"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Show & Tell
@theartofmadeline
PR's Tumblrdome
Fai_Ryy
cherry valley forever
occasionally subtle
wallacepolsom
Xuebing Du
izzy's playlists!
Origami Around
Sade Olutola
oozey mess
No title available
official daine visual archive
⁂
Keni
Love Begins
Three Goblin Art
Today's Document
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Burkina Faso
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from Belgium
seen from Uganda
seen from Israel
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
@stvrdustalexx
Fic rec masterlist (01.2023)
12.2022 masterlist
Favorites
Top Gun: Maverick
A Court of Thorns and Roses
Spider-man
Stranger Things
Harry Potter
Peaky Blinders
Shadow and Bone
Others(1) - Alice in Borderland, Black Panther, 911, Pacific Rim, Outer Banks, House of the Dragon
others(2) - star wars, avatar
Puck Baby
Garrett Graham x Baby Mama! Reader
There were reasons Garrett Graham “didn’t do girlfriends”. Yes, he needed to focus on school, practice, and building his career. Yes, he didn’t have the bandwidth to let anyone into a messy family. Especially since at the end of his senior year, things got a whole lot messier. A prom night went sour when, in July, while Garrett was packing his bags for a summer intensive, he got a very threatening text
“I’m coming over right now. Don’t move an inch.”
Twenty minutes later, you were in his bathroom with a box of pregnancy tests and two positive ones dated for the two days prior in your favorite teal Sharpie. Tears rolled down your cheeks as the third test showed two pink lines. Garrett let you absolutely soak his shirt with your snot while you repeated: “What are we supposed to do?” Personally, Graham would support whatever decision you made. He knew his dad would be beyond angry, and part of him really enjoyed that. But he knew you. The two of you met in your freshman year at your boarding school. And you were a good catholic girl. You wore your cross every moment you breathed, and you enjoyed going to mass, even on Wednesday. You hoped one day to be a stay-at-home wife and take your kids to Sunday school. So Garrett wasn’t surprised when you wanted to keep your baby. He even agreed to elope with you at the town hall. What his dad didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.
Eventually, when Garrett’s notarized marriage license arrived in the mail, Phil found out. Garrett expected rage, wrath, fury, or something. After he spilled the whole story, his dad just looked at him. He kind of got a distant look in his eye.
“You stepped up. Nice. I’ll talk to the accountant about setting up some allowance with her. That’s good, you’ll be young for your child’s life. See more of it.” Graham had been gripping the counter so hard he forgot whether he was breathing. “I guess we’re starting the next Graham generation early,” Phil joked, slapping his son on the back.
Now three years had gone by in a blur. He had just gotten back from practice, having showered and donned his sweats. There was a knock at the front door, and from the kitchen, Tuck shouted: “It’s open.” There you were in jeans, some white tank top, and a sensible sweater, and little Isaac in your arms. Graham had come down with the sound of shouting.
“Hey, daddy,” you smiled at the curly-haired boy, releasing Isaac to the floor.
“DADDY.” His son shouted and ran right into his legs as Garrett squatted down.
“Isaac!” He yelled back, scooping his kid into his arms and blowing raspberries on the toddler's stomach.
“Game tomorrow?” You ask, noting the utter lack of calamity
“You know it.”
“And you’re done with homework for the night?”
“Yep.” He looks into his son’s eyes, yes, and remembers the night he was conceived and bricked with the exact same iris.
“Well, I figured I’d drop him off for a sleepover since you won’t have a morning lift.
“Got a hot date tonight?” Dean saunters in, giving you a side hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Just with forensic files and a stack of dishes."
"What are you not sticking around?"
"Logan! Hey, when you get the chance, can you look at my car? It's making that noise again?"
"Yeah, in the morning I'm taking Jules to go see our mom."
"Thank you, sweetheart, I'll bring snickerdoodles next time I bring Isaac over." You hug Logan as he grabs his jacket and his car keys. "Tell your mom I'm praying for her, and I'll bring oatmeal cookies with lots of cinnamon."
"She'll love that." Like that, Logan is gone in a flash. Dean takes Isaac from Garrett's arms with a " Come here, little man. Garrett stocks over to you. You can smell his body wash and his relief at seeing his son. He lowers his voice when he talks to you, even though he knows Isaac is well distracted by Dean, Tuck, and now Beau.
"You're really not gonna stick around?"
"Gare.."
"Come on, he loves getting time with both of us. Unless you do have a date.
"Hey! Nothing PG-13 or over." You warn them as they sit your son down and put on SpongeBob. "No, my only dates lately have been sneaky sessions with my vibrator during nap time. Garrett tried not to choke at the thought. “Anyways, how are you?”
“I’m good. Teams good. Are you going to bring him tomorrow?”
“I can try. Is Phil gonna be there?”
“I don’t know, he’s been hounding me about this new girlfriend, and I know he wants to see his grandkid.”
“You know I don’t like leaving him alone with Phil.”
“I know you don’t. I’d never make you. I’ll see if I can get you seats near me.”
“Okay, just text me when you get to the rink, I’ll see how busy I am.” You start walking toward your son and sit next to him on the couch. He’s deeply invested in jelly fishing. “I’m gonna go back home, bud, you’re gonna be good and spend the night with dad.”
“No, Mom, stay!” The toddler immediately launches up and wraps his arms around your neck. He's completely in your lap with his legs secured on your waist.
"Isaac, honey," you try to pull his arms off you. "I'm sorry he's going through this clinging phase-" you whisper over your shoulder, "I can barely pee without him banging down my door." Garrett smiles at the incredibly domestic scene.
"That's fine, i have an idea." he whispers back taking his son by the wrists "Isaac bud why don't we have a one quick dance party and then we're going to brush our teeth and go to bed." the prospect of a dance party distracts the toddler enough that the captain can remove him from his mothers chest and carry him up the stairs to his bedroom.
"No mom comes too!" Isaac objects as they begin the climb
"It's fine, I'm coming." You can't help it; you have to indulge him. You follow Garrett up the stairs, stealing glances at his wrought buttocks. The house is cleaner than you had imagined, especially since Graham had reported a party last night. Below, you hear SpongeBob switch to Call of Duty, and controllers get thrown between teammates. Upstairs, Garrett's room is spotless and swept of any evidence of his college life. He spins around a few times and drops Isaac on his bed. Garrett pulls his black phone out of his pocket and taps around on it. He walks over to a speaker and moments later Do It Again by Dan Steely starts playing. Isaac shoots up and starts grooving with his dad.
Garrett does his sexy little dance, and you watch from the door frame. He's doing his half salsa-half shimmy, and Isaac is loudly screeching along to the song. "Oh, come on, Mom, you're not going to join us?" You roll your eyes with your arms crossed, but Garrett extends a hand. "Don't be a party pooper." You walk in and take his hand. He pulls you to his chest, and you shuffle along with him. For just a moment, your chests are pressed together, and your eyes are locked. You feel your body teleported back to your prom. How nervous Garrett was to pick you up, how his hands shook when he poured you a punch. Then, when you danced together just this way. It all feels like yesterday, and the traumas of pregnancy and post-partum life all melt away when you're in his arms.
Isaac jumps up at his legs, and he picks him up easily while swaying to the rhythm of the song. eventually, as all good things do, the song ended and with it the moment. "Ok, bud, go brush your teeth." He puts Isaac down and points him toward the bathroom. He trots off, and Garrett assesses you again.
"Do you have PJs for him?"
"Of course," he holds your shoulders and spins you around before starting to roll out the knots in them,
"Gare,"
"Going home, know?" he teases
"Yes," you state with rising contempt despite your quickly sinking shoulders
"You seem pretty stationary for someone who's leaving."
"Just shut up and keep rubbing, hockey boy." Down the hall, Isaac shouts DAD, I GOTTA PEE and Isaac laughs
"Ok, bud, there's a toilet in there, last I looked," he yells back OKAY and Garrett spins you around again before looping his arms around your shoulders. "You're not going to even sleep well when he's not around"
"I know, but I need alone time."
"You can crash on Logan's bed."
"No, he's coming home tonight."
"Sleep on mine, I'll take the couch"
"You know Isaac will sleep on the couch with you, and I know Dean has definitely had a girl on it in the last two weeks"
"Try nights," you drop your forehead into his chest
"This is what I mean, I don't need my son on someone else's bodily fluids."
"I have a King-sized bed," he raises his eyebrows in exasperation, "just crash here, and Isaac will sleep on the bed with us."
"What about my dishes?"
"What about them? They've sat for three days; they can wait another night." You don't even realize he's slowly started swaying you back and forth. "I'll give you some sweats, you can just chill out here, and Isaac will be happy. We can pretend like we're a real family, not two 21-year-olds with a toddler." In that moment, your son comes barreling in with washed hands and a big smile.
"Hey, bud, go grab some pj's from your drawer." Isaac excitedly runs over to his dresser, opens the bottom drawer, retrieves a pair of sweatpants and a shirt with a truck pattern, and returns to the bathroom. Garrett stalks over to his closet, retrieves one of his shirts, and extends it to you. You give him a pouty look, and he rolls his eyes before pulling his own shirt off and handing you the one he was just wearing. He puts on the new shirt and turns around while you pull off your sweater and tank top, then puts on his used one. You unbuckle and peel off your jeans, then fold all your clothes and put them on top of his dresser. You nearly float over to his bed before peeling his covers back and bundling into bed. Isaac joins and jumps up to the mattress, nestling into your side.
Garrett smiles at the scene and drops his phone on the charger before flicking off the light switch. He stalks over to the bed and joins the bundle of his family. Everything. His whole world is right here. Nothing outside of this bed matters to him. No hockey, not his dad, nothing. Here with his kids drooling on his arm and with you snoring in his face, he couldn't feel more composed and content.
Love the off campus fics💜💜💜
I was wondering if you could do either Garrett or Logan with a disabled!reader. Like they use an arm crutch or cane and how he’d react and treat them???
Built for You
Pairing: Garrett Graham x Reader
Word Count: 1152
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
Garrett Graham had a learning curve, and he knew it.
He knew how to be loud, how to be charming, how to walk into a room and make people smile. What he did not know, at first, was how to be the kind of boyfriend who made space in the right way.
Which was exactly why he paid attention.
You used an arm crutch on bad days, and on those days Garrett noticed everything. The spacing of chairs. The height of counters. The difference between a hallway that was easy to navigate and one that was a total pain. He noticed without making a production out of it, which was how you knew he was really trying.
The first time he saw you adjust the crutch after standing too long at a party, he was at your side before you even had to ask.
“Need a hand?” he said.
You smiled a little. “I’ve got it.”
“Yeah, I know.” He stepped back immediately, hands up. “I’m just offering.”
That was what you liked about him. He never turned assistance into pity. Never made you feel watched. Never touched without asking.
“You can help by moving that chair,” you said, nodding toward the one someone had left too close to the walkway.
Garrett immediately picked it up and moved it half a foot back. “Better?”
You nodded. “Much.”
He grinned. “See? Team effort.”
After that, he got better and better at noticing what made your days easier.
At the hockey house, he started keeping the path from the kitchen to the living room clear. He moved shoes out of the hall if they were in the way. He made sure the couch cushions were arranged so you could sit comfortably without having to awkwardly shift around to get settled. If he saw you getting tired, he asked if you wanted to leave before the room got too loud.
The first time he offered to carry something for you, you gave him a look.
He laughed. “What?”
“You’re acting like I’m made of glass.”
Garrett’s grin faded into something softer. “No. I’m acting like I like helping you.”
That had been enough to stop your protest.
He had shrugged after that and taken the heavy bag from your hand like it was obvious. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
You watched him for a second. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Learning every little thing.”
Garrett looked at you like he was surprised you were even asking. “Why wouldn’t I?”
That answer stayed with you.
Because he asked questions, but never in a way that made you feel like a lesson. He wanted to know what worked. What didn’t. What made things easier. What made things harder. He remembered details too, which was somehow even more dangerous. If you mentioned that a certain bench hurt your back, he remembered. If you said you liked sitting on the right side of the table because there was more room for your leg, he remembered. If you said the crowded bar downtown was annoying because the aisles were too narrow, he remembered and never suggested it again.
He remembered because he cared.
The first time he noticed you had a rough day before you said anything, he was halfway into a joke and stopped himself when he saw the way you were moving.
“You okay?”
You shrugged, trying not to make it a thing. “Just tired.”
He stepped closer, expression turning thoughtful. “Bad day?”
You hesitated, then nodded.
Garrett immediately held out his hand. “Come here.”
You gave him a skeptical look. “What for?”
He smiled. “Nothing dramatic.”
That was, unfortunately, not reassuring.
But you took his hand anyway, and he led you carefully to the couch instead of making you stand in the middle of the crowded room. He didn’t fuss. Didn’t overdo it. Just made space, tucked a blanket around you, and sat beside you with the kind of casual support that felt like being understood.
“Tell me if I’m being annoying,” he said.
You snorted. “You usually are.”
“Yeah, but now it’s on purpose.”
That got a smile out of you.
He noticed and relaxed a little, then reached out and brushed hair away from your face. “You want quiet or distracting?”
You leaned against him a little. “Quiet.”
“Got it.”
He sat with you like that for a while, one hand resting lightly over yours, the other lazily tracing circles on your knee while the room kept moving around you. Nobody treated you differently. Garrett certainly didn’t. But every so often, when someone stepped too close or the crowd shifted in a way that might make maneuvering harder, he was there automatically, quiet and steady and ready to help only if you needed it.
Later that night, when you got up to leave, he walked with you to the door.
Outside, under the dim porch light, you turned to look at him and said, “You know you don’t have to keep doing all this.”
Garrett leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “Doing what?”
“Watching. Adjusting. Remembering everything.”
His face softened a little. “I know I don’t have to.”
You held his gaze.
He kept going, voice easy but sincere. “I want to.”
That stopped you for a second.
He stepped closer, careful and warm, and said, “You don’t need me to make your life smaller or easier or simpler for me to love you. I just want to know how to be good to you.”
Your chest went tight in the best way.
You smiled slowly. “That was a very good answer.”
Garrett’s mouth curved. “I practice.”
You laughed, and he immediately looked pleased because making you laugh always seemed to count as a win.
Then, because he was Garrett, he tilted his head and said, “Also, for the record, you are really pretty with your cane.”
You blinked, startled by the bluntness.
He winced only a little when he realized how that sounded. “Not, like, because of the cane. Just because you are.”
You laughed softly, warmth moving up your neck. “Garrett.”
He grinned, a little embarrassed now too, but not enough to stop. “I’m serious.”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I know.”
And that was the thing. He always made it clear that the cane, the crutch, the bad days, the good ones, none of it made you less noticeable to him. If anything, it made you more real. More you. And he liked you so much that “more you” was exactly what he wanted.
By the time he kissed your forehead and told you to text him when you got home, you were smiling so much it almost hurt.
Garrett, as usual, looked ridiculously satisfied with himself.
And when you left, you did so with the strange, warm certainty that being loved by him meant never having to be smaller than you already were.
you’ll be okay
summary - you’re the most hated girl on campus because you broke garrett graham’s heart, but no one actually knows the truth.
pairing - garrett graham x ex!girlfriend reader
word count - 3.9k
a/n - this does touch on non consensual kissing, so please beware of that before you dive in
Before
Tell him the truth. You’ve just got to tell him the truth.
You walked into the brownstone off-campus house with a pit of anxiety in your stomach and repeating those words over and over again to yourself.
It’s not your fault. Tell him the truth.
The boys - Dean, Logan and Tucker - were sat on the leather sofas, bottles of beers in hand. You gave them your best smile as you shut the door behind you.
“Hey guys.”
They all looked at each other, like there something that they were trying to psychopathically figure out before replying to you. It was Logan who broke first.
“Hey, Y/N.” Logan almost sounded guilty for answering you.
You let out a nervous smile. The anxiety in your stomach increasing tenfold.
They couldn’t possibly know, could they?
“I-is Garrett here?” You asked, looking between then and upstairs.
Dean scoffed and Tucker nudged him with his elbow, as if to tell him to shut up. “Dean.” Tucker shook his head.
“What?” He furrowed his eyebrows.
“Don’t, man.”
“This is fucking ridiculous.” Dean laughed, but it was more malicious than friendly, “You’re actually serious? You want to speak to Garrett right now?”
Dean’s question was directed at you. Your cheeks flushed and your heart began to race, trying to figure out what this awful atmosphere was about.
“Y-yeah. I just have to tell him something.”
“Yeah you fucking do.” Dean spat out, leaning back on the sofa and looking away from you entirely.
“Sorry, did I do something?” You stepped forwards.
The boys looked at each other again.
Logan was the one to nod his head to Tucker, who was the closest to you. He sighed and shook his head as he pulled out his phone to bring something up for you.
You fiddled with a loose thread on your jumper as you waited in the uncomfortable silence.
You looked towards the top of the stairs.
Just tell him the truth. It’s not your fault.
“Here.” Tucker said, drawing your attention back to him and his phone he was now holding out for you. “Just hit play.”
You looked from the phone to the guys - Dean raising his eyebrows expectantly.
You swallowed your nerves as you prepared for whatever you were about to see.
The video was posted on the Fifth Line Instagram account, with over 4,000 views and 150 comments.
The video started with a girl vlogging her way through the belly of the ice-hockey arena. You didn’t recognise her, but you quickly realised it wasn’t her that you were going to be focusing on.
“What’s going on in there? Music is loud as fuck.” She laughed, walking over to a door and flipping the camera around to peer through the glass window.
You breath hitched as you realised what had been filmed.
“Oh shit.” The girl in the video swore.
The video panned to you being walked back against a wall, being kissed aggressively. Being kissed by someone who wasn’t your boyfriend Garrett.
Your eyes welled with tears as you realised how compromising this clip looked. It only captured maybe three seconds of you being kissed and pushed back, but it was enough to have done the damage.
You looked up from the video to the guys. Logan and Tucker held the heads low, looking at you like they’d never really known you. Dean looked like he never wanted to see you again.
“It’s…”
“Let me guess… Not what it looks like?” Dean questioned.
“Yeah.” Your voice was so quiet.
It had felt like your entire world had stopped rotating. Like gravity itself wasn’t enough to hold you down any more.
You felt like you were going to be sick.
“Has Garrett seen this?” You asked, palms clammy and shaking now.
“What do you think?” Dean said.
It was at that moment the door loudly banged open, making you swivel around to spot Garrett walking in.
He froze in the doorway.
You felt the guys stand up from the couch behind you.
A tear fell from your eye as you made eye contact with him.
Just tell him the truth.
You watched as his jaw clenched and looked away from you momentarily - as if looking at you for too long was too painful.
“Garrett.” You said softly, stepping forwards to him.
Your heart cracked in two when he stepped back though.
“Please go.” He said, his voice cracking.
Any moment now you were going to collapse to the floor, you were sure of it. Your legs had started feeling like jelly and your anxiety was causing your whole body to feel alien.
You shook your head in pleading, more tears falling now.
“Ga…”
“Just go.”
“Please.” You whispered.
“We’re done, Y/N!” Garrett put firmly, “So go.”
After
It had been 4 months since you’d broken up with Garrett. 4 of the worst months of your life.
It had been summer break for a good chunk of that time, but now it was time to go back to college and you were dreading it. The pit of anxiety in your stomach had been a constant ever since that awful day.
You held onto your textbooks like were a lifeline, as you walked into the library.
You kept your head down but you could hear people whispering and laughing at you as you walked past.
You were the most hated girl on campus.
The girl who broke Garrett Graham’s heart.
You’d been called a lot worse too; whore and slut were to name but just a few.
Finding a quiet table at the back of the library, you took off your rucksack and set your textbooks down in front of you.
You briefly looked around the library and noticed a few people looking your way.
After pulling back the chair and sitting down, you tried your hardest to stuff your head in the textbook and work. Nothing was quite ingesting into your brain though, because you were so aware of the people around you looking and quietly gossiping.
You pulled the sleeve of your jumper down over your hand, so you could dig your nails into the back of it like an anchor.
As you tried to focus on the words in your textbook, your mind became focused on the surrounding chatter instead.
“I heard she’d been cheating on Garrett for weeks.”
“She’s such a slut, my God.”
“She fumbled so bad it’s embarrassing.”
“So much nerve to even show her face in public.”
Your leg started bouncing up and down underneath the table. A nervous tick that you couldn’t control.
You flinched when someone walked behind you, worried that they would do something to you.
You gasped when someone roughly pulled out the chair opposite you, causing your fists to curl inwards and your knee hit the underside of the table in surprise.
“Oh shit,” The guy laughed, “She’s actually scared.”
It felt as though your heart was beating too fast.
You were too aware of your surroundings now - the people looking, laughing and someone was even filming.
“Don’t worry sweetheart, I thought you liked the attention.” The guy snickered.
“Shut the fuck up.”
The words were said in your head, but were actually voiced by your ex boyfriend.
It sounded as though he was right behind you. But surely not.
Surely…
“Jesus, dude.” The guy who had been cruel to you rolled his eyes and wandered off. Other people started dispersing then too, keeping their eyes down as though someone was staring them down.
Was Garrett really here?
Had he really just defended you like that?
You got your answer when he came and stood next to your table, holding out your pen you seemingly had dropped on the floor.
He towered over you. Well, of course he did because you were sat down - but he also towered over you when you were stood up too.
His height only added to how small you felt in the moment.
You risked looking up at his face, instantly feeling the rush of warmth through your chest at how beautiful he still was. His soft, kind, eyes and his untamed fury of curly locks.
His eyes kept on yours, his eyes darkening slightly and jaw clenching when he no doubt noticed your pale skin and tired eyes. It was taking everything in your strength to not cry.
“You okay?” He asked, handing you your pen.
You took it without thinking about the abundance of scratches on the back of your hand.
Once you realised your mistake you covered your hand back up with the sleeve of your jumper, and turned away from him and back to your book.
“Garrett, c’mon!” Sounded like Dean calling him.
“Yeah, in a minute.”
“No, now. Coach will run our assess to the ground if we’re late.”
You didn’t need to see him visibly leave to know that he’d gone. The lack of his presence was extremely noticeable and you were once again reminded of how empty you feel without him.
“Dude, what is wrong with you? You’ve been sulking all day.” Logan asked as he plated more of Tucker’s salmon pasta into a bowl.
Garrett looked up from his phone - away from the photo album of you and him that he hadn’t told anyone he still had.
“Nothing.” Garrett said, pocketing his phone and picking up a bowl to plate himself.
“Well you’ve convinced me.” Dean snorted.
Garrett kept quiet, not knowing how to broach the subject of you without pissing of the guys.
After dinner, the guys - along with Allie and Hannah - were all playing ice-hockey video games. It was when Garrett lost for the third time in a row that the guys knew something was truly up.
It was Tucker who paused the game.
“Okay enough. Talk to us, G.” He said.
Garrett chucked the video game controller on the table in front of him and sighed heavily. He leant back on the sofa and rubbed his hands over his eyes.
“Is this about Y/N?”
“Of course it’s about Y/N.”
“Well he can speak for himself.”
“The guy can’t even…”
“Okay enough!” Garrett sat forwards after hearing his friends speak for him.
He clenched his fists in front of him, suddenly thrown back to a memory of you and him in his room.
“What if I become like him?” Garrett asked, the soft glow from his bedroom lamp coating you both in a golden hue.
You had your head laid on his chest, your fingers splayed out around his ribs as you kept each other pulled close.
“You’re not your dad, Garrett.” You told him firmly.
“My fists beg to differ.” He sarcastically joked.
You lifted your head at that, trying to ignore how insanely attractive it was that he had one arm bent behind his head. His other arm ended in a tight fist which he was studying intensely.
You cupped his hand in yours, working your fingers through his tightly closed ones.
Garrett watched on with an intensity in his eyes that you knew to be love.
Once your hand was perfectly intertwined with his, you gave him a soft squeeze. You smiled at him and Garrett felt complete.
“Anytime you make a fist, whether that’s because you’re angry or upset, just remember what it feels like to hold my hand tight, know that you’re not alone, and understand that you’ll never be your dad because you have people around you who love and support you.”
Garrett’s fist unclenched at the memory.
“I’m worried… a-about Y/N.” Garrett started.
The others stopped to actually listen.
Once Garrett realised he had the full attention of his friends - their full support - he realised that no matter what he said or how he felt, his buds would be there for him.
“Worried about her how?” Logan asked.
“I don’t know okay, I just—.” Garrett sighed. “Hannah said she’s barely attending classes.”
Hannah shifted on the sofa, tucking her knees in close to her chin. “It’s true. She only goes to her 9AMs because she knows barely anyone attends them.”
“And today in the library. She looked terrified and flinched at everything. A-and…” Garrett draws in a couple of short breaths as he tries to get out his words, “Her hands.”
“What about her hands?” Dean asked softly.
“They were all scratched. Like a nervous tick or something.”
The guys blew out deep breaths, trying to come to terms with this new information that only Garrett had been too aware to see.
“Shit.” Tucker swore, thinking back on events and realising what his friends were putting down.
“Yeah, shit.” Dean said.
Hannah shifted in her position, turning towards Garrett.
“Garrett… when she came here that night… she was crying, wasn’t she?” She asked.
“Yeah.” Garrett’s gaze remained focused on keeping his fists open.
“And she tried talking to you then?”
Garrett nodded. “But I told her to leave.”
The room went quiet. No one wanted to say what everyone else was thinking. Otherwise, all these months of hate and hurt would have been for nothing - and worse than that, directed at the wrong person.
Allie shifted into Dean’s side. “I never thought she looked guilty.”
Garrett’s gaze flicked to Allie, who was awaiting his gaze with regretful eyes.
“Fuck.” He dropped his head and clenched his fists.
You’re aggressively crossing out another unsuccessful paragraph when there’s a knock at your dorm door.
The fear inside you elevates - worried it’s another puck bunny or worse coming to scare you off campus.
You leave it and return to pen and paper.
The knock at the door disturbs you before you can write anything.
Breathing out carefully, you leave your desk chair, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie down over your hands, before making your way to the door.
Whoever this was you would politely listen to whatever horrible things they had to say and then hopefully they’d leave peacefully.
Your hand shook as you turned the knob - not expecting Garrett with his hand raised to knock on your door again.
“Garrett…” You breathed out in slight relief. He wasn’t as scary as some of the people who had been at your door, albeit you were still concerned he might still have a few choice words left in him.
He takes note of presumably how rough you look, if it’s anything to go by how rough you feel.
Your room is darkly lit and carries a slightly stale smell with how often you hole yourself up in it.
“Can we talk?” He asked.
You don’t say anything, but Garrett takes your gesture of opening the door wider for him to walk through as a yes.
He walked in slowly, assessing a room that he’s been in so many times. Practically all of it is the same - even the trinkets that you’d bought together or photos from trips together on your adventure wall.
You shut your door closed and take a brief moment to collect yourself. You can’t imagine this conversation ending well for you.
What you don’t expect when you turn around is to find Garrett standing over your abandoned desk, reading the words on the page of your journal that he was never supposed to see.
“Oh, let me just…” You rushed over and closed the journal shut tightly. “Please don’t read that.”
Garrett watched you fumble around, trying to rid his gaze of your journal.
“Was…Was that a letter to me?” He asked.
“It’s nothing.” You kept your hand flat on the top of the journal to keep is shut - the pressure of keeping it closed grounding you.
“Y/N.” Garrett softly spoke from beside you, bringing a hand up and over yours.
You watched his fingers dance over yours carefully, like he was assessing where he should carefully place himself. The familiarity of the shape of his hands made you well up, and you had to bite your lip to keep the emotions at bay.
His fingers made the hold on your journal less tense, even though he was only barely hovering.
You got dizzy at the thought of him opening your journal to find the hundreds of lettered entries, addressed to him, apologising for everything.
Your fist curled in on itself at the thought of him seeing that part of yourself.
“Hey.” He said.
He was a solid wall of muscle beside you - one that you couldn’t dare glance at for risk of completely falling apart.
His fingers moved with less care then, weaving forcefully through yours.
“Remember what it feels like to hold my hand tight. You’re not alone. I’m right here.” Garrett repeated the words you had once whispered to him.
He squeezed your hand tight.
And that’s what finally made your legs give out beneath you.
“Hey, woah. Woah, okay.” Garrett caught you before you could fall completely. “I’ve got you.”
His hands wrapped around your waist and held onto you tight.
“I’m so sorry.” You sobbed, your body caving in on itself, “I n-never wanted to hurt you. I’m s-so sorry.”
Your cries were ugly. The kind that shattered Garrett’s heart to listen to.
“No. C’mere.” He brought you over to your armchair, sitting on it with wide legs so he could place you to sit across him. “It’s okay.”
Garrett’s body was a lifeline.
If he weren’t here in this moment, you’re not sure you’d ever come back from it.
The cries echoed around the room, but you were too in your own head to even notice, and Garrett’s grey knitted sweater was becoming wet with tears and snot.
His hand was still squeezed tightly against yours.
“I’m s-so sorry.” You hiccuped out.
“No.” He repeated the word you thought you had misheard before, “No baby, don’t apologise.”
Your head titled up to him, eyes wet and cheeks flushed. You didn’t miss the sparkle in Garrett’s eyes as yours focused to his, but there was no smile.
He shook his head slightly.
“Please don’t apologise.” He spoke so quietly, as though the conversation didn’t need to be heard from across the room.
It was your turn to shake your head.
You inhaled quickly, stuttering over your own breath as you tried to hold back the next sob.
You felt Garrett’s free hand on the curve of your hip, rubbing soothing circles around and around and around.
“Y/N, look at me.” Garrett said, which made you think that whatever he had to say was important.
His gaze looked over your face, bringing your joined hands up so he could wipe a rogue tear off your cheek. You could have sworn that his gaze wandered from your eyes down to your lips, but maybe you were just projecting.
“I know it wasn’t consensual.” Garrett said. You held eye contact with him as his words sunk in. His eyes wouldn’t let you abandon his - holding you strong. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Your breath hitched, but Garrett was ahead already and reminding you to breathe.
After all these months of being so alone and so isolated, hearing someone for the first time tell you that it wasn’t your fault has you falling to pieces.
You’d completely convinced yourself that you were at fault and that you’d done something so unforgivable, yet here Garrett was telling you the complete opposite.
Garrett held you close as you fell apart against him.
So many tears shed for all the moments you’d spent alone fearing that you’d never feel whole again. Tears shed for the relationship that had once been the best thing to ever happen to you. Tears shed for one person to finally believe you - perhaps the most important person.
It was a little while later and you were laid against Garret’s body as he laid on your bed.
You laughed obnoxiously at something he’d just said.
Your eyes still felt a little red-raw from all the crying, but Garrett had held you through every sob and coached you slowly through it.
He made you feel so safe.
You looked up at his face from where your head had been laying on his chest, noticing he was smiling down at you adoringly. “What?” You asked.
“I’m just happy to see you smiling.”
“Well, thanks for making me smile.” You patted his chest.
Your phone beeped on the nightstand before Garrett got a chance to respond. You groaned as you got up off of him and sat at the edge of your bed to check your phone.
The Instagram notification was bold in front of you.
Hannah: Hey! I know Garrett said he was going to stop by and see you this evening. Here if you need anything <3 xx
“Who is it?” Garrett asked, rolling his body onto his side to be close behind you.
“Hannah.” You showed him your phone. He smiled with a nod. “She seems lovely.”
You put your phone back onto the table.
“Yeah, she is.” You nodded carefully, trying to keep the jealousy dead inside of you. You had no right to be jealous if Garrett had moved on after everything. Especially not jealous over someone as wonderful as Hannah. “She’s been good to me these last few months.”
“Mhm.” You nodded, subconsciously driving your nails into the back of your hand and moving them back and forth.
Your mind went to all the places where you wished to never go. The idea of Garrett being comforted by another girl, let alone possibly have kissed or held hands with, was soul crushing.
“But she’s not you.” Garrett’s hand cupped itself over yours to stop the scratching. “No one is.”
You turned your head to face him and noticed he’d sat up behind you now. His body so close to yours and face (lips) closer than it had been in a very long time.
“If you like her…”
“I do. As a friend.”
“But…”
“I’m trying to be all romantic here and let you know that it’s always been you, so shush.” He joked, leaning into more. His gaze kept dropping to your lips.
“It’s okay though, if you have been with someone else. I… I would understand.” You self deprecatingly smiled.
“Mm mmm.” Garrett shook his head, his nose nudging against yours he was so close. “No. It’s only ever been you.”
“Gar…”
“Y/N, this is the part where I kiss you now. Okay?”
Before, he would never have been so polite to ask you for your consent before kissing you, but now - after - it made you only fall for him so much more. Consent is sexy after-all.
“Okay.”
His hand brushed up the back of your neck and pulled your head to close the last inch between your lips and his.
The kiss was like coming home.
He was so familiar in his pillowy, soft, touch, as well as his taste.
You closed your eyes to savour the moment mentally, only hoping that this was only the start of something new.
His lips moved against yours like they knew exactly what they were doing. His kissed you with confidence, which was ridiculously hot. He tilted your head so he could gain the slightest bit more access to your lips, causing you to let out the softest of moans.
Garrett pulled back when he heard the noise, “You okay?” His lips looked pink and fucked, his eyes wild as he waited for you to answer.
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He fell back onto your bed with a laugh, bringing you down with him. “Anything for you, baby.”
# GARRETT GRAHAM — FOREVER PARTNER !
MASTERLIST !
001. SUMMARY !
✶ you prank garrett by calling him your “current boyfriend”.
002. WARNINGS !
✶ another tiktok trend, some kissing. really just pure fluff.
word count : 1k
gif by @sophie-baek
Garrett isn’t really on social media.
He posts the occasional photo dump every six months, maybe a story when the two of you go out on dates, but for the most part, he stays far away from it.
Which means you can pull practically any trending prank on him, and he’ll never see it coming.
Getting him to agree had been easy. One kiss to his pouty lips and he caved. Garrett never needs much convincing when it comes to you. If you asked him to jump, he’d probably ask how high.
Which is exactly why he’d agreed to your mysterious “lip balm challenge” without so much as a question.
So now you’re sitting on his lap on the desk chair in his room, your phone propped up on a stack of textbooks and random notebooks. Various flavoured lip balms are scattered across the desk between his laptop with the unfinished essay he’d been working on before you barged in and distracted him.
Not that he seemed to mind.
“What are we doing again?” Garrett murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice low.
One arm is wrapped loosely around your waist, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your side beneath your shirt while his other hand rests possessively on your thigh, giving it an occasional squeeze. He’s buried his face in your neck, clearly much more interested in kissing you than filming anything.
You laugh softly.
“I bought some lip balms and you have to guess the flavour,” you explain, trying—and failing—not to smile at the thought of the reaction you know is coming.
“Hm, okay.”
He presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear with a content sigh, his chin resting on your shoulder while he waits patiently for you to start.
You hit record and brighten immediately, holding up the collection of colorful tubes.
“So, I’ll be testing these flavoured lip balms and my current boyfriend, Garrett, has to guess the flavour,” you say smoothly, feeling the way he freezes beneath you. “They’re pretty wacky flavors, so we’ll see how well he does.”
For a moment, he’s completely silent. But then, without a word, Garrett reaches around you and presses stop to the recording.
“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, his eyebrows drawing together. “What did you just say?”
You roll your eyes in mock annoyance. “Baby, I already explained the trend to you. Keep up.”
His expression somehow becomes even more offended when you ignore him and press record again, popping open one of the lip balms.
“Here,” you say, turning toward him after applying it.
But, to your surprise, he dodges your kiss.
“Garrett, come on,” you whine, puckering your lips.
“I’m not kissing you if you think I’m your ‘current boyfriend’.”
His pout is ridiculous.
“It’s just a saying,” you huff, desperately trying not to laugh.
“Well, I don’t like it.” He removes his hands from you and crosses his arms dramatically. “Do you have a list somewhere? Future boyfriends lined up for when you get tired of your ‘current’ one?”
You nearly lose it.
Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and turn further in his lap, your phone continuing to record in the background, utterly forgotten.
“It was a joke, baby.”
“Don’t call me that,” he mutters.
His eyes soften immediately afterward, though, because apparently even fake indignation has limits when he’s looking at you.
“Only my forever partner gets to call me that.”
“Aww,” you coo, heart melting at his words. You wrap your arms around his neck and press a kiss to the tip of his nose.
He watches you carefully, his expression suspicious but completely helpless when you smile at him.
“It was a prank,” you whisper, your lips brushing his.
“Not a very funny one,” Garrett grumbles.
“No, like, that's the only reason we’re recording something.”
You nod toward your phone with a grin, which is when understanding dawns on his face.
“I knew you were being sneaky,” he whispers back, shaking his head fondly.
Garrett smiles, and it isn’t one of his cocky grins or the easy smile he gives reporters and teammates. It’s the smile that only ever belongs to you, the one reserved for quiet moments and whispered confessions, and it makes your heart squeeze because you know you’re one of the very few people who get to see it.
“There’s nothing current about us,” you confess softly, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I hope you know that.”
“Oh, I know that.” He then smirks. “Already bought a ring, so you can’t get rid of me now.”
“What?!” Your shriek echoes through the room, earning a burst of laughter from him when you smack his shoulder with a little too much force.
“Yeah, but since you already told everyone I’m your ‘current boyfriend’, I guess I’ll have to take it back…”
You stare at him. “I can’t tell if you're joking.”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
His grin widens at your expression, leaning forward and reaching past you to stop the recording. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he finally kisses you.
And apparently, he’s been waiting. Because the second your lips touch, he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him with a pleased hum.
The chair squeaks beneath the two of you as he stands, effortlessly lifting you along with him.
By the time he finally pulls away, you’re slightly breathless and staring at him with flushed cheeks.
“Hm,” he says thoughtfully.
“What?” You murmur, watching as his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
“Cherry cola?”
“Huh?”
“The lip balm.”
Your brows furrow for a second before realization dawns on you. Right, the stupid challenge. The whole reason you'd dragged Garrett away from his homework and set your phone up in the first place had almost completely slipped your mind after he'd kissed you senseless.
“Um, yeah,” you answer after a beat. “It was.”
“It’s nice,” he says, his eyes sparkling mischievously. And before you can even process it, he tosses you onto the bed with a laugh.
The playful look on his face—and the unmistakable glint in his eyes—tell you that he definitely hasn't forgotten your little “current boyfriend” comment just yet.
NOTE : i really debated if it should say ‘forever girlfriend’ or ‘forever partner’ but to me forever girlfriend implies like never changing that status or getting married so idk i decided on partner. call me the woker i guess. also kinda hate this but oh well 🙃
Could Never Happen to Me - part II - Garrett x Logan!Reader
Author's note: This one jumps around a little bit, but I think it wraps up the story well. There is a lot of Logan and his sister. For more of my writing, check out my Masterlist: here.
Trigger warnings: talks of abuse, therapy, harassment
Facing my new reality, that everyone knew about Holden was terrifying for me. I expect judgement, anger, disappointment. I prepared myself to answer the questions "Why didn't you leave?" "How could you stay?" But they don’t come. And honestly, I don’t know what to do with that.
My friends are nothing if not concerned, patient, and supportive. I forgot what it was like when they were a part of my everyday life. How did I leave this, for him? I came downstairs after a shower and they were all acting gentle around me, not pitying, just careful. And honestly, it hurt more. I wished that things were back to normal, the way they were before Holden, but honestly I didn’t remember how to be that girl anymore.
Between Garrett and Logan, I had everything I could need. Pain meds, water, food, etc. It was almost suffocating, but also nice to have someone taking care of me. It was like I could fully relax, knowing that they had everything under control.
Slowly, life found a rhythm. I needed time, space, and safety. And I found all three at the Hockey House. The first couple week, Logan insisted I stay there. He took the couch. When I had nightmares, I would sneak into Garrett’s room across the hall. There was never any judgement as he opened his arms and let me curl into his side.
As the next week approached, I decided it was time to go back to my apartment. Garrett drove me and helped me get rid of Holden’s things. He offered to stay the night, but I needed to do this myself. He made me promise to call him if I needed him, hesitating slightly before leaving and giving me my space.
I was leaving class the next day, when my entire body froze. Holden was there, holding two coffees.
“Can we talk?” he asked innocently.
“We have nothing to talk about,” I walked passed him towards the parking lot where I knew Garrett would be waiting for me.
"Y/n, you have to know I never meant for this to happen. It was all just a big misunderstanding. You know I love you."
“Holden. We are over. There is no chance of us getting back together. Please leave me alone.”
“Please, just talk to me. I promise I’ll-”
“Empty promises. You made them before, and look how that worked out for me.”
“Y/n-”
“Get the fuck away from her,” Garrett said sharply as he approached. I felt my shoulders relax as he angled himself between Holden and me.
“Awe. I see it now. You’re with him now, is that it? You were just using me, weren’t you?”
“Go away, Holden. I have nothing left to say to you.” I said, voice weaker than I care to admit.
He sneered at Garrett before walking away.
