lights became too much, he didn’t wait for you to ask. He would simply rise, draw the heavy blackout curtains, and sit in the darkness with you. He didn't try to talk; he just stayed, a steady anchor in the void.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
By the fourth week, you stopped flinching when his hand brushed yours. One evening, as he was reading a particularly dense biography of a queen you once admired, you caught yourself watching him. The way the light hit the silver at his temples—stress from the accident, you realized—and the way his voice softened when he thought a passage might move you.
You looked at him then, really looked at him. At the way his eyes were starting to darken and the way you he had aged since you first opened your eyes. Did you love him? Could you still love him. The thought of it blooms terrifyingly across your chest, heart warming up to the notion.
Though you’d never admit it to him, you saw him for who he was then. Just a man trying to survive the loss of his wife while she was sitting right in front of him.
"Baelor," you whispered, interrupting him mid-sentence.
He froze, his thumb lingering on the page. It was the first time you had used his name without spitting it like a curse. "Yes?"
"I don't remember being that woman," you said, gesturing to the book and the expensive flowers. "The one who liked those things. But...I think I see why she liked you."
Baelor didn't smile; his eyes simply shimmered with a sudden, wet intensity. He closed the book and looked at you with a reverence that made your skin tingle. "I don't need you to be her. I just need you to be okay."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The day of discharge arrived with a mixture of relief and fresh terror. The doctors declared you physically fit, though the "gap" remained as wide as ever. As the nurse wheeled you toward the sliding glass doors, Baelor walked beside you, carrying your bags. He had traded his sharp suits for a soft cashmere sweater and charcoal trousers—a "casual" look that felt like another peace offering.
A sleek black car waited at the curb. As Baelor helped you into the passenger seat, he paused, his face inches from yours. "We don't have to go back to the penthouse," he said, his voice low. "I know you said it felt like a nightmare. I’ve had the staff prepare the house in the Heights. It’s smaller. More gardens. You used to call it our 'escape.'"
"The penthouse... that’s where the anniversary was, right?" you asked, remembering the bitter fight that started all of this.
Baelor nodded, a flash of pain crossing his features. "Yes. We’ll go to the Heights. Just us, no one else, no one to please."
The drive was quiet. You watched the city blur past, feeling like an immigrant in a country you had once ruled. When the car pulled into a gated driveway lined with ancient oaks, you felt a strange, ghostly tug of familiarity at the sight of a swing set in the neighbor's yard and the smell of jasmine in the air.
Baelor opened your door and offered his hand. This time, you didn't hide yours under the sheet. You took it. His grip was warm, solid, and humbler than the man you thought you hated.
As he led you across the threshold of the sun-drenched house, he stopped in the foyer. "Welcome home," he whispered. "I know you don't remember it, but I’ll spend every second helping you build something new here."
You looked at him, the same way you had when he read to you those nights ago–and for the first time since waking up, the ghost of Francis didn't feel like the only thing keeping you upright. You were still lost, but as Baelor gently closed the door on the world outside, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were lost with the right person.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Life at the Heights settled into a quiet, rhythmic domesticity that Baelor guarded with a ferocity he had once reserved for hostile takeovers.
He didn't go back to the city. He didn't even go back to the penthouse. He moved his entire life—his files, his encrypted laptop, his stacks of reports—into the library overlooking the rose garden. Every morning, you would find him there, the glow of the screen illuminating his face as he navigated the chaos of his life from a distance.
But the second you stirred, the work stopped. He would mute his calls, ignore the frantic emails from the board, and step out into the kitchen. He became your primary caretaker, refusing to hire a live-in nurse. He remembered the exact temperature you liked your tea, the specific way you liked your toast, and the precise timing for your medication.
"I can make the tea, Baelor," you said one morning, finding him already at the stove, his eyes dark from a late night of negotiations he hadn't told you about.
"I know you can," he murmured, his back to you. "But let me. It’s the only time I feel like I'm actually doing something right for you."
He spent his days working from home, his office door always open so he could hear your footsteps. If a director called while you were having a "bad day"—one of those afternoons where the gaps in your memory felt like physical weights—he would hang up without an apology.
"Baelor, the company, your life" you prompted one afternoon as he ignored a buzzing phone to help you prune the hydrangeas. "Maekar says they're struggling because you aren't there."
Baelor didn't even look at the phone. He reached out, his hand steady as he guided your shears. "Let them. I spent ten years building that firm and only a few seconds losing you. I think my priorities are exactly where they should have been a long time ago."
He was groveling in the most profound way a man like him could: by sacrificing the only thing he had ever valued more than himself—his power.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
After two months of living in the quiet gravity of the Heights, Baelor did something he hadn't done since the accident. He didn't wear a cashmere sweater or a t-shirt. He emerged from his room wearing a crisp, white linen shirt and dark trousers—no tie, but polished.
"I'd like to take you somewhere," he said, standing in the kitchen as you finished your lunch. "A date. If you'll have me."
You looked at him, surprised. The word "date" felt heavy between you. "Where?"
"Somewhere special," he promised. "I know you’ll love it."
He drove you to a small, hidden pier on the edge of the city, far from the gleaming skyscrapers of his office. It was a weather-beaten boardwalk with a single, unassuming seafood shack at the end of it. It was the kind of place your twenty-two-year-old self would have loved—no dress codes, just the smell of salt and the sound of gulls.
"We used to come here when we were hiding," Baelor said as he led you to a table at the very edge of the pier, overlooking the water. "In the first year. Before my father found out. You said the plastic chairs made the lobster taste better."
You sat down, feeling the breeze tug at your hair. You didn't remember the lobster, but you felt a strange sense of peace. For the first time, Baelor wasn't hovering. He wasn't checking your pulse or asking about your headache. He was just sitting across from you, his hands folded on the table, looking at the horizon.
"Tell me about her," you said suddenly. "The version of me you're missing."
Baelor’s gaze snapped back to you. He was silent for a long time. "She was brave," he said eventually. "Brave enough to tell me when I was being an idiot. Brave enough to marry a man who she knew was buried in his own ambition. She was...she was the only person who looked at me and didn't see me for my name. SHe held me down when I was hurt and stayed even when I didn’t see her'"
"And now?" you asked.
"Now," Baelor reached across the table, pausing for a second to see if you would pull away. When you didn't, he laid his hand over yours. "I’m realizing that she’s still in there. Because you're still brave enough to be here with a stranger. And I'm realizing that maybe I don't want her back as much as I want to earn the person you are today."
The dinner was simple. No champagne, no three-course formality. Just fried clams and paper napkins. As the sun began to set, painting the water in bruised purples and oranges, you found yourself laughing—a real, genuine sound that made Baelor’s entire face light up.
"What?" you asked, catching him staring.
"Nothing," he whispered, his eyes soft. "I just haven't heard that sound in a long time. I thought I'd never hear it again."
As he drove you back to the Heights, the silence in the car wasn't the cold, expensive silence of the penthouse. it was something different. It was the sound of a foundation being laid. When you got to the house, you stopped him before he could open his office door to check his missed calls.
"Baelor?"
He turned. "Yes?"
"Thank you," you said. "For the lobster. And for not talking about duties."
Baelor leaned against the doorframe, a small, tired smile on his face. "I think the firm can survive another night without me. I'd rather stay here."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The weeks that followed the pier date felt lighter, though the shadows of the forgotten years still loomed. You spent more time in the library, a room Baelor had stocked with the books you supposedly loved, though many felt like first-time reads to you.
One rainy Tuesday, Baelor was sitting on the sofa across from you, ostensibly reading a brief, but his eyes kept drifting toward you. You were curled up in an oversized armchair with a worn copy of The Great Gatsby.
"You've read that one four times," Baelor remarked softly. "Or so you told me."
"It feels new," you murmured, turning a page.
You reached a passage you’d underlined—or rather, the you from before had underlined. The ink was a specific shade of teal. You read the words: "He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God."
Something in the margin caught your eye. A small, handwritten note in that same teal ink: Rainy Tuesday, 4:12 PM. He finally looked up from the phone. He actually saw me.
Your heart gave a violent, sudden kick against your ribs. The room seemed to tilt. The smell of the rain outside merged with a memory of expensive cologne and the scent of old paper.
