Chapter Text
Somehow, Sansa knows the message is from him before she even checks her phone.
Which is ridiculous, honestly.
But these days, Jon is probably the person she talks to the most. More than Jeyne. More than Margaery, even. Her phone has started feeling strangely quiet whenever he isn’t texting her.
She unlocks her phone anyway, and, sure enough, his name appears on her screen.
jon: so about that date
She bites her lips as she reads it.
Immediately, another message comes through,
jon: i’m picking you up saturday
sansa: oh?
jon: wear something pretty
She smiles at that.
sansa: i always do
jon: yeah
jon: i’ve noticed
—
Arya barely pretends to knock before barging into Sansa’s room.
The door swings open with all the confidence of someone who has never respected boundaries a single day in her life, and then Arya immediately throws herself face-first onto Sansa’s bed like she owns it.
“I’m bored,” she announces, theatrical in a way she rarely is. “Entertain me.”
Sansa glances at her figure.
For a second, she considers saying something about it. About the fact that she literally just made the bed not even twenty minutes ago and Arya is currently wrinkling the comforter she just changed and spent far too long making all smooth and perfect. She’s a little perfectionist when it comes to these things. But Arya still has her pajamas on and if she asks nicely Arya will even fix it for her. Of course, it wouldn’t be nearly as perfect as Sansa likes it, but it’s the thought that matters or… something like that.
She decides against saying anything. Honestly, some battles simply are not worth fighting anymore.
“How should I entertain you, then?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” Arya replies, then after a second, “Where you going?” she asks casually, voice muffled against the pillows.
Sansa turns back toward her mirror before answering, carefully dragging mascara through her lashes, trying very hard not to blink or move her hand too much.
“I’m going to lunch with Margie,” she replies, after a second too long.
Arya hums. “Okay.”
Something about the tone makes Sansa pause. It’s not suspicious exactly. Just… too observant, maybe. Or, maybe it’s just that Sansa is painfully aware of the fact that she doesn’t know how to lie and thinks that when she does everyone around her already knows the truth.
She lowers the mascara wand slightly, trying to maintain her composure. “Something weird about that?”
That gets Arya to roll onto her back, dark hair spreading across Sansa’s pillows as she shrugs lazily.
“No,” she says. “You’re just, like… all dolled up.”
Sansa narrows her eyes immediately. “Aren’t I always?”
Honestly, she could almost feel offended by the implication. Sansa puts effort into her appearance every single day. It’s not like she suddenly discovered lip gloss and curling irons overnight.
Arya snorts softly.
“Yes,” she agrees easily. “But like… Today more than usual.”
Sansa instinctively glances down at herself then. She really doesn’t think the outfit is that outrageous. The dress is soft blue and white striped cotton, airy enough for the warm weather, with delicate lace trim around the neckline and ribbon straps tied at her shoulders. Feminine, yes, but not dramatically so. Something she could easily wear on any normal day.
Though, of course, this dress is new and therefore hasn’t been worn yet, no normal days and no fancy days alike. And maybe she spent slightly too long deciding between this dress and the cream one in the shop the other day before ultimately deciding to buy both. But it wasn’t specifically for this date, Sansa has just always been a sucker for shopping.
Also, okay, maybe she redid her hair twice. That’s normal, too. Margie always says she has a weird thing going on with her hair, and that if even one single strand of it is out of place, she has a nervous breakdown. It’s the same thing as the comforter.
Weird, sure. But a completely Sansa normal.
“We’re trying out a new restaurant,” she lies, dabbing gloss against her lips. “Very chic.”
The excuse sounds weak even to her own ears, and Arya’s eyes narrow just slightly.
Sansa notices, and she doesn’t like it one bit. Arya has always looked at people differently than everyone else. Like she’s constantly trying to pull things apart and see what’s underneath them.
“Ahh,” she says slowly. “Alright, then.”
“Yep,” she replies anyway, suddenly hyperaware of herself under Arya’s gaze.
There’s a strange feeling curling low in her stomach now. Awareness. Like she’s being watched too closely. So she does what she always does when conversations become uncomfortable. She redirects.
“You doing anything fun today?” she asks, setting her strawberry lipgloss down and turning around fully now. “Or are you planning on spending the entire afternoon ruining my bed?”
Arya grins at that, finally looking more like herself.
“Depends. You planning on abandoning me for your rich friends all day?”
Sansa rolls her eyes dramatically. “Margie’s not rich.”
Arya lifts herself onto her elbows slowly. “Sansa. She has a staircase in her house that literally curves.”
Okay. Fair point.
