Chapter Text
The rain was lashing against the windows of the cottage in York, a grey, relentless sheet that perfectly matched the mood in the living room. Sansa sat on her sofa, her laptop open, trying to focus on a campaign proposal for the North Yorkshire Moors Railway, but her phone had been buzzing incessantly for twenty minutes.
"I’m telling you, it’s a virus," Sansa muttered, glancing at her screen.
Little Oliver, only three years old, was currently sprawled on the rug, engrossed in a massive pile of wooden trains. Beside him, Lady—her towering, white-grey Northern Inuit—was curled into a contented ball, her head resting on Oliver’s knee.
Sansa’s phone pinged again. A notification: You have a match!
She groaned, throwing her head back. She hadn't even finished setting up the profile before Arya, Margaery, her mum Catelyn, Missandei, and Dany had practically tackled her, snatched her phone, and turned it into a digital interrogation chamber. They called it "modernising," she called it "the death of her weekend."
She reached for the phone, fully intending to delete the app and block the five conspirators from her life, at least until Monday. Her finger hovered over the 'delete' button.
Then, she stopped.
The match’s profile photo wasn't a standard, filtered selfie. It was a candid, slightly grainy shot of a man in a dark hoodie, sitting in what looked like a stark, grey-lit room. He was 6'4", broad-shouldered, and had a buzzcut that didn't hide the striking, intense look in his eyes. But he wasn't looking at the camera; he was laughing, his head tilted back, as a Belgian Malinois/Dutch Shepherd cross pressed its face into his and plastered his cheek with a sloppy, uninhibited kiss.
The man looked alive.
Curiosity, sharp and unexpected, pricked at her chest. She swiped. More photos: a group shot with two younger women and a man who looked like him, clearly a family outing; another of him holding a toddler, his face looking less like a soldier and more like a man who knew exactly how much weight he was carrying; and finally, one of him leaning against a rugged, vintage Land Rover Defender, his arm around the dog.
She clicked on his bio. It was short, written with a dry, self-deprecating wit that made her lips twitch.
“I’m mostly here because my sister Ellie is convinced I need more human interaction. I’m a professional, I work away a lot, and if Ghost—the dog—doesn’t approve of you, the date is automatically cancelled. Take your best shot.”
Sansa’s heart did a strange, fluttery hop. Her ex, Liam, had bolted the second she mentioned a baby, leaving her with a shattered heart and a promise to herself that she’d never rely on a man again. But this man… he didn't look like he ran. He looked like he stood his ground.
She thought of Oliver’s trains. She thought of her quiet, happy life that she had spent years building in York. She knew she was going to hear about this from Arya and Margaery for the next decade, but for the first time in years, she felt a pull that wasn't just safety or routine.
Her thumb tapped the screen. She didn't let herself overthink it.
Sansa: Ghost seems like a very high-maintenance chaperone. Does he have a favorite treat, or is he strictly a 'bribed by belly rubs' kind of dog?
She set the phone down on the coffee table, her heart thumping against her ribs. She was definitely going to kill her sister for this later, but as she watched the 'typing' bubbles appear on her screen only seconds later, she realized she wasn't going to delete the app after all.
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The cramped, spartan billet in Estonia smelled faintly of floor polish, damp wool, and stale coffee. Outside, the Estonian wind howled against the reinforced walls of the container, but inside, the only sound was the rhythmic, wheezing snore of Ghost, sprawled across the end of Jon’s narrow bunk like he owned the place.
Jon sat at his small, makeshift desk, his broad frame dwarfing the plastic chair. He stared at his laptop screen with a scowl that could have stopped a tank.
"I’m going to kill them," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "I am going to fly back to the UK and I am going to throw Ellie’s phone into the Channel."
He had been perfectly content with his life. He had his career, he had his house in Tutshill, and he had Ghost. That was enough. The memory of Ygritte still sat like lead in his gut—the ultimatum, the screeching, the final moment where she’d demanded he choose between her and the dog. He hadn't even hesitated. He’d packed her bags himself and stood by the door until she was off the property. He didn't have time for people who didn't understand that loyalty wasn't a bargaining chip.
He reached for his phone to delete the app—for the fifth time that day—when the screen chirped.
You have a match.
He froze, his thumb hovering over the 'block' icon. He wasn't looking for a girlfriend. He was looking for a beer and a decent night's sleep before a 0400 start for live-fire drills. But then his eyes caught the name: Sansa.