You were sitting in a different library—the one in the penthouse. It was raining just like this. Baelor was at his desk, his brow furrowed over a tablet. You had been reading this exact book, feeling that familiar, hollow ache of being second to his work. You had sighed, a small, frustrated sound, and for the first time in weeks, he hadn't just hummed an acknowledgment. He had set the tablet down. He had walked over, knelt by your chair, and kissed the palm of your hand.
"I see you," he had whispered into your skin. "I'm sorry I make it so hard to believe that."
The memory hit you with the force of a physical blow. You gasped, the book slipping from your fingers and thudding onto the rug.
"What is it?" Baelor was on his feet instantly, his face pale with alarm. "Are you having a dizzy spell? Do I need to call—"
"No," you breathed, staring at him. You weren't seeing the man in the linen shirt. You were seeing the man at the desk, the one who had finally looked up. "The teal ink. I remember the teal ink."
Baelor froze. "You... you remember?"
"I remember that day," you said, your voice trembling. "I remember feeling so lonely, and then you... you apologized. You said you were sorry you made it hard to believe you saw me."
Baelor’s eyes filled with a sudden, shimmering brilliance. He didn't move, as if afraid that any sudden motion would shatter the moment. "That was three years ago. The first time I almost lost the Blackwood merger because I chose to spend the afternoon in the library with you instead of on the conference call."
You looked down at your hands, then back at him. It wasn't a complete restoration—the years were still mostly a blur—but that one moment was vivid, a colorful thread pulled from a grey tapestry. It was the first time you remembered loving him, not just being told that you did.
"You really did try, didn't you?" you asked softly. "Even back then. You were just... bad at it."
Baelor let out a shaky, relieved laugh, stepping closer and sinking onto the ottoman at your feet. "I was terrible at it. I thought providing the world for you was the same thing as being in it with you."
He reached out, hesitant, until you took his hand. For the first time, your fingers intertwined not out of necessity or caretaking, but out of a shared, rediscovered history.
"Don't go back to the work tomorrow," you said, your voice stronger now.
"I wasn't planning on it," Baelor replied, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. "I have a lot more books to help you read."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You rebuilt your marriage in the quiet unscripted corners of the day.
Baelor began to strip away the armor of his status. One morning, you walked into the kitchen to find him struggling with a box of pancake mix, flour dusted across his dark hair. He looked utterly defeated by a non-stick pan.
"You usually have a chef for this," you pointed out, leaning against the doorframe with a growing smile.
"The chef didn't marry you," Baelor grunted, flipping a pancake that was more of a scrambled mess than a circle. He looked at you, and the sheer earnestness in his eyes made your chest ache. "I want to be the one who does the small things. I want to be the one you wake up to, not just the man you see in the papers."
You walked over, taking the spatula from his hand. "Wait for the bubbles." As you stood together over the stove, the proximity felt natural—a muscle memory of the heart. You found yourself leaning into him, and he didn't pull away; he rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Weeks later, the rebuilding moved to the garden. You had expressed a vague interest in planting herbs, a detail you'd mentioned only once. The next day, a truck arrived with mounds of soil and cedar planks.
"I'm not letting a landscaping crew do this," Baelor said, already rolling up his sleeves. For three days, he labored in the sun, digging and hammering. He was sore, his hands calloused in a way a man of his status’ hands never should be, but when he presented the finished planters to you, he looked more proud than he ever had after closing a multi-billion dollar deal.
"It’s not perfect," he admitted, wiping sweat from his brow.
"It's better than perfect," you replied, looking at the lopsided corner he’d spent two hours trying to level. "It's ours."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The most significant shift, however, came on a night when the power went out during a summer storm. The Heights was plunged into a soft, velvety darkness. Instead of frantically calling the utility company or checking his backup generators, Baelor lit candles and sat with you on the floor of the living room.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," you challenged, the candlelight flickering in his dark eyes. "Something that isn't in a biography."
He was silent for a long time, the rain drumming a steady rhythm on the roof. "I used to be terrified of the dark," he confessed in a low voice. "When I was a boy, my father told me a Targaryen shouldn't fear anything. So I would stay up all night with a single matchbook, striking them one by one just to keep the shadows at bay."
You reached out, tracing the line of his jaw. "And now?"
"Now," he said, taking your hand and pressing it to his heart, "I think I was just waiting for someone to sit in the dark with me. I don't need the matches anymore."
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Over the years, those early days of recovery didn't fade; they became the bedrock of your shared language. The legend returned to the city, but Baelor kept the Heights as a sanctuary where he was merely a man who loved a woman.
The pancake disaster of that first summer became a permanent fixture in your lives. Every year on the anniversary of your "first date" at the pier, Baelor insisted on making breakfast. By year five, he had mastered the technique, but he still intentionally "accidentally" scrambled the first one, placing a charred, amorphous blob onto your plate with a straight face.
"Wait for the bubbles, Prince," you would tease, leaning over his shoulder just as you had that first morning.
"I’m a slow learner," he’d reply, his voice low and rich with a satisfaction no merger could provide. "But I have a very patient teacher."
Even the lopsided garden boxes became a hallowed site. When a professional gardener suggested replacing them with stone tiers during a renovation, Baelor had shut the idea down with a terrifying coldness.
"Those boards stay," he had said firmly. To the world, they were decaying cedar; to him, they were the first thing he had ever built with his own two hands that truly mattered. Sometimes, you would find him sitting on the edge of the lopsided corner, staring at the mint and rosemary, his thumb tracing the uneven grain of the wood.
"Is the board meeting getting to you?" you asked him one evening, a decade after the accident, as you joined him in the garden.
Baelor pulled you into his side, his arm heavy and warm. "No. I was just thinking that this corner is still exactly two degrees off-center. Just like me."
"It's my favorite part of the garden," you whispered.
He kissed the top of your head, the scent of the rain and herbs surrounding you both. "It's the only part that's actually ours."
hello ptolomia nation!!! i just wanted to say that i may be inactive in the following days because i'll be out of the country! BUTTTT i do have some good pre scheduled content in my queue for you guys to enjoy while i'm gone. love you allllll!!!
or: You've loved Jack Abbot in the frontlines of war, held him bloody, and endured it when he said he'd never marry. So why did he invite you to his wedding? How did you end up in his hospital with a gunshot wound?
(im so sorry this is asscheeks... ive been so sick and this concept has been gnawing at my brain so i had to write.)
read on ao3
join the ptolomia taglist!
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The sky was a bruised, permanent grey, choked by the constant rain of ash and the smoke of distant artillery. In the mud-slicked trenches of the front, time didn't move in hours, but in the intervals between shells.
You were crouched in a dugout that smelled of wet wool and copper, trying to clean the grime from a jammed receiver. Your fingers were numb, shaking slightly from the cold that bit through your standard-issue fatigues.
"Give it here," a voice rasped.
Jack slid down the trench wall beside you. He looked haggard—dark circles under his eyes and a fresh, jagged scratch across his cheekbone that was still oozing. He didn't wait for an answer, taking the weapon from your hands. His movements were efficient and steady, his larger hands working with a practiced calm that always managed to quiet the static in your brain.
"You're shivering," he noted, not looking up from the metal components.
"It's the adrenaline wearing off," you muttered, pulling your knees to your chest. "That last push... I didn't think we were coming back from that one, Jack."
Jack paused, his thumb tracing the housing of the rifle. For a moment, the hardened sergeant disappeared, and you saw the man underneath—the one who was just as exhausted and terrified as the rest of the unit. He leaned his shoulder against yours, a heavy, solid weight that anchored you to the earth.
"I told you," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur that barely carried over the whistle of the wind. "As long as I'm standing, you're coming back. I don't care what the brass says about 'acceptable losses.' You aren't one of them."
He finished the repair and handed the rifle back, but he didn't pull away. In the cramped, dark space of the dugout, the air felt suddenly thick. He reached out, his gloved hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you forward until your foreheads rested against each other. It was a desperate, silent communion.
"When this is over," you whispered, the words a dangerous hope you rarely allowed yourself to feel. "When the fighting stops, what happens to us?"
You felt him stiffen. The tenderness was there, radiating from him in waves, but his jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line.