“Well… Okay, yes,” Sansa admits with a sigh, “she is rich, but that’s not the point, and also you didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t answer either,” Arya counters immediately, ignoring Sansa’s question completely. “How long is this very chic lunch going to take?”
She pronounces the word chic like it exists in a different planet of existence from her.
Sansa hesitates. She turns back around to face the mirror, even though she’s already finished her entire face full of make-up. She picks up her setting spray and sprinkles some all around her face just to buy herself some time to think.
How long is whatever Jon planned going to take? She still has absolutely no idea. She doesn’t even have an idea of what it is that they’re doing. Which is slightly unsettling for someone like her, who usually likes knowing exactly where she’s going, what she’s wearing, what the lighting will probably look like and what the temperature will be like before she even leaves the house.
Jon gave her none of that. Just a simple dress nice on Saturday.
And somehow that had to be enough. She’d nearly texted him three separate times asking for more details, then stopped herself every single time because that would have looked far too eager. And she isn’t eager, she’s a perfectionist, but keeping up appearances is more important than to wear the perfect outfit.
…She thinks, anyway.
“Not too long,” she decides finally, even though she’s mostly guessing. “We can hang out tonight, though.”
The offer comes out naturally, which is weird to think about. There was a time, not even years, but even just months ago, where spending an evening alone with Arya would have sounded like punishment. Now, though, there are evenings stretched across Arya’s bedroom floor while they both do homework in comfortable silence. Dinners eaten cross-legged in front of the television while arguing over what movie to watch. Small conversations late at night that somehow always feel easier in the dark.
Somewhere along the line, being around Arya had stopped feeling exhausting, and started feeling safe.
Arya keeps playing with the fringes of one of Sansa’s throw pillows.
“I can’t tonight,” she says casually.
Sansa’s brows rise immediately.
“Oh?” she says, turning around fully now. “Going out?”
“Yep.”
There’s something suspiciously brief about the answers.
“With a friend?”
“Yep,” she repeats, popping the p even more, if possible.
Sansa smiles slowly, mischievously. “A male friend?”
Arya reacts instantly. “No.”
The answer comes so quickly Sansa almost laughs.
“A female friend,” Arya adds, far too fast to sound casual.
Interesting. Very interesting. Arya has never had a boyfriend before. In fact, she has spent years acting like romance itself is some deeply embarrassing disease other people catch, and that it would never ever happen to her. Sansa used to tell her she’d grow out of it eventually. Arya used to reply with not so nice things about Sansa in return. Anyway, maybe this is that eventually for her little sister.
The speed of that answer alone definitely feels like there’s something more going on. And the way Arya suddenly looks very interested in a loose thread on the pillow just proves her point further.
Sansa narrows her eyes thoughtfully.
Fine, she thinks with a sigh. She’ll let Arya keep her secrets for now.
Especially considering Sansa currently has plenty of her own.
Right on cue, her phone lights up against her desk.
Her stomach flips before she can stop it. She tries not to look too eager as she walks over to check it, but she can practically feel Arya watching her from the bed.
It’s from Jon. Because obviously it is.
jon: outside.
Just that. Still, Sansa smiles immediately.
And when she glances back over her shoulder, Arya is staring at her with a look that says she is one hundred percent sure that something’s up.
Sansa lifts her chin defensively.
“Margie’s here,” she lies smoothly.
Arya snorts.
—
The second she gets into Jon’s car, she immediately starts trying to interrogate him.
(She leans over and places a kiss on his lips before any of this, though, it just makes perfect sense for her to do that.)
“Where are we going?”
His face betrays nothing. “You’ll see.”
She pouts. “That’s not an answer.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, with a laugh, “because it’s the only one you’re getting.”
Sansa narrows her eyes at him from the passenger seat, but Jon only smiles to himself as he pulls away from the curb.
He’s very annoying, and the entire drive goes exactly like that.
Every few minutes, she attempts another guess.
“A restaurant?”
“Nope.”
“The lake?”
“No.”
“Is it something hockey related?” she asks, partly as a joke, and partly because she is afraid that is going to be part of it, and she hasn’t put on skates since middle school, and that already wasn’t her best performance. “Because I would hate it, but maybe for you I’d pretend to like it.”
He glances at her briefly, amused. “You think I told you to dress nice for hockey?”
He has a point there.
“Well, excuse me for trying to understand your deeply mysterious mind.”
He laughs quietly at that, one hand tapping against the steering wheel while the other stays relaxed near the gear shift.
Sansa watches him more than she watches the road. His hands are a little red at the knuckles
“You do, by the way,” he says, and Sansa snaps her gaze away from where she’d been intensely staring at his hands.
She recovers quickly, shifting her gaze from his hands to his eyes. “What?”
“I was saying, you look very good. Your dress is…” A pause. A cough. “Very nice.”