He clicked the profile. He expected some superficial influencer or someone looking for a "military boyfriend" fantasy. Instead, he saw a woman with kind, guarded eyes and a smile that looked like it had survived a fair bit of life. There was a photo of her in a quiet, sun-drenched room in York, looking exhausted but beautiful, surrounded by books and a massive Northern Inuit that looked as stoic as a mountain.
Then, he read the message.
Sansa: Ghost seems like a very high-maintenance chaperone. Does he have a favorite treat, or is he strictly a 'bribed by belly rubs' kind of dog?
Jon stared at the text. He felt a weird, unfamiliar tug in his chest—a sudden, sharp contrast to the cold, clinical reality of his deployment. He looked down at Ghost. The dog’s ear flickered, and one golden eye opened, tracking Jon’s movement.
"She’s asking about you, you traitor," Jon whispered, a corner of his mouth finally twitching upward.
He leaned back, the chair creaking under his 120kg weight. He started to type, his large, scarred fingers moving with surprising precision across the touchscreen.
Jon: He’s a sucker for high-grade liver treats, but he’s currently evaluating your character based on how quickly you realize I’m the one who’s actually high-maintenance. Ghost just tolerates me because I’m the one who drives the Land Rover.
He hit send before he could talk himself out of it. He watched the 'typing' indicator appear, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline or combat. For the first time in a long time, the Estonian cold didn't feel quite so biting.
The digital tether between York and Tapa tightened slowly, measured out in messages that sometimes had the grace of an hour, and sometimes the agonizing delay of a full day.
For Jon, the messages became a waypoint. He’d be midway through a cold, miserable tactical exercise in the Estonian forests, muscles aching, damp soaking through his gear, and his first thought when he finally reached his bunk wasn't food or sleep—it was checking to see if his phone had lit up.
Sansa: My sister Arya claims I’m "too cautious" because I checked your LinkedIn to make sure you weren't an international arms dealer. You’re a Sergeant. Does that mean you’re good at taking orders, or are you the one giving them?
Jon: Mostly both. Depends on if I’m talking to my CO or my dog. Ghost generally thinks he’s the one in charge. He’s been eyeing the extra ration pack like he’s the commanding officer of this billet.
Sansa: [Image: A blurry photo of Oliver holding a wooden train, his face smeared with jam.] Oliver has decided he is in charge of this house, so I think he and Ghost would get along famously. Though he doesn't have the military discipline.
Jon stared at the photo for a long time. He zoomed in on the boy’s face, then the quiet, warm background of the kitchen. It looked like a different planet compared to the grey, utilitarian world he inhabited.
Jon: He looks like he’s got a good grip on the situation. I’m impressed by the train setup. Is he an engineer in the making?
Sansa: He’s currently trying to build a railway line that spans from the living room to the garden. It’s a work in progress. And you? What do you do when you aren’t being a soldier or dodging K9 mutiny?
Jon: I restore things. My bungalow in Chepstow is a constant project. There’s something about taking something that’s been neglected and making it functional again that I... appreciate. It’s a quiet kind of work.
He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. He hadn't told anyone—not even his sister Ellie—that he spent his leave sanding down floorboards until his hands were raw just to feel like he was building a home that didn't feel like a barracks.
Sansa: That sounds peaceful. I think I’d like that. I’m more of a 'keep the chaos organized' kind of person. My job is essentially making sure the railway doesn't fall apart during the summer rush.
Jon: Sounds like we both spend a lot of time keeping things from falling apart.
The conversation shifted from the polite, guarded pleasantries of strangers to the shared, jagged edges of their lives. They didn't talk about "dating." They talked about the cold—Jon complaining about the Estonian frost, Sansa describing the sharp, biting wind that came off the North Sea. They talked about the burden of their roles—Jon, the protector of men and K9s; Sansa, the quiet guardian of a three-year-old boy.
It was a slow, steady erosion of defenses. Jon found himself editing his stories, stripping away the brutal, "soldier" parts that he knew would make her pull back, focusing instead on the way he felt when the sun rose over the Estonian tree line, or the specific way Ghost tilted his head when he heard the word "home."
Sansa, in turn, stopped treating the app like a chore. She found herself reaching for her phone the moment she sat down with her tea, a flutter of anticipation in her chest that she hadn't felt since she was twenty.
It was a relationship built on text bubbles and voice notes, safe behind a digital screen—but with every exchange, the distance between Chepstow and York felt a little less like a map, and a little more like a bridge.