"Don't," he breathed against your skin. "Don't talk about 'after.' There is only right now. There is only the next hour, and making sure you’re alive for it."
He kissed your forehead—a gesture that felt more like a prayer than a romantic overture—but he didn't look you in the eye. Even then, amidst the ruins of the world, Jack was already building the walls that would eventually become his fortress. He would hold you, protect you, and bleed for you, but he wouldn't give you the promise you were looking for.
"Get some sleep," he commanded, his voice returning to its iron-clad authorotative tone. "I've got the first watch."
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The shelling started again three hours later. It wasn't the rhythmic pounding of a barrage, but the sporadic, terrifying crump of heavy mortars that felt like the earth was trying to shake you off its surface.
You woke to the sound of Jack barking orders, his silhouette illuminated by the orange flares that bathed the trench in a sickly, artificial light. He looked like a god of war carved from soot and granite. When a shell landed too close, showering the dugout in dirt and splinters, he didn't flinch. He simply stepped over a pile of crates and hauled you to your feet by the webbing of your vest.
"Stay low! Move toward the western egress!" he shouted over the roar.
The night became a blur of frantic movement and the sharp, metallic taste of fear. You followed him through a labyrinth of collapsing tunnels, the two of you moving like a single entity. When a beam gave way, you were the one who caught his arm to keep him from being buried. When a scout from the opposing line rounded a corner with a bayonet leveled at your chest, it was Jack’s combat knife that found its mark before the man could draw breath.
By dawn, the sector was a graveyard. The remaining members of your squad were scattered or silent. You found yourself huddled with Jack in the ruins of a farmhouse that had been pulverized into a jagged skeleton of timber and stone.
The rain had started—a cold, relentless drizzle that turned the ash to a grey sludge. Jack was sitting against a charred beam, his hands finally shaking. He was trying to light a damp cigarette, the match flaring and dying against the wind.
You reached out, shielding his hands with your own. The small flame caught, and for a second, the heat between your palms was the only warmth in the world. He took a long drag, the smoke curling around his tired face.
"We shouldn't have made it through that," he said quietly. It was the first time you’d ever heard him admit to the possibility of failure.
"But we did," you said, sitting beside him, your thigh pressed against his. You were both covered in the same grime, the same blood that wasn't yours. "Jack, look at me."
He didn't. He kept his gaze fixed on the smoking horizon, where the fires of the front line were still burning.
"Back in the dugout, you told me not to talk about 'after,'" you began, your voice thick with the exhaustion of a thousand nights like this. "But I need something to hold onto. Everyone else out here is fighting for a flag or a cause that died years ago. I’m fighting for you. I need to know that there's a version of this where we aren't just surviving. Where we’re...something more."
Jack closed his eyes. The muscle in his jaw worked tirelessly. He reached out and took your hand, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. His skin was rough, calloused, and felt like home.
"You think I don't want that?" he asked, his voice cracking. "You think I don't spend every minute of every day imagining a place where the air doesn't taste like cordite? A place where I can wake up and see you without wondering if it's the last time?"
"Then give me a name for it," you pleaded. "Give me a promise. Just one."
He finally looked at you. His eyes weren't filled with the love you felt for him; they were filled with a terrible, protective sort of grief.
"If I promise you a life, I'm a liar," he said harshly. "If I say we have a future, I’m putting a target on it. The moment I decide you’re mine—truly mine—is the moment I lose the focus I need to keep you breathing. I can be your commanding officer, I can be your shield, and I can be the man who fights for your life. But I will not be your husband, and I will not be your 'happily ever after.' Not in this world."
He stood up then, the moment of vulnerability ending as abruptly as a snapped wire. He adjusted his gear, the leather creaking as he tightened his straps.
"Check your magazines," he said, his voice once again the cold, flat instrument of the military. "We move out in ten."
You stayed on the floor for a moment, looking at your hand—the one he had just been holding. The warmth was already fading, replaced by the biting dampness of the farmhouse. He had loved you in the only way he knew how—by refusing to let you get close enough to hurt him when the inevitable happened. He was saving himself the agony of loss by denying the reality of the gain.
You followed him out into the grey light of morning, two soldiers in a war that had no end in sight. You walked behind him, watching the broad set of his shoulders, knowing that while he would die for you, he would never truly live with you.
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The war had been over for two years, but the quiet of civilian life was its own kind of battlefield. You had spent those twenty-four months learning how to exist in a world that didn't smell like cordite or taste like ash. You had found a small, nondescript apartment on the edge of the city and finally made it to law school like you’d always hoped.
The ghost of Jack Abbot was a relentless cold thing that no candle nor prayer would burn away. You were there, even as he ran from loving you. You could still hear his heartbeat as you slept, the sound more haunting than the shrill echo of gunfire.
The nights were the hardest. In the silence of your living room, the absence of the war’s constant roar echoed like the laughter you and Jack had shared. But you were doing it. You were sleeping through the night without reaching for a rifle that wasn't there. You were eating regular meals. You were almost whole.
Then the mail arrived.
It was sitting on your kitchen table, tucked between a magazine and a utility bill. A heavy, cream-colored envelope. The paper was high-grade, the kind of linen-finish cardstock that felt like an insult in your modest kitchen.
You knew the handwriting before you even saw the return address. It was Jack’s—bold, precise, and uncompromising.
Your breath hitched. For two years, there had been nothing. No letters, no phone calls, no "are you alive" checks. You had assumed he had vanished into the chaos of a hospital, just as he said he would. You had tried to bury him in the same shallow grave where you left your uniform.
You opened it with trembling fingers.
The honor of your presence is requested at the marriage of Jack Abbot...
The world around you dissolved. You collapsed into the wooden chair, the invitation fluttering to the floor like a dying bird.
Two years.
Your mind raced back to that final, rain-slicked night at the staging area before discharge. You could still smell the diesel of the transport trucks. You had begged him then. You had asked for a future, any future, even a difficult one.
“I’m not a man who gets married,” he’d snarled, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon. “I don’t believe in it. Vows, ceremonies... it’s all a performance I don't have the heart for. I’ve seen too much blood to believe in a 'happily ever after.' If I stay with you, I'll only destroy you. I'm doing you a favor by walking away.”
He had looked you in the eye and convinced you that he was fundamentally broken—that he was protecting you by refusing to tether your life to his hollowed-out shell. You had wept for him. You had spent months mourning the man he told you he was incapable of being.
And yet, here it was. He wasn't too broken for her. He wasn't too scarred for a "formal union."
A cold, hysterical laugh bubbled up in your throat. He hadn't been avoiding marriage; he had been avoiding you. He had lied to your face in the ruins of a war zone so he could discard you like a spent casing once he reached the safety of home. He hadn't been protecting you from his "hollow shell"; he had been clearing his plate for a better offer.
You looked around your apartment. Every piece of furniture, every routine you had built to keep the PTSD at bay, suddenly felt like a monument to a lie. You had stayed single, unable to let anyone else close because you still felt the phantom weight of Jack’s hands. You had waited for a man who had told you he was incapable of commitment, only to find out he just didn't think you were worth the effort.
The spiral started then—the familiar, dark hum of the war creeping back into your chest. The walls of the room seemed to close in, turning into the damp, suffocating stone of a trench.
He had let you believe he was a monster so he wouldn't have to admit you were just a wartime convenience.
You reached for the invitation again, your vision blurring with hot, angry tears. He wanted your "presence." He wanted you to sit in a decorated hall and watch him give a woman everything he swore to you didn't exist.
"You coward," you whispered to the empty room, the expensive paper tearing under the force of your grip. "You absolute coward."
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Eight years had passed since the war ended, and six since the day you had shredded Jack Abbot’s wedding invitation.
You weren't that girl anymore—the one who lived in a nondescript apartment waiting for a ghost to call. You were formidable. You were a prosecutor for the city, a career you had dreamed of since you were a child sitting in your father's study. The law was clean. It was logical. It was the opposite of the mud and chaos of the front lines.
Your life was quiet, and for the first time the silence didn't feel like a threat. Your plain cramped apartment had been traded for a light-filled condo with floor-to-ceiling windows, a shelf full of leather-bound statutes, and a reputation for being the coldest, most efficient closer in the District Attorney’s office. You didn't need anyone's "protection" or a Jack's hollow vows. You had made yourself whole.
