Archive of Our Own

Coming home is always strange. It’s still the place where Jon’s most himself, where he’s just Lyanna Stark’s kid again, living down the road in what was a rental property on the Targaryen property. He slips right into it, this other version of himself, the real one. But the changes always sneak up on him. Like Abel’s Gas Station on 61 at the Winterfell exit, which is now a Sunoco, and requires prepayment inside before you can pump your gas, which feels like a capitalist kick in the teeth after a long drive.

Or Sansa Stark texting him on a Saturday night. Robb Stark’s little sister, not so little anymore. Not for a while. They don’t keep up with each other, but they’re in the same orbit, running into each other at home and hearing updates through Robb or Arya. She graduated from school in the spring and has been living in the city, though they’ve never crossed paths there.

Home for the holidays, just like him, he ran into her at Abel’s—Sunoco. His mom says the Boltons own the gas station now. Assholes. Jon didn’t even know the guy behind the counter with the terrible teeth. She didn’t either, but she was polite. She’s always polite.

She was there with her sunglasses pushed up on her head without a coat, legs long, and fiddling with the pump like she’d never used one before.

Ned Stark probably never lets his wife or daughter pump their own gas. Well, one daughter, at least: Arya probably can syphon, and she hates to be helped.

Jon stepped in. Took it from her without asking, so she wouldn’t get her hands dirty or anything on that suede skirt or boots. She let go right away. Didn’t protest.

She was always the prettiest girl at Winterfell High School. Smart and talented too. That improbable intersection of qualities that he swore internally didn’t interest him. Fantasies don’t count. A teenage boy’s mind can’t be held accountable.

She said they should catch up, handing him her cell phone after he hung the nozzle up. The wind caught some of her hair, and she hooked it free of her lips, smiling at him. He entered his number, texting himself—hey, Jon’s phone—not expecting anything.

He has big expectations in life. Sansa’s not part of them.

His phone chimes.

His mom looks up from her mug of tea at the sound, as he reaches over the arm of the sofa for it. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, again?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. But they can do without you for a night. Turn it off, sweetheart.”

Work’s been bothering him constantly.

He adjusts the phone in his hand, brows knitting at the notification—Sansa Stark, Text Message. Face recognition opens the text after a tap of his thumb.

“Turns out I’m a little drunk.”

It’s right there below her grey bubble text—“thanks for the help 💕!”—that she sent as he pulled away from Abel’s—Sunoco—in his truck.

People in the city think his truck is ridiculous. Val teased him about it. But he hasn’t seen any reason to replace it. He doesn’t need to pretend he’s something he’s not. He’s treated differently at work than he was here, but at the core, he’s Lyanna’s kid and a country boy, and that’s fine. If people don’t like it, that’s not his problem.

“It’s not work, actually.”

“Good,” she says, bringing the mug closer to her face. “Back in the day, they at least couldn’t reach you when you took time off. How could they?”

Back in the day, his mom couldn’t afford a vacation, but she’s had a cellphone for as long as he can remember.

“Yeah,” he agrees, thumb sliding.

“You alright?” he taps out and hits the green arrow.

Robb would have picked Sansa up if that’s what she needed tonight, but Robb isn’t home. Stayed in the city with his fiancée and her family. Jon gets it. When he was with Ygritte, handling the holidays was always hard. She didn’t like anyone in Winterfell, almost on principle, but Jon’s mom has precisely one person to count on. His mom shouldn’t be alone on the holidays, and she needs stuff done around the house, things he notices and does without asking so she doesn’t protest. He couldn’t be the person Ygritte wanted him to be.

Since Jon has no interest in meeting up with Theon, that leaves no one to hang with other than mini Starks. So, Jon might be on Catelyn Stark’s side this time: he’s guessing Mrs. Stark is less than thrilled even if the rest of the Starks are home for the holidays.

Sansa was a mini Stark once. Jon has known her since she was two. Before she ever thought to get a little drunk. Or managed to make him toss his phone up on his dashboard over an emoji heart. Turns out, there’s a part of him ready to slip right back into that too.

“I don’t care how much they pay you,” his mom says, as his eyes distractedly flick up from the phone. “You deserve time to yourself.”

His mouth pulls flat. “Yeah.”

“Who is it?” she asks into her mug, before taking a sip. “Friend?”

She’s got a tone. A mom tone. Like she suspects something.