Sansa: I’m heading into the office tomorrow, which means I have to actually put on proper clothes. Are you doing anything interesting, or just staring at trees?
Jon: Training all day. Which is just code for 'staring at trees but carrying a heavy bag while doing it.' I’ll be thinking about the railway project though. Good luck with the office, Sansa.
He sent the message and set the phone down. He looked over at Ghost, who was snoring softly, and felt a strange, hollow ache in his chest—a yearning for a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.
He didn't know how to tell her that the only thing keeping him grounded in a world of mud and orders was the small, digital window into her world.
He didn't know how to tell her that he was already starting to wonder what it would feel like to see that train track in her living room, in person.
So he just closed his eyes, let the silence of the billet settle over him, and waited for the next notification.
The kitchen was a symphony of chaos and comfort, the kind of sensory overload that Sansa usually found deeply soothing. The air was thick with the rich, buttery scent of pastry and roasting beef, punctuated by the sharp, clattering sounds of Catelyn Stark overseeing the preparations.
"Honestly, Sansa, you look a bit peaky," Catelyn said, not looking up from the gravy reduction, though her voice carried that classic, discerning motherly tone. "You’ve been glued to that phone all morning. Is it work? The railway?"
Sansa tucked her phone into her pocket, flushing slightly. "Just emails, Mum."
At the kitchen island, Margaery was expertly arranging a platter of roasted vegetables, her engagement ring catching the light. She caught Sansa’s eye and gave her a conspiratorial, knowing grin.
"Emails, right," Margaery teased, her voice lowered for just the two of them. "And I suppose that’s why you’ve checked the time three times in the last five minutes? Is the Sergeant being a good correspondent today?"
Sansa narrowed her eyes at her, but before she could retort, the back door flew open. Arya burst in, followed by a tall, slightly sheepish-looking guy—Gus, she’d said? Gareth? He looked sturdy, good-natured, and currently terrified of being in the presence of the full Stark clan.
"Hey, we’re here!" Arya announced, tossing her bag onto a chair. "Gus is an electrician, so don't ask him about the flickering lights in the hallway, Dad, he's off the clock."
"I'm actually quite happy to take a look, Mr. Stark," the poor guy offered, looking around the bustling kitchen.
Robb leaned against the counter, nursing a beer and laughing as Missandei and Daenerys waltzed in through the utility room, having clearly let themselves in. "The Stark Sunday Roast, now with more gatecrashers than ever," Robb noted, pulling Daenerys into a quick, warm hug.
"We brought wine," Daenerys said, holding up two expensive-looking bottles. "And we’re here for the gossip. Arya mentioned a development."
Sansa groaned, leaning against the counter as the room filled with the usual boisterous energy of her family.
"So, Sansa," Ned said, entering the kitchen with a stack of newspapers under his arm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He walked over and gently squeezed her shoulder. "Arya tells me you’re dipping your toe into the dating game again. That’s a pleasant surprise."
Sansa straightened up, keeping her expression as neutral as possible. "I was ambushed, Dad. It was a group effort of villainy."
"Ambushed or liberated?" Margaery chirped, pouring herself a glass of wine. "It’s been two years, Sansa. You’re allowed to breathe."
"I’m breathing just fine," Sansa said, though her thumb brushed against the fabric of her pocket where her phone sat.
She wasn't ready to talk about the man in Estonia. She wasn't ready to explain how a 6'4" soldier with a Belgian Malinois had become the most interesting part of her day. It felt too fragile, too private—a small, quiet flicker of hope that she wasn't sure she wanted exposed to the bright, scrutiny-heavy light of a Sunday lunch.
"The roast is ready!" Catelyn called out, effectively cutting off the interrogation. "Bran! Rickon! Come and eat before your brothers and sisters devour everything!"
As the family began to file into the dining room—the sound of Rickon’s gaming music from the family room slowly fading—Sansa took a breath. She managed to keep the secret tucked away, but as she walked toward the table, her phone buzzed again.
A single message from a Sergeant in Tapa: “Just finished a training rotation. Ghost is currently stealing my pillow. What are you up to today?”
She smiled, a small, genuine thing that she kept hidden from the rest of the table as she pulled out her chair.
The transition from the kitchen to the dining room was usually a smooth affair, but Catelyn Stark’s day took a sharp turn when she reached for the phone Sansa had left on the sideboard. She thought it was her own, mistakenly left behind, and she only realized the error when a notification banner slid down across the lock screen.
She tapped it, intending to clear the alert, but the phone unlocked.
