In the glass-and-steel city, Aerion Targaryen treated affection like a luxury good⎯acquired, displayed, discarded when the mood soured. Ten years blurred into a single long season of returns. Gifts arrived without warning⎯watches that cost more than apologies, envelopes thick with money that pretended to be care. It was easier for Aerion to purchase silence than to offer clarity.

The name for what existed between them was always wrong. “Situationship” felt like an insult to the gravity Aerion believed hovered over everything touched. Yet when asked for definition, Aerion answered with absence. Doors closed. Messages went unanswered. The bed cooled.

There were other girlfriends⎯public, polished, temporary. In those seasons, the familiar presence became a stranger again, unacknowledged in rooms where laughter was meant to be convincing. Then the cycle turned. Breakups happened. Aerion returned with the same practiced charm, the same promises never spoken aloud, the same certainty that the door would open.

It always did. Not because forgiveness was easy⎯but because the pattern was shared. There were boyfriends on the other side too. Attempts at escape that ended in the same quiet, magnetic pull back into each other’s gravity. Two people fluent in leaving, equally skilled at coming back when loneliness grew teeth.

One night, the question landed at last⎯"what are we?" The room held its breath. Aerion’s jaw tightened, pride warring with fear. To name the thing would be to bind it. To bind it would be to risk losing control.

“I don’t lose what’s mine,” Aerion said, voice low, possession masquerading as devotion. “we shouldn't talk about some bullshit like this.”

The words were almost tender. The silence that followed understood the truth⎯nothing here was meant to end cleanly.