She looks down at herself, as if she doesn’t know every stripe and lace pattern of this dress by memory now.
“I’m glad you think so,” she replies easily.
He blushes, his ears turning a faint shade of red.
Sansa has to admit that he also looks unfairly good today.
His dark hair is slightly damp still, probably from showering before picking her up, curling softly at the ends around his ears and the nape of his neck. She thought it was just a post hockey thing, but apparently Jon Snow isn’t too keen on drying his hair. It does wonders to his curls though, which is annoyingly unfair.
He’s wearing a black shirt, that’s either a size too tight or his forearms look just that good, and a pair of dark jeans, nothing particularly special, and yet somehow he still looks prettier than most boys she knows when they actually try. Which is also irritating.
It seems like the perfect time to shift her focus on something else. Sansa turns in her seat slightly.
“Jon,” she calls out, too sweet to be normal.
He doesn’t even look away from the road for a second.
“No.”
She gasps, “You don’t even know what I was going to ask!”
“You were gonna ask where we’re going.”
“Well,” she says, turning back around in her seat, and crossing her arms over her chest, “I wasn’t.”
He gives her a look.
“…Okay, so maybe I was,” she says, as her arms uncross from her chest.
“Thought so.”
He doesn’t reveal anything, and Sansa doesn’t ask anymore. Instead, she relaxes, staring out the window and bopping her head to the music on the radio. Eventually the town starts thinning out around them, buildings giving way to quieter roads lined with trees and stretches of green.
By the time the car finally comes to a stop, Sansa is nearly vibrating with curiosity.
Jon gets out first and walks around to open her door before she can do it herself.
“Close your eyes,” he says immediately.
“Why?”
“Just… please, close your eyes.”
She studies him suspiciously.
“Jon Snow, if you’re going to murder me in the middle of nowhere, I’ll be extremely upset with you.”
He snorts softly. “Noted.”
Still, she closes her eyes, because she trusts him. Which... Well. That’s probably not something she should think about too deeply.
“Don’t peek,” he warns.
Her lips curve up in a playful smile. “I would never.”
He snorts once again. “That sounded very dishonest.”
Sansa smiles despite herself, now in a genuine way.
She hears him moving around for a moment, footsteps against grass, the soft rustling of something being adjusted. He leaves her standing alone long enough that she’s tempted to cheat at least three separate times, but somehow she resists the temptation.
Then he’s back. Warm hands settle carefully over her eyes from behind and she instinctively leans back against him just slightly.
“Ready?”
“Mhm.”
He guides her slowly as they walk. Jon moves carefully, one hand still shielding her eyes while the other rests lightly against her waist to steady her whenever the ground shifts unevenly beneath her shoes.
They don’t walk too far. Then finally, Jon’s hands leave her eyes.
“You can look now.”
Sansa opens them and immediately stops breathing for a second.
She doesn’t know what she expected exactly. Maybe something casual, maybe slightly awkward, or something nice but hastily thrown together. That’s the kind of guy she expected him to be.
A picnic had not even entered the top ten possibilities of things she thought Jon Snow would plan for her.
Beneath the shade of a wide sprawling tree sits a large blanket spread carefully across the grass. One corner folds slightly inward like he had trouble setting it up alone, or maybe the slight gust of wind already messed it up. A wicker basket rests beside it, along with a small cooler. The early afternoon sun filters through the leaves overhead, scattering gold across the blanket in shifting patches of light.
It’s beautiful. In such a thoughtful way, that makes this a hundred times better. Or worse, she’s still trying to decide.
“Wow,” she breathes.
Jon suddenly looks nervous beside her. He has his hands shoved into his pockets, and his shoulders tense slightly as he searches for a more outspoken reaction from her.
“So…” he starts carefully, “do you like it?”
Sansa turns toward him immediately.
“Are you kidding?” she asks, a small but authentic smile lighting up her face. “I love it.”
And then, his smile mirrors her. It lights up so suddenly and so brightly that it almost catches her off guard. She thinks he had genuinely been worried she wouldn’t like it.
Which is ridiculous. No one has ever done something like this for her before. Not something so simple and sincere and carefully thought out all at once.
Only Jon Snow.
—
Sansa sits with her legs folded neatly to one side because of her dress, one hand smoothing absentmindedly over the fabric while the other rests against the blanket beside her. The grass smells warm from the afternoon sun and somewhere nearby she can hear the distant laughter of children playing deeper in the park.
Jon, meanwhile, is entirely focused on unpacking the basket.
“You know,” she starts, watching him carefully pull out containers like this is the most serious task in the world, “when you implied you might possibly be on Pinterest, I thought you were joking.” She gestures vaguely at the setup around them. “But this whole thing looks like it came straight out of there.”
