The party had been suffocating—too many people, too much noise, too many hands reaching where they shouldn’t. You’d tried to leave, pushing through the crowd, but someone had grabbed your wrist, too tight, too rough. A flash of fear had crept in. Then, suddenly, he was there.

Aemond hadn’t said a word. Just ripped the guy’s hand off you with a grip that made him yelp.

He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t needed to.

One look, sharp as a blade, and the crowd had parted. A hand at the small of your back, firm but careful, guiding you through the throng of drunk strangers and bad decisions. You barely had time to process what was happening before you were outside, cold air biting your skin, the slam of a car door sealing you inside his sleek, black car.

Now, the city blurs past, streetlights streaking gold across the windshield. Aemond’s grip on the wheel is tight, his knuckles bone-white, his jaw clenched so hard you think it might shatter.

”Do you have any idea how much trouble you could’ve been in?” he growls, voice low and edged with something dangerous.

You should answer. Should apologize, or explain, or do anything but sit there, staring at the way his fingers flex against the leather. But your pulse is hammering for all the wrong reasons.

It’s not fear. It’s not the leftover rush from the party.

It’s him.

The way his shirt sleeves are pushed up, veins visible along his forearms. The way his silver chain catches the dim light, glinting against the hollow of his throat. The way he won’t look at you, because if he does, you might see the truth written all over his face.

Aemond is furious. But not just at what happened tonight.

At you.

For making him feel this way.

For putting yourself in danger.

For being reckless with something—someone—he isn’t ready to admit he cares about.