Garrett watched him walk out of eyesight and then turned to me, “Are you okay?”
I barely managed to shake my head before the tears came.
Garrett pulled me into his chest, holding me there and whispering comforting words in my ear. That night, I took him up on his offer to stay the night. He ordered my favorite food, frowned when I barely touched it, but didn’t push.
The rest of the week was pretty uneventful, then the texts started coming in.
Holden: I can't eat.
Holden: I can't sleep.
Holden: You're destroying me.
Holden: Please give me one more chance.
I ignore them and put my phone away. Part of me knows I should just block him, but for some reason, I don’t.
Holden: You think you got Garrett, but he’ll get bored.
Holden: He’ll never love you like I did.
Holden: You’re nothing without me.
Logan catches his name on my screen and blocks him for me. He doesn’t give me some big lecture, just quietly takes care of it.
As the weeks turn into months, I start to realize how much I lost. I go to a hockey game with the girls, the boys all come up to us after the game. Everyone acts like I belong there. And I realize they never stopped loving me, even though I am the one who disappeared.
The following Monday, I start therapy, and Garrett insists on driving me. I am open and honest with the therapist about everything that happened, telling her about the fear the Holden still has over me and how I feel broken now. I tell her about the guilt and shame. About the nightmares and texts. I tell her about Logan and Garrett. All of it.
"Why do you think you stayed?"
I didn’t have an answer.
"What would you say to a friend in your situation?"
I couldn’t answer that either. But it made me realize that I wouldn’t blame someone else in my situation.
The therapist recommends that I look into a restraining order against Holden if he continues to harass me. She also suggests that further down the line, I might bring Logan in for a session. Ultimately, she gives me the homework of making a list of what I lost being in the relationship with Holden.
Garrett doesn’t ask questions when I climb into his jeep, just drives us back to my dorm.
“Do you want me to come up?”
“No, I think I’m going to call it a night. Thanks, G.”
Garrett Graham had become my safe place, and that terrified me.
Not because he'd done anything wrong.
Because he hadn't.
I didn't want him to feel like I was using him. I didn't want to become so dependent on another person that I forgot how to stand on my own again. After everything Holden had taken from me, the thought of needing someone—even someone as kind as Garrett—felt dangerous.
It was a strange dynamic.
When I woke up shaking from a nightmare, Garrett was the person I called.
When a panic attack stole the air from my lungs, he somehow knew exactly what to say.
If I had an early class, he'd show up with coffee and insist on walking me across campus. If it was late, he'd drive me home under the excuse that he didn't want me running into Holden by myself.
Somewhere along the way, sleeping alone had become the exception instead of the rule. There were nights I'd wake from another nightmare, and he'd simply lift the blanket without a word, letting me crawl into bed beside him. He never asked questions. Never expected anything. Sometimes he'd read while I fell back asleep. Sometimes we'd just lie there in silence until my breathing evened out.
Anyone looking in from the outside would've assumed we were dating.
We weren't.
At least... I didn't think we were.
Something had changed between us after my birthday. I felt it every time our eyes met a little too long. Every time his hand brushed mine. Every time he smiled because I'd laughed at something stupid Dean had said.
I couldn't put a name to it.
All I knew was that I looked forward to his texts more than I should. I smiled whenever his name lit up my phone. I relaxed the second he walked into a room.
And somehow, none of that scared him.
He never asked me what we were.
Never hinted that I owed him anything.
Never made me feel guilty when I needed space.
He was just... there.
Steady.
Patient.
Safe.
Maybe that was why my therapist spent more time asking about Garrett than she did about Holden during my next session.
"What do you feel when you're with him?"
I frowned.
"Safe."
She nodded.
"And how does that make you feel?"
I stared at her.
"I already answered."
She smiled gently.
"No. You told me how Garrett makes you feel. I'm asking how feeling safe makes you feel."
The question caught me completely off guard.
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
Finally, I whispered, "Scared."
"Why?"
"Because..." My hands twisted together in my lap. "The last time I trusted someone, he almost destroyed me."
She let the silence settle before asking, "Do you think trusting Garrett means you're giving him the same power Holden had?"
I didn't answer. Because I'd never considered that maybe those weren't the same thing. Maybe depending on someone wasn't the same as being controlled by them. Maybe there was a difference between someone making themselves your entire world… and someone simply refusing to let you face the dark alone.
This continued on, my new normal. My life was starting to feel like it was mine again.
I went to the Hockey game wearing Garrett’s hoodie, which Dean and Tucker made many jokes about. It was harmless, though. Logan was just glad I was going to the game.
The arena was loud in the way it always was on game night—pucks hitting sticks, skates carving ice, the low roar of the crowd building and collapsing in waves.
Garrett was on the line, stick steady, scanning the ice like he always did. Dean was talking to him mid-shift, some quick exchange I couldn’t hear but could imagine. Tucker hovered near the boards, ready for anything, like he always was.
They had no idea.
None of them did.
I didn’t notice at first. People came and went all the time.
But something in my stomach tightened anyway.
A feeling before thought.
Before recognition.
Someone sat a few rows up and to the side.
I didn’t look.
Not immediately.
Because I already knew.
My pulse changed before my head did.
Slow. Heavy. Wrong.
When I finally turned, Holden was sitting there like he belonged.
Like he had always belonged.
Like nothing had ever ended.
My breath caught so sharply it hurt.
He didn’t smile right away.
Just watched the ice.
Watched the game like he was appreciating it.
Then, casually, like he had just noticed me:
“Hey.”
My fingers went numb around my sleeve.
I looked back at the ice immediately, instinctively, like not acknowledging him might make him less real.
It didn’t.
Logan was still down there, completely unaware. Garrett too. Dean and Tucker circling through a line change, focused, laughing about something I couldn’t hear.
They were moving fast.
Too fast.
No one was looking up.
“No,” I said under my breath.
Holden leaned back slightly in his seat.
“I wasn’t going to come,” he said. “But I thought it might be nice. One last normal night.”
My throat tightened.
“There is no normal night,” I whispered.
That finally made him look at me fully.
Not angry.
Not yet.
Just patient.
Like I was the one being unreasonable.
“You’re upset,” he said softly. “I get it.”
My chest hurt at the familiarity of it; that tone used to work. It used to make everything inside me bend. But not anymore.
“Leave,” I said.
Holden didn’t move.
Down on the ice, Dean checked someone into the boards. The sound echoed through the arena. The crowd roared again.
Garrett took the puck.
Logan was calling for a pass.
None of them saw me.
Holden exhaled slowly.
“I just want to talk,” he said. “Two minutes.”
“No.”
That time, my voice didn’t shake.
It should’ve felt like power, but it felt like standing too close to the edge of something I couldn’t see yet.
Holden tilted his head slightly.
“You’re different,” he said.
“I’m not doing this,” I said.
“I think you are,” he said quietly.
Something in my chest went cold.
“Don’t,” I warned.
Holden finally smiled.
Small.
Controlled.
“I’m not the one making a scene,” he said.
Down below, Garrett lifted his stick, intercepting a pass. Logan moved in fast, skating hard up ice. Dean followed.
The arena erupted again.
I flinch.
“Relax,” he said lightly. “I’m just watching the game.”
But he wasn’t.
And I knew it.
“What do you want, Holden?” I said it before I could talk myself out of it. My voice came out quieter than I intended, swallowed half by the noise of the arena, but I knew he heard me. I could feel it in the way he shifted slightly toward me.
The ice roared below us—another rush, another hit, someone shouting Logan’s name as he cut across center ice.
Holden didn’t look at the game this time.
Just me.
“That’s a better question,” he said.
My stomach tightened.
“Answer it,” I said.
A pause.
He studied me like he was weighing something. Not urgency. Not anger. Control.
“I want you to stop acting like I’m some mistake you can erase,” he said finally.
My jaw clenched.
“I didn’t erase you,” I said. “I broke up with you after you abused me repeatedly. Even after I broke up with you, you continued to harass me. So I blocked you. Take the hint.”
Something flickered in his eyes at that—quick, sharp, offended—but it smoothed out just as fast.
“I didn’t come here to argue,” he said. “I came because you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’m not doing this. You need to leave before I call for security,” I said again, firmer.
Holden leaned back, spreading his hands slightly like he was being reasonable.
“No.”
My pulse picked up.
“You can’t just show up and act like nothing happened,” I said, voice tighter now. “You don’t get to—”
“Don’t get to what?” he interrupted softly.
The question wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
Because it landed exactly where he wanted it to—inside my hesitation.
I swallowed. I didn’t have an answer, and the fear was starting to consume me.
That time, his expression changed just enough to show the edge underneath. Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes drifting past me again.
“To them, I’m just a guy watching hockey.”
My blood ran cold.
Below us, Logan passed the puck without looking up. Garrett was already transitioning. Dean and Tucker were talking mid-play like everything was normal.
“But you,” he said quietly, “know I’m here.”
My chest tightened painfully.
“I told you to leave,” I said.
A beat.
Then he smiled again.
“You always were good at telling people what to do when you felt guilty,” he said.
My breath caught.
That old rhythm again. Twist. Redirect. Make it about me.
I shook my head once, hard.
“Stop,” I said.
Holden didn’t react.
He just watched the ice for a second, then said, almost casually:
“You think they’d notice if I went down there?”
Everything in me froze.
“What?”
He nodded toward the tunnel.
“I mean,” he continued, like we were discussing weather, “if I went down, stood by the glass, said hi to Logan after the game… would he notice something’s off?”
My throat went dry.
My voice dropped.
“Don’t.”
Holden finally looked at me again.
And for the first time since he sat down—
There was no softness in it.
Just certainty.
“I’m not doing anything,” he said.
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“I’m just reminding you I can.”
The ice erupted below us again—Garrett scoring this time, the arena exploding in sound, players colliding in celebration.
I stopped breathing and Holden just sat there beside me like he hadn’t said anything at all.
And suddenly I’m right back in that kitchen, shaking, terrified, ashamed, helpless.
Except I’m not alone I remind myself, and he’s not in control anymore. I stand up and walk away.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he said louder than he intended gaining unwanted attention from the people around us.
I didn’t look back, simply walked up to the nearest security guard
“That man in the black and red shirt threatened me and is threatening to pick a fight with the Briar players after the game. I’m John Logan’s sister. And that man’s name is Holden…”
The officer walkies for backup before escorting me outside the boys’ locker room, where I completely crumple. Holden is escorted away from the arena.
The hallway outside the locker room was quieter than the arena, but it didn’t feel calmer. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I kept them wrapped around my sleeves, like that could hold me together.
The security guard had spoken into his radio in clipped, practiced words. Backup. Escort. Disruptive individual. My name. Logan’s name.
Everything sounded too far away to belong to me. Then the door at the end of the hall slammed open.
The game that I had long forgotten was over. A bunch of the players I vaguely recognized filed into the locker room. Then Logan. Still in full gear. Helmet half off, hair damp with sweat, chest rising fast as he’d skated straight through every wall between the ice and me.
His eyes locked onto me immediately.
“Hey,” he said, voice sharp. “Hey—what happened?”
I tried to speak, but nothing came out.
That was all it took, his face changed.
Behind him, Garrett appeared next, still pulling his gloves off. Dean right behind him, then Tucker.
All of them stopped at once when they saw me.
Garrett’s expression dropped first.
“What happened?” he said again, but quieter this time.
My throat tightened so hard it hurt.
“He was here,” I said.
Logan blinked once.
“What?”
I swallowed.
“Holden. He was in the stands.”
Silence.
Dean’s jaw clenched so hard I could hear it.
Tucker stopped moving completely.
Garrett took one step forward.
“Did he touch you?”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, he didn’t—he just—he was talking to me and I—”
My voice cracked.
“I left.”
That landed differently.
Logan’s shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been bracing for impact that never came.
“You left?” he repeated.
I nodded.
“I told security. They took him out.”
Another silence.
Then Dean exhaled a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
“Good.”
Garrett didn’t laugh.
He looked past me for a second, toward the arena doors, like he could still see him through the walls.
Then back to me.
“You did the right thing,” he said immediately.
My chest tightened.
“I shouldn’t have even been near him,” I whispered.
Logan shook his head once.
“No,” he said, firm. “Don’t start that.”
I looked down at the floor, because that was exactly where my brain wanted to go.
What if I had frozen again? What if he had done something worse before I moved?
Garrett stepped closer.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
I looked up.
His eyes were steady, but something inside them was tight—contained.
“You’re here,” he said. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”
My breath hitched.
That word—safe—felt unfamiliar in my chest, my body didn’t know what to do with it.
Logan ran a hand through his hair, pacing once, agitated.
“I want him charged,” he said suddenly.
“Logan—” I started.
“No,” he cut in immediately. “Don’t. Not this time.”
Dean nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said. “That guy doesn’t get to just walk in here and—”
“Guys,” I interrupted, sharper than I meant.
All of them looked at me.
“I just…” My voice faltered. “I just don’t want this to get bigger than it already is.”
That made Logan stop.
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then his voice softened.
“It already is big,” he said.
My eyes burned instantly.
Garrett stepped closer again, careful this time.
“Hey,” he said. “You don’t have to manage what happens next. That’s not on you.”
My throat tightened.
But my brain still couldn’t let go of it.
Because somewhere underneath everything else—
Under the fear, under the adrenaline, under the shaking—
There was still that old reflex.
Fix it. Control it. Make sure no one gets hurt because of you.
Logan seemed to see that in my face.
He sighed.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “You understand me?”
My lips trembled.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“He came here.”
Not blame, just fact.
“He made a choice,” Logan continued. “Not you.”
My eyes filled again before I could stop it.
Garrett shifted slightly beside him.
“You did exactly what you were supposed to do,” he said. “You got out. You got help.”
My breath stuttered.
“I didn’t think,” I admitted quietly. “I just moved.”
Dean let out a low breath.
“That’s the best kind of thinking,” he muttered.
A beat.
Then Tucker, softly:
“Security’s got him off property.”
That finally made something in my chest unclench, just a little.
Not relief.
Not yet.
But space.
Logan exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” he said. “Good.”
Then he looked at me again, really looked.
“You okay?”
I almost said yes.
Old instinct.
Automatic.
But I didn’t.
Because I wasn’t.
Not fully.
So I shook my head instead.
“No.”
That honesty made Logan’s expression shift—something protective, immediate.’
“You will be.”
Garrett looked at me for a second longer than the others.
Then, quieter than everything else:
“You did good.”
“You guys should go shower. I’ll wait out here until you're done.”
They looked at eachother, hesitating, but finally moved into the locker room.
“Do you want me to call the police?” the security guard asked.
Everything inside me screamed no, but I managed to nod.
Within 10 minutes, there were officers. Two of them. Calm voices. Controlled steps. One of them asked me to come sit somewhere quieter.
They took my statement, and honestly, it sounded ridiculous when I said it out loud. I started with tonight, then explained the texts, my birthday, the months of our relationship.
They wrote everything down, asking clarifying questions occasionally.
“Did he make any physical contact with you tonight?” she asked as I finished.
“No.”
“He threatened my brother. But I left before it escalated further.”
Okay,” she said. “I’m going to explain the next steps, alright?”
My stomach dropped.
She explained it carefully—restraining order process, documentation, filing with the court, temporary protection, what a judge would review. She used words like petition, affidavit, hearing date.
None of them felt real in my mouth when I tried to repeat them.
“What happens to him?”
“That depends on the judge,” she said. “But a temporary order can be granted quickly if there’s an immediate risk.”
“I don’t want this to get bigger,” I said, voice barely there.
The officer slid a second form forward.
“This is the petition,” she said. “You’ll need to sign it if you want to proceed tonight. It requests that he be ordered to stay away from you, your residence, your school, and any known locations—including events like this.”
My eyes flicked up at her.
“That means—”
“He won’t be allowed here,” she confirmed.
A pause.
Then quieter:
“Or anywhere near you.”
I stared at the paper. At the line where my name went. At the moment everything became permanent in a way I couldn’t undo later.
My hand hovered over the pen.
I thought about Holden sitting in the arena. About the first version of him I ever met. About how something so small had slowly turned into something that made my whole world shrink.
I signed.
The ink spread across the paper like it had been waiting for me to stop pretending.
The officer took it immediately.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll submit this for an emergency temporary restraining order tonight. A judge will review it as soon as possible.”
She paused, then added:
“You did the right thing coming forward.”
I didn’t respond to that.
Because it didn’t feel like right.
It felt like survival.
She opened the door to reveal the four boys sitting in seats and hoodies just waiting.
The officers explained everything to them, answering their questions, and then they left.
My knees felt weak. Garrett and Logan walked on either side of me. Dean and Tucker were close behind. Nobody spoke for a while.
Then Logan finally said: “He’s not coming near you again.”
I almost laughed at that, but it got stuck halfway up my throat.
I went to sleep in Logan’s room, just like I had on my birthday. I felt like I should feel relieved, like this was finally over, but I was instead filled with dread.
The next day, I had my weekly therapy session. This was the session Logan had agreed to attend with me. I spent the first twenty minutes updating my therapist about everything that had happened with Holden at the arena and everything that the police had said. She asked how it made me feel, and despite my brother being in the room, I answered honestly.
“I feel like everything I start to put all of this behind me, I’m blindsided and reminded that it is who I am now. Like I don’t get to move on, I’ll always be waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Logan started to say something, but my therapist raised her hand, signalling for him to wait.
“Why did you get the security guard involved last night?”
“Holden threatened Logan and Garrett and I knew if he went down their they’d get into a fight. He could charge them with assault, they could get hurt, or they could hurt their hockey careers. I couldn’t let him do that.”
Logan shifted uncomfortably.
“Why was Holden threatening you not enough to get security involved, but once he threatened those you care about, you didn’t hesitate?”
I don’t have an answer again.
“Okay, let’s shift our focus to Logan. Thank you for joining us today. I want to start by asking you to describe your sister.”
Logan blinked once. The question had caught him off guard in a way he hadn’t prepared for. He shifted slightly in his chair, glancing at me for half a second before looking back at the therapist.
“My sister,” he repeated, “She’s… stubborn,” he said first, almost like it was obvious. A faint, strained smile flickered and disappeared just as fast. “Like, annoyingly stubborn. The kind where you know she’s hurting, and she’ll still tell you she’s fine because she thinks she has to be.”
My throat tightened immediately.
He kept going anyway.
“She’s also… the smartest person I know. Like, she’ll downplay it, but she notices everything.”
He hesitated, like he was choosing words carefully now.
“She takes care of people before she takes care of herself. Always has.”
I stared at my hands.
Because hearing it like that—plain, unfiltered—felt different than living it. It felt heavier.
Logan swallowed.
“She’s my little sister,” he added quietly, “so I guess I’ve always thought it was my job to protect her. And I didn’t. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he said, voice tighter now. “Like… replaying everything. Over and over.”
My stomach sank slightly at the shift in his tone.
Logan wasn’t looking at me anymore.
He was looking somewhere past me.
“Every time you said you were busy,” he continued. “Every time you bailed on dinner. On games. On hanging out. I just… let it happen.”
“Logan,” I started quietly.
He shook his head once.
“No. Let me finish.”
That stopped me.
Because he didn’t say it like a request, he said it like something he needed to get out before it crushed him.
“I kept telling myself it was school,” he said. “Or stress. Or that you were just… changing. Growing up. Whatever excuse made it easier. And I thought I was respecting your space. I thought I was doing the right thing by not being an ‘overbearing brother.’”
He finally looked at me then.
And there it was.
Guilt.
“I should’ve known,” he said quietly.
My chest tightened immediately.
The therapist leaned forward slightly. “What makes you say that?”
Logan let out a short laugh that had no humor in it at all. “Because I know her better than anyone,” he said, nodding toward me. “If anyone should’ve caught on to what was going on it should’ve been me, and I missed all of it.”
Silence pressed into the room.
I could feel my own emotions trying to rise—defensive, sad, protective—but Logan kept going before I could interrupt again.
“I keep thinking,” he said, voice lower now, “if I had just… pushed a little harder. If I had shown up more. If I had ignored whatever excuse she gave me and just—taken her out of it for one night—”
His throat tightened.
“I could’ve stopped it before it got bad.”
That was the word that did it.
Stopped.
Like it was something he had control over. Like love could override someone else’s manipulation if it was just strong enough. I leaned forward slightly.
“No,” I said, sharper than I intended.
Logan blinked like he hadn’t expected me to interrupt him.
I swallowed, trying again more carefully.
“No,” I repeated. “You don’t get to do that.”
His brow furrowed faintly.
“Do what?”
“Turn this into something you could’ve prevented,” I said.
My voice wavered, but I forced it steady.
“You didn’t miss it because you didn’t care. You missed it because I was hiding it. From everyone.”
The therapist watched both of us carefully, but didn’t step in.
I turned fully toward Logan now.
“I picked what you saw,” I said. “I picked the version of me that smiled and said ‘school’s crazy’ and then went back to him and pretended nothing was wrong.”
Logan shook his head slightly.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” I cut in, softer this time. “Because I was scared. And I thought if you knew, it would get worse.”
His eyes flickered at that.
Something cracked behind them.
“I kept thinking about you,” I admitted. “About how angry you’d be. How you’d look at him. How you’d—” I stopped myself, breath catching. “And I couldn’t handle what that would turn into.”
Logan went still.
For the first time, his guilt didn’t look like self-blame.
It looked like understanding landing too late.
“You were protecting me,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded once.
“That’s what I told myself” I whispered, “It was NEVER about protecting Holden, I promise.”
That did something to him.
His shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been holding himself too rigid for too long.
“I hate that,” he admitted.
My chest tightened.
“I know.”
A beat.
Then he added, quieter:
“I hate that you thought you had to.”
Silence settled again, but different this time.
Less like pressure.
More like space.
The therapist spoke gently.
“Logan, I want to reflect something back to you,” she said. “What you’re describing is a very common trauma response in loved ones—retrospective guilt. The mind tries to create control after the fact by rewriting what ‘should have been possible.’”
Logan didn’t look away from me.
“So I just… accept it?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “You process it. But you don’t build your identity around it.”
Logan rubbed his hands together once, like he was trying to steady himself.
The therapist turned back to me.
“And you,” she said gently, “you’ve been carrying a lot of responsibility for other people’s reactions. That’s something we’re going to work on.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “That sounds… accurate.”
Logan let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Understatement of the year,” he muttered.
I almost smiled at that.
The therapist glanced between us.
“This question is for both of you.”
We both looked up.
“When you think about what happens next… what do you need from each other?”
Logan spoke first.
“I need you to stop disappearing,” he said quietly. “Even when it feels easier.”
Then he added, softer:
“And I need to know you’re safe.”
My throat burned.
I nodded once, because if I tried to speak, I wasn’t sure I could.
The therapist turned to me.
“And you?”
I stared at Logan for a second.
At my brother.
At the person who had been standing too far outside my life while I was drowning in it.
“I need you to stop blaming yourself,” I said finally. “Because I already did enough of that for both of us. And I need to know you aren’t going to throw your future away for me.”
Logan’s eyes flickered.
Something in him cracked just slightly at that.
Not in a bad way.
The therapist nodded slowly.
“That’s a good place to start,” she said “Last thing for today, Y/n I want you to describe Logan to me.”
I glanced at Logan.
He shifted in his chair, like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with being observed instead of observing.
I swallowed.
“Logan is good,” I said first, quietly. Then it steadied as I went on. “He’s honest, kind, loyal, and generous. The type of person who would give you the shirt off his back without thinking twice.”
A faint, almost embarrassed exhale left him.
I didn’t stop.
“He has an incredible work ethic. I’ve always looked up to him because he makes the best out of any situation he’s in.”
My voice softened slightly.
“He brings out the best in people.”
I kept going anyway.
“He’s never let the cards he was dealt change him.”
Silence followed.
The therapist didn’t speak immediately. She just let it sit there.
Logan shifted slightly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“That’s…” he started, then stopped, like he didn’t trust his own voice for a second.
He cleared his throat.
“That’s not how I feel right now.”
My chest tightened a little.
The therapist tilted her head slightly. “What do you feel right now, Logan?”
He let out a slow breath, eyes dropping to the floor.
“Like I didn’t do enough,” he said honestly.
“Logan, can I offer something?”
He gave a small nod.
“What you’re describing is a very human response to helplessness,” she said. “You’re trying to turn love into control over the past. But what your sister described—what you are—is someone who showed up when it mattered most.”
Logan’s jaw flexed.
“That feels late,” he admitted.
“I didn’t say those things about you because I feel guilty,” I said quietly, “I said them because they’re true.”
That time, he didn’t argue.
He just stared at me for a second, like he was trying to memorize the version of this moment where I still saw him clearly.
“I don’t want you to think you have to take care of me through this,” he said.
A small, tired smile tugged at my mouth.
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just not letting you rewrite yourself either.”
That made something in him shift.
The therapist nodded once, like she’d been waiting for exactly that balance to appear.
“That’s a very important boundary,” she said gently. “On both sides.”
And the space between us finally felt like what it actually was again.
Siblings.
Not rescuer and victim.
Not failure and aftermath.
Just… us.
The conversation continued in the car, and slowly, our relationship started to rebuild itself.
Weeks passed in a way that didn’t feel like a straight line.
More like uneven steps forward, occasional pauses, and the rare day where I didn’t think about looking over my shoulder.
The restraining order went through quickly.
Faster than I expected.
Faster than my nervous system seemed willing to accept.
There were still moments I flinched at noises too sharp or footsteps too close behind me, but they didn’t spiral the way they used to.
They passed.
Time passed.
The championship game had finally come to an end. The arena had emptied almost an hour ago. The roar of the crowd had faded into the distant hum of cleaning crews and the occasional scrape of equipment being packed away. The locker room doors swung open one by one as the boys filtered out, saying their goodbyes before heading home.
Dean pointed between Garrett and me with an exaggerated grin.
"Don't stay too late, lovebirds."
"Oh my God," I groaned.
Garrett threw a towel at him.
"Get out."
Dean laughed all the way down the hallway.
One by one, they disappeared until it was just us.
I leaned against the concrete wall outside the locker room, still wearing Garrett's jersey. It hung almost to the middle of my thighs, sleeves swallowing my hands. His number was painted across my cheek in fading blue.
He looked at me and smiled.
God… that smile still did something to me.
"Look at you."
With a grin, he spun me in a slow circle. He admired his work.
"People are going to think you're my girlfriend dressed like that."
He chuckled.
"Would that be such a bad thing?"
The words left my mouth before I could overthink them.
Garrett froze.
Not dramatically.
Just...
Stopped.
His smile faded into something much softer.
His eyes searched mine.
"...What?"
I suddenly became fascinated by the floor.
"I mean..."
Great. Excellent recovery.
I sighed.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't rush to fill the silence.
He never did.
I looked back up.
"When everything happened with Holden..."
My fingers tightened around his.
"I didn't know who I was anymore."
He stayed quiet.
"I didn't trust myself. I questioned every decision. I apologized for things that weren't my fault."
My voice shook.
"I kept waiting for you to get tired of me."
His face immediately fell.
"Y/n—"
"I know."
The words settled between us.
"You never asked me for anything. You never tried to fix me. You never pushed me before I was ready."
A tear slipped free.
"You just…kept showing up."
Garrett swallowed hard.
"You walked me to class. You sat outside therapy. You answered every phone call. You held me when I couldn't stop crying. You celebrated every little victory like I'd won the Stanley Cup."
His eyes were beginning to shine now.
"I don't think you even realize what you gave me."
I stepped closer.
"You gave me myself back."
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that doesn't need filling.
"I spent months thinking love meant earning someone's approval. You taught me it wasn't supposed to hurt."
Garrett looked like he couldn't breathe.
"I like who I am when I'm with you. I laugh more. I sleep. I don't second-guess every sentence. I feel...safe."
His eyes closed briefly.
Like hearing that meant everything.
"I didn't think I'd ever feel that again."
He opened them.
Neither of us moved.
"I've spent months making choices because I was afraid. So I want this one to be different."
I squeezed his hands.
"I'm choosing you. Garrett Graham. The boy that I am undeniably in love with."
Garrett actually laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because he looked completely overwhelmed.
"You have absolutely no idea..."
He stopped, shaking his head.
"No."
He smiled.
"You deserve to hear this right."
He stepped closer until we were barely inches apart.
"I've loved you for a long time."
My heart skipped.
"But I would've waited a year, ten years, as long as you needed."
I answered by closing the distance between us.
The kiss wasn't desperate or consuming. There were no fireworks. No chaos. No uncertainty.
A beginning instead of a rescue.
When we finally pulled apart, Garrett rested his forehead against mine again.
"I've wanted to do that forever."
"I know."
"You did?"
I smiled.
"Dean is a terrible secret keeper."
Garrett groaned.
"I knew it."
I laughed for what felt like the thousandth time since meeting him.
Real laughter.
The kind that reached my eyes.
Months ago, I thought surviving Holden would be the hardest thing I'd ever do.
I was wrong.
Learning to trust again had been harder.
Learning to trust myself had been the hardest of all.
Garrett hadn't saved me.
No one could have.
I saved myself the day I decided I deserved more.
He had simply been there every step of the way, holding the flashlight until I found my own way out.
And when I finally stepped into the light...
I chose to reach for his hand.
This time— it was entirely my choice.
@purplerainx1 @instantplaiddream @mlt2000 @anne-kollay
Could Never Happen To Me - part I - Garrett x Logan!Reader
A/n: This is Logan's sister, who is in an abusive relationship. A little Garrett x Reader. For more of my writing, check out my Masterlist here.
Holden and I started dating during the peak of Hockey season, which just so happened to also be the busiest point of the semester. He was polite and charming, attentive and very affectionate. The kind of guy who checks in and actually wants to spend time together. Everyone who met him adored him. I adored him. But then things started to change.
It started small, in ways that were almost imperceptible.
"Text me when you get home, okay? I worry about you."
"I just like spending time with you more than anyone else."
"Your friends don't really get you the way I do."
He made comments that didn’t quite sit right with me. But I assumed that I was just misinterpreting things, probably overreacting.
"I can't believe you'd bring that up when you know what my ex did to me."
"We can't ever just have a nice night. You always have to start shit."
"After everything I've done for you?"
If I got upset, I was too sensitive. If I pushed back, I was starting an argument. Somehow, every conversation ended with me apologizing…then came the guilt.
"You're really choosing them over me?"
"No one ever puts me first. Not my mom. Not even you."
I didn’t realize how isolated I had become. I stopped going out as much, because it wasn’t worth the argument that would await me when I got home. Missing a night with the girls, one of the boys’ games, or even a lunch date with my brother wasn’t that big of a deal. I always used school as an excuse; no one thought anything of it.
The thing with Holden was that most of the time, things were really good between us. He’d hold my hand and tell me I was beautiful. He would buy me flowers just because and made me laugh so hard my stomach hurt.
Days like that made me question if it really was all in my head. I felt guilty for doubting him, doubting that he loved me, especially when he did it so loudly. Those were the days that kept me there.
I rationalized his need to know where I was and who I was with as the concern of a boyfriend. I convinced myself that him wanting me to spend all of my time with him was out of love. When he would get into his moods, I would remind myself of the stress he was under. I would use his childhood, his previous relationships, my own faults…just about anything to justify his words and actions, because the alternative was too devastating.
At some point, I wasn’t able to do things without considering his reaction. I didn’t want to be the problem. I knew that I was probably overthinking or being dramatic. Holden was a good guy, I was the one making things harder than they needed to be.
There was a night where the boys had text me inviting me out after their game. Holden had seen the messages before I had. It was the first time he had ever scared me. He yelled at me, accusing me of being ungrateful, of going behind his back with one of them. He got in my face and had punched the wall beside my head, cracking the drywall. We both stared at it. He looked horrified.
"Baby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that."
He cried.
I reminded myself over and over that he hadn’t actually touched me. He wasn’t abusive. It was a bad night. It had brought out the worst in him because his ex had cheated on him. He wasn’t mad at me, just scared of losing me.
He bought flowers. He swore it would never happen again. And technically, he was right. He never punched another wall.
Two weeks later we are arguing because he doesn’t want me to go home over break. That was the first time he grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop me from walking away.
"I'm not done talking to you."
When I looked down at his hand, he let go immediately.
"Seriously? You're acting like I hurt you."
So I apologized.
He was stressed. He had a rough childhood and the breaks were always hard on him. He hadn’t meant anything by grabbing me. I was the one being immature and trying to walk away instead of just talking it out like adults. All couples fight, this was normal. I was overreacting again.
The next morning, he brought me my favorite coffee and breakfast sandwich. He apologized and promised he’d never grab me again. I believed him and everything seemed to be back to normal.
Logan had stopped by unannounced one evening while Holden and I were watching a movie on the couch. He had wanted to borrow something, I don’t even remember what it was now. He mentioned how I had been missed around the hockey house and at the games. He asked me about my classes. Holden was charming and the two of them talked about Hockey.
When Logan left, Holden was mad at the intrusion, as if I planned it or something. He accused me of making him look bad in front of my brother. The conversation kept escalating. The shove happened so fast I almost missed it. One second, he was screaming, the next, I stumbled backward into the kitchen counter. Silence filled the room.
"Why would you make me do that?"
And somehow, before the night was over, I was the one saying sorry.
Things got better after that. For weeks, he was patient, attentive. The version of him I had fallen in love with. He sent me good morning texts. He kissed my forehead and told me he was proud of me. It got so good that I started to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing.
Then I told him I wanted to get a job. The change was immediate.
"Do I not buy you everything you need?"
"You're already gone enough with classes."
"I guess spending time with me isn't important anymore."
I tried to explain that I wanted to start paying off my student loans before graduation. Apparently, that was a smart-ass remark. The bruise on my cheekbone took almost two weeks to fade. I was so in shock that he’d hit me. But once again, apologies, excuses, and gaslighting convinced me that I was the one in the wrong.
A few weeks later, we were celebrating three months together at a local restaurant when we ran into Dean and Allie. Dean grinned as he saw me
"Look who finally decided to show her face."
I laughed.
Allie wrapped me in a hug immediately.
"Seriously, Y/n, we miss you. I haven't seen you in forever."
For a second, my mask slipped.
They invited us to eat with them. I looked up at Holden, silently asking permission, which did not go unnoticed by Dean.
“Thanks for the offer, but we are celebrating our 3-month anniversary tonight,” Holden said wrapping his arms around me, “I so lucky to have her,” he placed a kiss on my cheek.
I could feel Dean’s eyes on me the rest of the night. Luckily, they left before us. The second we got into the car, the silence felt wrong. Dangerous. I knew what was coming. I just didn't know how bad it would be.
As I took care of my injuries, I thought about telling someone. Logan was only a call away. I could tell him about the screaming, the bruises, and the way I jumped whenever a door was slammed. I wanted to admit to him that I wasn’t okay, that I needed help. But wanting to tell someone and actually telling them were two different things.
How do you tell someone that your perfect boyfriend hits you? How do you explain why you stayed so long, why you let it get this bad?
No. I don’t think I could handle his disappointment. Or worse, what if he went after Holden and got in trouble over me? It wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t worth it.
A week later, it was my 22nd birthday and the boys were throwing me a party at the Hockey House. I was so surprised that Holden not only was letting me go, but seemed excited to attend. That day I covered all of my bases. I was careful to keep Holden in a good mood. I wore a baggy sweater that would hide the bruises and the weight I’d lost. I made sure my makeup completely concealed the fading yellow bruise beneath my eye. For the first time in months, I let myself be excited.
By then, I had become an expert at reading him. A tight jaw. A certain look in his eyes. The way he gripped the steering wheel. The way he closed doors. I could predict a storm before the first drop of rain. And if I did everything right, maybe there wouldn't be one.
When we arrived, I felt a little nervous. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d actually spent time with my friends. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see them. I did, desperately. I missed them so much, it felt like a pit in my stomach. I missed the person I was when I was with them…before. But what if they were upset that I’d been so distant, what I had pushed them away one too many times?
When we arrived, Logan was the first person to reach me.
"Birthday girl."
Before I could even say hello, he wrapped me in a hug that nearly lifted me off my feet.
I felt myself relax.
Then the girls descended, and I barely had time to laugh before I was being dragged away amid a chorus of squeals and complaints about how impossible I was to get a hold of.
Tucker appeared a few minutes later, carrying a plate piled high with all of my favorite foods.
My throat tightened.
I didn’t deserve them.
Everyone talked over one another, telling stories, catching me up on everything I'd missed. Every few minutes, someone would mention how much they missed me. I smiled and blamed my absence on school. It wasn't even a lie, just not the whole truth. For the first time in months, I almost felt normal.
Then Dean and Garrett arrived.
Dean spotted me immediately.
"There she is."
Before I could react, he had me off the ground, spinning me in a circle. I shrieked, laughing despite myself. When he finally set me down, I noticed Garrett watching me.
His eyes dropped briefly to my arm.
My sleeve had ridden up, just barely. I tugged it down immediately.
Garrett's gaze lifted back to my face and something in his expression shifted. Concern? Recognition? Suspicion? Thankfully, he didn’t say anything.
"Graham Cracker," I greeted, stepping forward to hug him.
His arms wrapped around me carefully.
“Happy birthday Y/n, I’ve missed you,” he breathed.
When I pulled away, his eyes searched mine for a second too long.
I looked away first, making eye contact with Holden. His jaw was clenched and the smile he'd been wearing all evening had disappeared. A familiar knot formed in my stomach. I pretended not to notice.
Logan chose that moment to sling an arm around my shoulders.
"Come on," he said. "Time for cake."
He steered me toward the back deck before I could argue.
The rest of the night was a blur. I did my best to stay by Holden, laughing at his jokes, making my smile look natural.
He made comments here and there, small enough that no one else noticed. Sharp enough that I did.
"Having fun without me?"
"Didn't realize Dean was your favorite person here."
"You seem pretty excited to see Garrett."
Normally, each comment would have lodged itself beneath my skin. Normally, I would have spent the entire night trying to fix his mood. But tonight, I let them slide right off. Part of me knew he hated it. The lack of control. The fact that every person here had known me long before him. For the first time in months, I couldn't make myself care. He stayed close after that exchange, like a shadow I couldn’t step out of without it following me. Every time I turned, he was there. Every time someone else spoke to me, his hand found my wrist. A reminder.
Later, I slipped away to use the bathroom. When I stepped back into the hallway, a hand closed around my wrist. My heart stopped.
For one terrifying second, I thought it was him. I thought the night was over. I thought I was finally going to pay for every laugh, every conversation, every moment of freedom I'd stolen.
A door opened, and I was pulled inside. The room was dark except for the glow of a lamp on the nightstand. Then the door clicked shut.
"Easy."
Garrett.
Relief hit so hard it almost made my knees weak. That didn’t go unnoticed. Garrett had always noticed everything. We used to spend a lot of time together, before Holden. But between my relationship and the busyness that accompanied hockey season, we hadn’t really talked lately. That didn’t mean he didn’t still care.
"Why were you so scared?"
I forced a laugh.
"I wasn't."
The look he gave me said he didn't believe a word.
Not surprising. Garrett knew me better than almost anyone. And unlike everyone else, he knew exactly what fear looked like. His father had spent years teaching him.
He crossed his arms.
"What happened to your arm?"
I glanced down instinctively.
"Nothing."
"Try again."
I swallowed.
"I tripped a few days ago; we both know how clumsy I am."
The answer came too quickly.
His jaw tightened, and silence stretched between us.
"Look at me."
I didn't.
"Look at me."
Slowly, I lifted my head.
The concern in his eyes almost broke me. He was looking at me like he already knew the answer, but was desperately hoping he was wrong.
"Is he hurting you?"
My chest tightened. The room suddenly felt too small.
"No."
The lie tasted bitter.
Garrett held my gaze. He was connecting all of the pieces. The weight I'd lost. The flinching he noticed earlier. The bruise. The full coverage makeup I never used to wear. The excuses, the absence from their games, dinners, and parties. The way I looked at Holden. And the worst part was that I could see the exact moment he finished the puzzle.
His expression fell.
"Y/n," he said quietly.
Just my name, nothing else. Yet, somehow, that hurt more than if he'd yelled. Because for the first time in a long time, someone saw exactly what was happening to me and I couldn't hide from it.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Garrett."
The words sounded weak even to me.
A flash of anger crossed his face.
"I know better than anyone."
He took a step forward, reaching up to brush a stray tear from my cheek.
I flinched.
The movement was small, barely noticeable.
It hit him like a punch.
His hand froze in midair.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Neither of us breathed.
It was the condemning evidence he needed.
The color drained from his face.
"Oh my God."
I immediately looked away. Humiliation burned through me.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
I stared at the floor.
"Y/n."
I didn't answer.
"How long?"
My throat tightened.
"I don't know."
The confession barely qualified as a whisper. He dragged a hand through his hair and turned away. I could practically see him trying to hold himself together. Trying and failing.
"When did it start?"
Still, I couldn't answer.
His jaw clenched.
"When was the first time he put his hands on you?"