“Girlfriend?”

He never bothered to mention Val. As far as his mom knows, he’s been single the past year.

“Uh—” The ellipsis keeps animating and disappearing, and he rubs his hands over his jeans. “Sansa.”

He doesn’t have to explain who he means. There’s only one Sansa. Currently, at least, since she’s named after a great-grandmother Lyanna knew as one of the old ladies at church, but Sansa never met. He also doesn’t have to look up from the phone to feel his mother’s eyebrows arch.

What pops up next—“Just cold”—makes him frown.

He thinks about her at Abel’s—fucking Sunoco—and how the guy behind the counter with terrible teeth checked out her legs when she came in to prepay. Jon lingered after the transaction to skewer him with a look. It makes total sense that the Boltons would hire some damn pervert to work the register.

He opens his mouth, ready to explain it—I ran into her yesterday—when another grey bubble appears: “It’s ok I can walk”

Nope. Not going to happen.

Jon pushes to his feet, striding to the desk at the front door. It’s an antique, a school desk his mom got at the antique mall on 79. They dump their coats on it in the winter. Hats and gloves too, when it’s extra cold. Which it is. If it snows tomorrow like forecasted, it’ll definitely be around for a while. It’s fine: his mom loves a white Christmas, and he can use the snowblower for her so she doesn’t slip, heading out to her car.

“Something wrong?” his mom says, the side of her face lit by the Christmas tree, as she sets her mug down.

“No, it’s fine. Sit,” he instructs, when her body posture tilts forward like she might jump up.

He stops to tap out with both hands, “Where are you?”

There’s no ellipsis.

“She might need a ride, though.” She’s not walking anywhere. He grabs his coat by the collar and stuffs his right arm in, switching his suddenly quiet phone to his left hand. “Not a big deal.”

He does not look up to see what kind of face she’s making in the stretch of silence that precedes her instructions. “Watch for deer. They’re terrible this year.”

They’re always terrible.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Ruts over. Bucks are less crazy now. But they can always pop out in the dark on you.

“Well, I do. One jumped right out in front of poor Nan a couple of weeks ago. Totaled her car,” his mom says, as he snatches up his keys.

“She alright?”

“Thankfully. But you know her insurance isn’t that good.”

Jon glances down at his phone: still nothing.

“She really only drives to church and the Dollar Store. I’ve been taking her.”

“When something like that happens, call me. I can help. I’ll pay for it.”

His mom’s face shifts, that soft smile of hers half-illuminated in the otherwise darkened room. “I’m so proud of you.”

He pats for his gloves in his coat pockets.

What’s the point of answering texts for his big fucking job over Christmas if that job doesn’t let him help the people who helped him growing up? Nan watched him when his mom didn’t have the money to pay for a sitter, and the Starks used to buy his rec league jerseys and hats so he could play on Robb’s teams and sometimes beat him in the stats.

“Bring her by. I’d love to see Sansa.”

He jostles his keys. “Probably not tonight.”

“Should I wait up?” she calls, as he unlocks the front door and gives it a good yank. It sticks. He’ll hit the hinges with WD-40. If it gets too hard, she’ll stop locking it again. She never would if he didn’t lecture her about being alone. “Or no?”

There’s the look he was avoiding, and suddenly he’s seventeen again, trying to figure out who to ask to prom while his mom sits across the kitchen table from him, looking like she knows the answer.

But Joff was the quarterback. That made sense: pretty cheerleader, quarterback.

Joff wrapped himself around a tree going ninety without the help of a deer.

“It won’t take long.”

He pulls the door shut behind him quickly, so he doesn’t let the cold in. The heavy gravel crunches under his feet, the light from the carport throwing shadows as he stares down at the dark phone. He’s ready to ask again—where are you?—when it chimes, as he slides into his truck. It takes twice, swiping, with his suddenly too cold fingers to open it. His breath fogs before the screen.

“It’s cold out here 🙃”

“It’s December,” he reminds her. In the summer, his car smells like plastic. The cold steals the scent. It’s just crisp winter, sharp in his lungs as he inhales. He blows into his hand. It helps some with the typing. Sort of. “Where. Are. You.”

He digs for his gloves, leaning on one side. They’re the tech kind. They’ll work. Phone balanced on his leg, he fights to get one glove on, then the other, and starts the car, waiting for a response so he knows where the hell he’s going. His mom is probably watching out the window, wondering why he’s sitting in the carport while Sansa is awaiting a rescue of some kind.