Jon glances up at her briefly before placing down a plate of sandwiches.
They look absurdly perfect. Perfect in the way food in advertisements looks perfect. The bread is cut into exact little triangles, the cheese folded neatly enough to look intentional, lettuce peeking out in soft green curls.
“Yeah?” he asks casually.
“Oh, absolutely,” she replies, so serious it could have the opposite effect of sounding like a joke.
She reaches over and steals a strawberry from one of the containers he already unpacked, dropping it into her mouth. It’s sweet enough to make her close her eyes for a second. She loves every season, but spring and its deliciously sweet fruits hold a special place in her heart, and in her tummy.
Jon watches her reaction with poorly hidden satisfaction.
“Well,” he says slowly, “as much as I would love to take full credit for all this, I had some help.”
Sansa lifts a brow. “From…?”
“My mom.”
“Oh.”
The word comes out smaller than she intended.
Because… Oh. He told his mother about her.
That’s... something. A nice something, she supposes. Her stomach twists strangely at the thought all the same.
It’s not necessarily in a bad way. Just… it would just be a nicer thing if they were actually dating, which they obviously aren’t. She tries not to think too deeply about it because that would mean acknowledging this whole thing has somehow become real enough for Jon to not so casually mention her to his family. Boys do not usually bring girls up to their mothers unless they actually care.
And apparently Jon cares. That part is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Which is unfortunate, considering this whole thing was supposed to be fake. It is fake.
Well. Not fake exactly.
She likes spending time with him. She likes kissing him. She likes when he texts her first thing in the morning and when he sends blurry locker room selfies after practice and when he smiles at her like she’s saying something important even when she’s rambling about things that are only important to her.
But liking someone and liking someone are two very different things.
Obviously.
After a second, Jon adds, almost awkwardly, “She’s... kind of a pastry chef.”
Sansa’s attention snaps back immediately.
“Then you cheated,” she accuses, as her mouth drops open dramatically.
She almost lets out a sigh of relief. That’s better. Much safer territory. He only told his mother about her because she can cook! That makes total sense. She’s glad she was wrong, which is not something she tends to like to be.
Jon laughs under his breath while reaching back into the basket. He pulls out a container full of cookies that look positively life-changing. Golden brown at the edges, soft in the middle, chocolate slightly melted and flaky pieces of salt sprinkled on top.
Sansa almost moans at the sight.
“I didn’t want to serve you garbage,” he admits, once the cookies join the rest of the food on the red and white blanket. “And I promise you, if she didn’t help me, most of this would’ve been inedible.”
“Well, I don’t believe that one bit.”
“I can cook,” he says defensively. “I’m not a caveman.”
She smiles into her drink, some sweetened tea Jon served her earlier “But?”
“But…” He scratches lightly at the back of his neck. “It wouldn’t have been this good. And,” he continues after a second, quieter now, “I don’t know. I wanted to impress you.”
The honesty in his voice catches her off guard. Jon always says things so plainly.
Sansa looks at him, really looks at him.
At the nervousness hidden underneath the shrug. At the way he avoids her eyes for half a second after admitting that. At the fact that this entire picnic suddenly feels less like a casual date and more like something he genuinely cared about getting right.
Something warm blooms unpleasantly in her chest.
“You did impress me,” she says softly, and she does mean it.
But then, because the moment suddenly feels far too sincere and she needs to fix that immediately, she adds, “Actually, I think it was your mom who impressed me. Maybe we should hang out instead. Can you give me her number?”
Jon groans dramatically.
“Fuck,” he mutters, grinning. “I knew I should’ve lied.”
Her smile blooms on her face.
“I don’t like boys who lie, Snow.”
The words leave her mouth automatically, and then immediately afterwards, the irony crashes into her all at once. Because she is lying to him.
Constantly lying. About why she started talking to him, about why she flirted with him at Glover’s, about how this whole entire thing began. And about how she is still lying to him.
For a split second guilt curls unpleasantly in her stomach, but then Jon just smiles at her again, easy and fond and completely trusting, and Sansa pushes the feeling away before she can examine it too closely.
—
They finish eating slowly, lazily almost, neither of them in any hurry to move on from the afternoon.
The remains of their picnic sit forgotten beside them. The half-empty berry container, crumpled napkins, the cooler left slightly open. Somewhere above them leaves rustle softly every time the wind blows through the branches.
Jon sits with his back against the tree trunk, one leg stretched out while the other bends comfortably beside hers. Sansa rests between his legs with her back against his chest, her dress spread around her over the blanket.