Tears blurred my vision and Garrett swore under his breath. The sound wasn't directed at me. It was directed at himself. At my boyfriend. At the entire situation.
"Why didn't you tell somebody?"
The question came out sharper than he intended, and I flinched again. Immediately, regret flashed across his face.
"Hey. No. No, that's not what I meant."
I wrapped my arms around myself.
"He said he'd stop."
The words slipped out before I could stop them. Garrett went completely still. The silence that followed felt deafening. Because we both knew what those words meant.
Not he would never do it.
Not he didn't do it.
‘He said he'd stop.’
Garrett closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were shining.
"Y/n," he whispered.
And for the first time all night, I couldn't look away.
"None of this is your fault."
The tears I'd been holding back finally spilled over.
"All of it's my fault."
The words tore out of me before I could stop them.
Garrett's face crumpled.
"I ruined everything coming here tonight."
"What?"
"I should've stayed home."
The tears came faster now.
"I knew I didn’t deserve this. "
"Y/n—"
"I was just so excited. I’d forgotten how- I knew better."
"Stop."
His voice cracked through the panic.
I looked up.
"Listen to yourself."
My chest heaved.
"He has you so isolated from the people who care about you that you’ve lost yourself.”
I didn't answer.
“When’s the last time you hung out with the girls? With Logan? When’s the last time you went to one of our games?”
Hearing Garrett say it made it really hard to ignore.
"He wanted you alone because it made you easier to control. It made it easier to hide what he was doing to you"
The words hit harder than I expected. Because some part of me had known, I'd just never let myself say it.
Garrett's eyes softened.
"Look at me."
Slowly, I did.
"This isn't happening because you came to a birthday party."
My lip trembled.
"There is nothing that you could say or do that would justify him hurting you Y/n."
A tear slid down my cheek.
For months, I'd twisted myself into knots trying to find the mistake I'd made. The thing I could fix. But standing there, looking at Garrett, I realized something terrifying: there was never a right answer. No matter what I did, he would have found a reason.
Garrett went still for a second.
Then, like it was the most obvious conclusion in the world, he said, "You're breaking up with him."
I blinked.
"What?"
"You heard me."
His voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—something shaking.
"The boys and I will get your stuff."
My stomach dropped.
"No—Garrett, you can't just—"
"You’re not going back to him."
He didn't raise his voice; he didn't have to.
"That's not—it's not that simple."
"It is," he said immediately.
Then, softer, like he caught himself:
"It has to be."
Silence stretched between us. I shook my head, panic rising again.
"If I leave, he'll—"
Garrett flinched at the fact that there was even a 'he'll.'
"What?" he asked carefully now.
But I couldn't say it out loud.
Not with the music still thumping through the walls and people laughing downstairs like nothing was wrong.
Garrett took a slow breath.
"I don't care what he says he'll do."
That wasn't true; we both knew it wasn't. But I also knew he meant it.
His jaw tightened.
"You're not going back to him, Y/n."
My throat burned.
"I don't know how to just—"
"Yes, you do."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"We figure it out, but he’s not putting his hands on you again."
When I hesitate, something shifts in Garrett. “Okay,” he said immediately, pacing once like he was trying to keep himself steady. “This is done. I’m telling Logan.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
Panic rose fast in my chest.
“You can’t tell him.”
“He’s your brother.”
“Exactly,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to.
Garrett’s expression tightened.
“He needs to know what’s going on,” he said, voice rising slightly. “He’s going to lose it, yeah—but he deserves to—”
“No. Logan doesn’t have to know. I can break up with Holden, and that’ll be that.”
Garrett stared at me like I’d said something impossible.
“Why?”
My throat tightened.
Because saying it out loud made it real? Because once Logan knew, there was no undoing it? Because everything would split open and I wouldn’t be able to put it back together? Because he might do something stupid and it would be my fault?
“He’d look at me differently, and that might be worse than anything Holden ever did,” I whispered.
Garrett blinked.
“What?”
My eyes stung.
“If he knows… if he finds out I stayed, if he sees me like this—he’ll judge me for not leaving sooner. Or he’ll look at me like a victim.”
“Y/n,” he said carefully, “he already knows something’s wrong.”
I shook my head hard.
“No, he doesn’t. I’ve been careful.”
“That’s the problem.”
I looked up at him, confused.
“What?”
“You’ve been carrying this alone, so nobody else gets involved,” he said. “That’s exactly how this keeps happening.”
My breath caught.
“I’m not going to tell Logan behind your back,” he added. “But you need to tell him”
My chest tightened.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
Garrett exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t want to force anything,” he said, softer now. “But this has to end tonight”
My voice came out small.
“I just wanted one night.”
Garrett looked at me for a long second before pulling me into a hug.
I didn’t even remember walking back downstairs. One second I was in Garrett’s room, shaking, the word leave still echoing in my head. The next I was surrounded again—music, laughter, people still pretending the night was normal.
But something had shifted, I felt it in my bones. When I saw Holden near the kitchen he was furious. He’d watched me exit Garrett’s room and I’m sure he knew exactly when I entered it as well. I approached him, knowing better than to delay the inevitable. He slid his hand around my wrist.
“I was looking for you,” he said.
His voice sounded calm. Too calm.
“Have fun ditching me for all these Hockey pricks?”
Something in my chest tightened.
His grip shifted slightly.
Still not painful. Still controlled, but in a deliberate way, reminding me what he is capable of.
“I think we’ve been here long enough.”
I tried to laugh it off.
“We’ve only been here a few hours—”
“We are leaving,” he hissed, grip tightening.
That stopped me.
The music kept going, but it felt far away now.
He leaned closer, like he was telling me something private and sweet.
“I think you’ve said enough,” he said quietly. “I’ve noticed the way you’ve been acting tonight.”
“I’m not acting different.”
The second I said it, I knew it was the wrong answer.
His smile faded.
“There it is, that tone.”
“What tone?”
He let go of my wrist.
For a second, relief hit so fast it almost made me dizzy.
Then his hand slid to the doorframe behind me, blocking my exit without touching me at all.
“You know what I think?” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“I think they’ve been filling your head.”
My mouth went dry.
“Your brother. Your little friends. Garrett.”
At his name, something sharp crossed his face.
“I was just talking to him,” I said quickly.
“You were alone with him.”
“That’s not—”
“You were alone with him in a closed room.”
His voice rose just slightly. Still not enough for others to notice. But enough for me to feel it in my bones.
“I didn’t like that.”
My heart started beating too fast.
“That’s not my problem,” I whispered.
The second it left my mouth, I regretted it.
His eyes changed.
“It’s going to be,” he said slowly, “unless you prove me wrong.”
My brain stalled.
“How?”
His gaze held mine.
“Come home with me.”
My chest tightened painfully.
“ Let me go say goodbye,” I said quickly.
The moment his name left my mouth, something shifted again.
“No.”
“They’re going to think something is wrong if I just leave without saying anything,” I said quickly.
“Why would they think something is wrong? Did you say something?”
“No—no, I didn’t. But the guest of honor leaving early without a word is a little weird, don’t you think?”
“Why are you making this so complicated?”
My throat went dry.
“I can fix it,” I said quickly. “I can just go say goodbye, and then I’ll—”
“You don’t get to fix it right now,” he interrupted.
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“You just have to stop making it worse.”
“What if I don’t want to leave?” I ask.
“We’re leaving,” he answered sharply, gaining the attention of a few people near us.
He noticed immediately and lowered his voice, “You’re making me look bad.”
The energy changed in a way I could feel but couldn’t quite see.
“Holden, I don’t want to do this anymore. We need to break up.”
“Calm down. You’re overreacting,” Holden warned, tightening his grip.
“No I’m not. It’s over, Holden. I’m done with your mind games and threats. All of it.”
I noticed Garrett at the edge of the room, watching, waiting just in case he needed to step in.
“Stop embarrassing yourself. Let me get you a drink, and we can go home.”
“No. I said I'm done."
His composure faltered, in a moment of anger, he yanked my arm. Hard. The motion caught me completely off guard. I stumbled forward, losing my balance, pain shooting through my shoulder. A gasp rippled through the room; everyone saw it happen.
“What the fuck?” Logan dropped his drink.
I barely registered it.
I was too busy staring at the expression on Holden's face.
He looked shocked.
Not at what he'd done, but at the fact that everyone had seen it. For the first time since I'd met him, he looked small.
Garrett was moving towards us, ready to intervene.
"See?" Holden snapped, pointing at him. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You've all been in her ear all night."
He looked back at me, "After everything I've done for you?"
I just stared at him.
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.
Logan stepped forward.
"Don't."
One word, a warning.
Holden ignored him.
His attention never left me.
"You think these people are going to save you?"
My stomach dropped.
Garrett moved closer.
Dean and Tucker flanked him, protectively.
Then Holden reached for my arm, trying to drag me toward him.
I jerked away instinctively.
His grip tightened.
"Let go of me."
The words came out stronger than I felt.
For a split second, something snapped in his expression.
"Stop making a scene."
Then he shoved me.
Maybe he meant to move me aside, maybe he meant to scare me. I don't know. All I know is that I wasn't expecting it.
My foot caught on something behind me.
The world tilted.
A sharp crack echoed through the room as the back of my head slammed into the edge of the kitchen island before I hit the floor.
Pain exploded through my skull, and everything went white. Then came the ringing. The room blurred around me.
Holden stared down at me, and the color drained from his face.
"Y/n—"
That was the moment Garrett broke.
"Get the fuck away from her."
Logan was already moving towards me.
Holden took a step back.
"I didn't—"
But nobody was listening anymore, because there was blood.
A thin line of it trails from my temple down the side of my face.
Holden raised his hands.
"It was an accident."
Garrett lunged. I don’t know who threw the first punch. Dean and Tucker hauled Holden off eventually.
The ringing in my ears was too loud.
Logan was there.
Dropping to his knees beside me so fast he nearly slipped.
"Y/n."
My vision swam as I looked up and met my brother’s glossy eyes, hating the heartbreak I found there. He was seeing every missed phone call, every canceled dinner, every excuse. He understood now, and that was somehow worse than all the yelling. Because he knew.
I don't remember much after that, just fragments. Pain radiating through my skull. Hands touching my shoulders. Voices talking over each other. Someone saying my name. Over and over.
The kitchen floor felt cold against my skin.
Or maybe that was later.
I couldn't tell.
Everything blurred together.
The self-loathing came first, sharp and immediate. This was exactly what I had been trying to prevent. The secret I had spent months carrying had shattered across the kitchen floor along with everything else. I had been so careful, yet somehow I had still destroyed everything.
I remember crying. The kind of tears that make it impossible to breathe and leave your chest aching. Someone kept trying to calm me down. Promising that none of this was my fault. But they were wrong. I should have left sooner. I should have told someone. I should have stopped this before it got this far. The guilt wrapped itself around my ribs and squeezed.
Then came the panic. Where was Holden? Had Garrett gotten to him? Had Logan? Had somebody gotten hurt because of me? The thought made me sick. I tried to sit up but immediately regretted it as the room lurched sideways.
A hand steadied me.
"Easy."
Logan.
His voice sounded wrecked, like he had been crying too. I think that hurt most of all. Because my brother looked at me like his heart had been ripped out. I started apologizing for everything. For ruining the party. For hiding it. For making everyone worry. For not being stronger. For not leaving.For being stupid enough to stay. The apologies wouldn't stop. Every fear I'd buried came pouring out at once.
The pain, exhaustion, and emotional toll all crashed down on me, and unconsciousness consumed me.
When I wake up I feel a dull throbbing pain in my head. I stare at the unfamiliar ceiling and piece together the events of the previous night. I feel like I’m going to be sick. I rolled onto my side and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through my head.
"Easy."
I startled.
Logan was sitting in a chair beside the bed, still wearing yesterday's clothes. His hair stuck up in every direction like he hadn't slept.
For a second, neither of us said anything.
His eyes were bloodshot, mine immediately filled with tears.
"I'm sorry."
The apology slipped out automatically and Logan's face crumpled like I'd said the one thing he couldn't stand hearing.
"No."
His voice was rough.
"Don't do that."
Fresh tears blurred my vision.
"I ruined the party."
"No."
"I should've told you."
"No."
"I—"
"Y/n."
My voice died instantly.
Logan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The anger I'd expected wasn't there.
"I am never going to be mad at you for this."
The tears spilled over.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
The question wasn't angry, just broken.
I stared at the blanket.
"I didn’t want you to be disappointed."
The confession sat between us. For a second, Logan just looked at me. Then, before I could react, he wrapped me in a careful hug. I buried my face against his shoulder and sobbed.
“What happened after?”
I needed him to fill in the pieces.
"You hit your head pretty hard and scared the hell out of everybody."
Instinctively, my hand moved toward the bandage near my hairline. Guilt twisted in my stomach.
"I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
The response came automatically, like he'd already said it a hundred times.
"What happened?"
Logan exhaled slowly.
"The boys got Holden out of the house."
The way he said it told me there was a lot more to that story.
"Logan."
His jaw tightened.
"Dean and Tucker handled most of it."
Which meant Garrett hadn't.
I noticed immediately.
"Where's Garrett?"
Logan looked away and my stomach sank.
"What happened?"
A long pause.
"Nothing happened."
I stared at him.
"Logan."
He rubbed a hand over his face.
"Garrett was furious but Dean got between them."
"Did Garrett get hurt?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Logan noticed.
"No."
Relief flooded through me.
Logan continued.
"The paramedics checked you out."
My eyes widened.
"Paramedics?"
"You were unconscious, Y/n."
Right.
That made sense.
Still humiliating.
"They wanted you to go to the hospital."
I looked up sharply.
"What?"
"You refused."
That sounded more like me.
"I don't remember that."
"You barely knew what day it was."
Fantastic.
Logan shook his head.
"The girls were crying."
My chest tightened.
"What?"
"Allie especially."
The image hurt.
Because I could picture it perfectly.
"She kept blaming herself for not realizing sooner."
The guilt doubled instantly.
Logan's voice softened.
"Nobody's mad at you."
The tears threatened again.
"Dean spent thirty minutes threatening to kill Holden."
That one actually made me laugh.
"Sounds about right."
"Tucker took his keys."
My eyebrows lifted.
"Tucker?"
"He said if Dean found Holden's car first, we'd all end up on the evening news."
A startled laugh escaped me.
Logan smiled faintly.
"Probably not wrong."
Silence settled between us.
Garrett comes barging through the door, “Dude I swear to god if she’s not awake soon I’m taking her to the hospital for a head scan. I don’t care…”
Our eyes meet, once again tears fill mine.
“Give us a minute,” I tell my brother.
Garrett didn't take his eyes off me.
Logan squeezed my shoulder gently as he passed. The door clicked shut behind him. I looked at Garrett, who looked awful. His hair was a mess. There were dark circles under his eyes. His jaw was bruised from where Holden had apparently managed to hit him back. The second we were alone, all the composure he'd barged into the room with vanished, and his shoulders sagged.
"Oh, thank God."
The words came out rough. Like he'd been holding them in for hours.
Fresh tears filled my eyes.
"I'm sorry."
His expression immediately twisted.
"No."
"But—"
"No."
Garrett scrubbed both hands over his face.
"Do you have any idea how scared we were?"
My throat tightened, and I looked down at the blanket.
"I ruined everything."
The room went silent.
When Garrett spoke again, his voice was dangerously soft.
"Don't."
Garrett crossed the room and sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
"Do not sit there and apologize for what happened."
My eyes burned.
"Garrett—"
"You didn't ruin anything."
I laughed bitterly.
"Didn't I?"
"The only person who ruined anything was Holden."
I shook my head.
"You got hurt."
His jaw clenched.
For the first time since he'd walked in, I could see how exhausted he really was.
"I would've taken ten more punches if it meant getting him away from you."
The tears spilled over immediately, without warning.
"You can't say things like that."
"Why?"
"Because—"
"Y/n."
My eyes lifted to his.
"I should've noticed sooner."
The confession was quiet.
I blinked.
"What?"
"I should've figured it out."
"Garrett—"
"I knew something was off."
My chest tightened painfully.
"You couldn't have known."
"I should have."
"You couldn't have."
The words came out stronger this time.
Because they were true.
I had hidden everything. Every bruise. Every excuse. Every lie. I had spent months making sure nobody knew.
Garrett stared at the floor, then he laughed bitterly.
"You know what's messed up?"
"What?"
"You still sound more worried about everyone else than yourself."
A shaky smile tugged at my lips.
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
For a second, neither of us spoke. He glanced up at me with a silly expression on his face.
"You're an idiot."
"There she is."
Garrett's eyes softened.
"You’re gonna be okay, you know."
"I don't even know what that is anymore."
"Yeah, you do."
His answer came without hesitation.
"You've just been surviving for a while."
The room blurred, and before I could stop myself, I leaned forward. Garrett caught me immediately. Like he'd been expecting it. I buried my face in his shoulder and finally let myself cry. Garrett wrapped an arm around me, carefully saying nothing. Just holding on. And for the first time in months, I felt safe enough to fall apart.
A small realization hit Garrett in that moment. One that he wouldn’t allow himself to think about. Not while I was sitting in Logan's bed with bruises hidden beneath borrowed clothes and months of fear still living behind my eyes. But in that moment, something changed.
It was the moment he stopped lying to himself about the feelings he had for me. Because watching me cry into his shoulder had nearly broken him. Because I'd spent months carrying something that should have crushed anyone, and somehow I was still worrying about everyone else. Still apologizing and trying to take responsibility for things that were never mine to carry.
That morning, after I'd finally fallen back asleep, Garrett sat outside Logan's room for nearly an hour. Just sitting there. Staring at the floor. Thinking. Dean eventually found him.
"Is she okay?"
Garrett nodded. Dean sat beside him.
Neither spoke for a minute.
Then Dean sighed, "I've never wanted to hit somebody that badly."
Garrett laughed humorlessly, "Get in line."
Another silence, then Dean looked sideways at him.
"You love her."
Garrett froze.
Dean's eyebrows lifted.
"Wow."
"Shut up."
"You do."
Garrett rubbed both hands over his face.
"Now is not the time for this conversation."
Dean was quiet for a second.
"Yeah."
Because it wasn't.
I didn't need a boyfriend; I needed time, space, safety, and healing. And Garrett knew that.
He made sure that he was always there for me. When I had nightmares, he was a call away. When I doubted myself, he reminded me of the truth. When I wanted to skip therapy, he drove me there anyway. When I cried, he sat beside me. When I laughed again for the first time, he memorized the sound. He loved me quietly, giving me the space I needed to find myself until I was ready.
garrett graham ❄︎ secret mission.
pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well. warnings – 18+, smut, alcohol, jealousy, secret hookups, hockey violence/injuries, swearing. notes from me – thank u for the request, anon!! this was so cute i got carried away lol <3 word count – 9.4k
navigation – masterlist
The thing about keeping Garrett Graham a secret was that Garrett Graham was, in almost every available category, a terrible secret.
He was too tall for it, for one. Too broad. Too recognisable from the back, from the shoulders, from the mess of dark curls and the stupid confident way he moved through a room like gravity had signed some private agreement to make him look good from every angle.
He was also, tragically, friendly. Friendly in that Garrett-specific way that meant everybody on campus felt like they knew him well enough to yell his name across a party, slap his shoulder at Malone’s, stop him in the hall to talk about last night’s game or next week’s line-up or whatever else men said to one another when they wanted to bask briefly in proximity to a local legend and pretend it was a conversation.
And she wasn't exactly anonymous either. Not anymore. Not after Dean.
Dean Di Laurentis, who had never been her boyfriend, which was a legal technicality he clung to with the same lazy confidence he seemed to apply to everything else in his life.
Dean had been a mistake with good hair and a trust fund. A mistake with a grin. A mistake that had lasted a few times longer than it should have because he was pretty and shameless and very good at looking at a girl like he had personally invented bad decisions and would be thrilled to walk her through the beginner course.
But Dean wasn't a girlfriend kind of guy. Dean was Six Flags. You rode the ride, screamed once or twice, maybe bought the photo after, and then got off.
She knew that. She had known that then, technically.
Dean had a way of appearing in her life at the least dignified possible moments looking pleased with himself, and she had a way of refusing to let him be pleased without penalty.
Like the time she found him coming out of a women’s bathroom stall at Malone’s with a girl in a denim skirt. She had been washing her hands at the sink, glanced up in the mirror, taken in his flushed face, his rumpled shirt, the girl fixing her hair behind him, and said, “Hi, whore,” with the flat calm of someone greeting a neighbour at the mailbox.
Dean, because shame had never successfully attached itself to his nervous system, had only chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the stall door. “Hey.”
That was the whole thing. Mostly joking. Mostly old bruised pride dressed up in insults because that was easier than admitting he had maybe gotten under her skin for a minute and then left muddy footprints on his way back out.
Garrett wasn't supposed to be part of that. Garrett had happened after a party, which was already a bad sign because nothing good ever began at two in the morning in a hockey house kitchen with tequila and Dean singing the wrong words to a song everybody else knew.
It had been loud and hot and stupid, the whole house sticky with beer and laughter and bodies pressed into doorways. She had ended up outside on the back steps because the kitchen had started spinning, and Garrett had come out five minutes later with two waters and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to ask whether she was going to puke on his sneakers.
He had sat down beside her instead.
Garrett had looked at her sideways when she laughed at one of his jokes, and something in his face had changed. Garrett’s face was a practiced thing, mostly grin and charm and captain-boy confidence, but this had slipped underneath it. A quiet little interest. A flicker. Like he had found something he wanted to pay attention to and was already annoyed about it.
Then, later, in the upstairs hallway, she had been trying to find the bathroom and he had been trying to find Logan, because Logan had stolen his phone to send a voice note to Coach that began with “hypothetically, if a man loved hockey but hated cardio,” and somehow Garrett’s hand had ended up on her waist. Warm through her shirt. Steadying her when someone shoved past in the hall.
“Careful,” he had said, close to her ear.
She had turned her head, too drunk to be clever and too annoyed by how good he smelled to be normal. “I’m always careful.”
Garrett’s eyes had dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again with that awful amused heat. “Uh huh.”
The first kiss had been an accident. His room had been closer than the bathroom. His door had shut behind them. His mouth had been warm and confident and so immediately, horribly good that she had pulled back after ten seconds just to stare at him like that might make the situation less offensive.
Garrett had grinned down at her, lips a little swollen already, one hand still at her waist. “What?”
“You kiss like you know you’re good at it.”
He’d shrugged. “I am good at it.”
“That’s a disgusting thing to say.”
“Wasn’t really a denial, though.”
She had meant to hate that. Truly. She had tried.
The first time they almost got caught, she was riding him with her hands braced on his chest and Garrett’s mouth at her throat, and the only thought in her head was a soft, stunned, repeated oh that seemed to have lost all connection to language.
His room was too warm despite the window cracked open behind the desk, the cold night air barely managing to move through the heat they had made under the sheets. The lamp was off. Some blue-white spill from the streetlight outside cut through the blinds in thin, broken lines over the wall and across Garrett’s shoulder.
His chain had slipped sideways against his collarbone. His hair was a wreck from her fingers. His mouth was open against her neck, kissing up under her jaw with the kind of lazy, devastating precision that made her thighs shake around him before she could stop them.
“Garrett,” she breathed, and then immediately louder, because his hands had shifted to her hips and guided her down harder. “Oh my God.”
His hand flew up before the sound had fully escaped, palm covering her mouth, his other hand tightening at her waist. “Jesus, baby,” he said, voice low and rough and entirely too amused for a man currently participating in the same crime. “You trying to get me murdered?”
She made a muffled noise against his hand that was meant to be a curse and came out humiliatingly close to a whimper. Garrett’s grin flashed in the dark, teeth catching briefly, eyes bright and smug and so pleased with himself she nearly hated him. Nearly.
It was hard to maintain moral outrage when his thumb was pressed lightly against her cheek and his hips were still moving, slow and deep and mean in the way only a man with a scoreboard in his soul could be mean.
“There we go,” he murmured, kissing the side of her jaw while his palm stayed over her mouth. “Can’t be announcing it to the whole house, right?”
She glared down at him, or tried to. It probably lost some effect when her eyes fluttered halfway shut because he lifted his hips again and hit exactly the wrong place, which was to say exactly the right one.
Garrett laughed under his breath, quiet and filthy with satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
She bit the inside of his palm.
His brows shot up. “Oh, we’re biting now?”
She nodded against his hand with as much dignity as a girl could manage while naked on top of him and very actively losing a fight against her own volume.
“Cool,” he whispered. “Very healthy. Super mature.”
She would have laughed if she had any air left. Instead her body gave her away again, a soft, trapped sound catching under his palm as he sat up suddenly, changing the angle and dragging her with him until she was pressed chest-to-chest with him, knees bracketing his hips, his mouth at her ear.
“Shh,” he said, but the edge of laughter in it ruined the authority.
He was enjoying this too much. Enjoying her like this, messy and desperate and trying very hard to be quiet because if anybody found out she was in Garrett Graham’s room, in Garrett Graham’s bed, after Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of the semester behaving like her eventual return to his mattress was a scheduling issue rather than a question, the whole house would become unbearable overnight.
Then the hallway floor creaked. Both of them froze. Him still inside her, both still overheated, still breathing too hard into the tiny space between them. Garrett’s hand stayed clamped gently over her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His eyes lifted toward the door, and in the blue-dark she watched every cocky line in his face vanish into immediate, sharp focus.
Outside, Logan’s voice drifted close enough to curdle the air. “Yo– Dean. Is that who I think it is in there?”
Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. Garrett’s eyes snapped back to hers.
For one suspended, insane second, they only stared at each other. She could feel his heartbeat hard against her chest. Could feel where they were still joined, which her body had the absolutely perverse audacity to notice in detail despite the fact that John Logan was currently holding a one-man investigation outside the door. Garrett’s hand loosened slightly over her mouth. Her lips parted against his palm. He held his finger up to his own lips, and she had nodded quickly.
He reached blindly toward the bedside table with one hand, the motion chaotic and deeply unathletic for a man who made a living looking graceful under pressure.
His fingers knocked something over. A bottle cap, maybe. His watch. A textbook hit the floor with a soft thud. She bit down on a laugh before it could get out, which was dangerous because laughter at that moment felt like shaking a soda bottle with the cap still on.
Garrett found his phone at last, thumb flying over the screen. For half a second there was nothing. Then the speaker on his dresser exploded to life with Cherry Pie so loud the whole room seemed to jump.
She slapped both hands over her own mouth now, eyes wide, shoulders shaking immediately with silent laughter. Garrett stared at the ceiling like he could not believe this was the solution his brain had selected and was, worse, proud of himself anyway.
In the hallway, Logan went silent. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh shit– sorry, G! Guess not!”
A second later Dean’s voice, farther away and deeply suspicious, called, “What?”
“Nothin’, man,” Logan said, still laughing. “Keep walking.”
Footsteps retreated. The music kept blaring. Garrett turned it down with the ferocious speed of a man who had made his point and no longer wanted Warrant narrating his sex life. The second the volume dropped, she folded forward into Garrett’s shoulder and started laughing for real, breathless and helpless, her whole body shaking against his.
Garrett’s arms closed around her automatically. Then he started laughing too, quiet and disbelieving into her hair. “Fuck.”
She lifted her head, face hot, eyes watering, and whispered, “Cherry Pie?”
“It was the first thing that came up.”
“You panic-played Cherry Pie?”
He huffed out a laugh. “It worked.”
“That’s not the same as being good.”
“It worked,” he repeated, grinning now, smugness returning by the inch because survival had restored him. His hands slid to her hips again, warm and possessive and much too confident. “And for the record, if Logan thinks you’re in Dean’s room right now, I might throw myself out the window.”
She pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to smile. “Jealous?”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
The word landed low in her stomach. Warm and bright and stupid. She leaned down and kissed him before he could see too much of it on her face, and he kissed her back still smiling, still breathing laughter into her mouth, both of them a little shaky now for a different reason.
“Too close,” she murmured against him.
“Yeah,” Garrett said, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, holding her there. “Maybe stop trying to wake the neighbours.”
“You’re the one playing stripper music at full volume.”
“Because you’re loud.”
“Because you’re annoying.”
His grin was all teeth in the dark. “Baby, just before? That wasn't an annoyed sound.”
She shoved at his chest, and he fell back on the mattress easily, gesturing for her to come closer with two fingers. The stupid warmth of it made her go quiet in a way that was much more dangerous than the moaning had been.
The second time they almost got caught, she was drunk enough that focusing on standing upright had become a full-body project.
The house belonged to some guy from one of Dean’s classes, or maybe one of Logan’s, or maybe no one knew and they had all simply agreed to occupy it until dawn. It smelled like beer, perfume, damp coats, and the kind of carpet that had seen too much and forgiven nothing.
She stood in the upstairs hallway with one shoulder against the wall, phone in hand, trying to read the same text from Garrett for the third time.
Garrett: You good?
It was a simple question. Easy. Very Garrett, actually. Casual on the surface, but sent because he had been watching her across the room ten minutes ago with that narrowed captain look he got whenever she reached the stage of drunk where her smile became too slow and her balance became hypothetical.
She typed, yes.
Then deleted it because the letters looked suspicious.
Then typed, yed.
Then stared at that for a long time.
Beside her, a cluster of girls in tiny tops and hockey-adjacent enthusiasm had been having one of those conversations that floated around the party like perfume: who was hot, who was overrated, who was secretly huge, who had commitment issues so severe they should probably be peer-reviewed.
She ignored it for as long as she could because she had bigger concerns, namely that if the bathroom door did not open in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to start making decisions about where else she could throw up.
Then one of them said Garrett’s name. Her eyes lifted off her phone before she could stop them.
The girl speaking was blonde, glossy in a way that seemed expensive even if nothing she was wearing necessarily was, with a little white top and the high, pleased expression of someone enjoying the sound of her own anecdote.
“No, I’m serious,” she was saying, one hand pressed to her chest like she was giving testimony. “Last night was the best night ever. Like, Garrett knows what he’s doing. He made me come, like, three times.”
The hallway did a small, drunken tilt.
The problem wasn't even jealousy at first, not properly. The problem was logistics. Garrett had been in her room last night. Garrett had been in her bed last night, sprawled diagonally like he owned both the mattress and several surrounding counties, one arm hooked around her waist while she tried to sleep and he mumbled something into her hair about setting an alarm for practice.
Garrett had stolen half her blanket and then looked offended when she kicked him in the shin. Garrett had kissed the back of her shoulder at five in the morning before climbing out of bed, half-dressed in the dark, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby,” like he had any right to sound that soft before sunrise.
So unless Garrett had discovered cloning between midnight and breakfast, the blonde girl was lying.
The girl noticed her staring, because drunken staring was rarely subtle and this particular stare had been delivered with the blank intensity of a haunted doll.
The blonde’s smile faltered into something confused but still sweet, which was somehow worse. “Um… hi, babe. You okay?”
Another girl beside her leaned in slightly, brows lifting. “Did you need some water?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her phone was still in her hand, Garrett’s unanswered text glowing uselessly against her palm.
“You weren’t with Garrett last night,” she said.
The sentence came out too clear. Too certain. Sober-sounding, even, which was deeply unfair given the fact that her inner ear was currently behaving like a loose shopping trolley.
The blonde blinked. “What?”
“You weren’t with Garrett last night.” She frowned, genuinely trying to make the pieces fit and failing so hard that social caution had gone missing in the wreckage. “Why are you lying?”
The air around the bathroom line shifted. A couple of girls looked over. Someone’s mouth dropped open a tiny bit. The blonde’s face did that quick, ugly thing people’s faces did when embarrassment arrived and pride immediately tried to tackle it before it spread.
“And how would you know?” she asked, voice sharpening with a laugh around the edges. “Are you, like, his secretary?”
Her drunk brain, slow but not entirely dead, caught up with the fact that she was standing in a hallway full of girls, defending Garrett Graham’s whereabouts during the exact hours he had spent in her bed, while actively participating in a secret that depended on not doing that.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. The blonde’s brows rose.
“I– uh.” She looked down at her phone like it might offer legal counsel. Garrett’s text still sat there, accusatory and simple. “Never mind. Actually.”
Then she stepped out of the bathroom line. There was a slight shoulder bump with the wall and a near-collision with a guy carrying two beers, but she made it away from the girls and around the corner with most of her dignity still technically attached.
Her heart was thudding stupidly hard for a hallway interaction, heat crawling up her throat and into her cheeks. Not jealousy, she told herself. She was just offended by misinformation. Academically. On principle. People should not be allowed to lie.
Her phone buzzed again as she reached the top of the stairs.
Garrett: Seriously. Where are you?
She stared at it for a second, then typed, need bathroom.
Then, after a pause, added, girls are liars.
His response came almost immediately.
Garrett: What
She squinted at the screen.
Garrett: Baby where are you
The baby landed warm even through the alcohol, which was annoying. She looked back over her shoulder toward the hallway, where the bathroom line and the blonde and the whole stupid conversation still existed. Then she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the phone clutched in the other, already scanning the crowd below for Garrett’s dark curls and the broad, familiar shape of him.
She found him near the kitchen archway, and he was already looking for her. He caught sight of her halfway down the stairs, and his face shifted at once, amusement and concern colliding so fast that neither won cleanly. He moved through the crowd before she even reached the bottom, one hand lifting to her elbow as she stepped off the last stair.
“Hey,” he said, ducking close so she could hear him. “You okay?”
She looked up at him very seriously. “You were in my room last night.”
Garrett paused. His eyes moved over her face, then over the stairs behind her, then back down. “Yeah.”
“Like the whole night.”
His mouth twitched. “Most of it, yeah.”
“So that girl is a liar.”
A slow understanding dawned across his face. Then, because he was Garrett and therefore terrible, he started to smile. “What girl?”
She jabbed a finger somewhere upward. “The blonde. She said you made her come three times.”
His brows jumped. “Did I?”
“Garrett.”
“What? I feel like I’d remember.”
She crossed her arms. “She was lying.”
“Sounds like it.”
“She looked me in the face and lied.”
Garrett’s hand slid from her elbow to her waist, steadying her when she swayed half an inch in outrage. “You say anything?”
She stared at him.
His eyes narrowed, still smiling but sharper now. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Baby,” he whispered.
“I said she wasn’t with you last night.”
Garrett closed his eyes for one second. Just one. When he opened them again, he looked like he was fighting for his life against laughter. “Right.”
“She asked how I knew.”
“Okay.”
“And then I left.”
“Good call.”
“I almost said because you were with me.”
His grin did something helpless then, softer under the smugness, like the idea pleased him before he had time to make it a joke. “Yeah?”
She frowned at him. “Don’t look happy. I nearly compromised the mission.”
“The mission?”
“Our secrecy mission.”
“Our secrecy mission isn’t going great if you’re interrogating women in bathroom lines about my location.”
“She started it.”
“Sure.”
“She did,” she whined, dragging the second word out.
“I believe you.” He didn’t, not entirely. Or maybe he did and was simply enjoying himself too much to be decent about it. His hand squeezed once at her waist, warm and grounding. “You still need to pee?”
Her face fell. “Yes.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched again. “Come on. There’s a bathroom downstairs.”
“You know that?”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re a slut.”
“I’m helpful.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, voice dropping into that low teasing register that made her stomach flip despite the fact that she was seconds away from becoming a medical emergency. “And for the record, next time I make you come three times, I’m expecting a better cover story than that.”
She turned her head slowly to glare at him. Garrett looked deeply pleased with himself.
The third time they almost got caught, she was in the hockey house kitchen at three in the morning wearing Garrett’s t-shirt with absolutely no plan.
It was after a loss, which meant the whole house had gone strange and heavy by midnight. The kind of subdued where the TV stayed on without anyone really watching it and the boys drank beer not to party but to have something to do with their hands.
Garrett had barely spoken when he came out of the locker room earlier, jaw tight, lip split, a bruise already blooming near his cheekbone, that restless, furious energy still moving under his skin like the game had not fully let go of him.
She hadn’t been supposed to come over. That was the rule. One of the rules. There were several now, apparently, all of them made by two people with a strong shared interest in pretending they had control over anything.
No arriving together. No leaving together. No obvious texts when the guys were around. No sitting too close at parties. No looking at each other for too long in kitchens, which was quickly becoming the hardest one because Garrett Graham had a deeply inconvenient face and an even more inconvenient habit of watching her mouth when she was trying to speak.
And definitely no sneaking into his room after midnight through the window like a raccoon because he’d lost a hockey game and she wanted to crawl into bed with him.
So, naturally, she had done exactly that. Garrett’s window wasn't as easy to access as she had expected it to be.
She had nearly died twice, scraped her knee on the siding, and whispered, “This is so stupid,” to herself with feeling before finally pushing the window up and tumbling into his room with all the grace of a bag of laundry.
Garrett had been lying on his bed in the dark, shirtless, one arm over his face. He hadn’t even startled properly. He had just shifted the arm enough to look at her, eyes bleary and bruised with exhaustion, and said, “Baby, what the fuck.”
“I’m being supportive.”
“You broke into my room.”
“I prefer… entered creatively.”
He had stared at her for another second, then lifted the edge of the blanket.
For all the jokes, all the swagger, all the please-don’t-call-this-what-it-is of him, he made room for her too easily. Like his body knew before the rest of him had finished filing objections. She crawled in beside him, careful of his ribs and the angry bruise darkening along one side of his stomach, and he rolled toward her with a wince he tried to hide and a hand that found her hip immediately under the blanket.
“Hi,” he had murmured after a while, lips brushing her hair.
She had smiled into his chest. “Hi.”
Now, hours later, she woke up with her mouth dry enough to qualify as an emergency and Garrett’s arm heavy across her middle.
The room was dark and cold around the edges, the cracked window letting in a thin stream of winter air that made the discarded clothes on the floor look like shadows. Garrett was dead asleep behind her, breathing rough through his nose, body warm and heavy and completely gone in the way only athletes after a bad game seemed capable of being.
One of his hands was tucked under the hem of the shirt she’d stolen off his floor. She swallowed once. Painfully. Then again. Still bad.
She shifted carefully. Garrett grunted and tightened his arm, which would have been sweet if it had not also trapped her in a dehydrated prison.
“Baby,” she whispered.
Nothing.
“Garrett.”
A deeper grunt this time. His face pressed into the back of her neck.
“Baby,” she tried again, softer. “Can you get me water?”
Garrett’s answer was a long, sleep-mangled sound that might have been English in a previous life. She waited.
“Garrett. Please. I’m really thirsty.”
“No,” he mumbled into her hair.
She turned her head as much as she could. “No?”
“M’sleep.”
“You’re talking.”
“Sleep talking.”
She groaned softly. “You’re the worst.”
“Mm.”
She lay there for another thirty seconds, hoping thirst might pass. It did not. Eventually she eased his arm off her waist inch by inch, freezing every time he made a noise, and rolled over to look at him properly.
The sight softened her irritation before she could defend against it. His face was turned toward her on the pillow, hair falling messily over his forehead, lashes low against his cheek. The split in his lip had dried dark at one corner. The bruise near his ribs looked ugly, even in the low light. Another mark curved along his stomach where he’d been slammed into the boards hard enough that the crowd had made a single collective ooooh.
He wasn't getting up. She sighed and climbed out of bed.
The floorboards were cold under her bare feet. Garrett’s t-shirt hit high on her thighs, soft and oversized and smelling like detergent and him. She paused at the door, listening. The house had finally gone mostly quiet. No TV. No shouting. No Dean wandering around half-drunk asking philosophical questions about hot girls and mortality. Only the hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional tick of the heating.
She slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the wall because the dark made everything look unfamiliar. The kitchen waited at the bottom, dim and blue with moonlight through the window over the sink. Someone had left a pizza box open on the counter. There were three empty beer bottles near the stove and a hoodie slung over one of the chairs. The house smelled like stale chips, laundry, and the faint metallic cold of nighttime.
She found a glass in the cabinet after opening the wrong one twice, filled it at the sink, and drank half of it in one go with her eyes closed.
Then the light snapped on. She spun around so fast water sloshed over her hand.
Tucker stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, one hand still on the light switch, hair flattened on one side from sleep. He blinked at her. She blinked back.
For one full second, neither of them moved.
Then Tucker looked at the oversized shirt. Her bare legs. The glass in her hand. The stairs behind her.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Shit.”
Her stomach dropped.
“No,” she said immediately. “Please don’t–”
Tucker rubbed one hand over his face, looking more tired than scandalised. “Damn. I owe Logan ten bucks.”
That derailed her panic so thoroughly that she stared at him. “What?”
He gave her a sympathetic look that somehow made everything worse. “I can’t believe you slept with him again.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence that followed wasn't her best work.
Tucker’s brows lifted. “Dean? Obviously?”
Oh.
The relief arrived so hard it nearly made her dizzy, followed immediately by the horrible understanding that she now had to let Tucker think she had climbed out of Dean’s bed at three in the morning. Her brain, which had been half-asleep and mostly water-focused three minutes ago, scrambled for purchase.