Once the ellipsis appears, the text follows quickly: “Mormont’s back field.”

“Jesus Christ,” he says, throwing the truck in reverse.

That’s not what he was expecting. Margaery’s house, maybe. The big back deck they have with the fancy built-in firepit, where Loras used to have parties in school, would have been a possibility. Not partying in a field in this weather like she’s the one who’s seventeen again.

He presses the microphone, turning the wheel with the heel of his hand. “Stay put. I’ll pick you up off H.”

Text sent, he drops the phone in his cupholder.

He doesn’t speed—deer, and he’s not friendly with the current sheriff—though he’s tempted. It’s seven minutes down W and then a right on H, past the bridge that’s really just a culvert. The Mormont’s place backs up to the highway just at the top of the rise, the back forty, where they put in corn that’s reliably high as an elephant’s eye by the fourth. He pulls into the dirt road, marked by a white fenceline and an old elm.

There’s no sign of a party. No bonfire lighting up the star-punched sky, no trucks halfway in the ditch of the road, lining the way towards the old cattle barn. He rolls down his window. Can’t hear anything or smell firewood burning either. It’s just the hum of his engine and the cold hitting him in the face.

He would have seen her if she tried walking, despite what he told her. He would have passed her. Unless she was already farther south along H. That’s the kind of stubborn shit Arya would do, walk when told to stay the put. Those Stark girls can be scary similar despite what people might think.

“Fuck,” he says, grabbing blindly for his phone.

There’s a new message delivered minutes ago, but it’s just emojis that make no sense: 👀🤰

He taps the top of the conversation. It pulls up her info. He hits her mobile number, and it starts to dial as he presses the phone to his ear. It rings and rings and fucking rings. Her voicemail isn’t set up. He ends the call and pulls it up again, dialing with a huff.

He growls and ends the call again.

“Sans,” he types and sends. “Pick up your damn phone. I’m calling you.”

The ellipsis starts again. He doesn’t have time for that. He dials.

First ring, she picks up. There’s rustling, and then a soft, “Hey.”

“I’m here, but I don’t see you.”

“Yeah?” she says, equally soft. “Is that you over there?”

“Probably. Can you see the highway?”

“Mmhmm.”

Jon squints through the windshield into the brush-hogged field. “Where the hell are you?”

“I sat down.”

Jon grabs his door handle and pulls. It opens with a clunk. “Stand, so I can see you.”

More rustling, but he doesn’t see any movement in the field. He turns to his left and pushes his door shut. Maybe she’s in the Bolton’s field, got turned around, and doesn’t know it.

There’s not one living soul around, best as he can see. He’d start yelling for her, but the Boltons have some mean dogs he’d rather not alert.

“My butt is so damn cold. Coat didn’t go with my dress.”

He takes two quick steps in front of the hood. “What are you wearing?”

“Ooooh, okay,” she coos, just as he spots movement near the fenceline. “What are you wearing?”

She’s in black. His chest collapses with the force of his misted exhale. No wonder he couldn’t see her crouched down. Hand on the fence, she’s pulling herself upright, as he hangs up and shouts to her.

“Sans.”

Her hand lifts, and then she turns, brushing herself off, as he jogs toward her. His coat is already off before he gets to her, holding it out.

“You worried me.”

It’s not the first time she’s worried him. There was a time in college when Jon heard some things about Ramsay Bolton that made him pay him a visit.

The sentiment lands with a slow smile that only disappears when she looks back down at herself. The dress isn’t actually black, he realizes. It’s green, dark green, and way too nice for whatever the Mormonts threw together tonight.

“Am I all dirty?” she asks, twisting to look over her shoulder.

It’s also short. Short short. And she’s a little dusty.

“No, you look pretty.”

“Thank you,” she says with a look from the coat he’s holding out to his face. “It has pockets.”

She smiles—big—before she bites her lower lip and demonstrates, sliding her hands into pockets that he’s not sure would hold a phone. She twists, side to side, and he’s tempted to lift his finger, wordlessly requesting a twirl. His mouth hooks on one side. Fuck.

“You’re so sweet to come,” she says, overshooting the mark, as she steps into him and bumps his chest. “My hero. What were you doing tonight?”

“Nothing. Happy to come get you,” he says, as she turns and slides her arms into his too-big-for-her coat.