"Another late night, Attorney?"
You looked up from your desk as the evening janitor, Elias, poked his head into your office.
"Just finishing the sentencing memo for the Moretti case, Elias," you said, offering a genuine smile. "I want to make sure he stays away for the full twenty-five."
Elias whistled. "Victor Moretti? Careful with that one. Men like him don't take kindly to losing. Especially to someone they can't buy."
"He had his day in court," you said, closing the file with a satisfying thud. "Now he gets his decades in a cell."
You packed your briefcase, feeling a sense of accomplishment. You had sent one of Pittsburgh's most vicious cartel enforcers to prison, and you had done it without firing a single shot.
The city air was crisp as you walked toward the parking garage. The trauma of the war still lingered in small ways—you still walked with your back to the wall, and you still noticed every shadow—but you had repurposed that vigilance. It made you a better lawyer.
You reached your car and pressed the unlock button. The lights flashed twice, a friendly chirp in the dim concrete structure.
As you reached for the door handle, a flicker of movement caught your eye in the reflection of your side mirror. A man was stepping out from behind a concrete pillar. He was dressed in dark workwear, his face obscured by a low-profile cap.
Your military training kicked in before your brain could process the threat. You didn't scream. You dropped your briefcase and spun, putting the car between you and the stranger.
"Can I help you?" you asked, your voice projecting that same ice-cold authority you used in the courtroom.
The man didn't speak. He reached into his jacket, and the silhouette of a suppressed pistol became unmistakable.
"Moretti sends his regards," the man rasped.
You didn't wait for him to level the weapon. You dove toward the front of the car just as a dull thwip sounded, a bullet shattering the window of the vehicle next to yours.
Adrenaline, sharp and familiar, flooded your system. You weren't a victim. You were a soldier who had survived the worst the world had to offer, and you were a woman who had fought too hard for her peace to let a hitman take it away in a parking garage.
You scrambled toward the concrete stairs, your heart hammering a rhythm you hadn't felt in years. You needed to get to a public space. You needed to survive.
As you burst through the heavy fire doors and out onto the street, your mind went to the one thing you hadn't thought about in years. Not the man who had broken your heart, but the man who had taught you how to stay alive when the odds were stacked against you.
The hit was out. The peace was over. And as you ducked into a crowded alleyway, you knew your past and your present were about to collide in a way you never expected.
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The second shot didn't sound like a gunshot. It sounded like a heavy, wet punch to your shoulder.
The momentum of your sprint carried you another three steps before your legs turned to water. You hit the pavement of the alleyway hard, the iron tang of blood and the smell of damp asphalt filling your senses. You tried to press your hand to the wound, but your fingers felt like lead. The world was beginning to fray at the edges, the streetlights above stretching into long, distorted needles of white light.
"Help..." you tried to gasp, but it was barely a whisper.
The sound of footsteps approaching was heavy and rhythmic. One. Two. One. Two. Just like a patrol. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the final thwip of the suppressor.
Instead, a siren wailed in the distance, growing louder with every second. Voices erupted from the mouth of the alley. The footsteps near you faltered, then retreated in a hurried scramble. You were drifting now, the cold of the pavement seeped into your bones, replaced by a strange, numb warmth spreading from your chest.
"Trauma three! We’ve got a female, late thirties, gunshot wound to the upper left quadrant, heavy blood loss, BP is sixty over forty and dropping!"
The world came back in flashes of fluorescent white and the frantic squeak of gurney wheels. You were flat on your back, staring at a ceiling that moved too fast. People in black and grey scrubs were hovering over you, their faces blurred masks of urgency.
"She’s crashing!"
"Pressure is bottoming out!"
You tried to speak, to tell them you were a prosecutor, to tell them about Moretti, but your throat was filled with the metallic taste of shock. Then, the gurney slammed through a set of double doors, and the chaos seemed to sharpen.
"What have we got?" a voice commanded.
The sound of it hit you harder than the bullet. It was deeper now, polished by years of authority and the sterile air of the city's most prestigious medical center, but the cadence was unmistakable. It was the voice that had guided you through the trenches. It was the voice that had told you it didn't believe in forever.
"Gunshot, through and through, hit the subclavian artery," a nurse shouted.
"Move," the voice snapped.
Suddenly, a face appeared in your field of vision. Your Jack was gone–in his place was a man in all black, hair white and soft with eyes that were sharper and colder than you remembered.
Jack Abbot.
He froze for a fraction of a second. The trauma room, with its beeping monitors and shouting staff, seemed to go silent. You saw the moment his professional mask shattered, the pupils of his eyes blowing wide as he recognized the woman bleeding out on his table.
"Jack..." you choked out, a bubble of blood escaping your lips.
"Don't talk," he rasped, his voice cracking before he slammed his emotional walls back into place. His hands, gloved in latex, came down on your shoulder with a familiar, firm pressure. "Don't you dare close your eyes. That’s an order."
"You... left..." you whispered, your heart monitor flatlining into a steady, terrifying drone as your eyes shut.
It was so cold and dark, your chest heavy with blood as you allowed yourself to stop breathing. The world around you was soft and quiet, warming your numb limbs as it swallowed you.
"I said stay with me!" Jack roared, ignoring the startled looks from the nurses. He pumped your chest wildly, his face a mask of desperate, focused rage. “Charging to 200!” Parkers voice ripped through the air into Jack’s head. "Clear!"
The last thing you felt was the violent jolt of electricity through your chest and the sight of Jack Abbot—the man who wouldn't commit to you in life—fighting like a demon to keep you from death.
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The first thing you felt was the cold. Not the damp, bone-deep chill of a foxhole, but the sterile, biting air of the ICU. Then came the rhythm—the steady, mechanical hiss-click of a ventilator and the rhythmic beep... beep... of a heart monitor that sounded far too fragile to be yours.
You blinked, your eyelashes heavy with sleep and crust. The room was bathed in the dim blue light of late evening.
"Don't fight the tube," a voice said.
He was sitting in a chair by the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Jack looked like he hadn't slept in the two days you’d been under. His scrubs were wrinkled, his leg resting against the sterile walls, and the shadow of a beard darkened his jaw. He looked older, the lines around his eyes etched deep by something more than just time.
He moved with precision, reaching over to adjust the settings before expertly helping you through the discomfort as he removed the breathing tube. You coughed, your throat feeling like it had been scraped with glass.
"Easy," he murmured, handing you a small cup of water with a straw. "Small sips."
You drank, the coolness hitting your parched throat. You looked at him over the rim of the cup, memories of the parking garage and the trauma room flooding back. But deeper than that, the memory of a cream-colored envelope.
"Two days," Jack said, his voice a low rasp. "You lost a lot of blood. I didn't think..." He stopped, clearing his throat. "The police are outside. They know about Moretti. You're safe here."
"Safe," you croaked, the word tasting like ash. You sank back into the pillows, your eyes roaming over the wedding band still visible on his left hand—though it looked duller than you imagined it would be. "How is she, Jack? Your wife?"
The air in the room seemed to freeze. Jack’s hands stilled on the edge of your bed. He looked down at his lap, the silence stretching until it became unbearable.
"She’s gone," he said finally. "Three years ago."
You felt a sharp pang of something—not joy, but a hollow, complicated grief. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said, and for a moment, the coldness you remembered from the war returned. "I got to love her while she was here. That’s enough for me." His voice cracked. “After everything I had seen and all the blood I had spilt, seeing her felt like coming home.”
"And was it worth it?" you asked, your voice gaining a jagged edge. "Was it worth the lie you told me in that motor pool? You told me you couldn't be a husband. You told me you didn't have a soul left. Then I spent two years trying to breathe again, only to find out you weren't unable—you were just finished with me."
Jack stayed silent. He didn't look up. He didn't defend himself.
"I spent years wondering what was wrong with me," you continued, the pain in your shoulder sparking with every breath. "I thought I was the reminder of the war you couldn't live with. I built a life out of nothing, Jack. I became a lawyer. I chased a dream because the man I loved told me I was a liability. Every step of the way, I carried the weight of your rejection like a second shadow."