“Right,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah. Dean. Obviously.”
Tucker’s expression softened in a way that made guilt stab straight through the middle of her chest. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“No, it’s–” She swallowed, clutching the glass with both hands. God bless darkness. God bless Tucker being half-asleep. God bless the fact that Dean’s entire personality was plausible cover for almost any bad decision within a thirty-foot radius. “Please don’t say anything.”
Tucker frowned. “I won’t.”
“No, seriously. Please.” She made her eyes wide because she could, because she had been underestimated by men before and did occasionally enjoy the practical benefits. “It’s so embarrassing. I wasn’t going to. I don’t even know why I– God.” She looked down, shook her head, and gave a small, miserable laugh that deserved an award from whatever committee evaluated female deception in shared kitchens. “Please don’t tell Logan. Or anyone. Especially Dean. Actually, fuck, especially Dean.”
Tucker, who possessed the inconvenient decency of a man who hated watching people feel bad, visibly faltered. “Hey. No, yeah. Totally. Your secret’s safe with me.”
She nodded, still performing devastated shame with one hand wrapped around a stolen water glass. “Thank you.”
“Do you… need anything?”
The kindness almost killed her. “No. I’m good. Just water.”
“Okay.”
Another awkward beat passed. Then Tucker stepped aside from the doorway with the solemn discomfort of someone allowing a ghost to pass through. “Night.”
“Night,” she whispered, and scurried toward the stairs with the glass held carefully against her chest.
She didn’t breathe properly until Garrett’s door shut behind her.
He was still asleep when she climbed back into bed. Useless. Beautiful, bruised, useless man. She set the glass on his nightstand and stared at him for a second in the dark, still buzzing with adrenaline. Then she smacked his shoulder.
Garrett flinched awake with a strangled noise, eyes half-opening. “What– fuck– what?”
“Tucker caught me downstairs.”
That woke him a little more. “What?”
“He thinks I slept with Dean.”
Garrett went very still. Then his face did something fascinating in the dark. Sleep disappeared. Pain disappeared. Every exhausted, post-game softness sharpened into offended disbelief. “He thinks you what?”
“I had to go with it!”
“You had to?”
“Yes, Garrett, because the alternative was saying actually I’m sneaking out of Garrett’s room after cuddling with him because we’re both very normal and secretive and weird.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately winced, then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Why the fuck would he think Dean?”
“Because of Dean!”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s kind of the whole answer.” She climbed back under the blanket, still whispering harshly. “You wouldn’t get me water.”
“I was asleep.”
“So I went downstairs and got caught and had to improvise.”
Garrett stared at her, jaw working. Even bruised and half-dead, he managed to look jealous in a way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe shove him a little. “Tucker thinks you left Dean’s room wearing my shirt?”
“I don’t think he was doing t-shirt analysis at three in the morning.”
Garrett dropped back against the pillow with a quiet, pained groan, one hand dragging over his face. “Great.”
She settled beside him, taking a long, triumphant sip of water. “Your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes.”
“For being asleep after getting hit, like, forty times tonight,” he said, eyes wide in the dark. Then he groaned. “Fuckin’– Dean?”
She smiled despite herself. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.” He was very obviously jealous. His arm came around her waist and tugged her closer with enough care not to hurt himself but enough insistence to make the point. “I just don’t love Tucker thinking you’re sneaking out of Dean’s bed.”
“Technically, he thinks I’m sneaking out of Dean’s bed and deeply ashamed.”
Garrett made a noise of disgust. “Jesus.”
She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. “Poor Tucker was very sweet.”
“I don’t want to hear about sweet Tucker right now.”
“You’re so easy.”
“I’m injured.”
“You’re possessive.”
He was quiet for half a second. Then, low against her hair, “Maybe don’t make me hear Dean’s name when you’re in my bed.”
She lifted her head. In the dark, Garrett’s expression was harder to read, but she could feel him looking at her. Could feel the tension under the joke, under the jealousy, under the secret they kept pretending was only fun because fun was easier than looking directly at whatever else had started living between them.
“Okay,” she whispered.
His hand moved under the shirt, warm at her back. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” She nudged her nose against his jaw, soft. “No Dean.”
His breath left him slowly. “Good.”
“You still should’ve gotten me water.”
“Go to sleep.”
“You’re mean.”
“You broke into my room.”
“You let me in.”
“Mm,” Garrett murmured, already pulling her closer, careful around his ribs, his mouth brushing her forehead. “I know.”
The fourth time they almost got caught, Garrett took her on a date three towns over and still somehow managed to know someone there.
It was a cute restaurant. Cute in a way that made both of them a little awkward for the first ten minutes because hooking up in secret at parties and sneaking through windows had not prepared either of them for menus with seasonal specials and candles in little glass holders.
The place sat on a narrow street with string lights outside and fogged windows and a hostess who smiled at Garrett for two seconds too long before noticing the girl beside him and recalibrating. Garrett noticed the recalibration. His mouth twitched as they followed the hostess toward a booth in the back.
“Don’t,” she muttered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
She crossed her arms. “You were about to.”
“I was gonna say the soup smells good.”
“You were not.”
Garrett laughed, warm and low, and slid into the booth beside her instead of across from her without asking. They were far enough from Briar that no one should have known them, tucked into the back corner of a restaurant full of older couples and small groups and a table of women laughing over wine near the bar.
It made the whole thing feel suspended, like they’d stepped out of the rules for a few hours and could sit too close without having to perform distance for anyone.
His thigh pressed against hers under the table. Their shoulders brushed every time one of them moved. Garrett kept stealing fries off her plate even though he’d ordered his own, and she kept pretending to be offended while pushing the plate half an inch closer because dignity had left with the appetizer.
At some point his hand found hers on the booth seat between them. His fingers sliding over hers, playing with them idly while he told her about a freshman on the team who had tried to tape his stick with what Logan called the confidence of a man raised by wolves.
She laughed into her drink, and Garrett looked at her in a way that made the restaurant feel suddenly much smaller.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, you’re doing the face.”
His thumb moved over her knuckles. “Just like hearing you laugh.”
That shut her up immediately. Garrett’s eyes flickered over her face, and she hated him for noticing the way the words landed. Hated him more for softening instead of making a joke out of it. For a second they just sat there, fingers tangled on the seat between them, candlelight catching along the edge of his jaw and the chain at his throat, his knee warm against hers.
Then she looked down at the table because she had limits. “That was gross.”
“Yeah?”
“You should be embarrassed.”
He sucked at his teeth gently. “I’m not.”
“No. I know. That’s one of your worst qualities.”
He grinned and lifted her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Top five, maybe.”
She was smiling despite herself, leaning in closer, when a voice came from the side of the booth.
“Graham?”
Garrett’s hand froze around hers. A tiny, immediate stillness that went through him faster than any expression on his face could catch. His smile stayed in place when he looked up, but she felt the change in his body first. The slight tightening at his shoulder. The way his hand shifted off hers and came to rest on his own thigh. The casual posture assembling itself a second too late to be real.
A guy stood at the end of the booth, tall and broad, with the unmistakable haircut of a hockey player and a jacket with Eastwood stitched over the chest. Recognition hit Garrett’s face, then something flatter underneath it.
“Parker,” Garrett said, easy enough if you weren’t pressed against him and listening to the mechanics of the lie. “What’s up, man?”
The Eastwood player grinned and held out a hand. Garrett slid out of the booth halfway to shake it, and she sank approximately two inches lower in the seat.
Which was stupid. Very stupid. If she wanted to avoid notice, shrinking into the booth like a child hiding from a substitute teacher wasn't a subtle approach. But the whole night had gone bright and hot behind her ears. She took an intense interest in the remaining fries on her plate and prayed for invisibility.
No such luck. Parker’s eyes flicked to her with polite curiosity. The interest of someone who had stumbled into a scene and wanted to know the category. Date? Hookup? Cousin? Hostage?
Garrett, because his life was apparently a sport in all directions, stood in front of the booth with one hand settling briefly on his hip before moving up to scratch along his jaw.
Nervous.
She noticed it instantly. Garrett Graham didn’t usually look nervous. He looked cocky, amused, focused, pissed off, hungry, occasionally concussed, but not nervous. Yet there he was, smiling and doing all the tiny, useless things his body did when he wanted to seem casual too badly: thumb brushing under his nose, hand dragging through his curls, weight shifting onto one foot and then back again.
“What are you doing out here?” Parker asked.
Garrett shrugged. “Dinner.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Parker laughed, looking around. “Didn’t expect to see you this far out.”
“Had to get off campus for a minute.”
The sentence was true enough to pass. It made something soft and stupid open in her chest, because Garrett had wanted to get off campus with her. Not to hook up quickly before someone knocked. Not to drag her upstairs at a party. Dinner. A booth. His fingers playing with hers beside the cushion. The whole quiet normal shape of it.
Parker’s gaze flicked to her again. Garrett saw it and shifted half a step, not blocking her, but angling himself between the attention and her face in a way that made her want to press her forehead to the table.
“This is–” Garrett started, and then stopped.
Her heart gave one hard kick, because there was no good ending there. This is my friend sounded insane. This is the girl I’m sleeping with sounded worse. This is the girl Dean hooked up with and now I am secretly, catastrophically gone for sounded accurate but logistically challenging.
So Garrett, genius athlete, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, man with a GPA that proved his brain did occasionally participate, did the only thing available. He smiled wider and said, “We’re just eating.”
She closed her eyes.
Parker blinked once, then, mercifully, either understood enough to leave it alone or decided he didn’t care. “Cool, cool. Good to see you, bro.” He clapped Garrett once on the shoulder. “See you on the ice.”
Garrett’s grin sharpened into something more familiar. “Looking forward to it.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
They did the aggressive male handshake thing again, all knuckles and shoulder tension and mutual threat disguised as friendliness, then Parker left toward the bar.
Garrett stood for one second after he was gone, watching him go. Then he slid back into the booth beside her, and both of them sat completely still.
She stared at the table. Garrett stared straight ahead. Then, at exactly the same time, they both exhaled.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “That was– yeah.”
She turned her head slowly. “We’re just eating?”
His jaw tightened. “I panicked. What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know, Garrett. Fuck.”
His hand found hers again, but this time under the table, fingers lacing through hers with a little more urgency than before. “Too close?”
She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was moving over hers, once, twice, like he was calming himself as much as her. “Way too close.”
“Yeah.”
“And you were nervous.”
He scoffed and shook his head once. “I wasn't nervous.”
“You scratched your jaw like nine times.”
“My jaw itched.”
Her eyebrows raised. “And your nose?”
“Itched too,” he shrugged.
“And your hair?”
“Whole body’s falling apart, apparently.”
She huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened around hers. When she looked up, he was watching her with that softer thing again. The thing that kept sneaking in around the edges of their jokes and making them both go quiet.
“Hey,” he said, lower. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making it weird.”
“It is weird.”
“Yeah.” His mouth pulled at one corner. “But I like this weird.”
The warmth hit so hard she had to look away toward the candle. “You can’t say stuff like that after calling me an eating companion.”
“I didn’t call you that.”
“You kinda did.”
Garrett laughed, then leaned in and kissed her temple because out of town meant he could do that. Could sit beside her in a booth and kiss her hair and hold her hand under the table and look at her like the secret was starting to bother him not because he wanted out of it, but because he wanted out of the hiding part.
She let herself lean into him for half a second. Just half.
The fifth time, the time they were finally caught, she didn’t think at all, and that was probably why it happened.
Afterward, she would be able to admit there had been options. Reasonable options. Normal options. She could have waited outside the locker room like other people did. She could have texted him. She could have asked Logan if Garrett was okay, which would have been embarrassing but survivable.
She could have done any number of things that didn’t involve slipping past the edge of the crowd after the game and walking straight into the tunnel like she had a right to be there.
But Garrett had been wrong all night. He had played well in flashes because Garrett Graham could probably play well during a natural disaster if someone gave him skates and a reason. But there had been something jagged in him from the first period.
Too sharp on the checks. Too quick to shove back. Mouthguard hanging between his teeth while he stared down some Eastwood winger with a look on his face that made her hands go cold around the railing.
He got sent off twice. Once for roughing, once for a fight that started so fast the crowd seemed to notice it only after Garrett already had a fist tangled in someone’s jersey. The second time, even Coach looked furious in that controlled way that made grown men behave like children caught setting fires.
She watched Garrett in the box with his jaw clenched and blood bright at the corner of his mouth, his chest rising hard under the pads, eyes fixed somewhere across the ice but not really on it.
Logan skated by once and said something. Garrett didn’t smile. Didn’t chirp back. Didn’t do any of the things he usually did to make violence look like part of the game and not something older moving through him.
So after the final buzzer, after Briar won, despite Garrett trying to personally fistfight the entire opposing roster, after the crowd started spilling into the aisles and everyone around her buzzed with post-game noise, she moved.
The tunnel was colder than the stands, all concrete and rubber matting and the damp, metallic smell of hockey gear. Voices echoed from the locker room ahead, overlapping male noise and equipment hitting benches and someone laughing too loudly in that exhausted post-adrenaline way.
She slipped past a staff member who was too busy looking at a clipboard to care, turned the corner, and found Garrett standing alone near the wall.
He was still in most of his gear. Helmet off. Gloves gone. Hair damp and flattened at the sides, curls sticking up where he had run his hands through them. His head hung forward, both palms braced on his knees like he was trying to breathe the game out of himself and failing. Blood had dried at his lip again. His jaw worked once. Twice. The tendons in his neck stood out under the harsh tunnel light.
Her chest tightened so fast it hurt. “Garrett.”
His head snapped up. The second he saw her, everything in his face changed. He came back by inches, like her voice had reached into whatever ugly room he was in and opened a door.
“Hi,” he said, breathless, already straightening. Then again, rougher, like the first one had not been enough. “Hey.”
She closed the space before either of them had time to remember they weren’t supposed to do this where people could walk by.
“Hey.” Her hands went to his face immediately, careful around the split lip, thumbs brushing at the damp edges of his cheeks. “You good? What happened?”
Garrett let out a breath, eyes closing. His hands came up to cover hers for one second, pressing them harder to his face like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. “M’fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
His chest was still moving hard, the pads making him look even bigger, all post-game heat and sweat and the raw leftover violence of whatever had been eating at him on the ice. She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers pushing through the damp curls at his temple. His exhale shook.
“You alright?” she asked again, softer now.
He nodded, but it was a bad nod. A nod made out of stubbornness and breath and the fact that he had no idea what to do with her looking at him like this in a tunnel. His jaw shifted. His eyes opened, finding hers, and whatever he saw there made his whole face pull tight for half a second.
“Baby,” he murmured.
That did it. Here, in the tunnel, with the locker room noise around the corner and blood on his mouth and his breathing still rough from whatever fight he had nearly brought home from the ice, the word hit somewhere deeper.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was meant to be small, it really was. A check-in. A reassurance. A brief press of her mouth to his.
Garrett made a low sound the second her lips touched his, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her in properly, pads and all, crushing the space between them like he’d been waiting the whole night for something solid enough to hold.
The kiss turned immediately. His mouth opened under hers, hungry and rough and not careful enough at first, then careful all at once when she brushed his split lip and he hissed softly into her mouth.
She pulled back half an inch. “Sorry.”
“Don’t care,” he said, and kissed her again.
Everything from the game poured into it. The hits. The fights. The awful, tight look in his eyes from the penalty box. Her hands cold on the railing. The secret they’d been carrying around like something light when it had gotten heavier every time he looked at her across a room and didn’t come closer. Garrett’s fingers dug into her waist. Hers stayed in his hair, tugging lightly. He kissed like he was trying to get back into his own body through her mouth. And she let him.
Then someone behind them said, “Ohhhh shit.”
They broke apart so fast it was almost violent. Logan stood ten feet away with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, mouth open in the kind of delighted grin usually reserved for a successful prank or Tucker injuring himself in a deeply avoidable way.
His eyes moved from Garrett’s arms around her waist, to her hands still caught in Garrett’s hair, to Garrett’s swollen mouth, and then back again. For one second, no one spoke.
Garrett’s arms didn’t leave her waist. She noticed that through the panic, through the sudden rush of heat to her face, through the knowledge that the entire delicate architecture of their secrecy had just been bodychecked into open air by John Logan and his shit-eating grin.
Garrett kept holding her.
Logan’s grin widened. “Was comin’ to check on the captain, but… shit.” He lifted both hands, backing away already, eyes bright with the kind of joy that meant the locker room was about to become a crime scene. “Guess he’s alright.”
“Logan,” Garrett said, low warning.
Logan only pointed at him, walking backward. “Nope. No. Don’t Logan me. You have been weird as fuck for weeks, man.”
Her stomach dropped and flipped at the same time.
Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Don’t–”
But Logan had already turned toward the locker room, voice rising with unholy glee. “You’ll never fucking guess what I just saw!”
The sound that came from the locker room was immediate. A burst of voices. Dean’s laugh cutting through first, bright and vicious. Tucker saying something too low to catch. Someone yelling, “What?” and Logan answering with, “Graham!” in the tone of a man unveiling evidence at trial.
She closed her eyes. Garrett dropped his forehead to hers.
For a second, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her mouth, still uneven. Her hands had slipped from his hair to the sides of his neck. His gear pressed awkwardly against her chest.
Somewhere around the corner, the locker room erupted again, Dean’s voice now unmistakable. “No fucking way!”
Garrett exhaled, eyes closing. “Fuck.”
She huffed, because there was nothing else to do. A laugh, almost. A sigh. The sound of a girl watching the secret blow up and realising, somewhere under the horror, that she wasn't as upset as she should be.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Fuck.”
His hands flexed at her waist. He didn’t move back.
This was the moment he could step away. Where he could put space between them and run a hand through his hair and say something easy, something Garrett-shaped and evasive, something that made the kiss look smaller than it was.
He could make it a joke before anyone else did. He could hide behind Logan’s big mouth and Dean’s inevitable commentary and the whole familiar machinery of the hockey house turning one private thing into public entertainment.
Instead he stayed with his forehead against hers, breathing hard, thumbs pressing into her waist through her coat.
Then Dean appeared around the corner, because the universe couldn’t let them have more than three seconds without sending in a rich boy with terrible timing.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, grinning like Christmas had come early and wearing only half his gear. Logan popped up behind him, still delighted. Tucker stood a few steps back with his arms folded, looking resigned and not remotely surprised.
Dean’s eyes flicked over the two of them, still pressed together, Garrett’s hands still on her waist. His grin turned wicked. “Well, well, well.”
She groaned. “Don’t.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hand over his heart. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I absolutely will,” he corrected. His eyes slid to Garrett, bright with evil. “Graham. Buddy. Pal. Teammate. You’ve been sneaking around with my ex?”
“She’s not your ex,” Garrett said immediately.
Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, interesting. Strong feelings from the captain.”
“She’s not,” Garrett repeated, jaw tightening.
She shouldn’t have enjoyed that. She did anyway.
Dean’s gaze moved to her, faux-wounded. “I thought we had something beautiful.”
“You were sleeping with six other girls while sleeping with me. You’re a pig.”
Logan made a strangled sound. Tucker’s mouth twitched.
Dean pointed at her. “See? This is why I missed you.”
Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist. “Dean.”
“Oh, relax.” Dean lifted both hands, but he was still grinning. “I’m not poaching. I have respect.”
Logan leaned around Dean, eyes shining. “So how long?”
“Nope,” Garrett said.
“How long?” Logan repeated, louder.
She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at her. For one brief, stupid second they both seemed to consider lying. It was a beautiful instinct, really. Loyal to the end. Completely useless now that Garrett’s mouth was visibly swollen from kissing her and his hands had still not left her body.
“Three weeks,” she said.
Garrett’s head snapped toward her.
“What?” she said. “He was going to keep asking.”
Logan’s mouth dropped open. Dean shouted, “Three weeks?” Tucker just closed his eyes, nodding once to himself.
“I knew something was up,” Tucker said.
Garrett looked at him sharply. “You did not.”
Tucker opened his eyes. “She came downstairs for water in your shirt and let me think she’d slept with Dean.”
Dean turned slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”
She winced. “That was strategic.”
“You were in my house,” Dean said, pointing at himself, “using me as a slutty decoy?”
“Yes.”
Dean looked moved. “Honoured.”
Garrett made a sound under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”
Logan clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Come on. Let the lovebirds emotionally process before Coach catches Garrett making out in a tunnel like a freshman.”
Garrett finally looked over. “Dude.”
“What? That was supportive.”
Dean pointed at her as Logan started dragging him backward. “We’re talking later. I have questions. Boundary-respecting questions, but questions.”
“No, we’re not,” she called back.
“We absolutely are.”
Tucker gave her a small, sympathetic nod as he turned. “Congratulations. And good luck.”
“Thanks,” she said, because honestly that seemed appropriate.
The three of them disappeared back toward the locker room, taking the noise with them in pieces. Logan already yelling something that sounded like, “Three weeks, boys!” Dean making wounded noises. Tucker telling someone to put on pants.
Garrett laughed, low and real, and the sound loosened the last tight thing still sitting under her ribs. She looked up at him, at the bruise on his cheek and the split in his mouth and the ridiculous, beautiful, inconvenient boy who had somehow gone from secret bad idea to the person she walked into tunnels for without thinking.
“So,” she said, brushing her thumb carefully under the cut at his lip. “Guess we’re blown.”
His grin came back slowly, cocky at the edges and warm all the way through. “Yeah.”
“And you still have to explain why you were trying to fight half of Eastwood tonight.”
The grin faded by a fraction, but he didn’t look away. “Later?”
She studied him for a second, then nodded. “Later.”
His arms tightened. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Then Garrett kissed her again, because being exposed to the entire hockey house hadn’t cured him of bad timing. She kissed him back anyway, smiling into it when the locker room erupted once more at whatever Logan had just announced.
This time, when Garrett’s hand slid openly to the small of her back and held her there, neither of them moved away.
garrett graham ❄︎ one drink limit.
pairing – garrett graham x reader notes from me – i know i usually only write rafe/drew but i'm on my second rewatch of off campus and i couldn't help myself!! warnings – alcohol, drunken silliness, soft/protective garrett, party chaos, mild innuendo word count – 4.1k
navigation – masterlist
The thing about Garrett Graham being on a one-drink limit was that it made him unbearably observant.
Usually, at parties like this, Garrett was loud in the easy way he always was when the room already liked him. Leaning against the kitchen island with a red cup in one hand, shoulder knocked against Logan’s while Tucker said something dry enough to make both of them laugh through their noses, still getting pulled into conversations every two minutes by guys who remembered Briar had a game tomorrow and thought “bury those assholes” counted as both analysis and encouragement.
He was still doing that, still smiling when somebody slapped his shoulder on the way past. Still nodding along when a freshman he vaguely knew started talking at him about the power play with the intense glassy-eyed sincerity of a man who had consumed too much cheap vodka and exactly one hockey podcast. Still charming people mostly by accident, because Garrett had never once walked into a room and thought maybe he should make himself smaller for everybody else’s sake.
But sober Garrett had range. Unfortunately for her, sober Garrett noticed things.
He noticed when Logan’s cup went from beer to something stronger. Not his problem. He noticed Dean talking with both hands while Allie stood tucked under his arm, laughing like she knew whatever came out of his mouth next was going to be either stupid or actionable. Also not his problem.
He noticed Tucker quietly moving somebody’s drink away from the edge of the counter before it got knocked onto the floor, because Tucker had always possessed the exhausting dignity of a man born already tired of everyone’s shit.
And he noticed the exact second his girlfriend put one hand on the kitchen bench again. That was his problem.
He’d already stopped this exact mission twice in the last ten minutes, which felt excessive for a girl who kept insisting she was literally fine while blinking a little too slowly and smiling at him like the lights had all gone soft around the edges.
The first time, he’d caught her by the waist and set her back on the floor with a calm, captainly, “Nope,” said close to her ear. The second time, he’d stepped between her and the counter like a very attractive barricade while she pouted at him like he'd personally cancelled fun.
Now she was trying again, because, apparently, the second a vodka cranberry and an Ariana Grande song got into the same room, her ability to retain recent history collapsed entirely.
Her skirt was too short for climbing. It was probably too short for several forms of normal standing, if Garrett was being honest, but that was between him, God, and the part of his brain currently doing threat assessment on behalf of her underwear.
Her heels were tall enough that Allie had called them hot but fucking dangerous when they arrived, and now one of them scraped against the cabinet front as she lifted her knee with absolutely no concern for balance, modesty, or Garrett’s long-term cardiovascular health.
Dean, from the other side of the kitchen, had been waiting for this. Garrett could feel it in the air. The man had made three separate comments about keeping her away from elevated surfaces and then looked personally enriched every time Garrett told him to shut the fuck up.
Garrett moved before the room really had time to understand what was happening. One second he was beside Logan, cup loose in his hand. The next he was behind her, cup abandoned somewhere near the sink, palm landing firm and warm against the back of her thigh as he tugged the hem of her skirt down with the grim focus of a man handling something highly flammable.
“Yeah, nope,” he said, low against her shoulder, his voice amused even as his hand stayed where it was. “Not doin’ that.”
She turned around like she'd been caught doing something cute instead of deeply stupid, her face bright with that pleased, unfocused warmth she got when the room had started moving a little faster than she could keep up with and Garrett was suddenly close enough to touch.
Her hands went straight to his chest, fingers sliding up the front of his shirt with drunken affection and absolutely no subtlety, and she beamed at him like she hadn't seen him in months. “Baby!”
Garrett looked down at her hands, then back at her face, his mouth twitching. “Hi.”
“Where were you?”
“Right there.” He nodded vaguely over his shoulder, where Logan had turned to watch them with the exact expression of a man who would rather die than become useful. “Saw you, like, ten seconds ago.”
“Oh.” She seemed to consider this very seriously, brows knitting for one whole beat before her face opened again, delighted by the rediscovery. “Hi.”
“Yeah, we did that part.”
She smiled anyway, her hands still sitting flat against his chest like she had every right to keep them there. Which she did. That was becoming a problem, actually. The newness of it. The fact that they were together enough now for people to know, for her to touch him without pretending it was accidental, for him to stand in a crowded kitchen the night before a game with one beer in his system and her skirt in his hand like this was a normal responsibility a man could acquire through dating.
She swayed into him. A small tilt of her weight, the kind someone else might have missed if they were drunker or less embarrassingly tuned to her. Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist before she seemed to notice she’d moved at all.
“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out in warning. “Bar stool. Right now.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Her eyes narrowed at him, suspicious and visibly pleased. “That’s not what I said.”
“No, but it worked better.” He turned her neatly by the hips before she could decide the counter still had unfinished business with her. “Sit.”
She made a noise of offence, but she let him guide her onto the stool, mostly because it was already there and because Garrett’s hands were warm and annoyingly sure and doing that thing where they seemed to make decisions for her body a full second before her brain managed to file an objection.
The room tilted pleasantly when she sat. The bass pushed through the kitchen floor and up into the bones of her legs. Someone had spilled beer near the fridge and the tile caught lightly under the heel she kept tapping against the stool rung. Across the room, Allie was tucked into Dean’s side, laughing at something Tucker said while Dean looked over her head with the bright, vicious joy of someone watching Garrett suffer a romantic inconvenience in real time.
Garrett went to the sink and filled a plastic cup with water. He came back holding it out like evidence.
She reached for it.
He lifted it just out of range.
She blinked at him.
His face went blank in that innocent way that always meant he was about to become deeply irritating. “What?”
“Gimme.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m trying.”
She pouted. “You’re being mean.”
“I’m providing medical care.”
“You’re making me work for water, Garrett.”
His laugh came out before he could stop it, quick and real, his head ducking for half a second as if he was genuinely annoyed with himself for enjoying her this much. He lowered the cup again. She reached. He moved it left. Her fingers closed around absolutely nothing.
“Garrett.”
“Reflexes are a little rough tonight, huh?”
“I will break up with you.”
“No, you won’t.” He brought the cup close again, then jerked it back when she lunged, and she burst into giggles so hard her knee knocked against his thigh.
“Baby, this is bleak. This is like watching a kitten lose a fight with a shoelace.”
“I hate you.”
He finally let her take it, but only after wrapping his hand around hers to steady the cup because she came in too fast and almost sent half of it down her front. “Slow. Drink it like you’ve used a mouth before.”
She glared at him over the rim while she drank, which would have worked better if he hadn’t still been holding the cup with her. The water was cold enough to make her teeth ache, cutting through the sugary film of whatever Allie had mixed earlier and landing hard in the warm, spinning centre of her stomach.
Garrett watched her with his head tipped slightly, all amused mouth and attentive eyes, and she hated, immediately and deeply, how much she liked it. Not the fussing, she would deny enjoying the fussing until the end of time. But the way he did it. Like he could tease her without making her feel stupid. Like the joke was never that she was embarrassing him. Like he had simply accepted that she was drunk, pretty, badly behaved, and his to keep upright for the next hour.
His hand settled on her thigh while she drank, thumb resting just under the edge of her skirt, not doing anything much except being there. The contact was casual enough to look like nothing from the outside. From inside her body, it had weight. A small, steady point in a room full of noise.
Someone yelled his name from the living room. “Graham!”
Garrett turned his head. “What?”
A couple of hockey guys were waving him over, one of them yelling something about the line changes tomorrow and another immediately shouting over him that they were not talking strategy at a party because some of us actually know how to live.
Garrett’s attention shifted for barely two seconds. Barely. His hand left her knee. His shoulders angled away. And then the opening presented itself. It wasn't her fault. It really wasn’t. Because Ariana came on.
The song that reached into the middle of her chest and hit whatever drunk, glittery emergency button existed in girls at parties. The one that made Allie gasp from across the room and point at her because Allie understood. Allie knew. This was not about Garrett and his very boring anti-countertop agenda anymore. This was bigger than him. This was practically civic duty.
She set the water down very carefully, which felt mature enough to balance the scales of whatever happened next, and slid off the stool.
Dean noticed first. Dean noticed anything with potential for either nudity or injury, especially if both were being offered at once.
His whole face lit up. “Wooo!” he shouted, lifting his cup. “Get up there!”
Allie smacked him in the stomach, laughing even as she did it. “Don't encourage her.”
“What? I’m supporting women.”
“You’re supporting Garrett committing murder.”
Dean’s grin widened.
Garrett turned.
The timing was, unfortunately, beautiful. Her knee was already on the counter. One hand braced against the surface. Her skirt was doing its absolute best in conditions no garment that short should ever have been expected to survive.
She looked back over her shoulder at the exact moment Garrett’s expression shifted from distracted amusement to flat, immediate disbelief.
His cup was gone again. Nobody knew where he kept putting them. One second his hands were empty; the next they were on her waist.
“Alright,” he said, hauling her backward before the second knee could get involved. “We’re done here.”
She made a sound that was half laugh, half protest, her feet finding the floor with such minimal commitment to the task that he had to catch more of her weight.
“We’re done.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You were halfway to a public incident.”
She furrowed her brow, glaring up at him. “I was dancing.”
“You were climbing furniture.”
“For art.”
“For urgent care.” He bent a little to look into her face, and fuck, he was so annoying like this. So sure of himself. So warm around the edges of his authority that it made arguing with him feel less like resistance and more like foreplay’s better-behaved cousin. “Up we go.”
Her eyes widened. “Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t this kitchen.”
“Garrett, no–”
But she was already laughing, because he had that look. The one that said he had made a decision and her role in the next thirty seconds was mostly decorative. His arm slid around the backs of her thighs, the other braced firm at her waist, and before she could do anything more strategic than clutch at his shirt, the whole kitchen flipped.
Light, ceiling, cabinets, Logan’s deeply entertained face, Dean’s open-mouthed delight. All of it went upside down in one warm, dizzy rush as Garrett threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing and he had reached the end of negotiations.
She shrieked.
Everyone cheered.
“Garrett!”
“Yup.” He adjusted his hold like this was a normal thing to be doing in somebody’s kitchen, one hand firm across the backs of her thighs, the other keeping her skirt decent. “That’s my name.”
She smacked his back, badly, mostly because she was laughing too hard to aim. “Put me down!”
“No.”
“I’m serious!”
“You’re drunk and upside down. You’re not serious.”
Dean was losing his mind across the room, bent halfway over Allie’s shoulder while she tried and failed to look disapproving. Logan lifted his cup with solemn respect. Tucker, because he had chosen betrayal, called, “Honestly, I think this is the safest option available.”
“I hate all of you,” she announced to the kitchen, though it came out wobbly with laughter because Garrett had started walking and every step made her bounce lightly against his shoulder.
Garrett paused in the doorway and turned just enough for the room to see her dangling there, hair falling toward the floor, cheeks hot, both hands planted uselessly against his back while her skirt remained under the firm jurisdiction of his palm.
“Say goodnight, everyone,” he said.
She lifted her head with great effort, spotted Allie first, then Dean, then Logan, then the blurry, bright collection of cups and boys and bad decisions behind them, and waved with both hands like she was leaving a pageant. “Goodnight, everyone!”
The kitchen erupted again. Dean actually clapped. Allie blew her a kiss. Logan yelled, “Hydrate!” with the confidence of a man who had not had water since Thursday.
Garrett carried her through the house, past the crush of bodies in the hallway, past two people making out badly against the wall by the stairs, past somebody’s abandoned jacket and an open front door letting in a thin slice of cold night air.
The music followed them out in pieces, bass first, then voices, then the muffled whole of the party dropping behind them as Garrett stepped onto the porch and the night came up around her bare legs.
The air sharpened everything at the edges. Damp grass. Car exhaust. The metallic bite of early spring. Garrett’s cologne caught in the cotton of his shirt where her cheek had ended up pressed against his back.
For a few seconds she kept wriggling on principle, because it seemed important for the record that she hadn't gone quietly. Then the path dipped slightly and the world swung with it, and she decided stillness had a lot going for it.
Halfway down the walk, she stopped struggling altogether and just hung there, arms loose, one heel slipping lower on her foot.
“Babe,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“You have a nice butt.”
Garrett did not miss a step. “Thanks, baby.”
“Like, really nice.”
“I know.”
She gasped, offended despite having introduced the subject herself. “You’re so cocky.”
“You’re upside down staring at my ass and giving live commentary. I feel like the confidence is evidence-based.”
She giggled again, softer this time, the sound spilling out into the cold. Garrett’s hand shifted against the backs of her thighs, careful with her balance, careful with the hem of her skirt, careful in a way that shouldn't have been noticeable when she was upside down and full of vodka and openly objectifying him, but was.
He could have made a thing of it. Could have rolled his eyes harder. Could have acted like taking care of his drunk girlfriend was some massive inconvenience being inflicted on him by the universe and Ariana Grande.
But Garrett just carried her like it was easy. Like she was funny. Like she was his problem, and he was, privately and embarrassingly, kind of pleased about it.
At his car, he set her down slowly, both hands at her waist until her heels found pavement and stayed there. The world rushed upright too fast, porch light blurring behind his shoulder, and she grabbed his forearms while her stomach took a second to remember where it lived.
Garrett watched her face, his smile fading into something more focused. “Good?”
She nodded, then immediately leaned forward until her forehead touched his chest because nodding had been a little ambitious. “Mhm.”
“That was wildly convincing.”
“I’m graceful.”
“You tried to climb a kitchen counter because Ariana Grande told you to.”
“She did.”
“She didn't personally tell you shit.”
She pointed one finger up at him. “You don’t know our relationship.”
His mouth curved again, and he brushed her hair back from her face, knuckles grazing her cheek in a touch so light it made her eyes want to close. “Your relationship with gravity is a little unstable right now.”
She looked up at him. The kitchen light was still on him somehow, caught in the angles of his face, in the dark sweep of his lashes, in the small amused pull at the corner of his mouth. He was close enough that she could see the faint scrape near his jaw from shaving, the tiredness tucked under his eyes from practice, the way his attention kept moving over her in pieces. Eyes. Mouth. Balance. Mood.
He was still teasing her, still Garrett, still unfairly pleased with himself, but under it sat the thing he did without announcing it. The checking. The steadiness. The hand already there before the fall happened.
She slid her hands up his chest again because it was the easiest place to put them, fingers curling loosely in his shirt. “Are you mad?”
Garrett looked genuinely insulted by the question. “At you?”
“Mm.”
“For trying to flash half the hockey team and die on a countertop?” He pretended to consider it. “Nah.”
Her mouth turned down. “That sounded judgy.”
“That was the edited version.”
“You’re mean.”
“I’m driving you home, giving you water, and preventing you from becoming a cautionary tale. I’m a hero.” His hands settled at her hips again, thumbs warm through the thin fabric at her waist. “A hot one, apparently. Nice butt. Heard that somewhere.”
She groaned and dropped her forehead back against his chest, and his laugh moved under her ear, low and pleased.
For a few seconds they just stood there beside his car while the party carried on without them, muffled and distant now, her body still buzzing with music and alcohol and the delayed embarrassment of nearly becoming a story Dean would tell until graduation. Garrett’s hand moved once down her back, then up again.
When she tipped her face up, he was already looking.
“What?” she asked, suspicious.
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing a face.”
“That's because I have a face.”
“A smug one.”
“Yeah, that’s genetic.” He opened the passenger door and guided her toward it, one hand hovering near her head so she didn’t knock it against the frame. “In.”
She sat with less dignity than she would have preferred, knees bumping together, one heel catching awkwardly on the floor mat. Garrett crouched before she could fully process the problem, fingers closing gently around her ankle as he straightened the shoe and set her foot flat. The intimacy of it caught weirdly in her stomach.
“There,” he said. “Both shoes accounted for. Huge night for us.”
She stared down at him. “You’re really pretty from this angle.”
He looked up, one brow lifting. “From the floor?”
“Mhm.”
“Good to know.” He reached across her for the seatbelt, and she took the opportunity to press a messy kiss to his cheek, catching more jaw than anything else. Garrett paused with the belt pulled across her lap, mouth twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile too obviously. “You missed.”
“I didn’t.”
“That was my jaw.”
“I know what I did.”
“Terrifying sentence.” He clicked the belt into place and tugged once to check it, then braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at her. “You gonna puke in my car?”
She considered lying, then made a face. “No.”
“Very long pause.”
“I was thinking.”
“That’s what scared me.”
She laughed, head falling back against the seat, and Garrett’s smile went helpless for half a second. There and then mostly gone, swallowed back under the usual cocky tilt of his mouth before she could do anything devastating with it, like point it out.
But she saw it. The fondness. The stupid, pleased little crease near his eye, like this – her drunk and difficult and half-asleep in his passenger seat, mascara probably doing something unfortunate, skirt riding high enough on her thighs that he reached in and tugged it down again with a muttered, “Jesus, baby,” – was somehow not a nuisance to him.
Somehow, it was worth smiling about.
He shut the door and walked around the front of the car, and through the windshield she watched him shake his head to himself, still grinning.
When he got in, the party disappeared almost completely. Door closed. Engine on. The car filled with the low blue glow of the dashboard and the clean, familiar smell of Garrett’s hoodie thrown in the backseat.
He handed her a half-full water bottle from the backseat. “Drink.”
She took it with both hands. “You’re bossy.”
“You like it.”
She hummed into the rim, then looked over at him with her cheek pressed against the seat. “Maybe.”
Garrett pulled away from the curb with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over without looking to settle warm over her bare knee.
“Next party,” he said, “we’re putting you in pants.”
She made a horrified noise. “Absolutely not.”
“Fine. Longer skirt.”
“No.”
“Flats?”
She turned her head very slowly, giving him the full weight of her disappointment. “Garrett.”
He glanced over, and the grin came back. “Yeah, okay. That was too far.”
“Thank you.”
“But no counters.”
She sighed like he had asked her to give up art. “You’re ruining my brand.”
“Your brand almost gave Tucker a full view of your underwear.”
“Was he impressed?”
Garrett’s hand tightened on her knee. Enough that she felt the shift before she saw the look he kept aimed at the road. “Careful.”
Garrett Graham, competitive down to the bone. Still warm, still amused, but with that little edge in his voice that made her grin against the side of the water bottle because he was so easy sometimes. Pretty and cocky and gone for her in ways he kept trying to disguise as confidence.
She reached over and covered his hand with hers, fingers slipping between his. “I’m kidding.”
“I know.”
“You’re my favourite.”
His mouth softened before he could stop it. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Her eyes were getting heavy now, the night stretching into something blurred and honey-warm around the edges. “Even when you’re mean and anti-Ariana.”
“I’m pro-Ariana. I’m anti-head injury.”
She hummed again, sinking lower in the seat, her thumb moving lazily over his knuckles. The car rolled through the quiet streets around Briar, past porch lights and parked cars and the occasional burst of noise from other parties spilling out over lawns.
Garrett drove slower than usual, glancing over every so often like she might attempt to climb something inside the car if left unsupervised.
Maybe she loved that. Just a little.
Maybe that was the problem with him. The dangerous part wasn’t the grin, or the body, or the fact that half the girls at every party seemed to know where he was without looking directly at him.