“Will your girlfriend be mad?”

He drags it up over her shoulders. “Single.”

Ygritte would have been pissed. She knew too much.

She slowly blinks up at him like a self-satisfied kitten. She looks cute in his coat. She’s tall, but the shoulders are too big for her. It drapes, hanging so her hands are half obscured. He scrubs his mouth and grabs for her elbow. The field is frozen and uneven, and she doesn’t need to take a tumble. She’d cut up her cold-rosy knees.

“What the hell are you doing in the Mormont’s back field?”

“There was a party.”

Jon scans the horizon again. There’s not even a peek of light. But the Mormont house is back a way down the road behind a stand of thick trees. A lot of people have torn down their old farmhouses, replaced them with shiny new homes paid for with USDA rural housing loans with zero percent down payment options. Not the Mormonts, and their old wood siding farmhouse with its outhouse, chicken coop, and ice house sits without any reference to the highways that came long after it was constructed. They’ve got soybean, corn, and cattle money, but there’s no sparkly inground pool in the back like the Starks have.

“Everyone was too young. It was stupid. I should have called you if you weren’t busy. Would you have answered?”

“Sure.”

She reaches across herself and grabs the hand he’s using to steady her. “You have a sexy phone voice.”

He pulls a face. “What were they serving at this party?”

“Punch.”

“Great.”

Her fingers run over the back of his glove, pushing into the sleeve of his shirt. “I like it.”

“I think that’s the point of punch.”

Getting girls to drink too much. Sweet enough to conceal whatever crap has been poured into the bowl.

“It’s all they had except Busch Lite.” She gives him a tug. “I mean your voice. It’s a good voice. You should do like phone sex operator stuff. Is that still a thing?” she asks, looking up at him, as he leads her to his running truck.

Those blue eyes make her look innocent. He realizes with a swoop that he’d like to see if she is. But she’s going to regret this tomorrow, and he doesn’t want to be a part of that.

“Did digital porn put the phone sex operators out of business?” she asks, brows drawing together like she is suddenly concerned for out-of-work operators.

Her lips are rosy like her knees and the tip of her nose. She pouts.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Her hand braces against the truck. “Aren’t you all porn addicts?”

“Who?” he asks, reaching around her for the handle.

“Guys. Porn and sports betting app addicts.”

She was dating a guy over the summer—Harry, he thinks Robb said—but Jon never met him.

“No.”

But it sounds like Harry was.

In the time he lets go of her to open the passenger side door, she starts to crumple. It’s an elegant kind of slow melting, one foot crossed over the other, as she goes down. He grabs her under the arm, hauling her back up.

“Come on, you can’t sit down again.”

“Whoopsie.”

“Yep. Climb up here for me,” he says, maneuvering behind her in case she totters on the step up or decides she doesn’t want to do as he says. But she doesn’t need his boost, and she does exactly as he asks. “That’s a good girl.”

His coat hangs out the door, and he folds it up on her, covering her bare thigh.

“I like that, too,” she says, as he snags the door, ready to shut her and her mile-long legs inside the warm cab.

“What’s that?”

She pulls his coat tighter around herself in a whisper of wool. “You calling me a good girl.”

He nods like she’s given him her McDonald’s order. “Good to know.”

He shuts the door.

Good to fucking know.

The thing with Val ended before Thanksgiving, and it was never serious. It was light and sexy.

But this is Sansa Stark, so he forces himself to think about the socks his mom probably bought him and a tie for work that will be wrapped in the same paper she’s used for a decade as he walks behind the truck. His hand flexes before pulling on the door handle.

She’s drunk and naturally friendly. It’s just dialed up to ten because of the punch.

“Alright?” he asks, sliding in as she snaps her buckle in. “Feeling ok?”

He pops his phone back in the cupholder and stretches his belt across his chest before yanking his gloves off.

“Mmhmm,” she says, head bobbing. “Thank you for getting me. I was going to walk.”

“That’s not safe. I don’t want you doing that.”

“It’s Winterfell,” she says, tone shifting into annoyance as he backs down the road onto the highway.

That more than anything reminds him of Arya.

It might not be the city, but there was a mountain lion caught on a trail cam in the spring. A young male. The kind of thing people swear they saw while hunting, and no one believes them. Their vocalizing sounds like a human screaming.

If something would happen to her—

“Things happen in Winterfell. And it’s too cold.”