One of his arms is curled around her waist, and he absentmindedly plays with the ends of her hair, so long that he barely needs to move his hand away from her waist to touch it.
Jon’s fingers feel really nice in her hair. She lets her eyes flutter shut briefly as his fingers comb carefully through the strands of her hair. It feels strangely intimate, more intimate somehow than kissing him in crowded rooms or climbing into his lap in his car.
There is something frighteningly real about this. Which is exactly why, when he starts asking her questions, she answers long and truthfully before she can think too hard about it. He wants to know everything about her.
About her friends, and her family. Though she tries to steer clear of that one. Of her school, and hopes and dreams. About her hobbies and interests. He wants to know if she plays any other instruments and if she ever played any sport.
“Not anymore,” she says lazily, tracing invisible patterns over the fabric of her dress, “I used to do ballet, though.”
Jon hums softly behind her. “Used to?”
“Mhm.” She tilts her head slightly against him. “Three times a week for years, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but I dropped out once it started getting too focused on competitions and going pro,” she explains.
And on calorie counting. And instructors pinching at waists. And girls crying in dressing rooms because someone told them their thighs looked too soft under stage lights.
Sansa doesn’t say any of that aloud. She never really talks about that part.
Jon’s hand pauses briefly in her hair. “Is that not what you wanted?”
She shakes her head lightly against his chest.
“No. I liked dancing.” A small smile pulls at her lips as she remembers it. “And I liked the costumes, and the music, and being on stage, and performing with other girls who cared about the same things I did.” She pauses. They really did have a lot of fun back then, if you ignore all the bad stuff. “But my real passion’s always been music.”
Jon stays quiet, listening carefully. He’s good at that. She noticed that most people just wait for their turn to speak, when someone else is talking. Jon isn’t one of them, he actually listens, and not just waits for whoever’s talking to stop so that he can finally share his own story.
“So when ballet started becoming too competitive,” she continues softly, “I was kind of relieved to focus on violin instead.”
“Is that what you wanna do, then?”
“What?”
“Music.”
Sansa almost laughs. Not because it’s funny exactly, but because the idea feels so impossible she doesn’t know what else to do with it.
“No,” she says, smiling despite herself. “That’s… unrealistic.”
Jon’s fingers continue moving through her hair slowly.
“I like it,” she says after a moment. “And I’ve been doing it for so long that I honestly can’t imagine my life without it.” Her voice softens unconsciously. “I love performing. I love old music and orchestras and all those songs people hundreds of years ago only got to hear if they were rich enough or lucky enough. Or both,” She smiles faintly to herself. “There’s something magical about that.”
As she speaks, she realizes she’s getting carried away. Jon does that to her somehow. Makes her talk more than she usually would. Makes her forget to carefully choose every word first.
“But,” she says quickly, grounding herself again, “you know, that’s not something I actually aspire to do professionally.”
“Sounds like you enjoy it, though.”
“I do,” she admits, “That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
Sansa opens her eyes and stares out across the grass ahead of them.
“The problem is reality,” she says quietly. “The actual chances of making it in an industry like that.” She shrugs one shoulder lightly. “It’s competitive. Exclusive. You have to be… exceptional.”
Jon is quiet for exactly one second before saying:
“I like your odds.”
Her chest tightens embarrassingly fast at that.
Oh, but this would be so much easier, if he would just flirt with her like other boys.
If he was smoother about it and less sincere, but no, Jon says things like he means them. Like it never even occurs to him to lie to make a good impression on someone.
She rolls her eyes quickly to cover up the warmth spreading through her.
“You’ve literally never heard me play.”
He shrugs, like that’s an unimportant fact.
“But I’d love to,” he answers instantly, no hesitation, just honest interest. “And honestly,” he continues, voice softer now, “I think you could do anything you put your mind to.”
Gods, if that isn’t dangerous.
“That’s…” She clears her throat lightly. “That’s nice of you. Thank you.” Then quickly, before the conversation gets too serious again: “But seriously. It’s not what I want.”
“Okay,” he agrees easily.
That surprises her too. He doesn’t argue and doesn’t insist he knows her better than she knows herself. He simply accepts what she says.
After a moment, though, he says far too casually, “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to play hockey professionally after this.”
Sansa twists around immediately to stare at him. “What?”
Jon looks down at her with obvious amusement now.
“But… but you’re amazing!” she blurts out before she can stop herself. “And you already have a hockey scholarship. That alone probably makes your chances of getting drafted way higher once you’re done with college.”
“Right,” he says thoughtfully. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “But what are the actual possibilities,” he asks innocently, “that I make it in an industry as cutthroat as professional hockey?”
Sansa narrows her eyes instantly.
Oh, but she could actually kill him.