It was this. His hand steady under hers. His hoodie in the backseat. His voice still teasing because he knew she would hate being fussed over too seriously, even while he kept watch like it mattered.
She turned her face toward him, smiling sleepily. “Garrett?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Next time she plays that song, I’m getting on the bench.”
He laughed under his breath, eyes on the road, thumb brushing once over the side of her hand.
“Mm,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”
❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎
Hello, how you doing ?
Could i request Cregan Stark x Daemon's first daughter, born from Rhea Royce ?
She is a Targaryen and has a dragon, but she is very shy and tends to keep to herself, so she doesn't tell Cregan about being bullied by Arra Norrey's maids, who think she is not good enough for their lord.
He figures it out when he finds her letters to Rhaenyra and sees her trying to put her bags on her dragon to flee in the middle of the night.
Feel free to ignore this if you don't like it, have a lovely day ☺
Shadows of the past - Cregan Stark x TargaryenReader
summary: Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, is forced to remarry after the death of his first wife and childhood sweetheart. His new bride is the eldest daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce. Cregan fears the worst. But his wife is sweet, gentle, beautiful, kind. Everything he could wish for. He starts thinking you are slowly building a life together in the north, however he realizes that it is not as idyllic for you as he thought.
words: 7.244
warnings: angst, mention of bullying, mention of sex (not explicit), slow burn
a/n: I love writing for Cregan soo much its not normall anymore. Thank you anon for your request🧡. I hope you like it. Sorry that it took me so long.
no use of Y/N, and as always: English is not my first language, no beta, AO3.
requests are open// main masterlist// hotd masterlist
When the offer of your hand from Dragonstone came, Cregan was skeptical. The eldest daughter of the rough prince as a wife. But he needs a new wife. It is his duty as the Warden of the North. And an offer from the Targaryens is not something you simply refuse. So he agrees.
Cregan had expected you to be a spoiled, arrogant, selfish princess.
The girl who arrived in Winterfell on her dragon is exactly the opposite.
You are shy, reserved, calm.
Outwardly, you are entirely Targaryen, with long blonde hair, deep lilac eyes, gentle facial features, beautiful.
Internally, there is none of the infamous Targaryen temperament in you.
When you speak, your voice sounds like a melody, always soft and gentle.
If it weren't for your dragon, Silverwing, Cregan would never think you are Daemon Targaryen's daughter.
The first few weeks, you were very closed off. Never speak unless you are spoken to. Spent most of your time in your chambers, with work or with your dragon.
So he tries everything to make you feel comfortable in Winterfell. He walks with you through the Goodswood, has your favorite food prepared, makes sure you have enough warm cloaks and dresses. When he introduces you to his son Rickon, he is more nervous than he should be, but your eyes begin to shine as the heir of Winterfell greets you politely, just like Cregan has practiced with him.
On your wedding night he swore to you he would never take you if you didn't want to, he gave you all the power in your marital bed. That night you allowed him to lie with you, he was careful, always aware of your fragility, making sure that you also felt pleasure. After that night you didn't invite him into your bed again. Cregan longs for you, but he would never pressure you.
In your first weeks as Lady Stark you spend a lot of time with Winterfells Measter, ask a lot of questions, slowly working your way into your duties as Lady Stark. Cregan quickly notices that you are well prepared for the role of a Lady of a Great House in Westeros, but Winterfell is unlike other castles. You surprise him by quickly get used to it.
The moon hasn´t passed fully since your wedding, when he finds you one day in Rickon's chambers. You are sitting on the floor with his son and play with wooden soldiers, Rickon is telling a fantasy story and you are encouraging him. Cregan's heart swells slightly at the sight.
He clears his throat to get your attention, you flinch violently, when you look up at him you look like a deer.
You get to your feet immediately, surprisingly elegant despite your hectic behavior. "My Lord." you say and lower your head in front of him. A gesture that he couldn't drive out of you.
"My Lady. What are you doing here?"
"We're playing papa." Rickon intervenes without being asked. "Are you playing with us?"
"Unfortunately, I can't today, I have duties to attend to. I just wanted to check on you, my boy."
"I'm fine, father. We're playing great. I have so much fun." he holds up his favorite woodknight.
"Then I don't want to disturb you any further." he smiles at his son, nods to you and then leaves the children's cambers again. His Lords are already waiting for him.
In the evening you come to his chambers, standing uncertainly in his room. Cregan was not expecting you anymore, he has already changed for the night. He offers you a mug of warm beer and a place by the fireplace. As you sit down your cloak slips and the white of your nightgown flashes through. Cregan has to concentrate not to let his gaze wander.
"What brings you to me so late, my wife?" he asks curiously, sitting next to you at the fire.
"I'm sorry." you don´t look him in the eyes.
Cregan has to blink a few times, doesn't understand what you mean. But you don't say anything else, avoid his gaze so that he has to ask. "What are you sorry about?"
"I didn't mean to upset you." your hands play with the fabric of your cloak.
"You didn't upset me, wife. What makes you think that?" he asks, confused. Did he behave differently? Did he speak in a too harsh tone with you?
"Today with Rickon. It upset you that I played with him. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I have no intention of replacing his mother, your late wife."
Cregan has to suppress a laugh. How wrong you are. "It didn't upset me, sweet wife." his voice is soft and you finally look him in the eyes. Your eyes are wide, surprised, your lips open slightly. Cregan wants to lean forward and kiss you, but he doesn't. "I'm glad that you're spending time with Rickon. Maybe you can be a mother figure to him someday." he expresses his wish hesitantly.
"I intend to love him as if he were mine." you say, a smile creeping onto your lips. Cregan is brave and reaches for your warm hand, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb. You don't pull away and continue speaking. "But he shouldn't forget his mother."
"Don't worry about this, Lady Selina, Lady Darcy and Lady Alys will keep the memory alive."
"The Nursemaids. What does that mean?" you tilt your head slightly, examining him closely. The soft light of the fire catches in your hair and makes your skin glow warmly. Gods you are beautiful. Cregan has to swallow before he can answer.
"They were my late wife's friends, her Ladies. After Arra died, I asked them to stay in the household to look after Rickon." remembering how overwhelmed Cregan suddenly was by everything, and how much the loss of his first wife hurt him, he needs a moment to ground himself before he can continue speaking. "If that bothers you, then of course I can dismiss them and send them away from Winterfell."
He knows that this loss will hurt Rickon, he has been surrounded by the three Ladies his whole life, Selina was Arra's best friend. However he would do it for you, he wants you to feel comfortable and Rickon would get over the loss of his nannies, he is a Starkman after all, one day he will be as tough as winter. He has to be.
"No. No, please don't send them away." you squeeze his hand a little. "It is important that her friends are here. They need to tell him what his mother was like. I mean his real mother. My mother also died when I was young. I hardly remember her and I have nobody how can told me something about her." you suddenly sound sad. Cregan is surprised by your words. Additional to the Ladies, he regularly speaks to Rickon about his mother, takes him to her grave, tells stories, has a portrait of her hung in Rickon's room.
"Your father doesn't talk about her?"
You sigh, a narrow smile on your lips. You look into the flames again before speaking quietly. "No, never." you bite your lower lip and then whisper. "I was told he killed her." Cregan doesn't doubt for a second that it is true. He squeezes your hand gently. You look at him again, a sad smile on your lips. "It hurts when you don't know your mother. It's like half of yourself is missing. And my other half is a monster. I'm glad Rickon is learning about his mother and that his father isn't a monster."
A lump forms in Cregan's throat, he doesn't know what to say. Your words touch him, but at the same time make him angry at your father and he feels sorry for you. Your life doesn't seem to have been particularly bright.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"Thank you. But I don't need your pity." for the first time, Cregan feels like he sees the dragon blood in your eyes. "My stepmothers both treated me as if I were their own blood. I didn't grow up without love."
"I didn't mean to offend you."
"You didn't." your gentle smile is back on your lips. "So I can take care of Rickon?" you avoid his gaze again, your cheeks are slightly red.
"Of course. I'm glad you're getting along well."
"He's great. A good boy." you smile and then get up elegantly from your chair. "I'm retiring now. Good night husband."
"Good night sweet wife." he sinks into a slight curtsy before leaving his chambers. Cregan takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair. He's happy that you want to take care of Rickon. That you want to be a part of his family. This is something he wanted for this marriage, that you can be a family.
Cregans efforts take fruits. He has the feeling that you are slowly thawing and starting to trust him.
A light summer snow falls down and gets caught in the fur of your hood. Cregan has take you for a ride through the Wolfswood today. Cregan is surprised how well you can hold yourself in the saddle. In the next moment, he doubts his sanity. You are riding a dragon. Such a horse is of course easy for you. You look around with wide eyes and a gentle smile on your face. Cregan can't help but stare at you, captivated by your beauty.
"I missed that at Dragonstone." you say, looking over to him. Cregan flinches slightly, doesn't quite understand what you mean.
"Forests?" he guesses. He has no idea about Dragonstone's vegetation.
"No. To see something new. Dragonstone is an island, if you live there long enough, you've seen everything." you shrug your shoulders.
Cregan has to chuckle slightly. "You have a dragon, sweet Wife. You could have seen the whole world."
"I would never have left my family." you say firmly. Are you angry?
"I didn't mean to offend you." he tries to circle back. He is always a bit unsure when he talks to you. He wants you to feel comfortable, that you are doing well, and he wants you to like him. Maybe someday you will love him. He finds it hard to be patient. If he is honest with himself, you had him from the very first moment. Your beauty overwhelmed him, your kindness and gentleness captivated him, and your smile. Gods, your smile makes his heart beat faster.
He knows that he loves you. Even if he can't tell you. Not yet. He is afraid of scaring you. So he holds back. He tries to give you space so you can get used to your new role, your new home, and him.
He would love to scream his feelings for you from the wall so that the whole world hears it.
But it is not the right time for that yet.
A soft smile is on your lips again. "You didn´t husband."
He is relieved and returns your smile. "Do you want to go back? It's a little cold today."
"I'm not cold. I'm from the blodd of the Dragon. The cold doesn't bother me. It´s almost like I belong in the north." in the next moment your eyes widen and you look down. A blush spreads across your cheeks and Cregan has to swallow, his heart skips a beat.
"You are Lady Stark. You belong to Winterfell now." he says, trying to take away your insecurity. You don't look at him again, but he sees a smile on your lips. Maybe you'll even belong to him someday. He hopes so.
Back in Winterfell, you let him help you off your horse. His hands stay on your hips for a moment too long, but you don't seem to mind. You look up at him, your cheeks turn slightly red but you manage to hold his gaze. Cregan drowns into your beautiful, violet eyes. He leans forward slightly, wanting to feel your lips on his even if it's only for a moment. You don't back away.
"Papa." Rickon's voice echoes across the courtyard. Cregan and you flinch apart. He lets go of you and turns to his son. Anger flares up in him briefly at the disturbance, but when his boy jumps into his arms with a broad laugh, it immediately disappears.
"Rickon! Don't be so wild." Lady Darcy comes running out of the castle after him. Cregan notices you shifting your weight from one foot to the other next to him, out of the corner of his eye he sees you turning to your horse. A strange feeling spreads through him. At that moment Lady Darcy comes to him, opens her arms to take Rickon. "My Lord Stark, welcome back," she greets him and curtsies slightly.
"Papa, can I visit the dragon? Darcy says it's too dangerous alone, but you're back now," his son calls excitedly. Cregan's stomach tighten, he keeps himself as far away from Silverwing as possible. He is not comfortable with the monster. Even if there have been no problems so far, your dragon only hunts prey, stays away from people and the farmers' livestock. She usually flies further north, you told him that she has a cave there.
"I think that's a bad idea." Dracy interjects. "The monster is unpredictable, far too dangerous."
Cregan thinks for a moment, of course the nursemaid is right, Silverwing is dangerous. But you know your dragon better. You will certainly be able to judge whether your dragon poses a danger to Rickon or not. He turns to you to ask if it's okay for you to go visit your dragon with him and Rickon, but you are no longer standing next to your horse. His gaze searches the yard, but there is no trace of you. You sneaked away quietly and secretly. Cregan's eyebrows furrow.
"Papa, please, please. I promise I won't pet the dragon either. Just a quick look."
"My lady wife must go with you, Rickon. But she seems to have other things to do today. Another time."
Rickon's lower lip trembles slightly, but he knows better and doesn't burst into tears. The heir of Winterfell doesn't cry over such little things as a denied wish.
"What important things Lady Stark must have to do." Cregan is surprised by Dracy's bitter tone, but he pushes the thought away; perhaps he simply misunderstood her.
The Maester warned him that summer could soon be over. It has been summer for four years now. That means more work for Cregan as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, he has to make sure that his people survive this winter, at least most of them. Winter demands his victims, every damn time. Cregan can only keep the losses as small as possible. So he sinks into paperwork and negotiations with the Lords of the North. Nobody wants to share supplies, everyone is afraid that there won't be enough for themselves. Cregan's tasks is it to find compromises. He would much rather spend his time with you, he longs for you, for your gentle smile, your kind words, the time you have spend together. He wonders if you miss him too?
He only ever gets brief glimpses of you, when you meet in the hallway you give him a smile, when he makes it to the hall for dinner you are usually already sitting there with Rickon, greet him friendly and assure him that you are happy to see him.
Cregan is on his way to a meeting with the carpenter. The houses in Winter Town need to be made winterproof and the villagers need his help. As he walks across the gallery that spans one of the courtyards of Winterfell, your laughter pulls him out of his stride. He stops immediately and turns his head towards the noise.
You and Rickon run across the courtyard, playing catch. His little boy jumps back and forth in front of you, laughing loudly. You let him win, pretending you have trouble catching him.
Lady Selina steps beside him. Her lips are drawn into a thin line.
"My Lord." she slightly bows her head before him and Cregan smiles faintly, he finds it hard to take his eyes off you and Rickon.
"What can I do for you?" he asks and hopes that it's nothing urgent. He's considering canceling the meeting and taking you and Rickon to the Goodswood instead, where you can spend time together as a family without being disturbed.
"I am worried, My Lord." now she has his full attention. His shoulders tense up.
"What happened?" Unrest among the lords, a fight? The servants usually know this things before he does.
Selina gives him a smile. "Nothing happen, My Lord."
He breathes a sigh of relief. "What troubles you then?" Cregan tries not to sound as annoyed as he is. Selina knows that he has a lot to do at the moment. Neverless for the sake of the love he had for his first wife, he always tries to be friendly, even though Selina can often be irritating. Sometimes she takes herself more important than she is, behaves like the Lady of Winterfell, and Cregan has had to remind her of her position more than once.
"It's your new wife, My Lord." she starts, her smile is friendly, doesn't really fit her tone. At the mention of you his heart beats faster, he just has to think of you and he feels like a little boy with a crush. Seeing you makes him float on cloud nine. Cregan turns back to the side and looks down at you again. The broad smile on his lips is unusual for the young Lord.
"We can be glad that she is here with us." his voice is gentle. He has to clear his throat and straightens his shoulders. He quickly slips back into his role as Lord Stark, not the lovesick idiot.
"Can we?" the sharp tone makes Cregans skin crawl. He furrows his eyebrows, turns around. Lady Selina does not flinch from his gaze, but straightens her shoulders. She is a northern woman, intimidation does not work on her. She is like him, hard as winter, unyielding as the wind.
"Is there something you wish to tell me, Lady Selina?"
"No, my Lord. It's just that I… we think that a southern girl might be too weak for the important task of being Lady of Winterfell." she chooses her words carefully, smiling. "I´m only thinking about Rickon and his upbringing. I want the best for him, you know that."
The mention of his son causes his anger at Lady Selina to evaporate. Of course she is only thinking of his son, she wants the best for him. Loves him like her own child.
"My wife is a princess, a Targaryen. She does her job well. Or have you heard something else?"
"No, of course not." Lady Selina lowers her head slightly, no longer looking at Cregan. "I'm just worried about Rickon."
"I really appreciate your concern and care for my son. But your doubts are unfounded. Now if you would excuse me."
"Of course, my Lord." She clenches her jaw and sinks into a curtsy. Cregan walks past her to finally meet the carpenter, he is already too late.
Negotiations with the lords are going badly, Cregan is buried in work and doesn't know what to do. The sun has long set but sleep does not come to him. Instead he sits by the fireplace in his chambers, the taste of beer on his lips and stares into the flames. He sighs. He needs help. Could you give him some advice? That would kill two birds with one stone, he could finally spend some time with you again and maybe find a solution. Without thinking twice he calls for his servant and sends for you.
It doesn't take long before you enter his chambers. You look around uncertainly, you have thrown a cloak over your nightgown, your long blonde hair falls loosely over your shoulders. You are sight for sore eyes.
"My Lord husband," you whisper, curtsying deeper than usual. You slowly take a few steps into the room and stop in the middle. You tremble slightly, your breathing is faster than usual and your hands fumble with the hem of your nightgown. "You ordered me into your bed." your voice trembles as you take a step towards his bed.
Cregans heart sinks, he is on his feet in a heartbeat. You flinch. "My sweet wife, no. I told you I would never do that." he says quickly. It was stupid of him, of course you would think he was ordering you into the marital bed.
"Oh I just thought. Because some time has passed since our wedding night. I thought you might be impatient."
"No. I just wanted to discuss something with you. Please sit down next to me." he points to the chair in front of the fireplace. The fire gives off pleasant heat, sweat forms on Cregan's forehead. However, you are shaking slightly. Cregan reaches for his cloak and puts it around your shoulders before sitting down himself again.
You smile. "Thank you husband." you whisper.
"I'm sorry about the misunderstanding. I just thought you might be able to offer me some advice."
You smile again and Cregan is happy about it. "I don't know if my advice is really useful."
He has to suppress a snort at your modesty. You handle your duties as Lady Stark flawlessly.
"I'm sure it is. And besides that, well." he interrupts himself, noticing the blush rising in his cheeks. "I've hardly had any time for you in the last few days. I'm sorry about that too. I wanted to spend time with you."
Your smile widens. "I've missed the time with you too." you whisper and Cregan's heart starts racing. You missed him. You shift back and forth, making yourself comfortable. "How can I help?"
He starts to describe the problems to you, the stubbornness of his lords, the lying about their supplies even though he knows full well that they have more than they admit. The arguments among themselves.
"Can't you force them to give up some of their stock?" you ask after listening carefully.
This time Cregan snorts, leans back a little in his chair. "And how am I supposed to do that?" Inciting Bannerman against Bannerman would only make things worse.
"Silverwing could help."
"No!" his tone is sharp, his voice too loud for the pleasant atmosphere. You flinch in shock, look at him with wide eyes before avoiding his gaze again.
You swallow. "I'm sorry. It was just an idea. My father always uses Caraxes to get his way." you whisper. Cregan leans forward, reaches for your hand. His heart stops while he waits to see if you pull your hand away. You don't, his fingers carefully wrap around yours.
"Using your Dragon would fulfill the purpose, but I don't want to intimidate my men with her. I don't want to rule with fire and blood."
You nod. "I understand. It was stupid of me."
"No." he shakes his head and gently strokes the back of your hand. "I just hope for a peaceful solution."
You straighten up a little. "Then let's look for a peaceful solution." You both start to brainstorm, but your conversation quickly drifts off. You talk about your childhood in Pentos, your days on Dragonstone and your siblings. Cregan manages to open up about his uncle, how he had to fight for his inheritance and for his rule.
It's good to be able to tell you all this, to have someone to confide in. Only when you yawn after every word and Cregan has trouble opening his eyes again after blinking do you decide to end the evening.
"I'm going back to my chambers then." you say and pull his cloak off your shoulders.
"I'll call a guard for you."
"No, please don't wake anyone up. I'll find the way myself," you say, but your look is uncertain. Cregan also has a bad feeling about letting you walk through half of Winterfell at night.
"Then I'll accompany you."
"Please, husband, don't make yourself so much trouble because of me. You're exhausted yourself and it's an unnecessary journey for you." you object.
Cregan looks at his bed, it's big enough for both of you. Arra has also spent most of her nights here.
"You could sleep here?" he suggests quietly. Your eyes dart to the bed and then to him. You swallow. "Not to fulfill your marital duties, just to sleep." Cregan quickly clarifies.
"What will people think?"
He has to suppress a laugh. "You're my wife, my lady. The people won't think anything."
Your cheeks turn slightly red again. "Right." you think for a moment and then pull your own cloak from your shoulders. Cregan has to look into the flames so that his gaze doesn't get stuck on the curves of your cleavage and he stares like an iron born. Only after you get comfortably under the furs and blankets of the bed he slips off his own clothes and lies down next to you, keeping a safe distance.
"Sleep well, sweet wife."
"Sleep well, husband."
When Cregan wakes up the next morning, you've already disappeared, but your side of the bed is still warm. He turns to the side, buries his face in your pillow and inhales your scent deeply. Cregan knows that you prefer to fly with Silverwing in the morning, so he doesn't worry.
He's tired, but he still throws himself into work.When he returns to his chambers late that evening, you are already sitting in the chair by the fireplace. You turn to him, your cheeks red, but you look him in the eyes. Your hands shake slightly as you hand him a cup of wine.
"I got it from Pentos. I told you about it yesterday." He nods. He's still surprised that you're sitting here, he can hardly believe it. Warmth flows through him and he can't wipe the smile from his lips. He slowly takes your wine and sits down opposite you. "We didn't find a solution to our problem with the Lords yesterday." if you plan to come to him in the evening until you've found a solution, he wish there wasn't one.
Three evenings later you are sleeping in his bed again, two weeks later you snuggle up in his arms before you go to sleep and in the morning you kiss his cheek before you set off to see your dragon. Cregan can hardly believe his luck. You open up a little more every day, now you reach for his hand yourself, brush strands of hair from his face, kiss his cheek, lean into his embrace.
But suddenly you start to close yourself off again. It started with you not waiting for him in his chambers one evening, you send a servant to excuse you for that night. He thought you might be sick. But you don't come the next day either, he doesn't see you all day. In the morning he sees Silverwing flying over Winterfell towards the south, the sun is already hanging low on the horizon in the evening when the dragon lands again in front of the castle gates. Cregan feels like you're slipping away from him again. His heart aches at the thought. Did he do something wrong? Was he rude to you without realizing it? Was the longed-for closeness you built up just in his head?
Neverless Cregan was able, or rather you were able, to settle the arguments between the Lords a little. From your place at the high table, you reminded them in a gentel voice that everyone only wanted the best for the North and how wonderful it is that the Northern Lords were fighting the winter together. A little lie that you told, a smile and even Lord Bolton's tense features softened. It's a step in the right direction.
You hardly give him a smile anymore. Cregan doesn't know what's wrong. He is frustrated and sad. In his mind he goes through every moment, looking to see if he has done something wrong. He doesn´t find an answer.
His steps lead him through the corridors of Winterfell, he wants to go to Rickon. Because of all the work and his spiraling thoughts about you, he hasn't visited his son much in the last few days.
He hears laughter from the nursery, recognizes Lady Selina and Lady Aly's voices. Without knocking, he opens the door. The two ladies flinch at their place in front of the fireplace, the conversation falls silent. They both jump up, curtsy briefly and greet him with a "My Lord Stark." Both Ladys exchange a nervous look, Creggan's stomach tightens. He has the feeling that something is wrong but he doesn´t know what it is.
"Papa." Rickon jumps up from the carpet, his toy dragon falls to the floor and he runs to him. Cregan bends down to his son and takes him in his arms.
"Leave us alone," he dismisses the ladies. He wants to spend a little time with his son, show him that he is important to him despite all the stress. Rickon should never think that his father doesn't love him. Alys and Selina leave the nursery. Cregan puts Rickon down again and sits down on the floor next to him. Rickon immediately has his toy figures in his hand again.
"Are you coming to play?" he asks and holds out the dragon figure to him, big eyes sparkle at him and a radiant smile is on his lips.
"Yes." Cregan answers and takes the dragon, it looks small in his hand.
"That's my favorite toy."
"Not the knight anymore?" Cregan laughs quietly.
"No, no." says Rickon in a serious voice, as if it were the most important thing in the world. "The dragon. It was a gift from my princess."
Now Cregan can't hold back his laughter. "Your princess?"
"Yes." Rickon nods.
"You mean my wife, my dear. You really like her a lot, don't you?"
"Yes, I like her a lot." suddenly his eyes turn sad and he rips the toy out of his father's hand, pressing it to his chest. Cregan frowns, wants to scold Rickon, but he is already speaking again. "But she doesn't like me anymore." his voice trembles. Cregan has to swallow at the sight, puts a hand on his son's shoulder.
"Why do you think that? She likes you a lot."
"But why doesn't she play with me anymore? She hardly ever comes to visit me. Only when the teacher is there. She doesn't want to play with me at all, she just wants to supervise my lessons." he sounds defiant, as only children can, and Cregan has to sigh. He doesn´t have a answer for his son.
Why are you behaving like this? You wanted to take care of him and you enjoyed it. You often told him how much you enjoyed spending time with his son, what a good boy he is. That you love him like he is your son. Cregan has a bad feeling. He knows that something is wrong, even if he can't quite put his finger on it.
The door opens and you step uncertainly into the room, your gaze wanders around the room and then stops at Cregan and Rickon. A radiant smile appears on your face.
"My Lord husband." you say and nod slightly. Cregan is glad that you have finally stopped curtsying to him. "I didn't know you were here." Is he imagining it or do you sound relieved? Cregan doesn't know how to react to you now. Lately you have been acting absent and distant, shy like at the beginning. At other times you grab his hand, lean on his arm or smile at him with sparkling eyes when he speaks. He can't figure you out. "Can I sit with you?" you whisper, tearing him out of his thoughts. He nods and you sink down onto the carpet next to him and Rickon. His son immediately demands your attention, happy that you want to spend time with him.
It takes a few moments, but then Cregan lets himself be lulled by the warm, happy atmosphere. In these moments he completely forgets the thought of you withdrawing from him again. The time with his family is good for him, that is exactly what he always wanted. A happy family, safe behind the walls of Winterfell.
However his little bubble of family happiness bursts just a few hours later when Lady Darcy enters.
"My Lord Stark." she curtsies to him. "I'm here to pick up Rickon for his bath."
"No, I don't want to!" Rickon calls out. A single stern look from Cregan is enough to silence him. He stands up and takes a few steps towards Darcy. "Can my princess take me to my bath?" he asks quietly. Darcy rolls his eyes, looks at you, just like Cregan. You look at Dracy and then shake your head.
"Go with Lady Darcy." you say quietly, is your voice shaking? Rickon doesn't contradict and follows the nursemaid out of the room. Cregan turns to you with a smile, maybe you two can finally spend a little time toghether again, but you don't meet his gaze. When he reaches for your hand, you pull it away and jump up.
"Excuse me." your voice is quiet and you storm out of the room. Were those tears in your eyes? Cregan shakes his head, no, that can't be. The light was probably just reflected. He sighs and tries to fight down his anger and hurt because of your rejection.
He paces back and forth in his chambers. You haven't shown up for your evening meeting again. What's keeping you away? He just has to talk to you, he wants to find out what is bothering you. Did he make a mistake? Worry spreads through him and he sets off to look for you. His steps quickly lead him up the many stairs to Lady Stark's chambers.
Your chambers lie deserted before him. Cregans heart sinks. Where are you? It's almost midnight. You should be here. Did something happen to you? He is looking around your chambers. The chambers of Lady Stark are traditionally located at the top of the North Tower. They are the warmest chambers in the castle. Perfect for a dragon like you. Sweat beads on Cregan's forehead, yet he searches the chambers for a clue.
He feels guilty about looking at your private things, but he has no choice. Maybe you are in danger. Nothing seems unusual. To be honest, he can't be sure, he is hardly ever in your chambers. It is your private area, but it seems as if you only have a few things here. That surprises Cregan a little.
He goes to your desk, it is covered with papers, scrolls and letters. He knows that you write a lot to your family, and that you receive a letter from at least one of your family members almost every week. Only your father doesn't write to you, you told him that.
His gaze flicks over the first line of the letter you had started.
Mother, please. It's so terrible here.
He reads the first words and his heart aches painfully. Is it his fault? Do you hate him?
My husband Cregan is everything I could wish for, kind, tender, and warm; he has such a big heart. I love him. But the problem are the maids of the late Lady Stak. I wrote to you that it doesn't seem like they like me. But now it's getting worse.
I tried to take care of Rickon. Just like you always took care of Baela, Rhena, and me. He is such a sweet boy. But the Ladies are so terribly mean. I know they were Lady Norrey's friends, but I don't understand how they can be so horrible. What did I do wrong? I don't understand how I could have upset them so much that they hate me.
They say terrible things to me, I don't want to repeat them. Even bad things about our family. The insults hurt so much. The worst thing is when they laugh at me. I feel so stupid when they do that.
I don't want Rickon to find out about this, so I stay away from him. It breaks my heart. I'm afraid to talk to Cregan. I don't want them to lose their last connection to Lady Arra.
Please, I can't take it anymore. I want to go home. Please let me come home.
On the pages, there are small dark spots where your tears have dripped onto the paper and smudged the ink.
Why didn't you tell him anything? Guilt overcomes him. He should have known, he should have noticed something.
Hot anger towards the Ladies rises within him. He would love to have them all executed.
A growl catches his attention. With two steps, he is at the window. The full moon illuminates the night outside, the snow reflects the light. He sees a slender figure walking across the fields outside the Keep. Silverswing's massive body rises from the snow as you run towards your dragon.
Cregan whirls around and sprints down the stairs. Fear and worry burn in his heart. He pushes the door outward a little too hard. The wood creaks as it slams against the stone walls. Every breath burns in his lungs as he inhales the cold air. Nevertheless, his steps do not slow down.
Silverwing whirls her head around before you notice him. At the sudden movement, you slip and one of the bags you were just about to attach to the saddle falls from your hand. A few of your clothes fall into the snow. Cregan realizes that you really were about to run away. Run away from him. His heart hurts by this thought. The next moment he remembers himself that you are not running away because of him.
He calls your name. You whirl around, your look like a startled deer.
"Cregan." you whisper. He recognizes tears in your eyes, tear stains on your cheeks, your eyes are slightly red
"What are you doing?" he asks, while he tries to catch his breath. Cregan tries to let his voice sound as soft as possible, you already look like you will faint for fear every moment.
"I wanted to visit Silverwing," you lie, your hands cramps around the leather of the saddle. Silverwing lets out a growl. Cregan needs all his strength not to jump back in fright.
"Please come down." he almost begs, he stands much too close to the dragon for his liking. Silverwing is very gentle. You once told him that. Nevertheless, the hundred-year-old monster can swallow him in one gulp.
You hesitate. "Go back inside," you say then, but you don't look at him.
"No." his voice is firm now. "Either you come down voluntarily or I'll come up and get you." it's not a bluff, if he has to he'll climb on that dragon to get you down. Even if Silverwing will probably tear him into pieces before he even gets close to you.
Silverwing stretches out her wing, the claws on her forefoot digging into the snow just a few steps in front of him. Is that a threat? You look at your dragon, then swing to the side and slide down the wing. Without thinking, Cregan moves closer and catches you. You wrap your arms around him and he pulls you closer to him. Warm tears drip onto the skin at the crook of his neck. You sob, take a breath and try to say something, but only another desperate sound comes from your throat.
"I found your letter to the Queen." he admits. You tense up, wanting to pull away from him, but Cregan holds you tight. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"I didn't want you to be angry."
Oh he is angry, but not at you. He would love to cut off the ladies' heads, but women are not executed in the North. The North is still a place of honor.
Now he lets go of you, pushes away slightly to look you in the face. He carefully wipes the tears from your cheek. You lean into his touch, sighs quietly and closes your eyes. Cregan leans forward and kisses your forehead.
"What did they say to you?" he then whispers.
You swallow, open your eyes before you start to speak. "At first it was just little taunts. But over time it got worse and worse. They said I would ruin the North, that many people would die next winter because of my stupidity." the tears come back to you eyes and you have to sob. Cregan pulls you into his arms again, strokes your hair as you bury your face in his chest.
"Those are lies. You did nothing wrong. On the contrary, you are a great Lady Stark."
"But that wasn't even the worst part. They also said that I am not good enough for you. That you only put up with me because you were forced to marry me. They said that you will never love me and that there is only room in your heart for Lady Arra, that she is your first and only love and I am just an intruder."
Cregan's heart breaks, he knows that you took the Nursemaids at their word. Again he pushes you away, carefully puts his hand under your chin and forces you to look at him.
"Those are lies too. Yes, I loved Arra. But that doesn't mean that I can't love you. You are not an intruder. I want you here with me."
Tears well up in your eyes again. "What about the Ladies?" you ask quietly, but keep eye contact.
"I will throw all three of them out first thing tomorrow morning. Let the Others get them, I don't care. Maybe Silverwing wants a little snack."
The dragon lowers its head to you, looks at Cregan as if she agrees.
"Rickon needs them."
"No. Rickon only needs me and you, his family." Cregan insists. His son will cope with the loss, he is sure of that.
"I would like to be your family."
Cregan has to smile at your words. "I love you, sweet wife." he whispers. Your lips open slightly as you look at him in surprise. Then you stand on your tiptoes and kiss him gently. His heart almost burst, butterflies explode in his stomach and despite the cold night he feels warm.
You sink back on your feet, your cheeks are red, but you smile. Silverwing blows hot air from her nostrils towards Cregan, he flinches back and you giggle.
"That means she likes you."
"And what about you? Do you like me too?" he asks, his lips twisting into a grin.
"I thought you read my letter to Rhaenyra." you say, also grinning."
Please say it anyway."
"I love you, my sweet husband." Cregan leans down and seals your lips with a kiss.
Long road home - TargtowerReader X Cregan Stark
part 2/4 of second chance but can be read as a stand alone (part 1 here) summary: With every mile you travel along the King's Road towards Winterfell, your heart grows a little lighter. You leave your prison behind. However you cannot run away from yourself, not from your memories, not from your past. You quickly realize the consequences of your houses war. During all this your husband Cregan is by your side, protecting you. You slowly learn to trust him, but you cannot forget your mother's lessons. words: 14.168 warnings: arranged marriage, slow burn, death family, memory of blood and cheese, angst, humiliation, insult, argueing, soft Cregan a/n: This fic was supposed to only have two parts, but it got too long, so I split it. Also I have no chills so we are going for 4 parts now. no use of Y/N/ Reader has Targaryen features// English is not my first language// not proofread
requests are open// main masterlist// hotd masterlist/AO3// fic masterlist
taglist: @thelastemzy, @taraifl, @pearldaisy, @bunnyredgirl, @perpetualvowfortress, @lovely0neptune, @carolaynaz (let me know if you want to be added)
The fire crackles in the fireplace, radiating a pleasant warmth through your chambers. You have pulled your armchair a little closer. The taste of honeywine still lingers on your tongue. You turn the next page of your book, your eyes are heavy. It's late, but the story captivates you so much that you don't want to stop reading. You savor the peace, the time for yourself that you rarely find these days. A scream echoes through the halls, piercing your bones and making you flinch. Startled, you look up and towards the door. Helaena! You jump up, the book falls to the floor, but you don't care. You quickly run down the hall, catching sight of a shadow that disappears around the next corner, but your destination is the queen's chambers. You throw open the door. Have to gasp for air. The metallic smell makes you nauseous as you take in the scene before you. Your sister is on her knees, weeping, crying Jaheara in her arms. Your gaze falls on the crip. Your blood freezes. Blood is everywhere, as you stare at your nephew's body. No head. Another scream.
You open your eyes and look at the dark ceiling of your tent. The scream still echoes in your ears. It takes two heartbeats to realize it's your own. You sit up in bed, drenched in sweat. Your heart races as you slowly realize it was just a nightmare. It was an old memory, still shakes you to your core. You gasp for air and have to swallow acid.
"Princess." a soft, deep voice reaches your ears. You look up, blinking to focus your vision. You see a large shadow at the entrance of your tent. Slowly enough air reaches your lungs. Your body shivers because of the cold. You pull the furs tighter around you, but it doesn't help. "Are you alright?"
The tent feels too small, blankets and furs scratch your skin. Your nightgown is damp with sweat and clings to your body.
Cregan is now standing right in front of your bed. Despite the darkness, you can see his worried expression. You nod. "Just another nightmare," you reply weakly. Your husband sits on the edge of the bed, takes your cold hand in his warm one, and strokes it gently. The terror eases a little. Ever since you left his chambers after your wedding and walked by his side through the Keep, you've realized that Cregan always brings a feeling of security with him.
"Do you want to talk about it?" you shake your head. You can't put the horror that plagues your memories into words anyway. You hear him sigh softly in the darkness. Slowly, your heartbeat calms down again. "We'll be arriving at Arcon Fort soon. The maester there will surely have a potion that will help you." Cregan squeezes your hand. You nod again, still not trusting your own voice. You remember the thick, bitter liquid that Master Orwyle gave you to help you sleep. "You often have nightmares." It's not a question, but a statement.
"It's gotten better. After Jaehaery's death, I barely slept for months," you say. The memory wants to resurface, but you don't allow it. You certainly won't be able to sleep anymore. You pull your hand away from Cregan's and swing yourself out of bed. Too fast, you notice your vision blurring again, dark shadows at the edges. Cregan is on his feet and has placed a hand on your elbow in a heartbeat, supporting you so you don't fall back onto the bed. You feel his warmth through the thin fabric of your nightgown. "I need fresh air," you say, placing your hand on his for a moment before pulling away from him to walk through your small tent. You feel Cregan's gaze on you as you rummage through your things, pulling out a dress. You despise the mess, already looking forward to when all your belongings will be neatly put away again and you won't have to live out of just a few chests. To your surprise, you got all your beloved things back: clothes, jewelry, books, your harp. All your possessions had already been packed before your wedding with Cregan, and you were allowed to take everything with you to the North.
"What time is it?" you ask, your body feels as if you've only slept a few hours. Your feelings are deceiving you. The blue light filtering through the cracks in the tent tells you that the sun will surely rise soon.
"Still very early."
"I woke you up." You are sorry that your nightly torments are also preventing him from sleeping.
"I was worried. It sounded like someone was stabbing you."
"Not so unlikely," you try with a bad joke. During your journey, one thing has become clear: the people of Westeros hate you. They curse you when you ride past, turn away, or spit on the ground. Your blond hair, your jewelry, the dragon embroidery on your clothes, all of this betrays you from afar. Your House's war has left a trail of devastation through the land. Fields lie brache?, while on others spoiled grain still stands because no one was there to harvest it in time. From a distance, you see burned villages, destroyed houses, and mills. The people look ill, starving. They mourn their death loved ones while their homes lie in ruins. When you ride through villages, you try not to look too closely. You weren't aware of the extent of the damage until you saw it with your own eyes. You feel guilty. Even though you didn't start this war, you survived it. Many others didn't. People hate you for this, hate you for your family. Cregan has made sure you always have at least two guards when he's not with you. However this doesn't make you feel like you're being watched, it gives you a strange sense of security. Or maybe just the illusion of security. You gladly accept it. It's better than the constant fear of death and being locked up in the Keep. Your prison seems so far away, like another life. You look back at Cregan, who's still standing beside your bed, his gaze fixed on you. "Turn around," you say.
"I'm your husband," he says, you can hear the slight grin in his voice. He is before the lords and ladies. But not before the gods. He hasn't claimed his marital rights yet. Sometimes you wonder how much more patience he'll have with you. You push the thought aside. You raise your finger and twist it slightly, repeating your command without words. He obeys. You let your gaze wander down his back, defined muscles beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. You blink to concentrate and change your clothes. It's a little difficult to slip into your dress without help, so you left your more elaborate gowns on the wagon. Only three women are traveling north with your small group. All three are more warriors than ladies. Your scalp aches every time they finish braiding your hair. You have switched to simpler hairstyles. Most of the graybeards stay behind in the Riverlands. According to Cregan, they have seen enough winters.
"Will you help me with the laces?" you ask after pulling up your dress. Cregan approaches you, and you turn your back to him as his hands gently caress your side while he begins to lace your dress. You feel his warm breath on the back of your neck, suppressing a shiver. His pleasant scent envelops you. He tightens the laces, not as tightly as you're used to from the Keep, allowing you to breathe. He works quickly, skillfully. You don't ask where he learned this, never ask him about Arra. You only know that she has been dead for a long time and that he loved her. He's already had his great love. Perhaps that's why he is fine with having a second, political marriage without love. Goosebumps spread across the back of your neck as his breath brushes against your skin. A heartbeat later, however, he takes a step back. A chill hits you as you lose his comforting warmth.
"Wait here, I'll get a guard." his voice still rough from sleep.
"Can you come with me?" you ask before you even think about it. "Then we won't have to wake anyone," you quickly add, slipping into the comfortable boots you used to wear for dragon riding. The fact that you'll never ride your beloved Slyras again brings tears to your eyes. You blink them away quickly. You have cried more in the last three months than in all the years of your life before. The hole in your heart remains.