She hums. “Told you my coat didn’t go with my dress. This one works, though,” she says, undoing his work to cover her up, as she crosses and uncrosses her legs.

“It’s a good dress,” he says with a sideways glance his mom wouldn’t appreciate after he swore to be careful.

Eyes on the road. Because of deer.

“What part do you like?” she asks, making him drum his fingers on the wheel.

“The color.”

“Uh huh.” Her hair swishes as she turns her head to look out the passenger window. “I won’t do it again.”

He’s not sure if she means get drunk, tease him, or try to walk in the dark during the winter. Either way, he doesn’t entirely believe her, regardless of her sugary voice.

He puts his blinker on, pulling to the stop sign at W. There’s no one around for miles, but he’s gotten in the habit in the city.

His house is to the left. Hers is to the right. Closer than his is to the Mormont’s, but he still wouldn’t want her walking. Not even in the summer. Copperheads hide in the tall grass by the dry branches. There’s no way to see them in the dark.

“Were you with your mom?”

“Yeah.”

She rocks in the seat, legs rubbing together. “Robb’s in trouble with Mama.”

“I figured.”

“I’m sorry I interrupted.”

Always polite. Always appropriate.

“It’s alright,” he says, switching to high beams.

“Tell her I said hi.”

“Tell her yourself. She said you should come by.”

“Once I’m sober,” she says, tucking a long strand of her red hair behind her ear, where he’s sure she sprayed the perfume he can smell inside the cab—clean and light, citrus, like summer.

“Did you drive?” Or does he need to help her get her car back tomorrow?

“Margaery picked me up. I shouldn’t be driving at all. Even sober, I mean,” she says, fiddling with her phone case. It pops off, and she sticks out her arm, holding an ID in front of the wheel. “Look. It’s my fake,” she says, pulling it back just as quickly. “Alayne Stone. She’s your age.”

Jon looks sideways at her again. His coat slips off her shoulder as she flips the thing over, examining it in the dark.

“You’re aware you don’t need a fake.”

She’s twenty-two. She’ll be twenty-three in a few months.

“I know, but it’s a great photo, so I kept it,” she says, struggling with the case again, trying to put it back. Her nails are done. Soft pink. Glossy. Not too long. She probably doesn’t want to ruin them. “I don’t drive when I’m in the city. I grabbed the wrong one when I was packing and didn’t realize until I got home. I can’t give this to a cop if I’m pulled over.”

“For sure.”

“I could have remembered Snow better. Whose Alayne Stone?”

He nods like everything she’s said makes sense. “Mine was Aegon.”

She gasps, pressing her hand over her chest in exaggerated fashion, as her head swings around. “A fake? You’re so good, though.”

“You’re so good,” he says, wrapping his hands tighter around the wheel, as she twists in the seat and props her chin in her hand atop his console.

Those painted nails glide over her lips. “Go on.”

He huffs.

Her index finger jabs him. “You’ve got it in you.”

“You’re trouble tonight. Party must have been really boring.”

She switches from a jab to a push. It doesn’t budge him.

“They’re all idiots, you know? I couldn’t wait to leave.”

“Yeah.”

“Still love it though, home,” she says, twisting away to drag a finger down the window. “You can’t see the stars in the city.”

“No, and it smells terrible.”

“Terrible, right?” she agrees forcefully. “But I’m not just bored, unless I’ve been bored for years, and Robb wouldn’t care if that’s your worry.”

“Care about what?” he asks, putting on the blinker again.

Playing dumb feels like his only option.

“Arya might care,” she says, as if something is just occurring to her.

She turns forward. “What’s that thing they say on TikTok?”

“I’m not on TikTok.”

“You have no social media.”

He’s not sure why she’d know that. He glances sidelong at her twice, attention relentlessly pulled from the widening arc of his headlights to the dimple in her cheek.

Out of the corner of his eye, her phone lights up. “That might be the sexiest thing about you. Dating is a nightmare.” She’s deleting things. Apps. One after another.

The cab feels small and increasingly warm. He reaches for the fan’s dial and switches it lower as he takes the turn onto the Stark’s lane.

“So, TikTok,” she says, shutting her phone off. “My algorithm always pushes these videos that say, it’s not the guy, you’re just ovulating.”

He hits the brake, harder than he means to, and her head dips forward. His arm darts out—instinct—to needlessly stop her forward motion, and she grabs his wrist.