“I see what you’re doing, Jon Snow, and I am not falling for it.”
His grin only widens.
“Seriously,” she insists, turning more fully toward him now. “It’s different.”
“How?”
She shrugs, “It just is.”
“Sounds convincing.”
She groans dramatically, turning her head to face ahead again and throwing her head back against his shoulder.
“It’s unrealistic,” she says again stubbornly. “And… and no. It’s not what I want.”
“Okay,” he agrees easily. “Then what do you want to do?”
There’s a pause after that, a decently long one. Sansa stares ahead at the park, at families walking dogs and children running through the grass and people living their lives with the kind of certainty she’s never really had.
Jon waits quietly behind her.
He never rushes her answers.
“Honestly?” she says eventually. “I don’t know.”
The admission feels almost embarrassing to be making out loud.
“Is that weird?” she asks after a second, quieter now. “Or too late? Like maybe I should already know?”
Jon’s fingers continue absentmindedly combing through her hair.
“Nah,” he says softly. “You still have a year.”
“A whole year,” she repeats sarcastically. “That sounds like a lot of time, until it isn’t.”
He laughs lightly against her shoulder.
“No, but I’m serious, Sans. Most people don’t actually know what they wanna do for the rest of their lives when they’re barely eighteen.”
Sansa thinks about that. Maybe he’s right. It still feels like everyone around her has some sort of direction, though. Even people who claim they don’t know seem to know more than she does.
Robb has hockey. Margaery has fashion. Arya pretends she doesn’t care about the future at all, but somehow Sansa suspects she’ll eventually stumble into exactly the life she wants by complete accident and act annoyed about it afterward.
Meanwhile Sansa feels like she’s standing still while everyone else keeps moving. Jeyne is as clueless as she is, so that’s somewhat of a comforting thought, at the very least.
“And you?” she asks eventually. “Do you know?”
Jon hums thoughtfully. “I’d probably be clueless too if I didn’t have hockey.”
“But you do.”
“For now.”
She twists slightly to look up at him.
“For now?” she repeats, confused.
Jon shrugs one shoulder.
“Until I don’t anymore.” His expression turns thoughtful in a way she doesn’t think she’s seen before. “And then what?”
Something about the question feels heavier than it should. Because hockey isn’t just a hobby for Jon, it’s his whole future. Maybe even his entire identity. Athletes don’t have that much time to prove themselves before their professional time is over. And what about career ending injuries?
Sansa suddenly realizes she’s never really thought about what happens if he loses it.
“You live off all the money you made as a professional hockey player,” she says lightly, trying to pull them both away from the sudden seriousness of the conversation. “Obviously.”
Jon snorts softly. “If I make a league.”
She turns around more fully then, genuinely shocked. The fact that he sounds sincere, and not being bashful while trying not to sound too self observed, catches her completely off guard.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
Sansa actually laughs, not cruelly, just in complete disbelief.
“Jon,” she says, “please. Of course you will.”
He looks unconvinced.
“And I’ve actually seen you play,” she adds, pointing at him accusingly, “so I’m qualified to say that.”
“Yeah,” he says, though he still sounds uncertain. “Maybe.”
It does something strange to her, seeing him like this. Jon always seems so calm, so steady. Like someone who knows exactly who he is, but apparently even he has doubts. Even he worries he won’t be enough, and somehow that only makes her like him more.
Not that she likes him like that. Obviously. But he is a friend now, at the very least, a friend she’s been lying to from day one, but one nonetheless.
“You will,” she says decisively. “And then you’ll become the most famous hockey player of all time and completely forget all about little old me.”
The words come out teasingly. Underneath them there’s something else too, maybe part of her is trying to prepare him for the fact that this whole thing has an expiration date. And maybe another small, selfish part of her suddenly hates the idea of that.
“Unlikely,” Jon murmurs quietly behind her.
So quietly she almost thinks she imagined it. But nope, she definitely heard it, warm and dangerous all at once. Unlikely. Like the idea of forgetting her had never even been a possibility to him.
Sansa’s throat feels strangely tight suddenly.
This is exactly why she cannot think too hard about any of this, because every time she does, she starts noticing things she absolutely should not be noticing.
The way he says her name, and the way he looks at her. The way he remembers every little thing she tells him. The way being around him feels easy in a way nothing else in her life really does.
It’s dangerous.
So instead of replying, instead of acknowledging what he said at all, she simply settles back against his chest again.
Jon immediately resumes playing with her hair, and Sansa lets herself close her eyes and enjoy the moment.
—
They stay there for hours, eating and talking and making out like a real couple on a real date would.
He holds her close to his chest as the sun goes down and paints the sky a deep pink colour.