And there it was. A full-screen, high-resolution photo that Jon had sent just moments ago—a casual, post-training shot he’d taken while changing in the billet. It was from behind, catching him mid-movement as he pulled on a fresh shirt. The view of his back, his shoulders, and... well.
Catelyn didn't just gasp; she physically recoiled, the phone nearly slipping from her fingers as if it were electrified.
"Oh, sweet Mother," Catelyn choked out, her face going a shade of red that rivaled the wine on the table.
Arya, ever the predator, was at her side in a heartbeat. "What? What is it?" She peered over her mother’s shoulder, and her eyes went wide. Her jaw actually hit the floor. "Holy—Sansa! What are you hiding in this house?"
The commotion brought Margaery, Daenerys, and Missandei scrambling over. Margaery took one look, and the thirst in her eyes was immediate and unapologetic. "Hubba, hubba," she breathed, leaning in closer. "Sansa, darling, I take back everything I said about you needing to 'get out more.' You’ve found a masterpiece."
Daenerys and Missandei crowded around, Daenerys letting out a low, appreciative whistle. "He looks like he was carved out of granite. Is he real, or is he a statue you’ve been keeping in your pocket?"
Sansa heard the squeal from the dining room and rushed back in, her face draining of all color. She caught sight of the group huddled around her phone, saw the flushed faces and the wide eyes, and felt a desperate, burning desire for the floorboards to simply open up and swallow her whole.
"Give me that!" Sansa lunged, snatching the phone back and locking it with trembling fingers.
"Friends?" Arya scoffed, crossing her arms and looking at her sister with a mixture of awe and devious delight. "You’ve been texting a man who looks like he should be featured in a museum of anatomy, and you called him a friend?"
"We are just friends!" Sansa insisted, though her voice rose an octave. She could feel the heat radiating off her own cheeks.
"Friends don't send photos like that, Sansa," Margaery said, her eyes gleaming with wicked excitement. "That is the definition of not friends. That is a tactical deployment of… assets."
Missandei laughed softly, nudging Daenerys. "I believe the term is 'friends with benefits,' though I’m not sure he’s the type to just be a benefit."
"I am going to die," Sansa muttered, turning toward the window as if to check for an exit. "I am going to leave the country, change my name, and never speak to any of you again."
"Not until you tell us where you found him," Arya insisted, grabbing Sansa by the shoulders and shaking her slightly. "And more importantly, why you didn't tell us he was 120 kilos of pure, unadulterated muscle!"
Sansa caught a glimpse of the photo again as the screen flickered, and she couldn't help but bite her lip. The "friend" who was currently standing in a cold, lonely billet in Estonia, unaware that his backside was currently being appraised by the entire Stark matriarchy, suddenly felt very, very far away.
"He's a Sergeant," Sansa whispered, a small, defiant smile creeping onto her face despite the mortification. "And he's not a statue. He’s... he’s just Jon."
"Just Jon," Catelyn repeated, fanning herself with a napkin. "Well, 'Just Jon' needs to be invited for Sunday lunch immediately."
The dining room, which had been a chorus of shocked whispers and maternal fanning just moments ago, quickly devolved into a full-scale tactical interrogation as soon as the younger Stark males caught wind of the commotion.
Rickon, currently mid-bite of a Yorkshire pudding, had been watching the cluster of women with keen, eleven-year-old curiosity. "Who’s the guy?" he asked, pointing a fork at the phone Sansa was frantically trying to shove into her bag. "Is he a wrestler?"
Bran, at sixteen and already sporting the world-weary smirk of a teenager who knew exactly how to push his older sister’s buttons, didn't even look up from his own plate. "Judging by the way Mum is hyperventilating, I’m guessing he’s more 'action hero' than 'wrestler.' Come on, Sansa. Let’s see the damage."
"It’s not damage, and it’s not for you," Sansa snapped, though her face was still burning.
Robb, who had been listening from the head of the table, suddenly pushed his chair back. He stood up, towering and broad, and leaned over to clap a heavy hand on Sansa’s shoulder. He looked down at her with a grin that was far too mischievous for a man who was usually the responsible eldest sibling.
"A Sergeant, is he?" Robb chuckled, his eyes dancing. "Sansa, you always had a flair for the dramatic. But a soldier? That’s a long way from the accountants and architects you usually date."
"He’s not a hobby, Robb," Sansa said, trying to regain some dignity.
"No, he’s a deployment," Arya chipped in, not missing a beat.