You waited. You waited for the "I'm sorry." You waited for him to say he had made a mistake, that the grief of losing his wife had made him realize what he’d thrown away in the mud. You waited for him to reach out and take your hand like he used to when the shells were falling.
But Jack Abbot just sat there. His face was a mask of professional neutrality. He looked at your charts, checked the IV drip, and stood up.
"The nurse will be in shortly to check your vitals," he said, his voice flat. "My shift is over."
"That's it?" you whispered, the betrayal burning hotter than the bullet wound. "No apology? No explanation for why you let me spiral for years thinking I wasn't enough?"
Jack paused at the door. He didn't turn around. His shoulders were slumped, his posture devoid of the military pride he used to carry.
"I saved your life, [Name]," he said quietly. "That's the only vow I can keep."
The door clicked shut behind him.
You lay there in the blue light, the beep... beep... of the monitor mocking you. He had found you again, saved you again, and then walked away without a single word of regret. He was still the same man from the trenches—he would bleed for you, but he would never, ever tell you he was sorry for leaving you behind.
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You had spent a week in that bed, watching Jack move in and out of your room like a ghost—professional, efficient, and maddeningly distant. Every time he checked in on you it was devoid of the heat that had once defined your every interaction.
You were standing by the window of your room, dressed in the fresh clothes your assistant had brought, when the door opened. You expected a nurse with a wheelchair. You got Jack.
He wasn't in his scrubs anymore He was wearing a dark sweater and slacks, looking like the man who had pulled you out of a collapsing farmhouse eight years ago.
"I’m taking you home," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I called a car, Jack. I can manage."
"The police still haven't found the second shooter, and you’re still recovering," he said, picking up your bag. "I’m driving you. Let’s go."
The walk to the parking garage was silent. He tucked you into the passenger seat of a car that was far too expensive for the man you used to know, but he handled it with the same rugged intensity he used to handle a troop transport.
As he pulled out into the city traffic, the silence in the cabin became deafening. You stared out the window at the passing lights, the neon signs of the city blurring into the same grey haze as the front lines.
"I shouldn't have sent that invitation," Jack said suddenly.
His voice was low, barely audible over the hum of the engine. He didn't look at you; his hands were gripped tight at ten and two on the steering wheel.
"Is that it?" you asked, your voice weary.
"No," he snapped, then softened. He pulled the car over into a quiet turn-out overlooking the river, cutting the engine. The silence that followed was heavy. "It wasn't just the invitation. It was everything. The war... I told myself that if I left you behind, I was saving you. I told myself that the things we did, the things we saw—they would poison anything 'normal' we tried to build."
He finally turned to look at you. In the dim light of the dashboard, his eyes were wet.
"But the truth is, I was just a coward," he whispered. "I was terrified that if I stayed with you, I would have to keep feeling. And I was so tired of feeling. She was safe. She didn't know the soldier. She didn't know the blood. With her, I could pretend the war never happened. But every time I looked at her, I felt the guilt of what I’d done to you."
He reached out, his hand hovering over yours before he finally gathered the courage to touch your skin. His palm was warm, shaking just a fraction.
"I am sorry," he said, the words finally breaking through. "I’m sorry for the two years of silence. I’m sorry for the wedding. I’m sorry I let you believe you weren't enough. I’ve spent years building a fortress in that hospital, but I’m still just that man in the trench, wishing I’d had the guts to say 'yes' when you asked me to love you."
You looked at his hand, then up at his face. The anger was still there, a dull ache beneath your ribs, but the sincerity in his gaze was a balm you hadn't expected to receive.
"I’m a different person now, Jack," you said quietly. "I’m not the girl waiting in a foxhole."
"I know," he said, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "You’re incredible. And I’d like the chance to actually get to know this version of you."
He took a deep breath, looking like he was about to jump into a hail of gunfire.
"When you're recovered... properly recovered... let me take you to dinner. No hospital talk. No ghosts of the war. Just a proper date. A real one. The kind I should have given you a decade ago."
You looked out at the river, the water reflecting the city lights. For the first time in eight years, the weight of the "why" had been lifted.
"Dinner," you repeated, testing the word. "Just dinner?"
"To start," Jack said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "It’s a late invitation, but I'm done running."
You didn't say yes immediately, but you didn't pull your hand away. As he started the engine to finish the drive, the air in the car felt, for the first time, like it belonged to the present.
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When you stepped out of your apartment, you caught him leaning against his car, checking his watch. He wore a charcoal shirt rolled over his forearms and tucked gently beneath his bicep.
He straightened up when he saw you, his breath hitching audibly. You were wearing a dress the color of deep wine, your hair styled away from the fading scar on your shoulder. You looked like a woman who had won her battles, not one who was still fighting them.
"You look..." Jack started, then shook his head, a rare, boyish smile breaking through his usual sternness. "I don't think I have the vocabulary for how you look tonight."
"Try 'ready for dinner,'" you teased, though your heart hammered a rhythm that felt dangerously like hope.
The bistro was intimate. They sat you in a corner booth, the velvet upholstery providing a soft barrier from the rest of the world. For the first twenty minutes, the conversation was light—an intentional dance around the heavy things. He told you about the absurd politics of the hospital board; you told him about a particularly eccentric judge who insisted on bringing his bulldog to the bench.
But as the main course arrived, the levity settled into something deeper. The candlelight caught the silver at Jack’s temples, reminding you of how much time had truly passed.
"I realized something today," Jack said, toyed with his glass. "I’ve spent my life anticipating the worst-case scenario. In the war, it kept us alive. In the ED, it makes me a good doctor. But sitting here with you...I realize I never learned how to just enjoy things as they come.'"
You looked at him, really looked at him. "You spent years shutting everyone out.” The truth came plainly from your lips.
He reached across the table. This time, he didn't hesitate. He took your hand, his palm warm and steady. "I’m here now. And I want to know what you like to do on Sunday mornings. How you study when you aren't preparing for a trial. I want to know what music you listen to when the world is too loud."
"Sunday mornings are for coffee and the crossword," you said softly, your fingers intertwining with his. "And I listen to old blues records when I need to drown out the city."
"Old blues," he echoed, his eyes softening. "I should have guessed.”
"And you?" you asked. "Who is Jack Abbot when he isn't saving lives or running a city?"
Jack leaned back, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade away. "I think he’s a man who made a lot of mistakes. A man who let the best thing that ever happened to him walk away because he was too afraid to be happy. But mostly... he’s a man who’s very, very grateful for a second chance."
There was no talk of marriage. No talk of the farmhouse or the hit on your life. You weren't two survivors clinging to each other in the dark anymore. You were two people sharing a meal, a laugh, and the terrifying, beautiful possibility of a future.
As the check came and the night wound down, Jack didn't rush to leave. He stayed in the booth, his hand still holding yours, watching the way the light played in your eyes.
"So," he whispered, a smirk playing on his lips. "How did I do? For a first date?"
"It was a good start, Abbot," you said, using the old title with a playful wink. "But I think I might need a second one to be sure."
"You've got it," he promised, his voice thick with a sincerity that didn't need a contract to back it up. "As many as you want."
When you left the bistro, the city air didn't feel cold. It felt wide open.
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The sky over the city was a clear, brilliant blue—the kind of sky Jack once claimed didn't exist for people like you.
The small chapel on the outskirts of the city was filled with the people who had seen you both at your worst: a few grey-haired veterans from the old unit, Elias from the D.A.'s office, Jack’s new family from The Pitt.
You stood at the back of the aisle, your heart hammering against your ribs. The dress was simple, elegant, and moved like water. Over your left shoulder, the fine white line of the scar from the parking garage was a permanent part of your skin—a reminder of the day your life had truly begun again.
As the music shifted, you stepped forward.
Jack was standing at the altar, Robby standing behind him grinning like a child. Jack was looking at you, his eyes bright and uncharacteristically wet. He wore a tuxedo with the same straight back that he had donned his battlegear or scrubs, but his posture was different—relaxed, open, and entirely yours.
When you reached him, he took your hands. His palms were warm, steady, and familiar.
The officiant spoke of love and endurance, but you and Jack were locked in a silent conversation that had spanned over a decade. It started in a muddy trench, broke in a motor pool, and was rebuilt in an ICU room at the Pitt.