—
By the time Jon drives her home, the sky is already starting to darken into deep blue.
Sansa lingers for a second before getting out of the car. It’s not because she would like to stay. It’s just comfortable here now, warm and familiar. The air still smells faintly of Jon’s cologne and the clean scent of his laundry detergent.
Jon’s hand rests lazily on the steering wheel as he looks over at her.
“I had fun today,” he says, sincerely.
Sansa hates how much those kinds of statements affect her.
“I had fun, too,” she admits, more heartfelt than she meant to be, “A lot of fun.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course. Although,” she says lightly, reaching for the door handle before she can dwell on it too much, “you did set a very high standard for future dates.”
He smiles at that. Soft and crooked and entirely too pretty.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He says his goodbye, and she says hers. She hesitates, before taking her hand off the handle and instead, reaching back over to him to kiss him. She gets out before he can add anything else dangerously sincere, or before she can do something even more stupid.
She asked him not to drop her off at her front door. She doesn’t know who’s inside and she’d rather not have anyone spy on her. So, she walks alone the few steps that separate her from her house.
The house is dark when she walks in, and for one hopeful second, she thinks maybe no one is home. It’s seven o’ clock on a Saturday night, after all, and surely her family has better things to do than wait for her at home.
Then, all of a sudden, the light from the living room turns on.
Sansa freezes halfway through taking off her shoes.
Robb sits sprawled across the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie, one arm thrown over the back cushions. The paused movie screen casts blue light across his face.
He looks like he’s been waiting for her. Like the parents in cheesy coming-of-age movies, where the protagonist isn’t acting like themselves, they go to parties and get home late, they start smoking and seeing a guy they don’t approve of, and the mom and dad wait for them as they get home at an ungodly hour to give the protagonist a piece of their mind.
None of that applies to Sansa, and immediately, irritation crawls up her spine.
“Where were you?” Robb asks, accusingly.
Sansa slowly straightens.
“What are you doing?” she asks flatly. “Stalking me?”
“I’m your older brother,” Robb says like that explains everything. “It’s my job to know what my sister’s doing.”
Immediately she recoils.
“Ew,” she says, disgusted. “Take back that attitude to the Middle Ages.”
Normally that would at least earn her an eye roll. If Arya were here she would call her a drama queen.
Tonight, though, Arya isn’t here and Robb doesn’t react. Not in a good-natured way, at least. He just watches her carefully.
Suddenly Sansa feels strangely exposed standing there in Jon’s hoodie. She hadn’t even realized she was still wearing it, until Robb’s eyes get fixated on her upper body.
“Are you dating someone?” he asks abruptly.
Sansa blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Sansa.”
The audacity of the question genuinely leaves her speechless for a second.
“How is that any of your business?”
Robb stands then, frustration flashing across his face. “You made my relationship all about you, so—”
“Oh, fuck you, Robb,” she snaps immediately.
Because no. No. She will not let him twist this story however he likes. She did not make his relationship about herself. She had concerns, valid concerns. Concerns about the girl who spent years humiliating her and making her life miserable. And he ignored her.
That part always seems to conveniently disappear from his version of events.
She took action, and she will not let Robb slander her like that.
“You keep getting home late,” he says, voice sharpening. “And now you’re wearing some guy’s hoodie.”
Sansa says nothing. Mostly because she can’t even begin to deny that. A quick look down, reminds her of what the hoodie looks like, and for all of his faults, Robb knows his sister’s tastes.
“Then you lied about being at Margaery’s,” he continues. “and instead I saw her out with some friends and you weren’t there.”
Her heart picks up at that. For a single, terrifying second, Sansa thinks Robb might have gone up to Margaery and asked her where Sansa was. Margaery wouldn’t have resisted telling him the truth.
“Oh, wow,” she says coldly, “so you really are stalking me.”
She starts moving toward the stairs because this conversation is over. At least it should be. She will not stand here, letting her brother speak to her like she’s his property.
But Robb steps in front of her and grabs her wrist.
The motion shocks her so badly she actually stops breathing for a second.
Her eyes immediately snap down to his hand around her wrist. Then slowly back up to his face.
“Let go of me,” she says, her voice coming out quieter than she intended. She hates that, she wishes she could be as strong willed as Arya sometimes.
“Not until you tell me what you’re doing.”
Something hot and furious twists in her chest. Because lately every conversation with Robb feels like talking to a stranger wearing her brother’s face.
“I said,” she repeats carefully, each word sharp enough to cut, “let go of me.”
For a second neither of them moves.
Then realization flashes across Robb’s face. His grip loosens immediately.
Sansa yanks her hand back harshly before he can fully let go on his own. The skin beneath his fingers feels like it’s burning.