"Gladly."
You reach for your cloak, but Cregan is faster. The dark fabric is heavy as he drapes it over your shoulders, enveloping you in warmth. Fur tickles your skin as you fasten the golden direwolf buckle. He offers you his arm, and without hesitation, you take it. You walk outside together. The guards outside your tent startled from their half-sleep as you pass them.
"Can you watch my Lady for five minutes?" you don't see his face but hear his grin.
"Of course. We are sorry Lord Stark."
He nods. "Rest then, we'll ride again soon." Cregan disappears into his tent. You look up at the dark sky. Slowly, the black turns blue. It won't be long before the first red appears. You breathe in the fresh air, not bothered by the chill that prickles slightly on your face. The cold has never bothered you. However, Cregan gave you thick cloaks and furs. He doesn't want you to freeze. A sweet gesture. It isn't long before your husband is back by your side. Fully dressed, Ice strapped to his back. His broad frame hasn't seemed threatening to you since the first few days. You lean against him. Together, you leave the small camp behind. The grass is wet with morning dew, and you fall into a comfortable silence. With every step, you leave your nightmare further behind. You aren't plagued by memories every night, but when these dreams come, they shake you to your core. You always need a little time to find your way back into reality. You carry your grief with you every day. Cregan never urges you to speak, he is your silent companion on these mornings. He doesn't condemn? you for mourning his enemies either.
Your husband has quickly gone from a hated stranger to a friend. The reckless, evil monster you expected couldn't be further from reality. His company is pleasant. He's kind to you, never raises his voice at you, even when you snap at him. You try to keep your temper in check, but sometimes you find it hard to adjust to your new life. The long days on the road are exhausting, wearing you down. Cregan is understanding, always friendly, and opens up to you. He tries to get to know you and understand you. He exudes calm and self-assurance, but he's not like a predator ready to lash out at any moment, as you're used to from Aemond. He likes to drink with his men, but he lacks the wicked grin Aegon always had when he had drunk too much and his mind was hatching mean plans and pranks. There's no unrestrained roaring among his men. You know they are only kind and respectful to you because Cregan ordered it. He asks how you are feeling every day, rides beside you to keep you company. He's funny, always with a quick remark on his tongue. His deep, warm laughter warms your heart and makes you want to laugh along every time. You enjoy listening to him joke around with his men.
"Feeling better?" you almost flinch as his warm voice reaches you, because you were too deep into your own mind.
"Yes," you reply, looking at him. The sun has risen, casting warm light on the land and catching in his dark curls. His eyes sparkle warmly as the light makes his skin almost glow. Once again, you notice how handsome he is. He catches your gaze, you quickly look away so you don't get caught staring. You feel your cheeks flush red. Since when do you feel nervous around man? You feel silly for this. You try to shake the thought off. Wind whips around your ears, carrying a few raindrops.
"Do I have something on my face?" so he noticed your staring.
You suppress a curse. "No. You look very fine today, husband," you whisper before biting your lips. "We should head back. We have to leave soon," you add quickly to hide your insecurity.
"Of course." he smiles at you. You can't tell if he makes fun of you, so you try to appear unbothered as you head back. When you arrive at the small camp, most people are already awake, gathering their belongings. Cregan kisses your hand before you go back to your tent. Your few things are packed for you while your hair is braided and you're helped into your riding grown. Your hair ornament jingles softly, the gold and gemstones reflecting in the morning light.
Less than an hour later, and you're back on the Kings Road. You roll your tense shoulders back as your horse confidently walks along the muddy path. You're glad when this journey is over. The wind picks up, bringing rain, so you pull your hood up.
"My Lady Stark, you shine brighter than the sun." Lord Ruben Cerwyn rides beside you. You had quickly realized that he is Cregan's closest confidant. He's funny, smiling like he has no worries in the world.
"Good morning, Lord Cerwyn," you say, unimpressed by his compliment. Nothing you haven't heard daily in the Keep. You smooth the golden skirt of your riding dress. The wind picks up and you close your eyes for a moment. If you concentrate, you can almost feel yourself flying above the clouds with your dragon again. Your heart breaks once more. Will this feeling ever fade?
"Fuck this weather," one of the men cursed. "I haven't been able to get my smallclothes dry for days."
"Guard your tongue before the princess," Ruben laughs, almost spinning completely around in his saddle. You're impressed that he doesn't land in the mud.
Cregan, who rides in front of you, also turns his head slightly. "This afternoon we'll be by Lord Varcaste. Then you can finally wash your smallclothes too. They can probably smell you up at the Wall."
More laughter. You wrinkle your nose. Probably will never understand soldiers' humor.
"Can we skip Arcon Fort? Harry is awful," Cerwyn groaned in annoyance.
"No. The horses need to rest. If the weather continues to get worse, we have to stay perhaps longer than just two days."
You can clearly see from the face of Cregan's childhood friend that he doesn't like this at all.
"You know him well?" you ask. You try to mentally map out the Riverlands to locate Acorn Fort. However, you didn't pay enough attention in class back then to really know where you were. You never thought you'd need that knowledge. On your dragon's back, it never mattered which roads you had to take. You mostly just flew over the Crownlands anyway. Now, with the wind blowing through your hair and all you see are meadows, forests, and freedom, you ask yourself why.
Ruben groaned in annoyance. "He married one of my cousins. Was an asshole back then and has only gotten worse over the years. Let us wait three days for reinforcements. They only showed up after we had already defeated the Hightower Host." your heart ached. This was your brother's army. Cerwyn seemed to notice your tension. "Sorry, my lady."
You give him a weak smile while you try to fight back your grief.
"He calls himself Rhaenyra's greatest ally," one of the men interjects, eliciting a few laughs from the other soldiers.
"I bet we'll find a few more green dragon banners in his cellar. If the battle had turned, his loyalties would have switched faster than we could have said 'night watch,'" Ruben grumbles. The soldiers laugh again. You stifle a sigh as they launch into curses about the war. Urge your horse faster to ride beside your husband. Mud splashes onto your dress, and you frown in annoyance. Cregan gives you an encouraging smile.
"I will explain to them once again how they should behave in the presence of a princess," he says, sounding almost apologetic.
"To them, I'm just Lady Stark." you shrug.
A shadow flits across his face. "Is that bad?"
Your hands grip the reins tightly, your mare snorts. You didn't mean to offend him. You stopped thinking about every word before you spoke to him for a while now. Maybe you are the one who should watch your tongue after all? "No, it isn't," you say honestly. You've grown accustomed to your new name. You even kind of like being Lady Stark. Not the hated Targaryen everyone sees in you. You're curious about Winterfell, your new home, your new life. Maybe up north you can leave your nightmares, your past, behind you.
Cregan is right, and even before the sun dips below the treetops on the horizon, a small castle comes into view. At its foot lies a village. No more than a hundred houses.
Stark banners flutter in the ever-stronger wind as you approach. People stop, stare, and shout. The streets quickly become crowded. Here, too, the people look like they are starving, their clothes stained, too thin for the cold, and full of holes. The turnips at a stall are meager, only a few people sell meat. You force your gaze down to your hands, your stomach clenching painfully. How long will it take for the country to recover from the war?
"Whore!" someone shouts, their voice rough and full of rage. You flinch and look up.
"Traitor!" another voice shouts. And then something hits you on the shoulder. You flinch in shock. Your horse shies. You are hit with something again. You feel cold wetness running down your skin, smell rotten fruit. You feel sick. More curses are shouts in your direction, you hear the rage coursing through the crowd. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You are being pelted again. You gasp for air as tears well up in your eyes, shame rising within you as you try to calm your mare. You have to swallow acid. You thought Rhaenyra had humiliated you. This is so much worse. You can't see who's shouting the insults at you. Panic rises inside you as the shouts grow louder.
"Stay away from her." Cregan's voice echoes through the air. Dark, menacing. Through the veil of your tears, you see him and his soldiers, their horses push themselves between you and the people, encircling you. You hear them drawing steel.
People shout and curse, but then scatter in different directions. Only now do you manage to calm your horse. Your whole body is trembling and you have to swallow acid. Your next breath hurts in your lungs, you need more air. Panic still rises in you.
Cregan says your name, exhales a shallow breath. You have to blink to focus your vision. You see pure worry in his eyes.
"I'm unharmed," you say, unsure if he even heard you. You barely recognize your own voice. Your pride has just been thrown into the mud and trampled to death. You feel food scraps matting your hair. Needing all your strength to keep you from bursting into tears. Only through practice and your mother's lessons can you force a callous mask onto your face. Cregan's gaze is watchful, observing every move you make. He furrows his brow as he tucks his sword sideways between the straps of his saddle. He leans forward, reaching for your hand, which is still too tight around the reins. But you flinch away. You can't bear his touch right now. You wish you were far, far away. At the same time, you want to cry and fall into his arms. His embrace would shield you from the outside world, protect you. Instead, you urge your horse forward. It prances across the path. Cregan follows you quickly, waving his men after you. The dark fur of his stallion brushes against your leg, because he rides so close beside you.
A few guards at the castle gate stand there laughing, not even lifting a finger or pretending to want to help.
You ride swiftly into the courtyard, still fighting back tears. You can´t break down right now. Not in front of all these strangers.
A short, fat man enters the small courtyard. He looks you over for a moment and then starts laughing. "Cregan, my old friend. Good to see you again," he calls out in a croaky voice. Is it just you, or is he slurring his words?
Cregan jumps down from his horse. He shakes hands with the man, who appears to be Lord Varcaste. You have no idea what his seal is, so his clothing doesn´t help you identify him.
His gaze meets yours, scrutinizing you disdainfully. You are ashamed of the dirt in your hair and clothes. You need all your concentration to keep youself from breaking down. You can't meet his gaze and look instead at Cregan, his lips pressed firmly together, but when his eyes meet yours, they soften.
"I see my people have already taken care of your greeting, Princess." Varcaste says your title like an insult, and then he laughs. It's not Cregan's deep, warm laugh that you love to hear. Nor is it Cerwyn's barking laugh, sometimes laced with a grunt. It's cold, vicious. You despise this man. You are of the blood of the Dragon. Royalty! He should be crawling on the ground before you. If your mother hasn´t raised you, you probably would have spat in his face.
"And I expect you to punish them appropriately. My lady wife is, after all, a member of the Queen's family. To attack her is high treason." Cregan's voice is so menacing, his eyes now so cold again, that even you have to swallow hard. His body trembles with suppressed rage. Varcaste's head snaps to your husband, seemingly surprised by his reaction.
"Yes, yes," he waved it off. He patted Cregan on the shoulder. "Chambers have been prepared. Will the Princess get one too, or will she sleep in the dungeon?" this laugh again. You jaw tightens.
Crewyn, beside you, curses softly. His hand is clenched around the sword hilt; even though he no longer raises it, he hasn't put it away.
"Lady Stark will have the chambers next to mine," Cregan instructs as he turns to you. You sit stiff in the saddle, unwilling to dismount and certainly not wanting to stay here.
“Oh, so no honeymoon?” he’s the only one laughing. Cregan completely ignores him as he approaches your horse. He looks at you with gentle eyes and reaches out a hand towards you. You swing your leg over the saddle and slide into his arms. His grip around your hips is firm as he gently lifts you off the horse. You feel the warmth of his body, standing so close that the only thing you see are his eyes, and for a heartbeat the shame, the humiliation, everything else vanishes. You feel safe. But you can’t bring yourself to smile. If you loosen your mask for even a second, you would burst into tears and perhaps never stop crying.
"The journey was long. We want to rest." Cregan looks back at your host, the pressure on your hips not lessening for a second. You can see him swallow hard as he tries to suppress his anger. "Old friend." everyone hears the lie. Everyone except Varcaste.
He nods, gesturing towards the interior of his castle. You reach for Cregan's arm, not wanting him to leave your side. Cerwyn steps to your other side as you walk inside. "My Lady Stark wishes to take a bath," Cregan says to the servants who hurry over to unload your belongings.
A young maiden steps forward and curtsies deeply before you. "Please follow me, my lady."
You pause, your hand clenching around Cregan's sleeve. He gives you a reassuring smile. He leans forward and kisses your temple. "I'll find you as soon as I can," he whispers. His warm voice glides through your body, dispelling everything and leaving you with a sense of security. You squeeze his hand. Just nod, because you don't trust your own voice, and then follow the maiden. Without Cregan having to say a word, Lord Cerwyn follows you. He glares at anyone who dares to look at you for too long. You hold your head high, strutting through the small castle as if it were yours. No one here will see how much the people's reaction has affected you. Cerwyn guards your door while your bath is prepared. You ask for almost boiling water while food scraps and rotten fruit are plucked from your hair. Someone brings a chest decorated with dragon carvings, which you recognize immediately. Your oils, rose petals and perfumes are mixed into the water.
A sigh of relief escapes your lips as you sink into the hot water. You close your eyes, breathe in the familiar scents, and almost feel at home again. While the maid expertly washes your hair, you close your eyes, savoring the sensation and relaxing your aching body. The weeks on horseback have taken their toll. Your thighs are sore from the long days in the saddle. The hot water manages to loosen your cramped muscles. It's not just the horses that need a break. The maid leaves you alone, but not before pouring more steaming water into your bath. You don't want to leave the warm water yet. You sink deeper and close your eyes.
You almost dozed off as the door clicked shut. Your eyes flew open, but you immediately relaxed again when you recognized Cregan.
"I can come back later." his gaze sweeps across the room. You shake your head, the water is high enough to cover you. Cregan stands hesitantly for a moment before coming over to you, pulling up a stool to sit down beside the tub. "Are you feeling better?" his fingertips glide across the surface of the water. He flinches, hisses as he burns himself. You giggle.
"Yes, I'm feeling better," you reply. The water has washed away the shame, and you buried the memory deep into your mind.What remains is a feeling of guilt.
"I'm so sorry. I'll protect you better from now on." his jaw tenses as a shadow passes through his eyes.
Your hand finds his on the edge of the wooden tub, you squeeze gently. You give him a smile, sigh softly before withdrawing your hand and leaning your head back against the tub's edge. "You protected me." as you glance at him, you catch his eyes on the top of your breasts, which protrude from the milky water. You take another deep breath. The scent of roses fills your nostrils. "People hate me. That's new for me," you admit. Since you were born, people have bent the knee before you, treated you with the utmost respect, always been kind to you. You have only ever known friendly faces and compliments. All of that was a lie, you knew that from an early age. The raw hatred of the people here was real.
"I'm sorry you have to go through this. You can't be held responsible for this suffering. Things will get better once we are in Winterfell."
"I'm responsible. My family has brought so much suffering to this country. It was my blood, so it's my responsibility." tears burn in your eyes again, but you blink them away. "Can we help?" you ask softly.
Cregan shakes his head. "They're not our people," he replies. You feel powerless, but you shake the thought off. Your husband is right. They are not your people. Perhaps you could write a letter to the queen. Tell her about the people's suffering. Would she even listen? Probably not. Rhaenyra is glad she has you out of her sight. There's nothing you can do. "How was your talk with Lord Varcaste?"
Cregan clenches his jaw and rolls his pretty eyes. "I'm glad we don't have to stay long. Be careful when you talk to him," he warns you.
"Did he say anything?" you ask, sitting up a little. Your wet hair sticks to your skin.
"Just his usual drivel. Nothing to take seriously. A few stupid remarks."
"About me." it's not a question. Cregan nods anyway, his hand on the edge of the bathtub clenched into a fist. "Tell me."
Your husband sighs. He fights with himself, hesitating before he starts speaking, not looking at you. "He said he thinks it´s smart that I don't share the rooms and the bed with you. Safer."
A feeling of unease stirs within you. "Did you tell him that I'm not really your wife?"
"You are my wife." edge to his voice that's strangely comforting. His gaze finds yours, and you can't look away. "Until my deathbed, I will swear it, as long as it keeps you safe." you swallow your next words, your resistance, and nod. You feel a smile creep onto your lips before you can stop it.
"Does he think I will try to stab you in your sleep?" you did try this, in the first five minutes you were alone. Cregan probably had the same thought, judging by the way his lips twitched. But his beautiful smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"He said you were just a whore, not worth it. And- " his gaze flits across the room again, then down to his clenched hand. You give in to the urge and place your hand on his,he immediately relaxes. Fingers play gently with yours, but he doesn't look you in the eye as he continues. "Given who your family is, it would be safer for Rickon if we didn't have children."
You almost laugh. If the implication weren't so terrible. However, it's ridiculous. Aegon had a claim. He is, was, the eldest son. The true heir. No matter what your father says, no matter what Rhaenyra says. With Rickon, it's different. He's Cregan's heir, the firstborn boy. No matter how many children you eventually have, they can't change that fact. You don't understand how anyone would think you'd try to undermine the order of your world . You notice yourself trembling slightly. Insides tense up, you're not sure if you want to know the answer to your question, however, you ask it. "What did you answer?"
"That he should guard his tongue if he doesn't want to lose it." his voice is dark, leaving you in no doubt that he meant it. It sends shivers down your spine.
"Did he listen to you?"
Cregan's jaw tensed for a moment, but then a smile danced around his lips. "Only after a hole in the shape of my dagger appeared on his table."
Now you can't help but chuckle, picturing the moment. "I would have loved to see that," you say. Cregan gently squeezes your hand. Only now do you realize your fingers are still intertwined. You sink deeper into the lukewarm water. You look at your hands and then back at his handsome face. His hair falls across his forehead, having grown since you left King's Landing. It makes him look a little more like the wild man you imagined before you were married. You take a deep breath, feeling less relaxed. Something tugs at your heart, and you open your mouth without really knowing what is bothering you so much until you speak. "So we won't have any children?"
Cregan's head jerks up, his eyebrows slightly raised. "Do you want any?" he asks, sounding somewhat confused.
You shrug. You've never thought about it, always known that you would marry someday to have heirs. It's your duty as a princess, as a woman. What you want was irrelevant. However, the thought of having children doesn't scare you. You will love your children. That love will make you strong. "Someday, yes," you reply to your husband before your silence lasts too long.
Cregan nods, kisses your knuckles before smiling at you. "So we will have as many children as you like," he replies. His eyes darken, like the storm brewing outside. Then he jerks to his feet and suddenly stands up. "Dinner will be ready soon," he tells you, his voice rougher than a moment ago. "I'll come and get you when you are ready," he says, giving you another smile before leaving your guest rooms. You look after him confused from his sudden hurry. Then you take a deep breath, call the maid, and step out of the bathtub.
While your hair is being braided into elaborate braids, the servants carry your belongings to your chambers. Your heart clenches at the thought of going downstairs. You don't want to eat with these people, not even spend a moment in the same room with them. But you have no choice. In the Red Keep, you could simply skip meals, events, or meetings if you didn't like the guests. You simply didn't appear at court, fly your dragon across the lands, stroll through your rose garden, hide with your sister or simply stayed in your chambers. No one could summon you anywhere. You were a princess. You look into your own eyes in the mirror and blink. You are still a princess! And with the elaborate braids, the golden hair ornaments, your pearls, and the dragon embroidery on your gown, you look like one again. You straighten your shoulders. Varcaste may try to humiliate you, insult you. But he is unimportant. Just a small, unimportant man. You are a princess. You rise, ensuring an upright posture, and put on your callous mask.
A knock on the door tells you that Cregan is ready too. You leave the guest rooms. He has also changed, exchanging his heavy furs for a dark, loose-fitting shirt. He left Ice behind and isn't wearing any steel on his belt. He looks handsome.
"You look-" Cregan's eyes scan you, seeming to search for words.
"Like a dream?" Ruben suggests from behind him. Something about his tone makes you perk up. Cregan gives his friend a look you can't quite place. A mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. Cerwyn tries to stifle his laughter, but he can't. You have the feeling you're missing something here,
"You look breathtaking, Princess," your husband says, ignoring his friend and offering you his arm. Your cheeks flush, heartbeat quickens with his compliment. You take his arm, feeling his warmth beside you, and notice yourself relaxing. He leads you through the castle to the great hall. Although that's an exaggeration. Your mother had larger salons in the Keep. Now the long tables are barely occupied. The men bow to you, or maybe Cregan, but you ignore them all and stare straight ahead.
Lord Varcaste already sits at the high table, but as you enter he jumps up, spilling his drink on the young woman next to him.
"Cregan, my friend." you notice your husband tense up. You are sure he is suppressing an eye roll. "The household has already eaten, but don't worry, I've invited everyone to a feast tomorrow so we can properly honor your visit." you have to suppress an annoyed sigh. You're not in the mood for this. Ruben mutters something behind you that you don't understand, but he sounds just as unenthusiastic as you feel. Now Varcaste's gaze falls on you, and he wrinkles his nostrils. "Lady Stark." his smile is fake, and he says your new name like an insult. Your shoulders tense. You take a breath. He's trying to humiliate you. But he doesn´t know that he can't insult you with the name Stark. It is a good name, House Stark is respected, honored. They are honest people. You lift your chin. It's an honor to bear this name. You like being Lady Stark.
You give him your most beautiful, fake smile. "Lord Varcaste. I thank you for welcoming us into your -" you pause and let your gaze wander around the room, your face contorting ever so slightly. "Home."
Your host's smile falters. However, he adheres to protocol and introduces you to his wife. A young woman, the same eye color as Cerwyn has, a friendly smile on her face, but as she studies you, her cheeks flush slightly and she begins to fiddle with the sweeping sleeves of her dress. You are glad that Cregan sits next to Lord Varcaste, so you don't have to.
Cerwyn sits down next to his cousin. They quickly fall into lively conversation. You take a sip from your mug and almost gag. You n eed all your willpower to swallow the disgusting, heavy beer.
Cregan glances sideways at you. "How about some honey wine?" he suggests.
"It´s down in the cellar, isn´t worth the effort to bring it up now." you smell Lord Varvaste breath all the way to your seat, and lose what little appetite you have. Gods, you want to get away from here. Anywhere, just away from this castle, away from this man.
Cregan's shoulders tense, but he forces a smile onto his face, though his voice doesn't allow an argument. "Tomorrow then."
You give him the hint of a smile, then focus on your food. At least that tastes good. You compliment Lady Varcaste on her dress, to which she replies with a stammering "thank you," avoiding eye contact. You stifle a sigh and content yourself with listening to her and Ruben's conversation while picking on your food, trying to fade out the people around you. You manage to do this until the moment Varcaste shots his next arrow at your heart.
"- Almost shot Vhagar down. The one-eyed bastard fled, so afraid was he of my men." your fork almost falls from your hand, and you need all your concentration not to look at your host, who continues his boasting. Did he fight in a battle against your brother? Almost shoot down his beloved old lady? Gods, you wish you had learned more about the battles of this war. You look at Ruben, just to avoid paying attention to Lord Varcaste. He catches your gaze, shakes his head almost imperceptibly. You manage to get enough air back into your lungs. Your brother wasn't here, didn't fight a battle here. Your gaze goes to the embroidery of the green dragon on your sleeves. It winds alongside blue, gold, and red dragons. Your siblings and your dragons. You remember the day you sat with Helaena and embroidered them onto your clothes, can almost hear Maelor's sweet laugh. Almost see Aemond's hint of a smile as he saw the stitches on his new shirts before your eyes. Now they are all dead, bodies rotten in the ground. Your heart aches painfully as grief washes over you like a wave. Cregan's warm hand suddenly rests on your knee, he squeezes gently. Pulls you back from thinking about your brother. Would it ever stop that you almost bursting into tears whenever someone spoke your siblings' names? Or would the gaping hole in your heart they left behind always remain? How far must you travel from the Keep to escape their ghosts? The world surely isn't big enough. Your husband pulls his hand away again, but before his warmth has left your leg, you reach for him, squeeze his hand. You cling to him, desperate not to be pulled back into your grief. You barely have the strength to keep your mask up. You need the gentle reassurance, the security his touch brings. Cregan encloses your fingers with his hand, gently caressing your skin. He needs only two questions in Lord Varcastes direction and has already steered the conversation away from the war. You leave your dessert on your plate. As you reach for your mug, your hand trembles slightly. You take a sip, forgetting how disgusting your beer is. You force yourself to swallow. You notice how exhausted you are, your acting is leaving your nerves on edge, weakening you.
It still takes far too long for Cregan to finish his meal and get up. "I'm tired, the last few days have been exhausting. I'm not getting any younger." you almost frown, liar. You have been traveling for weeks and Cregan hasn't once complained about aching bones or the strenuous ride. On the contrary, sometimes he even trains with his men in sword fighting in the evenings. Watching him has become one of your favorite pastimes.
Varcaste laughs mockingly. "Yes, that's how it is. The North demands a lot from you. I wouldn't trade that cold hell for all the gold in the world for my beautiful land."
Ruben snorts softly, his cousin flashes a lovely grin. You had almost forgotten that she's also from the north.
"Princess?"
You stand up as well. A hand gesture is enough to signal to Ruben that he can stay with his cousin. While Cregan wishes your hosts goodnight, you don't even look at him. You practically jump for joy as Cregan leads you out of the room.
You turn into the guest wing when he suddenly pulls you into his arms. You gasp in surprise as his strong arms wrap around you. You breathe in his pleasant scent. "I'm so sorry," he whispers into your hair. You feel his lips on the top of your head. "He wanted to make you suffer on purpose."
Your throat tightens again. You snuggle into his warm embrace. A feeling of security washes over you, as if no one could hurt you when you are in his arms. Your skin tingles. Cregan has no reason to apologize. He is the first person who has been there for you since your siblings died. To care for you. As best as he can. You realize he really tries to make you feel comfortable. You are grateful for that. Grateful for him. He rescued you from the Keep. And since that day, he's been rescuing you a little bit every day.
"You're always apologizing for things, yet you're the only one who doesn't hurt me," you say into his chest. You feel tears streaming down your cheeks again. You sniffle. Cregan takes a half step back. You reach for his forearm. You feel the muscles beneath his fine shirt, not wanting his warmth to leave you. His eyes study you, and he gently wipes a tear from your cheek.
"It breaks my heart to see you cry," he says softly. He strokes your cheek before blinking and withdrawing his hand. You look up at him. His gaze is gentle, concerned. You manage to give him a small smile.
"I wasn't always so sad," you say. He doesn't deserve this. He deserves a happy wife. Cregan shouldn't always look so worried.
You think of the joyful princess you once were, laughing, dancing, and drinking. You wish you had known Cregan back then. You would walk with him through King's Landing, ride with him through the sunny woods, and dance at your father's festivals. Visited Highgarden with him, or Old Town, your Uncle Gwayne. This life is miles away. Lost forever.
"It's good that you're grieving,” he says. Hesitates for a second before speaking again. “Sometimes I think about my cousins and just want to retreat to my room and cry." he swallows as he shares his demons with you. He gives a short, joyless laugh. "And I was the one who killed them."
Your stomach clenches painfully. You know this story. His uncle did a horrible thing to him. You feel sorry for him. But at the same time, you feel understood. Even though it's cruel that he had to suffer so much, you don't feel quite so alone.
"Will it stop?" you ask, your voice trembling far too much.
"No, never. But the first year is the worst."
You nod. One year. You could manage one year, you just have to get through it. Maybe after that, you can find yourself again. Be the joyful princess and wife Cregan deserves. Your body moves before your brain truly registers what you're doing, this time it's you who's embracing him. He gently strokes your back.
"Thank you," you say. He kisses your head again, gently holding you in his arms until you have composed yourself and pull away from him.
"Better?" he asks. You nod. Tiredness hits you like a blow, you try to suppress a yawn but can't. "Come on, Princess. Time to end this day."
His words sound like music to your ears. Just get through tomorrow. Then you'll be back on the road, on your way to Winterfell. Cregan said things would get better once you are there. You desperately hope he is right.
You stop again in front of your guest room door. He opens the door for you. Warmth emanates from the room.. Servants must have lit the fireplace. However, the room doesn't feel inviting.
"Here." your husband presses a key into your hand. "Lock the door behind you. I don't trust Varcaste or his men."
You look back and forth, confused, from the key to him. Everything inside you tenses. Locking the door. Being locked in. The thought makes you shudder.
"Can't you set up guards?" your own voice is too high-pitched with panic.
Cregan raises an eyebrow in surprise, shakes his head. “That would be disrespectful. As if I didn’t trust him to protect you, us.”
"You don't." you don't even try to hide the contempt you have for your hoast.
Your husband laughs softly, but then sighs. He seems just as annoyed by the situation as you are. "He's not my vassal. He didn't have to invite us."
"But-" you begin but you don't even know what else you can say.
"Besides, our men need a break too," he adds, and of course he's right. You can't argue any further. If Cregan were to take away the men's well-deserved time off just because his wife, the enemy's sister, is afraid to be alone in her chambers, the men would revolt. You swallow and then nod. You squeeze his arm.
"Sleep well, Cregan," you say in a weak voice.
His gaze is sad, he forces a smile onto his lips and kisses your forehead. "Sleep well, Princess."
You step into your chamber and put the key in the lock. Your hands tremble. You don't want to turn the key. Your stomach clenches. So you let go of the key as if you have burned yourself. Whirl around to turn away from the door. Force yourself not to think about the door and the key. Have to wipe your sweaty hands on your skirt. You consider calling a servant, then decide against it. You begin to undo your braids yourself, combing your hair before changing. The fine silk of your nightgown falls softly against your skin. The fireplace is lit, but you are cold. You turn back to the door. You want to turn the key, don't feel safe in this unfamiliar room. However you can't bring yourself to do it.
You have to swallow acid, wrap your arms around your trembling body. You don't even understand what's wrong with you. The rain is drumming against the window outside, too loud for your ears. Gods. You don't want to be locked up. You can't be in a prison again. Even if you have the key this time.
Your thoughts are racing, the knot in your stomach tightens painfully. You pace back and forth, but it feels like the space is too small. Your eyes burn because you are so tired, but your body can´t rest. You long for wide open fields, soft tent walls, fresh air.
You gasp for breath, trying to calm yourself. You force your body to move to the door. You want to feel safe. Can you do this in a castle full of strangers who hate you? Would you be able to sleep? Surely you can manage to turn a key.You take a deep breath. It's not difficult, just turn the key. You are determined to do it. Instead, two heartbeats later, you're standing in the cold hallway. Already knocking on Cregan's door before you really know what you're doing.
It takes a moment, and then your husband opens his door. When he recognizes you, pure worry comes to his face.
"Princess. What happened?" he looks past you into the empty hallway. Hand already reaching for you and pulling you closer.
"Nothing," you reply, your voice trembling. "Can I come in?" he immediately lets you into his chambers. A fire is burning here too. The bedclothes are disheveled, he is no longer wearing a shirt. Had already gone to sleep. Your gaze flickers over his bare torso, his defined abs. For a moment, your mind goes blank. You have to blink, tearing your gaze away to look into his face. "I can't lock the door." your own voice is shrill in your ears. You press the key back into his warm hand. Your body is still trembling, but the unease inside you is slowly fading. The knot in your stomach loosens with every breath you take in his pleasant smell. "Can I stay?" escapes your lips. You bite them. You feel stupid. Gods, what if he rejects you? You don't dare look at him. "I can't be locked in."
"Of course," you hear his smile. You look at him now. Cregan's gaze flickers from your lips to your eyes when he notices you looking at him. Your cheeks flush.
"Thank you." you're glad he doesn't ask for an explanation. He just gestures to his bed. You climb into the warm bed and pull the covers over you. Pleasant warmth envelops you as you snuggle in. Your heart races in your chest as the mattress beside you dips slightly and Cregan lies down next to you. The remaining fear will surely soon dissipate, and you will be able to sleep. You listen to his even breathing beside you. Slowly, a feeling of security creeps through your body, losing the cold grip of fear inside you.
"You will never be locked up again."
His words bring tears to your eyes, relief washes over you like a wave. It sounds like a promise, and so far, Cregan has kept every promise he had made to you. The first person in your life to do so. You turn onto your side to look at him, the blankets rustling. The bed is smaller than yours in the Keep, he is lying so close you can feel his breath on your skin. His eyes sparkle in the dim firelight. You realize it's foolish to place all your trust in this man. It goes against everything you know about people. Trust no one, that's a lesson your mother has instilled in you since you were old enough to understand her words. She raised you to be a Targaryen princess, preparing you for a life among snakes and liars. Perhaps she was wrong. It´s the last real thought you can form before you drift into a comfortable sleep.
When you open your eyes, you squint against the light, wondering for a moment where you are. The ceiling isn't the usual fabric of your tent. You are surrounded by pleasant warmth. Outside, the wind is howling, rain is lashing loudly against the window. You breathe in the scent of fire and pine. Cregan's scent. You feel the weight of his arm around your waist, the gentle touch of his fingertips over your nightgown. You snuggle deeper into the pillows, your brain still not fully awake. When you turn your head, you look directly into stormy grey eyes. Your stomach flutters, and you feel your lips curl into a smile. His dark curls stick out from his head in all directions, his beard, which he's grown over the past few days, obscures his sharp cheekbones. His eyes dart across your face, as if he wants to memorize you. You don't dislike his gaze. Strangely enough, you like it when he looks at you. When he sees you are awake, the light circles his fingertips had drawn stop, but he doesn't pull his arm away. You like the feeling of lying in his arms.
"Were you watching me sleep?" you ask. Your tone is teasing.
A warm, soft laugh escapes his throat. "You look peaceful when you sleep." his voice is raspy with sleep, sending a shiver down your spine. "Your face is missing that annoyed wrinkle of your nose," he adds with a grin.
Now you have to laugh. You gasp and faking shock. "I'm not wrinkling my nose in annoyance."
Cregan raises an eyebrow. His eyes sparkle happily. He looks younger. He looks incredibly good. "Never looked in a mirror?"
You glare at him, mockingly angry. Then you lift your chin, but can't wipe the smile off your lips. Can´t quite understand why you are feeling so calm, so happy. You sigh contentedly. "Back in the Keep, today would have been one of those days where I would have stayed in bed all day," you say, turning so you can face Cregan again. His fingers begin to gently caress your hips again. Your skin tingles. His eyes darken. A smile dances around his lips, his gaze flickers to your lips, then down your neck, past your breasts framed by the delicate lace of your nightgown. You feel the blood rush to your cheeks.
"We can do that as soon as we are home in Winterfell," he says, his voice rough, grey eyes so intense that your body shivers pleasantly.
Cregan lifts his hand, hesitantly brushing a strand of hair from your face. Your skin tingles where his fingertips brush against it. You close your eyes, lean against his hand, and savor the touch.
You feel the heat of his body. You barely notice yourself turning towards him, your body simply reacts to him. All your thoughts and clever answers fly from your mind. Your senses are completely focused on him. Your heart pounds in your chest, your skin tingles. You swallow as your gaze moves from his eyes to his full lips. You remember the fleeting kiss you shared on your wedding day. Cregan's hand gently caresses your side. You lean towards him. You feel his breath on your lips. Something flickers in his eyes. You know that look. Hunger. Countless lords have looked at you like that. It used to annoy you, even repel you. Now it makes your body throb, warmth rises within you. You would only have to stretch a little and your lips would meet.
The door bursts open and you flinch violently. Cregan's hand shoots out to the dagger on the nightstand. You gasp in shock, blink, and need a moment to return to reality.
"Cregan, we have a problem." Ruben's voice is almost panicky.
"What problem?" your husband barks. If looks could kill, Cerwyn would be in the seventh hell. Cregan's body is tense, so you give in to the urge and place your hand soothingly on his bare chest. You feel the heat of his body, the hard muscles beneath your hand, his rapid heartbeat. You look past him to Ruben. He stands in the room, staring at you, then his lips curve into a smile.
"Never mind." he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.”Found her.” You feel yourself blushing. Ruben blinks. His gaze shifts from you to Cregan and back to you. His eyes dart over you, sparkling with glee, and you know perfectly well that his next words will be a silly joke.
Cregan gives a short whistle, immediately getting Ruben's attention. "It's my wife you're looking at. Don't look at her like that."
"You mean like you," he smirks.
A pillow flies in his direction. "Get out!" Cerwyn understands that it's more of an order than a request.
"Aye," he says. "I'm sorry, Princess." he winks at you before quickly disappearing from the chambers.
You should be raging with anger, or mortified that he saw you in your nightgown and with your hair down. You feel nothing of the sort. You can't help it, and a laugh escapes your lips. Cregan's head jerks towards you, he looks at you in surprise for a heartbeat before joining in your laughter. Then he sighs, strokes his face, and swings himself out of bed. The moment is over. You breathe in one last deep breath of Cregan's scent, still clinging to the pillows. Then you sit up too.
You don't know what to say, can't look at Cregan. You can still feel your heart pounding and your cheeks flushing. You watch him walk across the room, pulling his shirt over his head before turning to you.
He gives you a warm smile. Seems to be considering what to say. Clears his throat. "I have to see the maester later. I can ask for a sleeping potion for you right away."
You nod. "Thank you." you don't know how to react to him now. You would have kissed him. You wanted to kiss him. You push the thought out of your mind and climb out of the warm bed.
Cregan's gaze sweeps over your body, your thin nightgown barely hides you from him. You search for your cloak, but you left it in your own chambers. Cregan reaches for his own cloak and drapes it around your shoulders. It brushes against the floor, the fabric heavy on you. Your husband briefly strokes your cheek and then kisses your forehead. "I don't like that Ruben got a glimpse of what's just for me."
Your heart leaps, your mouth goes dry. You don't know what to say. You like the thought that you belong to him.
You've never felt like this before. You're confused, nervous when he looks at you, but at the same time you feel safe, as if he can protect you from everything in this world. You like it when he compliments you, even though you never have the right answer.
Does he know how much he's confusing you?
"Then he can be glad I wasn't naked," you try to joke, but your voice isn't as confident as you'd like. Still your husband gives you a slight laugh.
"Then I would have to kill him." you are not quite sure if it's really just a joke.
"It would be a shame to lose your best friend like that," you grin.
"Yeah, maybe." he shrugged.
You snort in amusement, shaking your head slightly. "Men." jealousy and possessiveness was never something you appreciated, you found it annoying, unnecessary. Now the thought flatters you.
Cregan looks deep into your eyes. Stormy grey, like the clouds outside. He opens his mouth, but then seems to change his mind. He shakes his head slightly. Then he takes a step back to take a deep breath. You hadn't even noticed how close you have been the whole time. Your hand twitches as if you want to reach for his, but you stop yourself.
"Cerwyn will take you to Madeline later. Don't worry, he'll protect you today," Cregan says, pulling you from your thoughts. It takes you a moment to realize that by Madeline he means Lady Varcaste.
"What will you do?" you ask, swallowing your disappointment that you won't be spending the day with him.
"I have work to do. Have been away from home far too long. Winter is coming and there is a lot to do. I need some ravens." you can't help but smile as he says the words of his, your, house. "Would you like to have breakfast here?"
The mere thought of having breakfast with Lord Varcaste and his men makes your stomach cramp. "Yes, please," you say. "I'll go change quickly."
His mouth twitches but he remains silent, only nodding. However, you feel his gaze on your back as you leave the chambers.
You return to your own guest chamber and call a maid to help you change and do your hair. It doesn't take long and you are sitting with Cregan at breakfast. He talks about his plans for the day. Apparently, a great deal of work has piled up during the months he has been preoccupied with the war and dealing with Rhaenyra's affairs in King's Landing. You don't really have any idea how to run a castle like Winterfell, it never bothered you. But now you are listening with interest. Cregan launches into a little tirade about his lords, who, according to his sister's letters, don't really listen to Sara. You try to remember who's causing him the most trouble.
"Sara is excited to meet you."
You raise an eyebrow. "She doesn't even know me."
Cregan shrugs and leans back relaxed. "She wanted me to get married again for years."
"It must be wonderful to have someone who is so concerned about your happiness," you say, envying him for a heartbeat.
Now your husband laughs. "It's more that she is tired of playing Lady Stark. I quote, 'Find yourself a wife who'll put up with all this bullshit so I can get back to my relaxed life.'" his eyes sparkle warm, as always when he talks about his half-sister and his son.
"So she wants to give me all the chores she doesn't want to do." you can't suppress a grin. Maybe you will actually like her. You are excited about meeting your new family. Hopefully, she'll like you. You feel your stomach fluttering nervously. What if she doesn't? You remember your mother's fight with Rhaenyra. Those were terrible years in the Keep before your sister and her family fled to Dragonstone.
"Yes, that was exactly her plan." Cregan's eyebrows furrowed. He leaned forward and gently took your hand. "Everything alright?"
"Yes," you say. "I'm a little nervous about meeting her and Rickon," you admit openly. Cregan's gaze softens.
"They'll both like you." He can't promise that. He squeezes your hand so you look at him. "She already wrote in her first letter that you two would surely become good friends and that I should agree to Rhaenyra's plans."
A knot forms in your stomach and anger rises under your skin as you are reminded that you were the last to know about your own wedding, only the day before. You pull your hand away, feeling your jaw tense as you lean back. "So even she had a say in the decision about my life. Instead of me," you hiss bitterly.