"I spent years telling you that I didn't believe in 'forever' because I was afraid of the weight of it. I told you that marriage was a cage, and that I was too broken to be anyone's home."
He paused, a small, self-deprecating smile touching his lips.
"I was wrong. I realize now that I wasn't protecting you back then; I was hiding from the fact that you knew me more than I did myself. You held me bloody, and endured me whole—and I ran like an idiot. But oh, my love, how grateful I am that I found my way home to you."
You felt the tears finally spill over as you took your turn.
"Jack, I spent years trying to erase you from my story. I tried to build a life that didn't have room for ghosts. But I realize now that we aren't ghosts of the war. We’re the proof that something good can survive it. I don't need a perfect life, I need somewhere to belong. Wherever you are is where I belong."
When Jack slid the ring onto your finger. It sealed the deal on something you knew all along.
"You may kiss the bride," the officiant said.
Jack didn't wait. He pulled you in, his hand cupping the back of your neck in that same protective gesture from the dugout, but this time, there was no desperation. There was only peace. As he kissed you, the last of the shadows from the Pitt and the front lines seemed to melt away into the light of the afternoon.
He squeezed your hand, leaned in close to your ear, and whispered three words he had waited a lifetime to say.
thoughts about reader edging maekar???????? Maybe to lessen his stress?.... Or maybe worsen it........
drive me crazy !
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your husband was a brutish man, hardened by years of war and raising children. after the passing of his wife, you swooped in. gracefully enduring his indifference and the insolence of his children.
the more he paid mind to you, fondness bloomed in his chest, you were all smiles and beautiful eyes. it drove him truly mad. as he laid in bed with you, warm summer air making the silk of your nightgown cling to your skin.
he could almost feel the ghost of your lips on his, as you read, your chin upon your hand and your knuckles pressed against your finger tips. his eyes travelling lower, your nipples peeking through the fabric. he tried to shake the thought away, remembering how he had promised never to touch you.
the words simmered in his blood as it travelled downward. he was achingly hard next to his sweet innocent wife, with no way to relieve himself. he settled for sleep, urging you to put out the candles as he screwed his eyes shut.
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the few hours of sleep he managed were restless and disrupted by his desire. he awoke in the middle of the night, the air had already gone cold, and his body radiated with the heat of his need.
he turned to face you, watching your sleeping frame, and against his better judgement, he reached for the fabric of his breeches. his cock was thick and angry as he wrapped his massive palm around it. he pumped once, suppressing the pained sound that threatened to fall from his lips.
he took a deep breath, the milk and honey of your skin invading his senses. he pumped harder now, imagining the taste of your skin against his teeth. images of your lips and tongue fill his mind, his calloused finger scrapes the tip of his cock.
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you shuffle awake gently, feeling the way the weight of your bed shifts and dips up and down, your eyes land on your husband, eyes shut as he grinds his hand up and down. you almost chuckle at the display, but when he softly whispers your name, your thoughts are swept clean and replaced with red-hot desire.
your soft hand wraps around him without a second thought. maekar believes he must be dreaming, but you pull his hand away and replace it with yours. pumping up and down the way you had observed him do.
his eyes fly open and land on yours, brows furrowing with desire as he pulls your face flush to his. maekar’s lips sear onto yours, burning your skin like dragon breath as he slides his tongue against the partition of your lips.
his tongue intrudes into your mouth claiming it—a collision of teeth and salt, a desperate thing that tastes of hunger and too much restraint. maekar groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your chest as his hips roll upward, seeking the friction of your palm with a frantic rhythm.
your thumb sweeps over the crown of his length, catching the bead of moisture there. his entire body jolts. his hands, massive and scarred, frame your face with a trembling intensity, his thumbs dragging across your cheekbones as he drinks you in.
"you are going to be the death of me," he rasps against your lips, his voice wrecked and thick with a need that borders on agony.
you quicken the pace. your grip is firm, your movements deliberate and agonizingly slow on the downstroke before snapping back up. you watch his expression crumble. his head falls back into the pillow, his throat bared, cords of muscle standing out in his neck as he nears the precipice.
"please," he chokes out, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding himself steady as the world tilts.
just as his breath hitches—just as his muscles lock and his hips begin that final, involuntary surge—you stop.
you pull your hand away, the sudden absence of warmth leaving him suspended in a void of sensation. maekar’s eyes snap open, clouded and unfocused, searching for you in the dim light. he looks wrecked, his chest heaving as he waits for the release that doesn't come.
without a word, you lean down and press one final, chaste kiss to the bridge of his nose. you pull the furs back up over your shoulders, turning your back to him and curling into a ball. within moments, you let your breathing even out, feigning the heavy, rhythmic pull of deep sleep.
behind you, the silence of the room is deafening, broken only by the ragged, uneven sound of his breathing. maekar lies there, his pulse thundering in his ears, his body wound tight like a bowstring about to snap. the frustration is a physical weight, a dull ache that radiates from his groin to his chest.
he stares at the canopy of the bed, his jaw clenched so hard it aches. he is more awake than he has ever been—pulsing, unfinished, and utterly haunted by the phantom sensation of your touch. he wants to reach for you, to demand what was promised, but the memory of his own vow and the sight of your "sleeping" form keeps him anchored in his own torment.
he closes his eyes, but all he can see is the fire in your gaze. it is going to be a very long time before the sun rises.
the following morning, the sun was a pale, cold sliver over the skyline. aerion had woken you with a touch that felt like your skin was burning. he had led you to the primary bathroom—a vast, marble sanctuary—and sat you on the edge of the deep soaking tub.
"lesson three," he announced, his voice smooth and dangerous. he was still dressed in his silk robe, his hair messy, making him look even more devastatingly handsome. he knelt between your legs, his hands resting on your knees, pushing them apart. "first, you'll learn to give. then, you'll learn how it feels to receive the same devotion."
he guided your hand toward him, helping you undo the sash of his robe. "any fool can talk about anatomy, but they won't know the taste of desire. they won't talk about how it feels to have someone’s pleasure entirely in your hands...or your mouth."
he watched you carefully, his eyes tracking the way your pulse throbbed in your neck. "i want you to know me. i want you to know every part of me better than you know yourself. use your lips, darling. show me how much you've learned about wanting me." he guided your head level to his cock, thick and throbbing angrily with desire.
“press your lips to it darling.” you slowly plant a kiss to the tip, mouth parting slightly as you take it whole. the act was clumsy at first, your innocence evident in every hesitant move, but aerion was a patient god.
he guided you with his hands in your hair. he made you look up at him through your lashes, forcing you to witness his pleasure just as he had forced you to witness your own.
when he finally pulled you up, his eyes were blown wide, a raw, primal hunger reflected in the violet depths.
"now," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark energy. "you've tasted me. now i'm going to taste you."
he eased you back until you were lying against the cold marble, your legs draped over his shoulders. he didn't give you time to think. he dove between your thighs, his tongue finding you with a precision that made you scream into the empty air of the bathroom.
"hush," he rumbled against your skin, his hands pinning your wrists to the marble. "i want to hear you,i want you to see me while i do it."
he looked up, his face glistening, a triumphant, possessive glint in his eyes. he was methodical, using his tongue to mimic the movements of his fingers from the night before. he explored you with a hunger that felt like it would never be satisfied, drinking in your reactions as if they were the only thing keeping him alive.
"you're so sweet," he groaned against you, the vibration of his voice sending new jolts of pleasure through your system. "all mine. tell me you love the way i take you. tell me you don't want anyone else ever touching you like this."
"only you," you sobbed out, your fingers curling into his hair. "aerion, please... only you."
"good girl," he whispered, before redoubling his efforts, making sure your third lesson was one you would feel in your bones for the rest of your life.
or: Brendon Park has never felt welcome anywhere. When the new nurse is asked to summon him during a cyber-attack, he doesn't expect to see her beautiful face ever again. Except he does as he stops for cigarettes at his local gas station and sees her buying ice for some suspicious bruises. And, against his better judgement, he offers to bring her home.
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He discovers the cookies an hour later. He’d only come into work to do his rounds and leave quietly. Her handwriting loops perfectly over the torn piece of paper, and a smile ghosts on his lips looking at the glass container, decorated with cartoonish silhouettes.