Neither of them speaks.
Sansa doesn’t even look at him again. Instead she walks quickly toward the stairs, heartbeat hammering unpleasantly in her chest. Behind her, the living room stays silent.
Sansa realizes something that feels strangely painful: lately, she doesn’t think she knows her brother at all anymore.
—
Sansa doesn’t even make it fully through her bedroom door before she starts crying.
The second she shuts her bedroom door behind herself, the tears spill over hot and fast, like they had been waiting for her to be alone. She throws her bag somewhere near the armchair in the corner and collapses face first onto her bed, still wearing Jon’s hoodie over her dress. The fabric bunches awkwardly beneath her stomach as she curls into herself.
Today was perfect. That’s what makes it hurt so much.
Not just good. Not just fun. Perfect in a way she hadn’t realized life could still be lately. The sunlight filtering through the trees, Jon smiling at her like every word out of her mouth mattered, his hands in her hair, the softness in his voice when he spoke about her future like it was something bright and possible.
And then Robb had ruined it. Again. Lately it feels like every good thing in her life has him standing at the edge of it, waiting to sour it somehow.
She presses the heel of her palm against her eyes hard enough to see stars.
The worst part is that the only person she wants to talk to right now is Jon.
The thought comes instantly and naturally, which is probably the most alarming thing about it. She wants to hear his voice low and warm through the phone speaker. She desperately needs him to say something sarcastic about Robb being a controlling asshole. She wants him to tell her she didn’t do anything wrong.
He would, too. Despite the fact that she is doing something wrong. He would let her complain for hours if she needed to, but the problem between her and Robb is exactly him.
Calling Jon right now would be insane. Like crossing some invisible line she’s been trying very hard not to acknowledge exists.
So instead she just cries harder into her pillow.
Eventually her breathing starts evening out into shaky inhales. Her room grows quiet around her again, except for the muffled sound of the television downstairs.
Her gaze drifts aimlessly across the room and lands on her violin case. It’s resting against the wall exactly where she left it earlier this week, perfectly straight because she hates when things are crooked. For a moment she simply stares at it through blurry eyes.
She thinks about what Jon said earlier. I’d love to hear you play.
Slowly, she pushes herself upright and wipes beneath her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. Her cheeks feel hot and tight from crying, but already the idea is settling into her mind. Music has always been the only thing capable of pulling her completely out of herself.
When she plays, everything else disappears. The expectations and the embarrassment and the anger and the endless exhausting performance of being Sansa Stark all quiet down for a little while. There’s only the music and the movement and the sound vibrating through her bones. That’s exactly what she needs right now.
She crosses the room and kneels beside the case, carefully unclasping it. The familiar scent of polished wood greets her immediately. Inside, her violin rests inside like something sacred to her.
She runs her fingers lightly along the curve of the instrument before lifting it carefully into her hands. The weight of it feels grounding and familiar, entirely hers.
Without thinking too much about it, she props her phone against the wall beside her bed and opens the camera app. She angles it badly on purpose so it mostly catches the violin itself and only part of her face. It’s dark in the room, but she doesn’t want him to see that she has been crying.
Then she sits cross-legged on the floor. The bow settles against the strings, and she begins to play.
The first notes emerge soft and aching, filling the room slowly. It’s one of her favourite pieces, old and impossibly romantic, written centuries ago by someone who probably loved too deeply and suffered for it.
The melody swells and dips like a conversation between two people reaching for each other.
Sansa loses herself in it almost immediately. Her fingers move instinctively over the strings, muscle memory taking over where thought fails. The music curls around her bedroom walls, rich and emotional and yearning in a way she tries to never allow herself to be out loud anymore.
There’s something devastating about violin music when it speaks about love. It sounds too human, too vulnerable. Every note feels like a confession dragged from somewhere deep inside the body of the composer and straight into the brain of the listener.
Her bow dances faster, then gentler, pulling emotion out of the instrument so naturally it almost frightens her.
By the middle of the piece she isn’t thinking about Robb anymore. She’s thinking about Jon’s hands on her waist while they danced. About the way he looked at her during the picnic like she was saying something important even when she was rambling. About his voice going quiet when he said he only went to the party because of her.
The music turns tender then, almost unbearably so.
By the final notes, her chest feels lighter.
The last note lingers in the room for a few seconds after she lowers the bow.
Silence follows. Sansa exhales slowly, realizing only then how deeply she’d disappeared into the music.
She carefully places the violin back into its case, smoothing her fingers once over the wood before closing it.
Then she picks up her phone. The video is long, she didn’t even realize she picked such a long piece.
For a second she hesitates. Then, before she can overthink it, she sends it to Jon.