"Is he going to teach me how to do push-ups?" Rickon asked, his eyes wide. "If he’s that strong, maybe he can show me how to beat the high score on the level I’m stuck on."
"He’s in the Rifles, Rickon," Bran said, affecting a mock-serious tone. "I doubt he spends his time doing push-ups for your Xbox. He’s probably out there... I don’t know, jumping out of planes or wrestling bears in the Baltic."
"He's not wrestling bears!" Sansa protested, though she found herself smiling despite the heat in her face.
"He’s got a dog though, right?" Robb added, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a loud, obnoxious stage whisper. "Does the dog come with a beret? Or does he just look like a professional heartbreaker?"
"You're all insufferable," Sansa said, grabbing her wine glass and taking a long, desperate gulp.
"We’re just protective," Robb countered, winking at Margaery. "If he’s going to be the man who—let's be honest—has clearly captured our sister’s attention to the point where she’s ignoring her roast, he’s going to have to survive a weekend of us. And I’m going to make sure he does a few extra laps around the garden just to see if he’s as tough as he looks."
"He's in Estonia," Sansa muttered, failing to hide the fact that she was disappointed by the distance.
"For now," Arya said, grabbing a dinner roll and tossing it at her. "But if I were a betting man—and looking at those photos, I'd bet quite a bit—I’d say he’s already planning his next leave."
Rickon perked up. "Does he have a cool car? Does he drive a tank?"
"A Land Rover," Sansa sighed, conceding the defeat. "And he’s a perfectly normal person, not a superhero."
"Normal," Bran scoffed, looking at Margaery, who was still wearing a very thirsty, very impressed expression. "Sansa, look at Mum. That man is anything but normal."
Sansa looked over at her mother, who was currently staring off into space with a look of dazed approval. She realized then that there was no point in fighting it. The "Jon Snow" file had been officially opened by the family, and there was absolutely no closing it now.
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The video call was a chaotic, multi-windowed affair that Jon had grown used to. His laptop screen was divided into three distinct pockets of British life: Ellie’s warm, sunlit kitchen in Dover with the background noise of her three children; Thomas’s sleek, minimalist London apartment where the glowing tickers of a brokerage screen were visible over his shoulder; and Mia’s cramped, book-stacked study in Cheltenham.
Jon sat in his billet, the dim light making his tattoos look like dark, shifting ink under his skin. Ghost was curled by his feet, chin resting on his combat boot.
"Right, let's have it, then," Mia said, leaning into her camera, her eyes bright with sisterly mischief. "How’s the dating app going, Jon? You’ve had it up for, what, a week? Have you managed to talk to anyone without scaring them off with 'Sergeant' talk yet?"
Jon leaned back, crossing his massive arms over his chest. He felt a weird, protective heat rise in his chest—a knee-jerk reaction to keep Sansa tucked away from their teasing. She felt too real, too fragile, to be thrown into the middle of his siblings' interrogation.
"It’s fine," Jon said, his voice a low, neutral gravel. "Lot of people just want to talk about the army. Gets boring fast. I’m thinking of deleting it, to be honest."
Thomas snorted, spinning his chair around to face the camera. "Deleting it? Already? Jon, you have the personality of a brick wall when you’re trying to be aloof. You’ve probably got fifty matches and you’re just ignoring them because you’d rather spend your weekend sanding floorboards."
"He’s not deleting it," Ellie said, smiling as she poured a cup of tea, a toddler tugging at her sleeve. "He’s just stubborn. And besides, Mia, you’re the one who set it up. Did you put any decent photos on there, or did you just use that one of him covered in mud after the obstacle course?"
"I used the best ones!" Mia defended herself, looking offended. "He looks like a hero in all of them."
"He looks like he’s about to interrogate a suspect," Thomas countered, laughing. "Look, Jon, if you’re actually talking to someone you like, just say it. We aren't going to roast you. Probably."
Jon shifted, his gaze flickering down to the screen for a split second before meeting the cameras again. "I’m not talking to anyone, Tom. It’s just... it’s not the right time. I’ve got a busy rotation coming up."
He saw the look of skepticism on Mia’s face—she knew him too well, and she was the one who had seen his phone light up at odd hours the night before.
"Busy rotation, right," Mia said, narrowing her eyes. "Just make sure you don't miss out on something real because you’re too busy playing the stoic soldier. You deserve a win, Jon. Even if it’s not from a Leicester City bet."
Jon offered a small, tight smile—his "get off my back" smile. "I'll keep it in mind. Now, enough about me. Thomas, how’s the market? And Ellie, is the roof in the Dover house finally finished, or are you still putting buckets under the leaks?"