Of course she had bunny tupperware, it was just so her. He sweeps the cookies up, taking them before anyone else can, and he goes on his merry way.
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He summons his residents, instructing them to meet him by the nurses station. Connor arrives first. He’s a frail thing, hair messily swept to the sides as the bags around his eyes. But his resolve was starting to harden under the pressure of his studies.
He reminded Brendon of himself–granted Brendon had never been small, but he was weak, wuthered into stone by life. He always recognized the exhaustion in Connor’s eyes, and the way he’d fiddle with the ring beneath his gloves. It almost takes Brendon back to the days when he’d clutch the cross gold chain on his chest, his mouth full of metal, bones breaking under the weight of his frame.
He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the rest of his students arrive, he shakes away all the emotion on his face as he stalks to the first patient’s room, cookies still resting above his chart. None of the residents are stupid enough to bait the shark—they trail behind him as he opens the door to their first patient.
A 72-year old woman named May, who’d tripped in the airport. He had just replaced her joint 2 days prior. He orders another resident—Alyssa to update the charts with their findings, the container only leaving his arms when he presses his fingers into the sides of May’s knee, assessing her reactions. “Does this hurt at all, Mrs. Alvez?” He asks gently, usual venom replaced with sickly sweet honey.
“This will hurt a bit, okay?” He speaks again, his palm curls into a fist, nudging at the new joint to test her reflexes. Everyone is mesmerized by his kindness toward her. In truth they’d never seen him so gentle, but none of them comment on it, heads hung low as he peels his gloves off and cleans his hands.
He snakes the container away from Connor, tilting it to make sure they were intact, he peels the note off and presses it into the pocket of his scrubs.
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They see 3 more patients before Brendon sends them away on a break. He tucks himself away into his office and opens the small container. The sweet scent wafts into the small space, sugar and peanut butter overwhelming him.
He picks one up—hesitating over his mouth. Memories of childhood flood him instantly, he hadn’t indulged himself in any saccharine desires since he was 14. He remembered the way the treats clung onto his body, his mind filling with sneers about his weight.
He shakes his head—he’s past that now, made a name for himself, got free. He unclenches his jaw and bites hard peanut butter and chocolate dancing on his tongue. Suddenly—the childhood memories are gone, replaced with something sweet and kind. For the first time in nearly 20 years, Brendon Park allows himself to smile.
He finishes the first one quickly, tucking the container into the refrigerator in his office. He walks to the bathroom, scrubbing his hands clean. His eyes fixate on his reflection for a long time. He ponders on the man staring back at him, it wasn’t someone he fully recognized, the wonder of childhood and the pains of growing had distorted him into something odd and unsettling.
The cold water runs, and runs, and runs. His hands slightly numbed by the sensation, the prickling snaps him out of his trance as he walks away.
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Brendon headed toward the surgical break room to round up the residents for afternoon labs. As he neared the heavy door, the sound of laughter—the kind that carried an edge of mockery—made him pause.
"...and he was carrying this little glass container with bunnies on it," Alyssa was snickering. "Can you imagine the Shark with cartoon bunnies? I bet he stole them from a pediatric patient."
"Or maybe he has a secret girlfriend," Connor piped in, though his voice sounded more uneasy than the others. "Though who could stand him for more than an hour is a mystery."
"He’s probably just lonely," another voice whispered. "Tall, scary, and alone. It’s pathetic, really."
The words hit Brendon like a physical blow to the stomach. For a split second, he was twelve years old again, standing behind a locker room door, listening to the wolves howl at his expense. The old familiar sting of it all flared up, hot and bitter.
Then, he remembered. He wasn't that boy anymore. He didn't have to flatten himself to be small.
He opened the door. The sound of his breathing was like a gunshot in the small room. The residents scrambled, Alyssa nearly choking on her coffee as Brendon’s massive frame filled the doorway, his shadow stretching across the floor like a shroud.
"The container was a gift," Brendon said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that seemed to vibrate the very tiles. "From someone who actually understands the value of this work. Unlike the three of you."
He stepped into the room, looming over Alyssa until she had to crane her neck back. "If I hear your voices used for anything other than patient updates or medical inquiries for the rest of this month, you’ll be spending your rotations in the basement archives. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Dr. Park," they stammered in unison, faces pale.
"Good. Get out. Labs in five minutes. If you're late, don't bother coming back."
He watched them scramble out, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had power now, yes, but the taste of it was ash compared to the sweetness of the cookie he'd eaten earlier.
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Down in the ED, Emma was vibrating with a different kind of energy. Every time a chime echoed through the triage bay, her hand flew to her pocket. She was anxiously checking patients in, her mind a frantic loop of vitals and Brendon’s face.
Did he find them? Did he hate them? Was the note too much?
She felt exposed, even with the high-necked scrub top. Every time a patient moved too fast, she flinched, her throat tightening in a phantom grip. She was so focused on the swinging doors that she almost missed the vibration in her pocket.
She waited until a lull in the intake line before slipping into the staff restroom to check.
Dr Park 🦈 [5:15PM]: Best cookies I’ve had in twenty years. Thank you, Emma.
Dr Park 🦈 [5:16PM]: Check your door when you get home. I sent something over.
Emma stared at the screen, a giddy, breathless laugh escaping her. She wanted to reply instantly, but the guilt of her brothers' voices—don't trust—made her hesitate. She tucked the phone away as she headed back to her desk, the afternoon passing in a blur of paperwork and the dull throb of her healing injuries.
By the time her shift ended, she was exhausted. She hadn't looked at her phone since the first text; she hated using it on the commute, terrified of being distracted in the city. When she finally reached her door, she found a warm bag from a local Italian place hanging on the handle. Inside was a note: For the recovery. - B.
She fumbled for her phone as she sat on her kitchen island, the scent of garlic and basil filling the small room.
Emma [7:45PM]: I just got home! I’m so sorry I didn't see this sooner, I don't use my phone on the T. Thank you so much for the food, Brendon! It smells amazing.
The reply came as she was plating the pasta.
Dr Park 🦈 [7:47PM]: You shouldn't be walking or taking the train alone right now anyway. Not in your state.
Dr Park 🦈 [7:48PM]: I live four blocks from your building. I’m driving in tomorrow morning at 5:30. I'll pick you up.
Emma froze, a forkful of penne halfway to her mouth.
Emma [7:50PM]: Oh! I don't want to be a bother, really.
Dr Park 🦈 [7:51PM]: It’s not a request, Emma. See you at 5:30.
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The next morning was the definition of awkward. Brendon’s black truck was idling at the curb exactly at 5:29 AM. Emma climbed in, the interior smelling of expensive leather and lingering tobacco.
The silence was deafening. Brendon stared straight ahead, his large hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, his knuckles white. He looked like he was preparing for combat rather than a commute.
"Um," Emma started, her voice sounding far too loud in the confined space. "The pasta was really good. Thank you."
"Good," he grunted.
She rocked her feet against the floor mat, the same nervous habit from the gas station. "It’s a nice truck. Very... sturdy."
Brendon glanced at her, his eyes unreadable. "It gets the job done."
They hit a red light. Emma looked out the window, then back at him. She noticed he was wearing the cross chain again, the gold glinting against his dark scrubs. "I like your necklace," she blurted out.
He went rigid, his hand instinctively flying to cover the cross. "It’s old," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"It suits you," she whispered, her heart doing that familiar somersault.
He didn't respond, but as the light turned green, he didn't pull away with his usual aggressive speed. He drove slowly, carefully, as if the small, bruised girl in his passenger seat was the most fragile thing he had ever taken care of.
The silence that followed wasn't as heavy as before. It was more like a held breath. Emma watched the city wake up through the window—the hazy blue light hitting the steel of the bridges.
"I grew up in a house where you didn't ask for things, but I did love cookies." Brendon said suddenly, his voice startling her. He didn't look at her, eyes fixed on the road. "You just took what was given or you went without. My mother—she didn't bake. She didn't have the time or the hands for it."
Emma turned in her seat, her seatbelt clicking softly. "My mom was the opposite. If you weren't eating, she thought you were dying. I think that's why I do it. It’s like a way to make sure everyone is okay."