“Sans, honey.”

They’re close enough that Ned Stark can probably hear his engine from their bedroom on the second floor. Her talking to him like that could get him murdered.

“What?” she asks with those same innocent blue eyes staring back at him.

He laughs.

It’s absurd. She’s insane. She’s drunk.

“Stay off TikTok then.”

“Margaery likes those videos,” she says, hand waving. “But I’m just saying I’m not, you know. You might like me better if I were. Biologically.”

“I like you fine.”

He doesn’t glance over. If he does, he’ll picture his hand on her thigh. Spread against her skin, dimpling under the pressure of his fingers.

They pass through the open gate, stone pillars standing guard. The sound in the cab changes. It’s the aggregate driveway, long and expensive as hell. Jon could afford to get one poured for his mom now if she wanted. It’s not like it’s lengthy.

“I’m just saying, if you kiss me, I’ll kiss you back. And that could be nice.”

“Oh, I’m sure it would be.” Fixing her with a look, he throws it in park. “But let’s see how you feel about this tomorrow. Without so much punch in that system of yours,” he adds, unbuckling.

“I wouldn’t have drunk so much if you were there.”

She doesn’t move to do the same, so he pops her buckle for her, knuckles grazing her hip.

“Text me. I love a good college party.”

Most of them probably aren’t attending college.

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” he agrees before turning off the truck.

Her dimple shows. “Neither do I.”

He doesn’t slam his door. People are up. The lights are on in the upper windows, none downstairs. Probably ready for bed or already in it. Ned Stark has people who do his farming for him, but he’s still up early like a dairy farmer. There’s a morality to being up with the chickens.

Sansa stays in the detached summer kitchen, converted to a pair of lofted bedrooms with a bath and some changing rooms for the pool when Ned was a kid. Once they were teens, Robb and Sansa moved into the bedrooms. After Robb went away to school, Arya got Robb’s room.

Arya probably did a lot more sneaking out than Sansa ever did. It must be easier than getting away with it from the main house. Easier to get back in, too, though Jon’s pretty sure Sansa doesn’t have much practice in it.

Sansa really was so good. Pleasure to have in class too. And now her hand is splayed against his passenger side window, and it’s somehow wildly suggestive.

“Is it because I was annoying in high school?” she asks, as he opens her car door.

“Hold on,” he instructs.

She does. He slips an arm under her to draw her to the edge of the seat. He lowers her down, slowly. Her breath puffs against his cheek, fingers moving against his skin above the neck of his sweater, nails trailing. It’s cold out, and every hair on his body is at attention.

“There you go,” he speaks into her neck without pulling away, even as her fingers slip into his hair. “Annoying wasn’t how I would have described you, Sans.”

She grabs his sweater. Two fistfuls. Their foreheads touch. Her mouth parts, neck going limp like she’s an invitation.

She used to drink lemonade out by the Stark’s pool in the summer, and Jon wondered if her mouth would taste like it.

He laughs again—throatier—and loops his arm around her waist, rocking her into his side. “Come on, trouble.”

Annoying didn’t make the top ten things he thought about Sansa Stark, even when he was fooling himself.

“Call me something else.”

“I’ll let you pretend this never happened, how about?” he says, while her hand slides under the bottom of his sweater.

Her hand on his flesh makes his gut clench.

“I ignored you then because I didn’t know how to act.”

“You’re fine,” he promises, voice lowered as they creep toward the house. “It’s fine.”

The sidewalk to the summer kitchen winds through the kitchen garden, dried up, but neatly tidied for the winter. The kitchen tucks in behind the main house’s new kitchen door, where Mrs. Stark told him to wipe his feet as he trailed in after Robb thousands of times. So she ignored him. He tried to ignore her too. It was high school. It was awkward how hot Robb’s sister was.

Her weight is a pleasant soft slump against his body, even with his coat folding between them, as they walk through the dark. Even drunk, she’s not annoying. She’s Bambi-legged and tempting, and he’s drawn to help her, reminding her about the step before the slab foundation of the summer kitchen, as they trip the motion lights.

They’re illuminated under Mrs. Stark’s Christmas decorations, evergreen roping, the real kind, hung from the porch eaves. She’s got sparkles around the outer curve of her eye that catch the light. He thumbs her cheek as she leans backward into the doorway.