Cregan sighs but nods. You look out the window, see only dark clouds and rain, have to take a breath to calm your anger.
"It will never be like this again." your gaze snaps to him, and you furrow your brow slightly. But his face is serious, his gaze open. You are not entirely sure if you can believe him. Why should he grant you this freedom? After all you are his property, he can do whatever he wants with you. No one would bat an eye. You shake your head at your own thoughts. He has shown you that things can be different. Every day since your wedding, he has shown you that you can trust him. You relax your tense posture, lean forward, and take his hand into yours. His fingers close around yours.
"Promise?" the knot in your stomach unravels slowly. Cregan's gaze is gentle, looking at you as if you were precious and fragile.
"I promise," he replies. You believe him. It's so easy to trust him with his honest eyes, the calm he radiates. He is so different from all the lords you have known, so different from the men your mother taught you about. You give him a genuine smile. Cregan kisses the back of your hand. The rest of your anger dissipates, and you relax completely again.
You finish your breakfast in pleasant silence. You could get used to this. Slow, relaxed, beautiful mornings with Cregan.
You never thought you could feel so relaxed in this place. You are disappointed as Ruben picks you up to escort you to Madeline and her ladies. However you remain silent.
The Lady's chambers are significantly more comfortable than the rest of the castle. The walls are hung with carpets, candles and a fireplace providing pleasant warmth. Drawings, books, and fabrics lie on the shelves.
You are greeted euphorically. Nobody here seems to hate you, or they're hiding it well. Ruben collapses in front of the fireplace, sinks deep into the armchair, and has one of the servants pour him a beer.
"Aren't you supposed to be guarding Lady Stark?" his cousin said, putting her hands on her hips.
"I am." Ruben raises his glass to her, and you can't help but laugh quietly. "Or are you expecting an attack from your husband's men?"
"He is far too cowardly for that," she snorts, making no attempt to conceal the contempt she feels for her husband. Poor girl, you think. But it's the fate of countless women in this country. You were lucky with Cregan, you think. The other women giggle. Madeline frowns. "You're embarrassing us in front of the princess."
A grin spreads across Rubens face, and you remember that embarrassing morning, noticing your cheeks turning red again. "Lady Stark doesn't care, does she?" he grins at you.
"Not in the slightest. Thank you for inviting me into your rooms. It is very cozy here," you say, and sit down with the others. Tea and warm beer are served.
Madeline smiles, her cheeks flushing red. "I never would have thought I would be greeting a princess here," she says, nervously smoothing her skirt.
You give her a reassuring smile. "I'm just Lady Stark."
The other women are watching you closely, but you are used to that from the Red Keep. You used to retreat to your sisters chambers whenever things got too much. You push the feeling aside, smile at them, and try to appear as relaxed as possible. You glance over at Ruben, who is engrossed in a book. Cregans men haven't treated you like anything special for a second. They haven't bowed before you since you left King's Landing. It took a week before you stopped perceiving it as disrespectful. Now you realize how much you miss that easygoing air.
Lady Varcaste and the other ladies have brought embroidery hoops, and you pick one up as well. You begin to make stitches, an art you mastered at a young age. The fabric is rough under your fingers, stretching a little too much for neat work. You swallow your annoyance. It takes a while, but eventually the ladies fall into relaxed gossip. They are complaining about the lords from the surrounding area who have already arrived. You notice that none of them are really looking forward to the feast this evening. The ladies who can, are staying away. You know you won't have this freedom. But you can bear it. Your mother taught you how to get through such evenings with dignity and elegance. You can't quite figure Lord Varcaste out yet, but you are certain he will try to provoke you, to offend you. You won't let his words get to you. It's going to be exhausting. You already long to leave this place.
Madeline tells you about her little garden, which she would have loved to show you, but the weather won't allow it. She raves about Winterfells glass gardens. You didn't know such a thing existed in the cold North. Would Cregan allow you to plant a small rose garden?
The storm is getting stronger and stronger. Some trees apparently fell during the night, the commanders wife tells you. You listen, unsure what to say. You embroider a few simple floral patterns, but when that becomes too boring, your gaze falls on Rubens belt and the direwolf head stamped on it. At least it's now your houses seal. You begin stitching the unfamiliar shape. It takes several attempts before you embroidery something that even remotely resembles a wolf's head. It's frustrating, you notice yourself becoming less focused. Even pricking your finger. The fact that the weather is getting worse reminds you of Cregans words about having to stay longer. That doesn't exactly improve your mood either. It makes your stomach cramp. Frustrated, you let your embroidery sink. You shift back and forth in the chair. The women's conversation barely holds your attention. You don't even know exactly who they are talking about anyway.
You look back at the fireplace, Ruben has fallen asleep.
You have never been good at dealing with boredom, there was always something to do and distract you in the Red Keep. You wonder if Cregan has finished his work yet? Perhaps you should go and find him. You rise from your seat. Madeline looks at you in surprise.
"I'm going to look for Cregan and then I have to get ready for the fest," you say.
"Of course, Princess," she says, smiling at you and looking very much like her cousin. "I'll wake -”
"Let him sleep, I'll find my way," you say. You say goodbye and leave the cozy gathering. You roll your shoulders. Your back aches slightly from sitting for so long. You should take a hot bath before you get dressed for the feast. Luckily, you remember the way back to the guest wing.
You walk directly past your chambers and knock on Cregan's door. You wait a moment but receive no answer. You open the door. The room lies empty before you. Disappointment rises within you, but you try to suppress the feeling. Where could your husband be? You step into the room and close the door behind you. The fire crackles in the fireplace, so Cregan can't have been gone long. Perhaps he will return soon. You walk across the room to the window. The Godswood lies below, but the weather is far too bad for you to see anything. Although Cregan honors the old gods, he wouldn't go to pray before the Heart Tree in such a storm.
Perhaps you should go to your own room, call a maid and take a bath, relax before facing this gruesome evening. You turn away from the window. Your gaze lingers on the desk, piled high with scrolls, letters, and papers. Your eyes are drawn to the red wax seal bearing the three-headed dragon. You stop moving. Your stomach turns. Rhaenyra. What does she want? Are there news from King's Landing? Has something happened, and she is calling Cregan back for help? Your hand shoots forward, but you stop yourself. You shouldn't. You bite your lower lip. You fight with yourself, however your curiosity wins. You hesitate for two heartbeats, then you reach for the scroll. Open the letter and read the lines in the queen's neat handwriting. You immediately feel sick. You have to read the lines again before the information truly reaches your brain.
No! No, she can't do that. She wants to marry Jaehaera to her son Aegon. Asks Cregan for advice, whether it is a good idea. Your hand tightens around the paper as anger rises within you. She can't do this! It is a terrible idea.
You hear footsteps in the hallway and recognize your husbands heavy boots. You quickly throw the paper back onto the table and manage to take a few steps away from the desk before the door opens.
Cregan looks at you in surprise. "Princess." his gaze sweeps over you, and he smiles when he sees you. You have to hide the trembling of your hands behind your skirt. Put on a mask. Give him your most beautiful smile. You can't give him any suspicion that you have read his mail.
"Cregan," you say, relieved that you manage to keep your voice under control. The guilt coursing through your body doesn't seep into your voice. However, your husband raises an eyebrow. You take a step toward him. Have to distract him, draw his attention away from the desk where the letters are now arranged differently than before. You watch his gaze sweep across the room before it returns to you. "I was looking for you." it's not a lie. Perhaps you can convince him that your niece's marriage to Rhaenyra's son is a bad idea. If he advises her against it, she certainly won't do it. She trusts him.
Cregan approaches you, never taking his eyes off you. His intense gaze makes your stomach flutter. When he is close enough, you reach for his warm hand and intertwine your fingers. You feel unease rise inside you. Has he noticed something? You feel the warmth of his body, inhale his scent. Your gaze almost automatically shifts from his eyes to his lips. You remember the feeling from this morning, feel that familiar tingling beneath your skin.
Cregans gaze is fixed on you, his eyes darting across your face. His hand shoots up, cupping your chin. You flinch as his gaze hardens, his jaw tenses. You exhale in shock, have to swallow hard.
"Don't do this.” his voice is dark, almost makes you flinch.“Never try to manipulate me." he lets go of you as if you have burned him. You stumble back a step, swallow a curse, and try to look confused.
"What do you mean?" you try to sound innocent. But one look is enough and you let your mask slip. It's pointless anyway. He has seen through you, realized what you have done. You sigh. "I didn't mean to-"
"Don't lie to me." his voice is cold, angry. You need all your strength not to flinch. He has never spoken to you like this before. Instinctively, you take a step away from him. Cregan's jaw tightens even further, narrow his eyes.
"I was looking for you," you insist. That is the truth.
"And you are looking for me in my mail?" his voice trembled with suppressed anger. Your hand clenched around the fabric of your skirt, your body begin to shake.
"I saw it by chance," you defend yourself. Had you not seen Rhaenyra's seal, you would have ignored the mail. It's the truth. But you can tell from his expression that he doesn't believe you. Anger rises beneath your skin. You try to breathe to calm it, but it doesn't work. Cregan snorts derisively. He shakes his head, and then his expression changes. Cold anger turns to disappointment. Your heart clenches painfully. "I shouldn't have looked, I know, but-”
"But?" he hisses. "But what?"
It infuriates you that he interrupts you. But more that he doesn't believe you. You know you should apologize, you made a mistake. But this is about Jaehaera's future. You are glad you know about Rhaenyras plans. Now you can do something about it, warn your mother, and persuade Cregan to change her mind. "I had to know," you insist.
Cregans hand clenched into a fist, but he relaxed it again. He took a deep breath. "And that gives you the right to read my mail?"
Is he mocking you? Making fun of your anger? But you have a good point. Doesn't he understand that this is about your family's future? And Rhaenyra is about to plunge your niece into eternal misery. She will be hunted by her brothers ghost without a chance of ever getting away. There will be no way out for her. You got out, but she will suffer for the rest of her life.
You feel the anger at your half-sister rising within you. A familiar feeling. Since you were little, you have been taught to distrust Rhaenyra. You throw yourself into this feeling, giving yourself a tiny bit of security amidst the chaos raging inside. "Advise her against it!" you insist. You want to stamp your foot like a child.
You have to fight for your family. He has to understand that!
"It is a good match," says Cregan. He clearly doesn't understand what the problem is. Theoretically, it is a good match, but he can't grasp what it would mean for Jaehaera. How she will feel having to spend her life among enemies. In a place where her twin died.
"No! Rhaenyra already sold me, and now she is doing the same to my niece," you insist. Surely he will understand! A shadow crosses Cregan's face, his jaw tenses again. You feel the anger radiating from him. You don't want to argue with him, however you can't let it go either. "She should be taken to Old Town. She will be safer there! Tell Rhaenyra that!"
Cregan shakes his head. "No!" he retorts. His reaction makes anger burn inside.
"This is about my family. Jaehaera is all that is left of my brother. And you want her given to our enemy as his wife? She will be trapped in the Keep for the rest of her life!"
"She will be queen. Like her mother before her. Rhaenyra surely treats her like her own children. Your sister is not the enemy."
You shake your head. He can't really believe this? His blind trust in her makes your rage boil over. "Rhaenyra will feed her lies about Aegon. She won't know how much Aegon loved her." your voice breaks. Grief washes over you as your heart breaks at the thought of Aegon. The scene of him being thrown to his knees in the courtyard of the Red Keep, his head being cut off, flashes through your mind. You can almost hear the cheers. You feel sick, acid rising in your throat. This was Rhaenyra's doing. And you are supposed to entrust your niece to her? You swallow your grief, preferring to focus on your anger boiling inside you. It distracts you from the gaping hole in your chest. "You should be on my side!" you demand.
Cregan closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath. "I'm on your side."
Liar! You want to scream it in his face. Obviously, he is not on your side. You shake your head. "No, you are not," you accuse him. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his hands clenched. But you don't give him a chance to reply. "Instead, you are shouting at me."
"You read my mail and then lied. You wanted to distract me," he hisses at you. He's right, you both know that. Nevertheless, you also have a point.
"I'm glad I know about Rhaenyras plans. Otherwise, I would have only found out when they were already married."
"You could have simply asked what was in the letter."
"And of course you would have told me the truth," you hiss.
"Yes!" he replies. "I probably would have asked you for advice."
You snort contemptuously. This doesn't fit with everything your mother taught you. He is lying. "And you expect me to just believe that?" you snap.
"Did I give you any reason not to?" he also no longer can remain calm. His voice thunders in your ears. His eyes throw daggers at you, but you don't care. Let him scream at you. Surprisingly, you don't feel the need to flinch. You lift your chin and glare at him just as furiously. "I just don't understand you. I'm really trying hard to make our marriage work. But obviously, you don't want it at all." accusation seeps into his voice.
His words hurts more than you expected. You have to blink back the tears. Your anger helps. You let the feeling wash over you. Let your anger get the better of you. You spit a valyrian curse at him before you scream. "Oh yeah, I'm really lucky. It's not like I had a fucking choice. I had to marry you." It's not really relevant, but you don't care. You cross your arms, look at him mockingly.
Cregan looks like you have hit him. His eyes turn sad, but he too can't shake off his rage. "The choice would be your death," he hisses.
"I know!" you yell at him. You hate everything about this situation. "Am I supposed to be eternally grateful now? Am I supposed to get on my knees and thank you every day for saving my life? I didn't ask you to marry me." you know it's unfair. You don't care.
"No!" he yells. "No, of course not," he repeats in a calmer voice. He throws his arms in the air, takes a deep breath, and strokes his face. He suddenly seems tired. Then he adds, "You're my wife. I have to be able to trust you."
It's not an accusation, but it still hurts. The feeling fights its way through your anger. "You can trust me," you say, and you mean it. You want him to trust you, you want your marriage to work. You don't want to fight with him.
"Doesn't look like it!" he points to his desk.
You shake your head. You didn't disagree with Rhaenyra because you hate her, it is simply what is best for your family. "It's about Jaehaera. She has no one to fight for her. Once she's married to Aegon-" you cut yourself off, your heart breaking at the thought, and you see red. "Then she is lost forever. She is all that is left of my family," you cry. You don't like how desperate you sound. Tears burn in your eyes, but you don't let them run down your cheeks. You plunge back into your rage. You know the feeling, as if it were home. Anything is better than this damn pain in your heart. "She will be all alone. No family left!" you barely notice your voice rising again. "Just like me."
Cregan tenses up again in response. "You have a family," he says, trying to stay calm, but failing.
You shake your head. "No. Rhaenyra took that from me, and she wants to do the same to Jaehaera!" you shout again. "Take everything away from her. Like she did with me. I have no one to protect me. No family left."
"I can be your family," Cregan screams just as loud as you. You gasp as his words register in your brain. Silence spreads between you. Cregan breathes heavily, his gaze fixed on you, seemingly trying to organize his own thoughts. His gaze suddenly softens. "I can be your family," he repeats, his voice trembling. "If you would let me," he adds, not louder than a whisper.
His gentle voice weaves through you. It dissolves your anger as suddenly as blowing out a candle. It leaves behind a jumble of emotions. You don't understand your own feelings. Your heart clenches, Cregans eyes are on you, watching every move you make. You draw air into your lungs, but it feels like it is not enough. You realize your body is trembling, your hands are clenched and sweaty. With your next heartbeat, cold fear grips you completely. He can't be part of your family. Your family is a mess. Your siblings are dead, your mother is locked away among enemies, far from you, your niece is being sold like cattle. Lies, cheating, betrayal. This is the core of your family. That's what you did. And you all paid the price. Being part of your family is a curse. Cregan can't want that. He can't be a part of you. He is right, you are no better than the rest of your family, you can't be trusted. You lower your gaze and shake your head. "No," you whisper.
Cregan takes a step forward, then stops himself. You hear him inhale deeply. "Princess." his voice is rough, making you shiver, and you look up again. His intense gaze pierces you. You feel he could see right into your soul. Your body tenses, your heart thunders so loud you can hear it in your own ears. Acid rises in your throat, your stomach cramps painfully. Feelings swirl inside you, but you can't quite place any of them. Cregans gaze burns into your skin, you can't stand it, you feel like the walls are closing in on you. Have to take a step back, away from him. Every breath burns in your lungs. Your mind shuts down, can't bear him looking at you like that. You give in to your instinct, your body reacts before your thoughts clear up. You spin around and flee the chambers.
A Lady for Winterfell
Summary: A child’s mistake in searching for Lady Stark warms Cregan’s thoughts, reminding him that Winterfell may indeed need such a gentle lady.
Warnings: None
The snow fell lightly over Winterfell, a soft veil that hushed the world and turned the ancient stones of the keep into something almost gentle. Lord Cregan Stark stood in the courtyard near the stables, cloak heavy on his broad shoulders, breath curling white in the chill air as he spoke with one of the master-at-arms about the training of the newest recruits. Winter was always coming, and the North remembered its duties even in moments of relative peace.
A small figure darted between the legs of the horses and grooms, clutching something carefully in both mittened hands. The boy could not have been more than six, cheeks flushed red from the cold, dark hair poking out from beneath a wool cap. He stopped before Cregan, tilting his head back to look up at the towering lord with the fearless innocence only children possess.
“Lord Stark,” the boy piped, voice clear despite the way his teeth nearly chattered. “Where’s Lady Stark? I brought her a winter rose from the glass gardens. It bloomed just this morning, and Ma says they’re her favorite.”
Cregan’s grey eyes flicked down, one dark brow rising. A flicker of amusement softened the stern line of his mouth, though he kept his expression mostly solemn. The North did not smile easily, even at small wonders. “I have no wife, lad,” he said, voice low and steady as the rumble of distant thunder. “You must be mistaken.”
The boy shook his head vigorously, undeterred. He lifted the flower—a delicate thing of pale blue petals edged in frost, still impossibly alive in the biting cold. “But I seen her! She’s Lady Stark. She’s real pretty, with kind eyes that crinkle when she laughs. And her hair—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, nearly dropping the rose—“it catches the light like it’s got snow in it, even when it don’t. She talks to me when I help Da with the horses. Calls me ‘little lord’ sometimes and asks if the mares are foaling true. She even mended my cloak last week when I tore it on a nail. Said the North needs strong lads with warm backs.”
Cregan felt something shift in his chest, quiet as a wolf’s step in fresh powder. He knew exactly who the boy meant. You. The lady who had come into his household seasons ago—first as a guest of honor from a lesser Northern house, then somehow becoming part of the very rhythm of Winterfell. You often walked the glass gardens with the maesters, tended to the smallfolk without ceremony, and met his gaze across the high table with a steadiness that unsettled and steadied him in equal measure. No formal betrothal. No public words. Only long conversations by the hearth, shared silences on the battlements, and the way his hand sometimes lingered near yours when passing the salt.
Yet the boy spoke as if it were known to all the gods.
Cregan crouched, bringing himself closer to the child’s level. The snow crunched beneath his boots. “And you think this lady is my wife?” he asked, a hint of warmth threading through the gravity in his tone.
The boy nodded solemnly. “She smiles at you different than everyone else. Like the sun on ice. And you look at her the same. Da says that’s how lords and ladies are when they’re married proper.” He thrust the winter rose forward. “Will you give it to her? Please? It’ll die if I keep holding it out here.”
For a moment, Cregan simply looked at the boy—at the earnest faith in his small face—and felt the strangest stirring of something like hope. The North was stone and duty and endless winter, yet here was proof that even ice could foster tenderness.
He accepted the flower carefully, its fragile petals brushing his callused fingers. “I will see it reaches her,” he promised, voice grave as any oath sworn before a weirwood. “You’ve done well, lad. What is your name?”
“Eddard, m’lord. Like the old King in the North, Da says.”
A faint smile touched Cregan’s lips then, brief as a winter sunrise. “A strong name. Go on back to your father, Eddard. And tell him his son has a sharp eye.”
The boy beamed and scampered off, leaving tiny footprints in the snow.
Cregan rose slowly, turning the rose in his hand. Its scent was faint and sweet, a whisper of life defying the cold. He thought of you—your quiet strength, the way you listened when he spoke of the burdens of Winterfell, the way your shoulder sometimes brushed his when you walked the covered bridges together. No words of love had passed between you. Not yet. But the boy had seen what others perhaps whispered about in the halls.
He made his way toward the glass gardens, boots crunching steadily through the snow. The flower felt warm against his palm, or perhaps it was only the thought of giving it to you that heated his blood.
You were there, as he knew you would be—hood drawn up against the chill, examining a tray of young herbs with the same careful attention you gave everything. When you looked up at his approach, your eyes met his and something in the world seemed to settle, the way snow finds its resting place on ancient stone.
Cregan stopped before you, tall and solemn, yet the grey of his eyes held a rare softness. He lifted the winter rose between you.
“A young messenger insisted this belongs to Lady Stark,” he said, voice low, almost teasing beneath the gravity. “He described her quite well. Kind eyes. Hair like captured starlight. A smile that warms even the North.”
He watched the faint color rise in your cheeks, the way your lips parted in quiet surprise. For a heartbeat, the weight of duty, war, and winter receded, leaving only the two of you amid the green and glass and falling snow.
Cregan stepped closer, offering the flower with a hand that had wielded Ice in battle yet now trembled, just slightly, with something far gentler.
“Tell me, my lady,” he murmured, the words meant for you alone, “do you think the boy spoke true?”
The hunt.
Cregan Stark x wife!reader
Summary: Though the marriage is cold, the reader finds a love for her new husband's young son. He's a sweet boy that quickly accepts her. Cregan, usually cold and hardened, begins to soften for her.
A/n: based on an ask!!!!
Masterlist
......................................................................
A marriage to the Warden of the North was one of duty.
After the death of Cregan's first wife, his first love and childhood friend, a second marriage was quickly proposed by his advisers and here you were.
Your father was overjoyed at the news. A small banner house like yours should feel honored to have such a union with the noble house Stark.
But Winterfell was cold and Cregan seemed… indifferent to you.
There was only one true highlight to your days: Rickon Stark.
Cregan's son of 18 moons now, Rickon inherited his father's looks but none of his aloofness. He was a glad child, chubby and giggly. And though he was not your own, there was some motherly instinct that pulled you to him.
Thus, you spent your time avoiding Cregan. And instead, playing with little Rickon.
What you didn't know was that Cregan noticed it. Of course, he did.
He would watch you two in doorways, from balconies, far enough to not interfere, but close enough to see the way your eyes twinkled with little Rickon.
Your eyes didn't twinkle like that with him.
…
You were currently outside, the two of you bundled up, as you played in the snow.
Rickon jumped happily, kicking with his pudgy legs. His coordination was still often tested. But with the snow so thick, it cushioned his falls.
You scooped up a handful of the white powder and tossed in the air. He giggled as it fell around you.
He always had this way of making your days happier just by being in them.
It quickly turned to a game of tag. You ran around the snowy courtyard, trying to give the boy a chance. He'd spend half of his energy just trying to turn around in his heavy furs, then shriek to see you so close to catching him. When you caught him, you spun him around in your arms. You pretended to drop him once, making his face turn pink in happiness.
When you set him down, it was his turn to chase you. You happily obliged, barely speed-walking to keep the distance manageable. You gave a mock sound of fright when he got too close.
You saw a heavy snow pile nearby and plopped yourself into it. Rickon laughed and crawled up after you, wrapping his arms around your neck as if "catching you." The two of you were pink, from both laughing and the cold.
"Lady Stark."
You sat up with true fright this time, wrapping an arm around Rickon in your lap to keep him steady. Your hair was covered in snow and you no doubt looked a fool.
Lord Stark stood there, shoulders wide and back straight. His head tilted as he studied the two of you. "What are you doing out in the cold?"
The happiness that was warming you left, making you realize just how cold you were starting to get. "I… forgive me, my lord. Rickon merely wanted to play."
Rickon, immune to the tension between his two favorite people, trudged his way to Cregan, arms extended out.
"There's my boy," he murmurs, already reaching down to pick him up. He does it with ease.
You'd seen his biceps a few times now— you knew lifting a 10 kg toddler was no hardship for him.
"You just wanted to play?" He asked him, blue eyes searching. Rickon nodded happily, hands coming to his father's face. When the Warden got whatever answer he was looking for, he turned to you again. "Is your ladies' tea not soon?"
You shy, standing and trying to brush some of the snow from your cloak. "Another hour but yes."
"An hour?" His brows furrowed. "An hour and you are not in your chambers preparing?"
You sigh. It felt like half of your day was spent in your chambers trying to look presentable. "Once this snow has fallen from my cloak, that is presentable enough. Rickon asked me to play with him, and that was far more important."
Saying such a thing was foolish. Cregan might begin to believe that you wanted to neglect your duties as his Lady. But it did quite the opposite.
He blinked, mind unsure, lips parted, as he tried to register the fact that you believe his child to be important.
It was a deep fear he'd never voiced. That a second wife may cause a rift with Rickon.
But it seemed he was worried for naught.
"It…" he stumbled over his words for a moment before hardening. "Get inside before you freeze."
You obeyed without resistance, not wanting to anger him anymore than you believed you already had.
He cursed under his breath. He hated his own harshness sometimes.
As Cregan trailed in far behind you, Rickon rambled about what he did outside. The Warden tried to pay attention to his son, but part of his mind was on his second wife and how you dropped everything just to entertainment his boy.
…
That night, a servant comes to your bedchamber late, saying Cregan was calling on you.
As he did occasionally.
You gave a polite nod, dressing in your robe. After all, he was calling you just to do your marital duties. There was no point in dressing up if he was just going to hike your skirts up anyway.
It was a bit later in the night than he usually called for you, but you hardly noticed as you walked down the corridor.
On regular nights, you'd enter and the two of you would awkwardly stare at one another for a moment until you laid yourself on his bed.
He didn't touch you more than he had to. Didn't take his time to make you preen. You figured he was just not interested in you. And that was alright. You were not Arra, and nothing would change that.
But this time, you opened the door to see him still in his day clothes. He sat by the hearth of his large room. His head didn't snap at the sound of your entrance. Not like he usually did. He stared at the flames.
You stood there in the doorway for a moment, waiting for him to take initiative. Or even just to acknowledge you. But he didn't.
"M… My lord?" Your voice carried, softer than you wanted. "I was told you called for me. If you did not… I apologize—"
"I've been thinking," he interrupts, eyes still on the red hearth. "About things."
"I understand," you try to ease. "Being the Warden leaves your mind quite occupied. If you wish for me to come back at a better time, I will."
"No. I've been thinking about you."
That's when his head finally turns to you, eyes right on yours. There's something knowing, something scrutinizing, something almost soft. It's complicated, but it fills you with both warmth and a chill.
"Oh," is all you manage out.
The edges of his lips twitch in amusement. "Oh?"
"I… I'm confused, my lord."
"'S alright." He waves a paw of his in a beckoning gesture. "Come sit with me."
You shut the door, your feet cold and pattering across the floor.
You sit so politely on the chair next to the settee Cregan is on. He's spread out, naturally from his broad frame, but also in his relaxed state.
You won't admit it, but his room was always warmer than yours. It was quite nice.
The silence settles over the two of you as Cregan's gaze gets hazy with deep thoughts once more.
Worries started to flood you. "I know I have not been a proper wife to you." You miss the way his expression hardens. "But I can do better. Be better. For you. If you want to give me a second chance." You find yourself fidgeting with the hem of your robe. "I understand if not, as well. Wherever you send me will be fine."
You can feel his gaze on you now, but you refuse to meet it. The embarrassment was already warming your cheeks enough.
"You think," he speaks uncharacteristically soft, "that I called you in here to send you away?"
"I understand if you did, my lord. Being the Lady Stark is a task that not many can do. If I've disappointed you, then I apologize."
Then, he begins to laugh. Not a loud one, not a demanding one. Quiet. Much like the rest of him.
Cregan was a quiet man, but everything he did was noticeable all the same. Not because he demanded attention, but because he earned it.
"Too kind for the likes of me, my girl." He shifts in his seat, grunting like an old man whose muscles ached after sitting for long amounts of time. "Calm yourself. Why are your shoulders always so tense?"
You try to force yourself to relax, dropping your shoulders immediately. It did little to ease you inside.
His head tilts. "I'm not sending you away. Far from it."
A breath leaves your lips in relief. Now, your shoulders truly begin to slack. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you for a second chance—"
"Quiet," he teases, raising a hand up. "This is not a second chance. You had not ruined your first. Tell me." He leans forward, resting his wrists on the top of his knees. "Do you love me?"
You hesitated. You loved the North. Winterfell. Rickon. But did you love Cregan?
He already detected an answer in the silence. "I see." His tongue ran over his teeth. "I hold no anger towards you for it. You love my son. I see that now. I suppose that's all I need."
"Oh, yes. I love him very much," you can't help smiling about. "He's a cheery boy."
"Aye." He runs a hand over his chin. "You've made him so. He was… rather quiet after…" he stopped.
You hum. "He just needed someone to play with, I think."
"He needed someone to listen to him. To care for him. And you're doing so. Thank you, my lady."
"Do not thank me for that. I did not do it for your favor."
"I know that. I do."
You take a moment. "I still don't understand what you were thinking about then? Were you thinking of children? Is that why you called for me?"
"Hm? Oh, gods no. Well," he's suddenly stumbling over himself. "I didn't call you in here to sleep with you. Not tonight. I want to know you a bit more. That's all. I can't help but believe that I've been the poor one. You've moved from your home, everything you know. I have not even tried to help you adapt. Even after your kindness to my house… our house."
"Our house?"
"Aye. Our house."
"I do like that… our house."
Something jumps in his heart when you smile at him.
He didn't think such a thing would affect him. But he finds himself nervous like a young boy again, wanting to keep that joy on your face.
"It's quite late, my lord. Perhaps I should return to my chambers. If I may."
He takes a deep breath. "Of course. Sleep well, my sweet lady."
The walk back to your room leaves you with a lot to think about. Cregan… intimidating Cregan… finally extended a hand to you. He wants to know you. It feels a bit late, but better he wants to know you at all, even late.
But something about him was still a bit frightening. You'd heard rumors of things he'd done as Warden. Like any hardened Stark, he'd killed men. He'd done horrid things, won battles. His hands were far from soft.
Could his grip be gentle enough, despite callused palms? You weren't sure you wanted to find out.
Still, there was something about him that you loved.
You told yourself it was because Rickon shared his eyes.
…
There you were in Rickon's little chamber, playing on the ground with him.
Rickon was not a spoiled child, despite what you were sure many northerners believed. Cregan kept a strict house, teaching Rickon from a young age to not take things for granted.
No, Rickon had only a few toys. But even those, he was eternally grateful for. His father carved a new one for his every name day. Most of his toys were the gifts from his name days, where other lords would bring various things for him.
His favorite was the wooden wolf Cregan had carved. It was a hardy thing, smoothed to perfection. The snout was broad, paws large. A male dire wolf.
Rickon loved it very much.
He would hand you one of his other toys so that you could play alongside him. Today's was a hare.
You gigged at him. "Am I to be prey?"
He giggled back, answering you with a firm nod.
"I suppose I must be quick, then?"
On the rug you played for far too long. His direwolf would catch your hare with ease. He'd growl like he believed the animal would, then restart the hunt all over again.
If you ever had any question that he was a Stark, this answered it.
After catching your hare for the fifth time, you heard Cregan's presence in the doorway. You cocked your head back but said nothing.
His eyes moved from you to the 'violent' scene of Rickon pretending to eat your hare. His brows raised. "He's not giving you a fair chance, is he?"
"I'm a hare against a direwolf, Lord Stark. It's only truthful."
"I dunno." He steps in, his frame taking up more space in the room than you thought. He bent down on his knees. "Easy, son." He interferes, saving your hare. "Hares are quick, don't you know? It's hard to catch something so delicate." His eyes flicker to you before going right back to the mission at hand. "They can be too fast if you're not careful. Sometimes you have to decide if they're worth the hunt."
Rickon half listens, his eyes on each toy as his father holds them up. "Sometimes, direwolves must soften, be merciful. What if, this time, you let the hare get away?"
The toy is pressed to your palm, a glimmer in Cregan's eyes that you didn't notice before.
The scenario plays again, and Rickon let the hare go. Both you and the boy look to the Warden to seek approval.
Cregan smiles at his son. "Good. That was good."
Rickon just as quickly hands the direwolf to his father and moves to entertain himself with something else.
He twirls the wood in his hand, looking over every detail, but not truly seeing it.
The hare in your own stills. "How do you know which hares are worth chasing, my lord?"
He thought for a moment, before he pushed back a smile. "I only chase hares that are kind enough to let young direwolves win the hunt every time."
Your cheeks warm.
"Tell me, my lady, would you let an older wolf win the chase as well?"
Your thumb runs over the face of the little toy. "He must run fast but… perhaps."
A sudden red comes up his neck. You made the Warden blush.
The man whose hands were metaphorically painted in red blood. No, you reddened his skin in an entirely different way with a mere tease.
"Perhaps," he whispered like a promise. "Perhaps he will."
"He sounds determined. I heard predators give up if the chase is too difficult."
"Aye, most would. Is that why you haven't been caught yet?" He placed the toy down, leaning into you with a lower voice. "I'm an efficient hunter, my lady, should you decide you want to be hunted."
Your eyes flit to him, finding him not far now. His gaze is purely on you, drifting down to your lips once.
You nervously turn away, unsure how to answer.
He chews at his bottom lip, accepting the way you did not jump at the opportunity. No matter. He's patient, and you will come when you are ready.
He stands, clearing his throat. "I originally came to ask if you wished to attend petitions with me. But it seems you're quite busy here."
"It is important work, but I would like to attend. Since you invited me. I'm sure Rickon could be entertained by his nursemaid for a while."
He extends a hand to you, helping you up from the floor. You don't remember him being so careful natured. As soon as you're up, you pull away.
"Rickon could attend as well," he suggests.
"He could? It would be distracting enough to have me there, much less a boy. I don't want you to feel as if—"
"As if what?" He asks, tone suddenly hardened.
"I…"
"No. Tell me. Tell me why you and Rickon would be a burden to me. And I will tell you why you are wrong."
When you don't respond, he softens. "You are no burden to me." He takes your hand in his own, bringing it to his lips. "Never. Rickon is a part of me, as are you now." He kisses your knuckles so softly, you barely feel it. But his eyes stay on you. "Tell me again. Would you like to come to petitions with me?"
You only nod. And soon, Rickon is scooped in one of his arms, his other hand wrapped around your own.
Any lord that is surprised to see the three of you enter together quickly covers it.
Rickon stays on Cregan's lap most of the time, content with the direwolf in his hand. He bangs it on the table, even growls a few times.
He growled once at a lord he didn't like, and Cregan did nothing to stop him. He didn't like the lord either.
Petitions ran long, and soon Rickon was growing tired. He reached for you.
You naturally took him without question. It made Cregan warm.
Rickon curled up with ease, nose tucked into your shoulder. And with just a few squirms, he was fast asleep.
Towards the end, Cregan reached out for your hand. You let him intertwine his fingers with your own.
And it felt natural.
…
Time with Cregan became more common. You'd walk outdoors together, play with Rickon. Even silence in the library was nice, for it was still together.
And finally, you'd decided that yes, you did want the Wolf of the North. You wanted him to chase you. To want you. To have you in the proper way a husband should.
One night, when the two of you had spent long hours in the library (because neither of you wanted to part), you made the first move.
You closed the tome you were reading from, choosing instead to move to Cregan's side of the table.
He watches you, though pretends not to.
"I'm tired of this," you declare to him.
He finally looks up at you, brows furrowed. "Aye? Of what exactly?"
"Of… well, I'm not sure." You pull out the chair next to him, sitting down.
He turns to you, giving his full attention. "You're tired, but have no knowledge of what or why?"
"I am tired of… Do you remember what you said, a few weeks ago? With those toys with Rickon?"
"I do," he answers with ease. It had been at the forefront of his mind since it had happened.
"I want that. You and I… I think."
Something lit behind his eyes. There was no indication that he heard you besides the small turn of his head. "Aye?"
"If that's alright. If you are still offering it—"
"Can I kiss you?"
You still. "You've kissed me before Cregan. You need not ask."
"I do," he insisted. "Those… they were not like this. Not like what I want with you. Can I kiss you, my girl?"
You nod, cut short by his hands on you suddenly. He pulls you to him, lips capturing your own.
You all but melt into his hold. He'd held you a bit. Kissed you just a bit. But he was right. Not like this.
The kisses before— they were meaningless, a mere guilty habit between two political figures that were expected to produce heirs.
This one was hungry, filled with something you couldn't explain. A final climax to a building tension of months. It was warm and purposeful, not to ease guilt, but to prove something else instead— that he loved you. A hand cups your cheek, the other at your arm to pull you closer.
You kissed back just as quickly. Your own hand goes to his wrist, obeying his plea to have you near.
It doesn't take long for you to find yourself in his lap.
Your fingers find the hair at the back of his neck and experimentally pull, earning a growl from your wolf's throat.
His lips part from yours to start kissing down your neck. You let him, hands tightening your grip. "I'd have ya if you let me," he huffs against your skin. "Clear this fucking table and have my way with you, hm? Show you how often I think of ya."
You groan in satisfaction when he nips a soft spot. "Kiss me."
No hesitation, he returns his mouth to your own, his tongue moving across your bottom lip. "Love you," he tries to speak between kisses, though muffled. "I love you so fucking much. My girl, aren't you?"
"Just wanna kiss you," you whine.
He pulls back just enough to be teasing. He looks into your eyes, hazy with intent. "As my lady wants," he purrs.
His hands roam over your lower back, arms wrapped around you to keep you against him.
His lips connect with yours again, sweeter and slower.
…
The next day, as you go to Rickon's room, you find Cregan already there. He's speaking lowly to him, as he tends to do when teaching him things.
"It's important to respect a she-wolf. This one is a match for your direwolf." In his hand is a new toy, the she-wolf in question. It's a bit smaller, with more narrow shoulders. "They work together, yes? The direwolf here, he loves the she-wolf. When he hunts, he hunts for her. He cares for her. Understand?" When Rickon nods, he's satisfied. "Good. Go play now."
Cregan stands, leaving the boy to his devices. His back straightens, large and imposing. Then he freezes, chin up. You hear it, the way he takes a deep inhale. Then he begins to chuckle. "Knew I smelled a sweet scent." He turns, eyes on you with a grin. "What are you doing here?"
"I was merely being curious of your lessons. A new carving?" You see how he shies, giving a small shrug. "It looks nice. He seems to love it."
Rickon peers up, quickly running to you and extending the toy out towards you for you to see. You bend to his level, taking it from his pudgy hands. "Ah, how beautiful," you coo. "She seems quite fierce. Is she a kind wolf?"
Rickon thinks over it for a moment before looking to Cregan for the answer.
Cregan shrugs. "Is your mother a kind wolf?" He asks the boy.
You gawk, looking back to see that he's gesturing at you.
Mother. It tastes odd on your tongue.
"I believe you need a pup next to complete the set," you finally speak. "Papa, mama, and baby?"
Rickon agrees, taking the toy and moving to play once again.
You don't move for a while.
Mother.
Cregan said it so naturally.
"Is that alright?" He asks from behind you.
You look up at him, tears brimming in your eyes. "Yes. Gods, yes. I didn't… Thank you."
"Oh, my girl," he coos, pulling you up. He pulls you in and you utterly collapse against his chest. He kisses the crown of your head. "You needn't thank me. Not for this. This was all your doing."
When your tears begin to dry, he pulls you away enough to examine your face. His eyes move down your nose, across your red cheeks. "So beautiful. What a beautiful mother you are."
You push yourself up on the tips of your toes to meet his lips.
Being Lady Stark was a difficult task. But being Cregan's wife and Rickon's mother? That was the easiest thing you'd ever done.
...................................................................................
Taglist: @alyssa-dayne @twinkletwinklenotastar @kidd3ath @yujyujj @misswynters @cosmosnkaz @sithapprentice @kaniromi @lovemesomevesey @its-jackie-bb @thorins-queen-of-erebor @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn @callsignwidow @a1lexh-blog @ethereal-athalia @ashovertheriver @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @dozcan123 @wangjiangelangel @kamitargaryen @aegonswife @lv7867 @helpmedecideaname @cherryheairt @classicsimpforaaronwarner @purple-1995, @raven-dor, @oohzkdlins, @lunaritychuwolf, @nlnny@silverlightsaber, @t958580, @fangirling-jess, @shesneverreallythere, @sw0rdmaiden
Southern rose.
Cregan Stark x Lannister wife!reader
Summary: Cregan's wife is a spoiled thing. He loves it.
Masterlist
.....................................................................
From the moment you stepped into Winterfell, you whined.
He couldn't exactly blame you. The North isn't the most welcoming environment— especially for a more Southern grown flower like you. In fact, he starts to find it amusing.
His little southern rose is too delicate for his homeland.
"Why must the castle be made of such cold stone?" You whine.
He pulls you in closer, spooning you in the bed with the furs atop the both of you. His hand is hot to the touch and large and firm against your stomach to keep you there. You have a tendency to squirm.
