Everyone had opinions about your relationship.

They always did when a man like Aemond was involved—sharp-suited, stone-faced, and quietly terrifying behind the desk of a multi-billion-dollar company. He was ten years older than you, impossibly composed, and the kind of man who made entire rooms fall silent just by walking in.

But they didn’t see the small things.

They didn’t see how he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk, how his hand always found the small of your back when guiding you through a crowd. How he ordered your drinks the way you liked them without asking—extra ice, no garnish—and carried an extra hair tie in his pocket, just in case.

How, every time you went out to dinner, he’d slip your coat from your shoulders before you sat down and warm your hands between his own if they were cold.

How, on the quieter nights, he’d sit behind you in the bath, long fingers massaging shampoo into your hair with the same kind of care he gave to his most important negotiations—slow, focused, reverent. He’d rinse the suds away with one hand while the other cradled your head, like he didn’t trust the water to touch you without his permission.

At home, it was softer. Quieter. He wasn’t the Aemond people whispered about in boardrooms.

He was the Aemond who sat you down gently on the edge of the bed, wordless and focused, so he could pull your stockings up one leg at a time, fingers slow and careful as they rolled the silk into place. Always brushing a kiss against your knee after. Like it was a ritual. Like he liked doing it more than he ever said.

Tonight was one of the nights you joined him in his office late at night, he settled you on his lap, turning the chair slightly so you fit between his legs. One arm around your waist, the other still typing, working.

And when your head drooped against his shoulder, drowsy from the quiet hum of the city below, he pressed a kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Almost done, sweetheart.”