“You were like the stupidest, nicest boy in Winterfell.” She tilts her hand into the cup of his hand. “And then you went off and got your fancy job, so I thought maybe you wouldn’t be so stupid anymore. I thought maybe you’d reach out in the city to meet up with me.”

“Is that what you wanted?”

Her tongue wets her bottom lip. “Yes.”

Playing dumb isn’t his only option.

Fucking hell.

Playing dumb isn’t his only damn option.

“Jon—”

With a shake of his head, he shushes her. She’s talking too loudly.

Her voice drops. Her eyes do too, to his lips and back up. “Do I have to be quiet?”

“Yes.”

He steps into her. His back to the main house’s kitchen windows, he braces himself alongside her head, one hand pressed into the wood doorjamb.

They will have heard his truck. Seen it from the window. Anyone could be coming down the stairs. But there are no signs of impending interruption. There’s just silence except for the soft pant of her breath.

“Come here,” he says with a hand to her side, sliding her over an inch to line up with him. “Velvet?” he asks, looking down at the sway of her neckline as his hand brushes her hip.

“Yes.”

“I like that part too.”

She bites her lip, fighting a smile. “Good.”

His thumb rubs up and down. “Are we being watched on a Ring camera?”

“Daddy says Ring cameras are creepy and violate privacy.”

Jon puffs on a laugh. “Alright then.”

She lifts her chin, nudging his nose with her own.

“You want me to kiss you, huh?”

She nods, quick and eager—too close, smiling like she knows exactly what she’s doing because she’s Sansa Stark and she’s always in command and she always knows what she’s doing. If he doesn’t move, their mouths will meet by accident alone.

“Yes,” she says. “Just a kiss.” Her nose scrunches and her mascara-darkened lashes fan her cheeks, chasing that last inch. “You can do that.”

“You’re drunk,” he whispers, air frosting between their mouths.

“I wasn’t drunk yesterday. Drunk has nothing to do with it.”

Something settles into place.

He shifts, bringing a knee up as one shoulder leans in. “You wanted to be kissed at Abel’s?”

“It’s a Sunoco now,” she says, rising on her toes.

Jon exhales slowly and brings a hand up before she can tip the balance any further. His palm cups her cheek, steady, fingers fitting there like muscle memory, though he’s never dared. She stills immediately, eyes lifting to his, lips parting just a little as he tips her chin up with his thumb.

“Just a kiss,” he agrees. He needs her to hear that part, as her hands tighten on his waist.

He leans in slow—slow enough that she could dip her head to the side, duck away, and disappear inside the summer kitchen’s door at her back if she wanted to. She doesn’t. She melts into his hand, trusting, pliant in a way that tightens something in his chest.

His mouth presses to hers, firm and warm, as his thumb arcs over her cheek. Like a kiss beneath the mistletoe at the Stark Christmas Eve party, it’s this side of chaste. A festive obligation before an audience that is followed by laughs and another cup of eggnog. But it’s not. No one is urging them.

He doesn’t work her lips apart, doesn’t lick into her mouth, even if he can taste the punch, and he’s tempted. It’s just long enough to count as a kiss—soft lips, shockingly warm in the cold, and the press of her body into his. That softly wet kissing sound as their lips part is just a hint of something, but thunderingly loud. He doesn’t deepen it. Doesn’t chase the soft sound of disappointment she makes when she realizes he’s pulling back, even though it sends a jolt through him. He keeps it exactly where he said it would be.

He might be as stupid as she says. But he’s also not a creep, regardless of the lack of Ring cameras to document it.

He retreats before his restraint turns into her negotiation.

She blinks up at him, dewy-eyed and breathing uneven. He wants to thread an arm into the small of her back, bend her into him, and up and off her feet.

A hand floats up to her mouth, fingertips tapping along her bottom lip. “I can’t feel my lips.”

“That’s a shame,” he says, dryly, with his thumb still firmly pressed into her jaw.

“You’ll have to do that again, Jon. It’s only fair.” She leans forward, unsteady but hopeful, like she expects him to let her.

He doesn’t.

His hand tightens just enough to keep her where she is, grounded, eyes on his.

“If you’re good,” he says, voice low and calmer than he feels. “We’ll give it a try tomorrow.”

And the way she looks at him—bright, trusting, already ready to be a pleasure—tells him he’s been lying to himself all along. She’s going to be hard to be good about.