Brendon’s jaw tightened, but not in anger. "I'm okay, Emma."
"I know," she smiled softly, reaching into her bag. "But you work too hard. And I know hospital cafeteria food is basically cardboard."
She pulled out a foil-wrapped bundle sealed in a pink ziplock. "I made sourdough yesterday. It’s a turkey club—I roasted the turkey myself so it's not that salty deli stuff. And I put a little extra cranberry spread on it because—well, because it's good."
She set it on the center console, right next to his massive hand. He looked at the sandwich like it was a foreign artifact. "You made the bread?"
"From a starter I've had for three years. His name is Barnaby. And the cranberry sauce was my grandmother’s recipe" she giggled, then immediately turned red. "I’m sorry, that must seem so nerdy."
For the first time since they’d met, Brendon actually chuckled. It was a dry, rusty sound, like a gate that hadn't been opened in decades. "Barnaby. Right. I'll be sure to thank him."
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They arrived at the hospital separately to avoid the inevitable vultures of the morning shift. Emma went to triage, her mind surprisingly calm despite the chaos of an incoming three-car pileup.
Midday, during a rare twenty-minute lunch break, she found him near the staff lockers. He was leaning against the wall, looking exhausted, his surgical cap hanging around his neck.
When he saw her, he straightened up. He reached into his bag and pulled out the bunny-patterned glass container. It was sparkling clean—not a single crumb or smudge of peanut butter left.
"I washed it," he said, handing it back. His fingers brushed hers during the handoff, and the heat of it made her breath hitch. "And for the record... I didn't just like them. I loved them. They were the best thing I've eaten in years."
Emma hugged the container to her chest, the glass still cool from his office fridge. "Even with the bunnies?"
Brendon glanced around to make sure the hallway was empty, then leaned down so his face was level with hers. The scent of the Italian food from the night before seemed to linger on him, mixed with the sterile scent of the OR.
"Especially with the bunnies," he whispered. "And the sandwich was better than the cookies. Don't tell the bunnies I said so."
He gave her a look, his eyes gleaming in a way they hadn’t for years. And he suddenly felt something deeply, achingly human—before turning and heading back toward the elevators.
Emma watched him go, the bunny container pressed against her heart, feeling less like a liability and more like a woman who had finally found a home, even if that home was a six-foot-four surgeon with a cross around his neck and a heart he was finally learning how to use.
or: Brendon Park has never felt welcome anywhere. When the new nurse is asked to summon him during a cyber-attack, he doesn't expect to see her beautiful face ever again. Except he does as he stops for cigarettes at his local gas station and sees her buying ice for some suspicious bruises. And, against his better judgement, he offers to bring her home.
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Emma’s heart does a somersault in her chest as she walks to the elevator. Her tear stricken face swells slightly and her hands are numb from the ice. And somehow–for some stupid reason, she doesn’t care. Her mind is fixed on Brendon, and the way he had taken care of her blindly. For a moment, she feels like an idiot for the way she hadn’t protested, or the fact that her brothers taught better than to trust blindly, but the elevator interrupts her train of thought.
Suddenly, she’s trapped in a small space, half grieved and hopeful, and her feet rock against the floor the same way they had against the gravel with him. Her chest tightens, and suddenly the space is small like the hospital room, and her throat is closed up. It all catches her as the suspended space spins out of control.
As the dim corridor light seeps through the cracked elevator doors, she absentmindedly stumbles toward it–-almost like it was calling to her. Her limbs are salt slicked and her mind is empty, she falls knee first into the concrete, skin chafing against the cotton of her sweatpants.
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She comes to, clueless and panting in the middle of the hallway. She shakes her hands once, then twice, making sure she has control over her body. Slowly, she walks to the door of her apartment, fumbling with her keys before she can fully unlock it.
She sets the ice down onto the kitchen island, moving to change her dirtied clothes. She goes through the motions of preparing herself for sleep and caring for her injuries. There are tears in her skin from when her pants bit into her knees, she dresses them carefully before setting ice to her bruises.
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She realizes ten minutes later that the polite thing to do is to thank Dr. Park for his kindness. She moves to the dresser she’d left her phone on before she’d left for ice–pulling his call card out of the pocket of her cardigan.
Emma [1:30AM]: Hello Dr. Park! This is Emma, I just wanted to thank you for everything tonight. I’m really sorry for my outburst. I hope I can make it up to you somehow.
Her hands shake as she hovers above the send button. Her eyes closed as she clicks it. To her surprise, he types back instantly.
Dr Park 🦈 [1:32AM]: Just Brendon, Remember?
Dr Park 🦈 [1:32AM]: And it’s no problem, Emma. Nothing to make up for. Let me know how you are.
Her heart drums against her ribcage.
Emma [1:34AM]: Will do! Thank you again for being so kind, Brendon :>
She cringes slightly thinking about how he’ll receive the symbol. But it felt right to her, she always spoke to her friends that way. She reminds herself–-after how he saved her today, he surely was a friend, right?
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Restless and slightly guilty, Emma convinces herself that baking him cookies would be a kind thing to do, despite the fact that he reassured her that he hadn’t needed anything in return. She doesn’t quite know if she's moving out of kindness—or distracting herself from the relentless truths she had faced tonight.
She makes him cookies anyway. The scent of brown butter and warm vanilla wafts through her studio apartment as she watches them ooze and flatten through the glass. Her fingers drum against her chin as she waits, dishwasher humming in the background.
Once the familiar Ding! Echoes across her walls, she lifts the scorching tray from her small oven and onto her kitchen island, deciding to read lightly as they cool.
A worn copy of “Normal People” By Sally Rooney dances across her fingers. She doesn't quite pay attention as the pages turn, they wither away slowly in her mind, now full of thoughts about Dr. Park.
She had misjudged him, of that she was sure. He wasn’t as cruel as everyone had drawn him, at least, to her he wasn’t. She has half the mind to think herself special but she shakes away the thought before it can fully settle.
She drops her book onto the counter before she runs the tray of cookies into her fridge.
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The few hours of sleep she managed were thin and haunted by the red glow of the hospital’s emergency lights. When her alarm blared at 5:00 AM, Emma’s body felt like it had been through a trash compactor. Her jaw was stiff, a dull ache radiating from her neck, and her knees protested as she swung her legs out of bed.
She dressed in a high-necked base layer under her scrubs to hide the bruises on her throat, the fabric soft but feeling like a heavy secret against her skin. She applied a little extra concealer to her jaw, though she knew the swelling was harder to hide than the color.
Before leaving, she carefully packed the cooled cookies into a small, airtight container. She tore a piece of notebook paper and wrote in her neatest script: “For Brendon—thank you for being so kind. - Emma.” She hesitated, then added a tiny smiley face in the corner, identical to the one she'd texted him.
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The commute was a blur of early morning fog and the rattling of the bus. Her mind was a mess of nerves, the "what-ifs" of the previous night circling her head like vultures. What if she saw the patient again? What if Brendon regretted being nice?
When she reached the hospital, she bypassed the ED elevators and headed straight for the surgical floor. The air up here felt different—quieter, more focused, less like the battlefield of the emergency department. She felt like a trespasser as she slipped into the surgical pantry.
The room was empty, smelling of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. She placed the container of cookies on the main table, right in the center where it couldn't be missed. Her heart hammered against her teeth as she retreated, feeling like a secret agent on a mission of domesticity.
By the time she descended back to the ED, the familiar chaos was already beginning to churn. The cyber-attack had been resolved last night, but the backlog of patients was a mountain they’d be climbing all day.
“Nolan! Glad you’re here,” Nurse Dana called out, not looking up from a chart. “Dr. Park already called down. Said you were ‘managing an injury’ and to keep you on desk duty today. No heavy lifting, no combative patients. How’d he find out about yesterday?”
Emma’s cheeks flamed. Managing an injury, no heavy lifting. He had actually done it. He’d looked out for her.
“Oh,” Emma squeaked, taking her seat behind the plexiglass. “We ran into each other last night and he saw the bruises. Thanks, Dana.”
“Don’t thank me,” Dana grunted, finally looking up with a knowing glint in her eye. “Thank the shark. I’ve worked here thirty years, Emma. I’ve never seen Brendon Park call in a favor for anyone.”