He managed to steer the conversation toward them, the familiar rhythm of their family dynamic taking over. As they argued about house prices and school runs, Jon caught his reflection in the corner of the screen. He looked tired, yes, but there was a faint, lingering warmth in his expression that hadn't been there a month ago.
He waited for the call to end, his hand hovering over the mouse. The moment the connection dropped and the screen went black, his phone buzzed on the desk.
Sansa: Just survived Sunday lunch. You were right—they’re terrifying when they start asking questions.
Jon’s lips curled into a genuine smile. He started typing, the secret of his "nothing to report" fib already starting to feel like a heavy weight he couldn't wait to drop.
The conversation on the screen began to blur for Jon as he felt the vibration in his pocket. He kept his expression carefully schooled, his eyes locked on his siblings, but his mind had already sprinted across Europe to a Sunday roast in York.
"—and honestly, if you don't call the council, Ellie, the damp is just going to eat the joists," Thomas was saying, tapping his stylus against his tablet. "I'm telling you, it’s an investment risk."
"I'm not selling the family house, Thomas, so save your broker lectures for your clients," Ellie retorted, though her voice was soft. She looked at Jon, her expression softening. "You're quiet tonight, little brother. More than usual. You sure you're alright out there? The news is saying the weather in Estonia has been brutal."
Jon forced his focus back to the center window. "The weather's fine, El. Just a long rotation. You know how it is. It’s quiet, mostly."
Mia, who had been watching him with a predatory, observant glint in her eyes, leaned forward. The screen was so close he could see the slight smirk playing on her lips.
"Quiet," she echoed, her tone mocking. "Right. So, tell me, Sergeant 'Quiet,' why is your phone lighting up like a Christmas tree every two minutes? Is the Ministry of Defence suddenly very interested in your social life?"
Jon felt his jaw clench. "I’m getting a lot of emails."
"Emails," Thomas chuckled, shaking his head. "From Hinge? They’re getting aggressive with their marketing, then."
"Leave him be, Mia," Ellie sighed, though she didn't look entirely convinced. "He'll talk when he’s ready. He’s always been the type to keep his cards close to his chest. Just... Jon, if you are talking to someone, don't be an idiot. Don't push them away just because you’re scared of missing a deployment or because you think you have to be 'on duty' 24/7."
Jon felt a strange, tight knot in his throat. He looked at his sisters—Ellie, who was still holding the family together in Dover, and Mia, who was navigating her own life in Cheltenham—and felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt for the lie. He wasn't scared of missing a deployment; he was scared of making this real. He was scared that if he told them about the woman who worked for a railway in York, it would make the distance feel less like a temporary assignment and more like a permanent ache.
"I'm not pushing anyone away," Jon said, his voice dropping an octave, deeper than he intended.
"You're not doing a very good job of acting like a man who’s single," Mia teased, her voice softer now. "You’ve got that look on your face. You know the one. Like you’re waiting for something."
"I'm just tired, Mia," Jon lied, a bit more cleanly this time. He gestured to the pile of gear behind him. "We’ve got a jump at 0400. I need to get my head down."
"Fine, fine," Thomas said, waving a hand. "Go get your sleep. But don't think you’re getting out of this conversation when you’re back on leave. I want to see this 'mystery girl' if you’re actually talking to someone."
"Get some rest, Jon," Ellie added, blowing a kiss to the camera. "And kiss Ghost for us."
"Yeah. Will do," Jon said.
He clicked 'End Call' and the screen vanished, leaving him in the sudden, ringing silence of the billet. He looked down at his phone. The screen was dark, but he knew the message was waiting there.
He didn't want to tell them yet. Not because he was ashamed, but because for the first time in his adult life, he had something that was his. Not for the Regiment, not for the mission, not for the family legacy in Dover. Just his.
He opened the chat with Sansa.
Jon: My sisters are convinced I’m a hermit who only talks to his dog. They’re not entirely wrong, but I think I’m working on changing that.
He hesitated, then added:
Jon: They’re going to be a handful when you finally meet them, you know. Mia is a nightmare with questions, and Ellie thinks she’s the Queen of England. You might want to mentally prepare for the interrogation.
He watched the 'delivered' status change to 'read' almost instantly. He knew, deep down, that he was walking toward something that would eventually force his two worlds to collide—but for tonight, in the quiet of the Estonian dark, he was happy just to be the man who was waiting for her reply.