"'S just an evening chill. It will pass," he murmurs low in your ear.
"Every night?" You huff, emphasizing your point with a shift of your hips.
He groans lowly when your ass presses against his length. His arm wraps around you tighter until you're utterly stuck in his hold. "If you'd hold still, I could share my warmth with you. As I do every night you whine."
Truth be told, he sweats under the heavy furs every night. You had insisted on them, and he wanted to sleep with you. Small price to pay, he tells himself.
Especially when you'd finally fall asleep and unconsciously curl into his side.
"I do not whine," you proceed to whine.
You go to say more, but you hear and feel his low chuckling.
You huff, pulling his hand off of you. You make a dramatic show of scooting to the other side of the bed. It's cold. You ignore it at first. You can't show weakness.
But his laughing doesn't stop. "My stubborn girl. C'mere."
But you don't move. You throw one glare his way then turn your back and pull the cold covers tight around you.
It's silence as his laughter settles. "C'mon," he finally settles on. "Don't want my southern flower wilting in the cold tonight. Come back now."
"I'm sleeping here."
He sighs, though it's full of love. "You're angry with me?"
"Yes."
"Mm. Cold?"
"Yes."
"Ah. Quite the predicament." He runs a hand over his growing stubble. "If I apologize, is that enough to make you come back over here?"
You pause. Turn to look over your shoulder at him. "Maybe."
"Forgive me then," he coos.
Even in the dark, you can see the glimmer of amusement in his hazy colored eyes. But you have no fight left in you and you're cold.
So you let him scoop you back up and drag you across the bed until you're right back where you started.
And now that you think about it, it is a lot warmer against him like this.
What were you complaining about again?
You sigh in content and close your eyes.
"'S what I thought," he says to himself.
Your eyes open. "What?"
He doesn't pretend. "Good night, my love." He kisses the side of your head. "Sleep well."
…
"Father wrote me," you chirp, inviting yourself into your husband's solar. A neat letter laid in your hand with a familiar Lannister seal broken atop it. "He told me that his lioness is expecting cubs. Isn't that wonderful?"
Cregan looked up at him you from his paperwork. He blinked once. Then twice. "'S alright," he settled on. In truth, he didn't care of the news at all.
Your face fell a bit. "Did you not hear me? Cubs."
"My love," he says carefully. "I care not for matters of those against the crown. I have permitted your father's writings but I do not have to pretend I am overjoyed to hear of more lions that will be slaughtered should a battle commence."
You take a long time to think. You look back over the letter with a more tainted viewpoint than before. "They must be killed?"
"If he brings them into battle as Lannisters have done in the past, yes."
"Well." Your eyes water. "What if he does not? What if he keeps them hidden? Safe? As pets?"
"My darling love." He reached out his hand and drawls you to sit on his desk before him. He sighs and rubs at your hips. "A lion is no pet. They are unpredictable and dangerous. It is a strong house sigil. But to own them—"
"What of your direwolf?" You cry. "It is large and intimidating."
"Dark Night is uncaged. He proves no threat to me and my house. He can read me well. A lion cannot do that."
Big tears pool in your eyes and his heart immediately thumps harder. "My girl." He wipes them as they fall. "Ease your broken heart."
"They are only cubs." You hiccup and lean into his touch. "They have done no wrong."
"It is a curse, I know," he comforts. "Lots of things happen that way. Just the wrong place and the wrong time."
"Can I write? To Father. Can I tell him not to use them?"
Cregan knows exactly how this will go: You will beg Jason. He will lie and agree to ease your poor aching heart and to make Cregan no longer suspicious of the Lannister's war efforts. Then, in battle, lions will be slain.
It would happen regardless of what you wrote to your father.
He watched another tear fall down the tracks on your face from the previous ones. And he nods.
You run off quickly to try to correct this and save the lives of innocent animals.
He knows it's truly in vain. And when he or his men must kill them, he'll make sure you never hear of it.
But he knows it's the only way your little bleeding heart can sleep tonight.
….
Dark Night lays at your feet, nuzzling against your leg every now and then to get your attention.
Cregan sits across from you. He's still looking over letters and pages, just in comfort outside of his solar.
You still don't look up by the third time the dire wolf has nuzzled you. So he nips.
You whimper. It didn't break skin or cause you tremendous pain. But it was a surprising prick.
Cregan barely looks at the thing and lets out a low growl from his throat to reprimand him.
Dark Night whines and lays down once more.
"Needy thing," he sighs with the shake of his head. "Scare you?"
You nod. "I do not like it when he does that."
"He's only playing. Is that right, boy?"
"Your Northern ideas of play are much harsher," you scoff. "I hate it."
He looks back to his letters. "You do not hate it."
"I do," you insist.
A small flicker of his eyes— swarming with mischief. "You do not hate Northern play."
You catch his meaning and flush. And he was right. This morning, you didn't seem to mind 'northern play' at all.
"You are all savages." You set your embroidery aside and stand. "Heartless and cold and… and…"
"Yes?" He grins.
"And… and I don't like it!"
You watch him do everything he can to hold back just how funny he thinks you are. He only gives a quirk of his brow. "You don't like it?"
"No," you snap. "And I don't like you! Or… your dog… or…" You look around. "Or this rug!"
"Oh?" He looks down at it— the bear skin rug from the animal he caught himself a few weeks after your wedding. "You told me you loved it."
"Well… I lied!"
He watches you storm out, knowing you didn't mean a word you were saying. That was the Southerner in you talking.
It made him want to coddle you more. Just to see what lengths you go to.
…
He let you sit and pout in your room for a while before coming to collect you.
He stood outside your closed door, sighing to himself. The things he did for love.
Opening the door, he saw you sitting on the floor in front of the hearth. You didn't look up at him. "And like that, the room is colder."
He scoffed. "Stubborn girl. C'mere and look at me."
"Why? So you can gloat?"
He stopped behind you. "You think I want to gloat?"
"No," you answer honestly. He'd never been one to think better of himself. That was one northern trait you did appreciate of him.
There's a tap of something hitting the table behind you and you turn.
There's a tray he'd just sat down. Lemon cakes and a nice glass of wine. Over the back of the settee he'd walked by was richly colored fabrics.
"What is this?"
He shrugs. "If you don't want it, I can take it back—"
"Stop!" You sit up more now. "It can… it can stay."
His brow tilts. "Can I?"
You nod.
He sits on the settee and waves his hand at you. You obey without a second thought, coming into his lap.
"Thought about you," he admits, brushing your hair from your face. "I miss you during the day. Wish you'd visit me more often."
"They told me it was unbecoming of the Lady Stark to bother you while you work."
"Who told you that?"
You sigh. "Northerners. You know, my father let me speak to him at any time of the day in Casterly Rock."
"I know it," he agrees. "'S how you became so fucking spoiled." You grow defensive, but he quickly soothes it with a brush of his hand. "So are you going to visit me more or not, little garden rose?"
You hum in thought. "I will, but I have some requirements."
"Aye, I figured. Go on then. Name your terms." He pulls you closer, having a hand on your back to keep you from pulling away. "Tell me what you want."
"Well, I want a new dress to start. A brighter one of those fabrics. The colors here are too drab."
He hums, nuzzling his nose against your neck now.
"And I want… I want a horse of my own. I want to ride like I did at Casterly Rock."
"Too cold for you to ride," he murmurs. It makes a shiver go down your spine.
"I want a northern horse and I want a heavy cloak so that I can, then."
He lays a sloppy kiss against your throat. You squirm. "You're not listening to me," you whine.
"I am." He kisses. "Dresses and a horse." Another kiss. "A heavy cloak. What else?"
Your head grows dizzy when his scruff brushes against your skin. "I want…"
"Tell me what you want, wife," he whispers then kisses again. He nips lightly then soothes it with his tongue.
"I want… I want… new perfumes."
He groans at the thought and moves a meaty paw of his up into your hair to force your face up. "You'll have it."
He works across your neck and down to the place where it meets your shoulder. When you feel teeth there, you squirm and whimper. He groans out a 'good girl' when you let him finish the hickey you know will be there for at least a week.
He pulls his face away to look up at you now. His lips are swollen but there's a victory in his eyes. "Anything else?"
When you try to reach up touch the cooling spot at your shoulder, he intercepts and keeps your wrists in his hold. He looks the spot over. And at seeing the color beginning to pull, he grins. "Looks pretty," he tells you.
"And I want you to take me seriously."
The grin pulls into a knowing smile— bright and rare. "I take you very seriously, love."
"You don't! You… You're a brute."
"Mhm." He says as he looks you over.
"You're horrid. Just horrid."
"I know." He draws you in and slips his hands under you.
You shriek when he picks you up suddenly. "And a barbarian!"
"The worst," he agrees as he carries you to the bed. "The worst I've ever seen."
"I hate the North!"
He plops you down on the furs, making you let out a small 'hmph.' Then, he knocks your knees apart with his own and leans over the bed until you feel his breath upon your face. "You don't hate the North," he purrs.
"No," you whisper back.
"You like the North very much, as barbaric as it is."
"I do."
He lays a kiss to your lips. "I know."
The horse, the dresses, all of it— yours.
He made sure you, his little sensitive southern flower, were the most spoiled thing in the Realm.
........................................................................................
Taglist: @alyssa-dayne @twinkletwinklenotastar @kidd3ath @yujyujj @misswynters @cosmosnkaz @sithapprentice @kaniromi @lovemesomevesey @its-jackie-bb @thorins-queen-of-erebor @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn @callsignwidow @a1lexh-blog @ethereal-athalia @ashovertheriver @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @dozcan123 @wangjiangelangel @kamitargaryen @aegonswife @lv7867 @helpmedecideaname @cherryheairt @classicsimpforaaronwarner @purple-1995, @raven-dor, @oohzkdlins, @lunaritychuwolf, @nlnny@silverlightsaber, @t958580, @fangirling-jess, @shesneverreallythere, @sw0rdmaiden, @xkatherinexo, @lady-dragon-rider, @unlikelyqueenninja, @phoebeselwyn, @northerncrypts, @littleblackcatinwonderland
Northern courting.
Cregan Stark x reader
Summary: Cregan is a man of action, not words. He assumes you know you're courting. He'd be quite wrong.
Masterlist
...............................................................
Cregan Stark was known around Winterfell for never resting. He never sat down, never relaxed, never quit his work, and seemingly never took a deep breath.
When you and your family showed, that's when the staff of the castle knew you were important.
A two week trip your father brought you along for. He'd spoke about the importance of good impressions and keeping up good relations with the northerners. You had been day dreaming but conscious enough to nod along with his words like a good daughter.
Today— eight days into your stay in Winterfell— the two of you are sitting inside, playing a game of cyvasse. Cregan had taught you on the second day. By the sixth, you were a natural.
If only your opponent wasn't seasoned from the war he'd just won at age 23.
"'S a good move," his head tilts. "If I hadn't already planned for it." He moves a piece, easily blocking everything you had set up for.
You scoff slightly, slumping in your seat in thought.
While you glare at the board in hopes it will give you answers, Cregan's eyes are on you. He looks over your shoulders, your neckline, your lips, that crease between your brows. He thinks you're beautiful.
"Gold and silver are uncommon up here, but what do you think of beads carved of weir wood branches?"
The line between your brows only deepen as you move your attention to the Northman. "What?"
He shrugged. "Was only a thought. Would that suffice?"
"I… yes. I saw a woman with stitching on her cloak and white beads. Would that be those?" At his eager nod, you continue. "It was beautiful. I thought of it the rest of the journey. Any woman would be lucky to have such a thing."
You accepted defeat this time and the two of you moved to separate for the rest of the day.
He took your hand in his own large one. He bent down and pressed the back of your hand to his forehead. You told yourself it was more polite than a kiss would be.
You would be wrong.
But you gave him a nod. "Good day, Lord Stark. I shall see you at supper."
His eyes twinkled. "I eagerly await it, my lady."
When you left, you missed the way his eyes followed you until you were blocked from his sight.
Gods, he was utterly smitten.
…
After supper, your father had insisted you go to your chambers early. It was a bit unlike him, but the two men were going to Cregan's solar to discuss business. Perhaps he just wanted to know you were safe in bed.
You sit in the guest room Cregan had prepared for you. It's very nice— much better than yours at home. The hearth burns brightly. And for such a cold place, you were warm. It was pleasant.
You'd brought all of your thread and cloth for stitching, much to the chagrin of your father. He didn't approve of your habit of daydreaming and this was your next best option.
Cregan had noticed by the second day. On the fifth day, you had new colors of threads you could only find in the North.
He was so kind to notice such little things.
You'd been working on a Stark direwolf sigil. You'd started it the day you got here— half stitched on a handkerchief. The sigil was everywhere so it was easy to imagine.
You're working with this deep gray. A Stark gray thread you hadn't seen until it was left in your chambers by Lord Stark. The direwolf was coming along nicely.
Your handmaiden entered in a rush with a broad smile. "My lady, I have just heard the most wonderful news."
You set your stitching aside and stand as she chatters and rushes around the room to ready you for bed. Your mind is still on finishing that direwolf stitching.
"I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I will not say that I regret it," she quipped as she spread out a nightgown. "Oh, I rushed here immediately when I heard of it. It will be so wonderful, truly—"
You tried to listen. You wanted to. Your handmaiden was a kind girl, albeit one that loved to gossip. But your mind was too far gone.
She helped you dress to your night clothes, continuing her chatter. "I would not have considered you as a woman that could like the cold, but there are ways to keep warm here," she flushes. "Especially with someone like that." She pauses and grabs your arm. "What color shall your dress be?"
You blink, finally hearing the words. "My dress? For what?"
She scoffs like you're messing with her. "For the wedding, of course."
A wedding? Father has not mentioned a wedding. Your younger brother was growing in age— perhaps there was a worthy match for him and there would soon be a wedding. But that felt so odd for your handmaiden to mention now. So surely not that.
Your mother had passed years ago, but your father was not adamant on marrying again. So not that either.
"What do you believe Lord Stark shall wear?" She asks. "Do you think he owns different fur cloaks for special occasions?"
Ah. Lord Stark's wedding. That would make more sense.
You did not know he was courting anyone. But then again, you often did not pay attention to little details. And he wasn't one to talk in great detail. Maybe it was rude that you never asked.
"And his bride shall be beautiful!" The handmaiden almost squeals, tugging you this way and that in excitement. "You do not seem joyful at this. What is the matter?"
"No, I… I do love weddings," you defend. And that was true. You loved to daydream during the ceremonies.
"That's the spirit!" She claps. "We'll discuss all of it in the morning. But try to get some sleep tonight— if you can. I know how excited you must be."
She finishes up, wrapping you in your robe before retreating to the door. "To marry the Lord Stark? What a dream."
It shuts behind her, leaving you standing in the middle of your room in confusion.
…
You sleep as well as ever, for you still did not understand her words. She wakes you in the morning just as excited. "He wants to break fast with you," she smiles.
You rub your eyes and brush your hair from your face. "Father?"
"No! The Lord Stark! Hurry, though. I've heard from the Winterfell servants that he's been up for hours. He's most likely starving."
You reluctantly get out of your warm bed. You usually took lunch or supper with Cregan. Breaking fast was unusual.
You leave your room with one of your nicer dresses on (you didn't question why that one was chosen), and your hair nicely done. Your eyes were still puffy from sleep, but that would fade as you walked.
A servant escorted you through the vast halls of the castle until he stopped before a large door. "Lord Stark's solar, my lady. Shall I announce your presence?"
You were friends enough with Cregan that you surely did not need that. So you dismissed him and opened the door yourself.
Broad shoulders blocked the light coming from the only window. He looked out in clear thought. His head barely turned as he heard the door open. "Has she accepted?" He asks softly.
"Lord Stark?"
He turns now, eyes wide. His light lips part in surprise. "My lady, I did not know it was you. Forgive me."
You shrug. "'Tis alright. I understand how full your mind must be with things as of now."
He nods along. "Yes, yes, of course. But, please." He gestures down to the small table set up just beyond his desk. Two chairs and light foods to start their day.
Cregan was nervous today. In the last nine days, you had not seem him like this. The wedding business must really be affecting him. His hands shook lightly. His eyes glanced at you then away. He would open his mouth to speak, then retreat.
You were good friends with him, surely. Perhaps he would speak to you of his problems if you asked.
You pop a grape into your mouth. "You do not seem excited."
His brows pull up. "I assure you, my lady, I… I am."
You don't believe him. "Then why do your hands shake?"
He looks defensive. But when he glances down and sees that you were right, he doesn't fight it. "I am… I speak poorly," he settles on. "For important matters."
"You are a northman. They are mostly men of action, are they not?"
"They are." His tension eases slightly when he sees you understand. "We are not the best at poetic words, but we make up for it. I hope."
You nod, continuing to lazily eat your breakfast.
He's a bit better now, though his own food sits untouched. But he can at least look at you now without growing nervous.
"Is she pretty?" You ask.
"Whom?"
"Your bride," you smile teasingly. "She must be beautiful if you are this nervous."
He blinks. You're teasing him? Over this? Something greatly eases over him. You look so natural, so easy going. Why would he be so nervous then? He meets your eye strongly now. "She is the most beautiful woman in the Realm," he assures.
You hum, continuing to eat. Cregan's a handsome man. His bride is supposedly pretty. That would make for a good daydream to imagine later. You store it in the back of your mind.
The rest of breakfast goes quietly. Cregan does not have much to say after that, and you don't want to make him any more nervous.
But this bride must be lucky to get a man so worried to please her.
He invites you for a walk outside which you accept. You weren't all knowing in affairs of the heart, but perhaps he wanted to ask your opinion on things. You were a woman after all. And though you adored Cregan, he knew nothing of the gentler sex.
The winter was over in the North, but every season was a various kind of cold. At least in this one, you did not need to hide from snow.
"Is this spring?" You ask him as your feet crunch on dead grass.
"Almost. This should be the last week of winter before there is life in the plants again. Do you have a favorite flower, my lady?"
You shake your head.
"A favorite color then?"
You shake your head again.
He sighs softly, getting nowhere. "Is there…" He pauses. "Is there anything you want at the wedding? I know girls dream of this since they were young."
Asking your advice? That you could supply. "Well, if your bride isn't of the North, you could pick specifically northern things to help her see how well living here could be. Northern plants or such?"
He stashes that for later. "And there is truly nothing you've always wanted at your wedding?"
"At mine?" You ask. "Well, I have imagined it many times."
"Yes?" He hangs on.
"It's outside. My family is there. My husband is handsome and his cloak weighs heavy on me. He's tall… and kind." You look over at him. "Maybe as tall as you. That could be nice."
He flushes. "Right. But… the wedding details."
"Mm." You close your eyes. "Blue. I've always imagined something blue."
"Blue," he breathes. "I can do that. And… your gown. What does it look like? Is it a northern fabric, or…?"
"In my dreams, it is usually just a dress I already own," you smile. "But if I close my eyes now… perhaps a silver gray. With lots of colorful embroidery details that I do myself."
"That sounds beautiful. I'll have the fabric found soon so you may start."
You frown, opening your eyes. "Am I making your bride a dress?"
His head tilts as he tries to understand your teasing behavior. "You are. It is in your dreams, is it not?"
It seems a bit rude that he didn't even ask if you would do that for him. But no matter.
"I understand your beliefs in the new gods, but a northern wedding is to be before the old. We could have a second ceremony for your faith. If it pleases you."
"Why would what I think matter?"
He squints as if you just disgusted him. "What kind of man would I be if I did not indulge my own bride in her thoughts?"
You pause. "Your bride?"
"Yes. Yes, my bride." He sets his large hands upon your shoulders respectfully, yet firm. "I care for you greatly. Anything you want, I would give to you. We could have seven outlandish ceremonies for each of your gods if it made you smile. Why do you think I do not care?"
My bride, it rings in your head. Cregan Stark's bride. You are marrying Cregan Stark?
"Are… are we courting?" You stutter.
His hands fall as if you burned him. "My lady. Please stop jesting. Forgive me, but I do not understand your quips."
"I am not. I… You are courting me?"
His lips pull in a tight line. "I have been. For a while now. Why did you believe your family came to Winterfell? And that I spent time with you?"
You wring your hands together. "Father said we had to keep good relations with the North."
"What did he say exactly? The words he used?"
"He said to pack nice dresses to make a good first impression. That the North needed to like me. There was this odd thing…"
Cregan's eyes stayed firmly on you, watching the way the cloudy sky still made your features light up beautifully.
"Well, after I met you, the day you taught me cyvasse, he was very happy. After dinner, he couldn't stop smiling."
"I told him I liked you," he explained. "That I… I wanted to court you."
"You've been courting me since then?"
He smiles lightly. "I would have courted you years ago if I'd known you."
"I still don't understand. Yesterday, my handmaiden came in and said she overheard you speaking of your wedding to another woman."
"Last night?" At your nod, he rushes to explain. "I told your father my intentions to marry you. That today, I would…" he stops himself short. "We were discussing matters of your dowry and how I could ensure your happiness here."
"My dowry?" You frown. "Lord Stark, forgive me, but my family is quite poor. We do not have money for a dowry, not really."
"I know," he eases. "Do not worry about the details. It has been taken care of. I suppose I did all of it but the most important part."
"And what would that part be?"
Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North, lowers himself before you. He kneels down on one knee, tall and proud, stiff as a true northerner. He takes your hand in both of his.
"I am poor with my words. But I know what I think and what I feel. And I… I believe you would make a well off Lady Stark. The North would prosper with your soft hand to compliment my harsh one." He stops himself, forcing him to think— for once— of what he wants, and not the North. "I have fallen in love with you, my lady. Very much. Winterfell warmed when you stepped into it, and I refuse to let it grow cold again. Say you will stay. That you want me. I am trying to speak clearly now, for I've done it so poorly thus far. Our wedding will not have to be for some time, so I may properly court you with your knowledge. But say you will let me. Please."
His hands are callused, rough against yours. But warm. Safe. The same man that noticed your love for embroidery. The same man that taught you cyvasse. The same man that loves you. The same man who is currently looking at you like you are the sunshine the North lacks.
"I always wanted a handsome husband," you admit sheepishly.
His face falls a bit. "Is that… would…"
"You are very handsome, Lord Stark."
For a moment, he looks as if he doesn't believe you. But then he smiles. "You accept then?"
"I do."
He kisses your hand once, twice, then stands in excitement. Northern excitement looks different. He doesn't spin you around, or yell his love from the rooftops. Instead, his shoulders broaden proudly and he offers you his arm.
That gray fabric you imagined lays on your bed by the end of the day. Next to it, weir wood beads and multicolored threads to decorate it.
Your family suddenly became wealthier. You believed that it was because there was one less daughter to care for. But the servants' whispers told you that Cregan had denied a dowry and instead paid your father to ensure your family stayed comfortable. He didn't want you to worry for them.
A month passes, and spring was in full bloom— at least, what spring was in the north.
You had just beat Cregan had cyvasse finally. His eyes twinkled with amusement, a smile trying to be held back as well.
That's what you knew.
"When is our wedding?"
"When you are ready," he answers without missing a beat.
"I am." You stretched and stand. "I am ready to marry you." You kiss his cheek and walk off.
He sits in that chair for the next two hours, silent and blushing a profuse pink.
..........................................................................
Taglist: @alyssa-dayne @twinkletwinklenotastar @kidd3ath @yujyujj @misswynters @cosmosnkaz @sithapprentice @kaniromi @lovemesomevesey @its-jackie-bb @thorins-queen-of-erebor @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn @callsignwidow @a1lexh-blog @ethereal-athalia @ashovertheriver @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @dozcan123 @wangjiangelangel @kamitargaryen @aegonswife @lv7867 @helpmedecideaname @cherryheairt @classicsimpforaaronwarner @purple-1995, @raven-dor, @oohzkdlins, @lunaritychuwolf, @nlnny@silverlightsaber, @t958580, @fangirling-jess, @shesneverreallythere, @sw0rdmaiden
My idea is HOTD related cause I need this fandom alive again on this app!! Namely my man Cregan!! So my idea! Cregan takes Kings Landing for the Blacks as per, but there is another Targtower sibling who’s recluse, innocent played no part in the war, the council decide her fate, most want her to die to be made an example of. Cregan suggests they spare her, he suggests marriage under the guise of her being the furthest place away she could be. He takes pity on her, sort of an enemies to lovers where she’s cautious of him, he’s unsure of her innocence whether she would plot and she thinks he’s her punishment. That’s what I’ve got 🫠 cause I feel like most Cregan stories are getting samey samey
The Cost of Mercy
Pairing: Cregan x Targtower Reader
Word Count: 1.6k+
Author’s Note: Ik i said no targaryen readers but technically she is a hightower, no physical description but i do imagine her with Alicent’s colors.
I remember the silence more than the shouting. The shouting ended with executions. The silence lingered. No one comes to tell you your family is dead in the songs. They speak of ravens, of weeping queens, of princes dying gloriously upon dragonback. They do not tell you about the servants who stop meeting your eyes. The trays of food that arrive untouched because no one knows whether you are to be fed or forgotten. The corridors that empty when you appear, as though grief itself has become contagious.
I counted the bells the morning they came for me.
One.
Two.
Three.
By the fourth, the door opened.
“Your Grace.” No one had called me that in weeks. Not sincerely. “You are summoned before the council.”
I rose without asking why. There was no point. If they meant to kill me, I would learn soon enough. If they meant to imprison me, I would learn soon enough. If they meant to spare me… No. I had long since abandoned hope. Hope was for people who still had futures. Mine had burned with the dragons.
The throne room no longer belonged to us. It scarcely belonged to anyone. The Iron Throne stood unchanged, yet everything else felt wrong. The banners had changed. The faces had changed. Even the silence had changed. Men spoke in quieter voices around conquerors. I kept my gaze lowered until I reached the center of the hall. Someone began listing names.
Traitors. Executions. Confiscated lands. Oaths. Each sentence sounded like another stone sealing a tomb. Then came mine.
“The princess.”
No one bothered saying my name. I wondered if forgetting it would make killing me easier.
“Her blood alone makes her dangerous.”
“She remains a claimant.”
“A marriage elsewhere would not prevent conspiracies.”
“Every rebellion begins with someone.”
“End it now.”
Their words drifted over me like winter rain.
Dangerous.
Claimant.
Dragon.
Execution.
I had heard them all before. I folded my hands together to stop them trembling. If this was to be my end, I would not beg. My father had once said that dragons did not kneel. We also died. I learned that much. A voice cut through the chamber.
Deep.
Steady.
Northern.
“No.”
The hall quieted.
I looked up for the first time. Lord Stark stood among them. He did not look at me. He looked only at the council.
“If you kill her,” he said evenly, “you give every discontented lord a corpse to mourn.”
Someone scoffed.
“She is a Green.”
“She is also harmless.”
“Harmless dragons grow teeth.”
“They cannot if they are kept where no one can reach them.”
Another lord frowned.
“And where is that?”
“The North.”
The room laughed. Not loudly. Disbelievingly. Someone asked whether he truly intended to cart a princess across the realm like baggage. His answer came without hesitation.
“I intend to remove the last excuse for further bloodshed.”
Another voice.
“You would imprison her?”
“I would marry her.”
Silence. Real silence. Even I forgot to breathe.I stared at him. Surely I had misheard. Marriage? To me? The council erupted. Arguments flew like arrows. Madness. Insult. Political disaster. Mercy. Necessity. I heard none of it.
My thoughts had frozen.Marriage. Not death. Not freedom. Something far stranger. Someone finally addressed me directly.
“Princess.”
I forced myself to answer.
“My lord.”
“Do you object?”
I nearly laughed. Object? To what? Had anyone asked whether I objected when my brothers rode to war? When my family died? When my life became a bargaining piece?Choice had left me long ago.
“I will do as the Lord Hand commands.”
It was the only answer left to me.
The wedding took place before I had time to understand it.There were no celebrations.No singers.No joyful crowds. No family standing beside me. The sept felt impossibly large. Every vow echoed. When the ceremony ended, people congratulated Lord Stark. Not me. No one knew what to say to a woman who had survived because someone decided death would be inconvenient.
The journey north lasted forever. Every mile carried me farther from everything I had ever known. The air changed. The trees changed. Even the sky seemed larger. Lord Stark rarely spoke. I appreciated that. What comfort could he offer? He had conquered my home. I had lost mine.
Words would only expose wounds. Sometimes we rode side by side in complete silence. Sometimes he rode ahead. Sometimes behind. I wondered if he watched me expecting betrayal. I wondered whether he regretted saving me. One evening he finally spoke.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
It was a lie. He looked at me for a long moment before dismounting. The next morning there were heavier furs waiting with my belongings. No explanation accompanied them. Neither did thanks. I could not decide which would embarrass us more.
Winterfell was unlike any place I had imagined. Not cruel. Simply…Unyielding. The stones themselves seemed older than kingdoms. Older than dragons. Older than ambition. The people bowed because I was their lord’s wife. Nothing more. Some looked at me with curiosity. Others with open distrust. I could not blame them. Their sons had died fighting people who shared my blood. If I had been born among them, perhaps I would have hated me too.
The servants spoke softly around me. Conversations ended when I entered. Children stared before being hurried away. The castle accepted my presence. It did not welcome it. Lord Stark noticed. He noticed everything. He said very little. One afternoon I entered the hall as two men discussed supplies. One glanced toward me.
“A strange thing.”
“What is?”
“A dragon beneath a wolf’s roof.”
The other chuckled. I turned to leave. Before I reached the door, Lord Stark spoke. “She has a name.” The room fell silent, neither man answered. “She is Lady Stark.”
Nothing more. He returned to his work. The conversation ended there. He never mentioned it again. Neither did I. Yet something shifted. Not within them. Within me.
For the first time since the war ended… Someone had claimed me. Not as a princess. Not as a hostage. Not as a Green. Simply as his wife.
Winter arrived in earnest. Everyone assured me this was only the beginning. I almost feared asking what they considered a true winter. Snow swallowed the world. The godswood became silent beneath white branches. The nights stretched endlessly. Sometimes I missed the sound of gulls. Sometimes I missed nothing at all.
Grief is peculiar. Some mornings I woke convinced I heard my mother’s voice. Some nights I forgot it entirely. Those frightened me most.
I found purpose among ledgers. The steward looked exhausted. Stores needed counting. Letters required organizing. Accounts had fallen behind while every able hand prepared for war. I asked if I might help. He blinked.
“You know numbers?”
“I should hope so.”
Within days the work became routine. Inventories. Harvest records. Trade. Winter stores. No one praised me. They simply began bringing more work. I preferred that. Pity had become unbearable. Responsibility was lighter.
Lord Stark appeared one evening after supper. He glanced over the parchment covering the table.
“You’ve reorganized everything.”
“Was I not meant to?”
“No.”
I looked up. His expression remained unreadable.
“No one else thought to.”
That was the closest thing to praise I had received in months. I treasured it far more than I admitted.
Time passed strangely in Winterfell. Not quickly. Not slowly. Steadily. Like snow accumulating against stone. One morning he asked whether I slept well. Another day he inquired whether the library held enough books. Weeks later he asked if I wished more lemon seeds brought north in the spring. Each question was small. Forgettable. Together they became something larger. Care. Not spoken. Practiced.
I stopped flinching whenever footsteps approached my chambers. I stopped expecting messengers bearing another sentence. I stopped counting bells. Perhaps healing begins with the habits we quietly abandon.
The first time I laughed, it startled both of us. A stable boy proudly informed me he’d named an exceptionally stubborn goat after a southern lord because “it complains even when fed.” I laughed before I could stop myself. Lord Stark happened to be passing. He paused. The boy immediately paled.
“I—I meant no offense, my lord.”
Lord Stark looked between us. Then, after an impossibly long pause, the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Keep the goat out of my kitchens.”
The boy fled. I laughed harder. It was brief. But it was real. When I looked back at him, he was watching me with quiet surprise. As though he had forgotten I was capable of joy. Perhaps I had forgotten too.
Sometimes I still dreamed of dragons. Not flying. Falling. Always falling. I would wake before dawn convinced I smelled smoke. Instead there was only cold stone and distant wolves. It took time to realize I no longer feared opening my chamber door. There were no guards waiting.
No council. No sentence. Only another day. Another northern morning. Another chance to become someone other than the last daughter of a defeated house. I do not know when Winterfell ceased feeling like exile. Perhaps it never truly did. Perhaps exile simply became home. The songs would never sing of such things. They would remember the Hour of the Wolf. The executions. The judgments. The conqueror who came south.
They would not remember the frightened princess who believed marriage was merely another form of punishment. Nor would they remember the quiet lord who proved, not through grand declarations or impossible promises, but through countless ordinary kindnesses, that survival could become living. Some wounds never close. Some names are never forgotten. I still grieve. I always will. But when the bells ring now, I no longer count them. I simply listen.
family
Summary: You and your husband finally find time to visit your family at the Red Keep. (Cregan Stark x Targ!Reader) (1.7k)
Notes: MDNI 18+ smut, reader and cregan get walked in on, readers 20 and cregans 23 idc if that doesnt make sense with canon this is fanfiction i can do what i like, canon divergent obvs, alcohol, reader is rhaenyras daughter, one y/n. first time writing for cregan!!!
The gates of the Red Keep creak open allowing the flag bearers at the front of your group entry so they may announce your arrival.
"Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of The North, and his lady wife Princess Y/N Targaryen." You and Cregan ride in time with eachother and pull your horses to a stop just beyond the gate. He slides off the saddle before making his way to you to place his large hands on your waist and lift you from your own. You grunt as your boots meet the dirt of the courtyard and squeeze his arm in silent thanks before turning to see the group gathered to greet you.
"Daughter." Your mother Rhaenyra says with a warm smile that crinkles her eyes.
"Mother." You respond, walking to her where she meets you half way, embracing her in a crushing hold.
She pulls back and holds your face letting her eyes remember the face she hasnt seen in years. "It has been so long."
"I know, the journey is difficult- and long. Even by dragon. And is a miracle that Cregans duties have allowed him to come here." You turn slightly to face him. Hes stood behind you, slightly awkwardly for the Warden of the North, you think, but you dont blame him- he sticks out like a sore thumb here.
"Lord Stark, I trust the journey went well by all accounts." Rhaenyra says.
"Aye Your Grace. Your daughter is right, the journey is not forgiving, but she is tough."
"It would be quicker if someone would ride Cannibal with me." You jest and he just grunts.
"Come, let us get you inside."
The Red Keep was different than you remembered. Granted it had been many, many years since you had last been here, but it lacked the soul you recalled thrumming through every hall so vividly. Your grandsire had summoned the whole family here in celebration of his nameday. Instead of a grand tourney or hunt he had one wish: a dinner with his family. You were prepared to make the journey alone but Cregan had insisted on accompanying you after ensuring all his duties could be handled in his absence and truthfully you were thankful for his presence.
The staff showed you to your old bedroom where your belongings were already being unpacked by the handmaidens. You were thankful that your room seems to have been left untouched and didnt match the drab interior of the rest of the castle.
"Thank you, leave us." You softly receiving a sea of nods from the maids before filing out of the room. After the tell tale click of closing doors you walk over to your bed and flop down on your back with a huff.
Cregan leaves his place by the window and sits on the mattress next to you. "How are you feeling, love?"
You huff again. "Relieved. Stressed. Suffocated. Warm. Im feeling everything." He chuckled and laced his fingers with yours, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing the back of it tenderly. "And- gods-"
"You know you can speak your mind around me, wife." His voice is lower than usual as he watches you turn over the thoughts in your mind.
"Is it wrong of me to say I miss Winterfell? I have not even been here an hour and- I dont know. I am so happy to see my family again, but this place, its so different." You fiddle mindlessly with his wedding ring as you finally air out your feelings.
"You have lived in the North for a while now, I like to think it has become a home to you. It is normal to miss it." You hum, sitting up on your elbows to look at him properly. The movement causes a strand of hair to fall into your face which he swiftly tucks back behind you ear, leaving his hand there to stroke over the soft strands. "And this place did not give you the fondest of memories. I do not blame you for feeling stressed." It was no secret you struggled with your station. And then to add the constant insults and threats about your parentage, from your own family no less, it was no surprise you became overwhelmed and shut yourself away. You were thankful that Winterfell had lifted that stress from your shoulders.
"And its so warm." You say with a pout and headbutt his side.
He chuckles softly. "Aye, it is."
Viserys greets you with a hug and a pleased sigh of your name. "My word, you have grown so much. You look well, im glad the North is treating you as such."
Your heart hurts at his words. You wish you could say the same to him but time has not been kind to your grandsire. "Cregan takes good care of me, and the food up north is hearty."
He smiles, revealing a few decaying teeth but they do not dampen the sincerity of it. "And you are happy?"
"More than I have ever been."
"That is all I could hope for." He looks to Cregan who stands just behind you. "And Lord Stark. I am very appreciative that you made the journey here in spite of your duties. And equally for your care of my granddaughter."
"Of course, Your Grace." He nods politely. The Kings attention is whisked away somewhere else leaving you to look around the candle lit hall. Your eyes land on Alicent and Cregans follow. "Do you wish to greet her?"
"Not particularly, but it might be a matter of just taking the bull by the horns." You finish your glass of wine in one big gulp. "You must do your best to hold your tongue."
"Mm." He grumbles.
The dinner came and went without trouble. For once your family seemed to behave and refrain from sending eachother ceaseless insults over the meal. You enjoyed watching Cregan speak with Jace. Despite their differences they had formed a sort of friendship through Jaces occasional visits to the north, and it warmed your heart to see him fit so seamlessly into this part of your life. Aside from one unsavoury comment from Aegon about northerners prowess in a certain area, the evening went smoothly.
You ended the night with your head rested on Cregans chest in a bed that was far less cozy than your one back home. But you didnt mind, the wine moving through your veins settled you into a deep sleep as soon as you were in his arms.
The sun filtered through the net curtains far too easily, waking you much before you desired. The first thing you felt was your husband turning in the bed with a sleepy groan followed by a gruff, "Mornin'.”
"Morning my love." You kissed him softly noting the way his stubble felt against you. "Did you sleep well?"
"No." His voice is muffled by the pillow he buries his head in. Your lips move over his cheeks, down his neck and over the muscular plains of his shoulder. "Do not start something you cannot finish."
"I think you know full well that I can finish it." You say with a teasing lilt to your voice. You squeal when Cregan grabs your wrist and moves himself on top of you, brushing his nose against yours. You lift your head to kiss him deeply, whining into the kiss and fighting against his hold on your arms desperate to get your hands on him.
"Youre trouble, wife." He groans against your lips.
"You wouldnt have me any other way." He kisses your smiling mouth and finally releases your hands in favour of gripping harshly at the fat of your ass. He grinds his hardening cock against your cunt forcing you legs open wider to accommodate him which you do without complaint.
"I need you," You say between kisses. "Please Cregan."
"Shh, you have me." He blindly pulls up your night gown over your hips while his mouth works over the peak of your nipple through the silken fabric. He sits up slightly, fisting his leaking cock before lining it up with your entrance. As much as you loved foreplay, there was something so special about desperate, needy sex on a quiet morning- all hands and teeth and groping. He pushed into you slowly, the stretch sending a thrum of pleasure through you and only made you need him more.
He thrusts his hips deeply, the thick patch of hair surrounding his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit. Your nails dig into his broad shoulders and pulled him closer needing his body pressed up against yours, needing to feel all of him. His mouth moves back to your chest which was now exposed by the flurry of movement and nibbles gently sending your hands flying to his hair and pulling at his long hair. He smiles as you whine and tug harder, growling against your tits and picking up the pace of his hips.
"Daughter, I-" Your mothers voice rings out through the room and both you and Cregan freeze. So lost in the feeling of eachother, you hadnt heard the doors open- only becoming aware the intrusion when she called out to you.
"Gods! I- I am so sorry," Rhaenyra covers her eyes and spins around lightning fast giving you a chance to separate from your lover and pull the covers over anything indecent. She speaks again, still facing away with a hand firml over her eyes. "I am so used to just- walking in. I forget that now my daughter is a woman grown. Please, forgive me."
Your cheeks couldnt be hotter as you stutter over your words. "I- Is everything okay?"
"Yes, nothing urgent. I was simply going to ask if you wanted to join me for a walk in the gardens. But it seems you have already decided your morning plans."
You let out an anguished whine and bury your head in your hands.
"Im sorry, im sorry," Your mother fights a smile as she moves towards the exit. "I will leave you to your… relations."
And with that she exits your bedroom leaving you a puddle of embarrassment next to your husband who sports a slight blush of his own.
"I can never look her in the eyes again."
"Come here." He pulls you into his side and rubs over your back. "It could be worse."
"Could it?" You query.
"Yes, but ill spare you the thoughts." He kisses your forehead softly and smiles, settling back into the bed bringing you with him. The warmth of his embrace somewhat scrubbed the mortification from your body. You were grateful you had found eachother, even more grateful that you were betrothed.
