Sansa covered her ears. Bran and Rickon were taking flying leaps playing "dragons" on their bunk beds, Arya was doing body slams against the wall, and was five minutes of quiet too much to ask? Sansa decided to try studying for Spanish in the pillow fort the kids had abandoned. Jon had encouraged them to build it, of course.

The couch cushions muffled the thunder upstairs and the sheets – god, they'd used her mother's nice linen sheets again – filtered the sunlight, but left her enough to read by. She barely noticed the crushed Cheerios in the corner. Rickon must have been hungry.

She heard Jon rustling before she saw him. He was forever cleaning up after the kids, taking down forts and putting away toys. Sansa sighed. Robb and Jon had been friends since the second grade. Jon was awkward, and moody, and couldn't string two sentences together. He said "hisansa" like it was one word. But he was patient, and good with Bran and Rickon and Arya.

"All right, I'm coming out now, Jon."

Jon poked his head in, his unruly halo of hair framed by bed sheets.

"I was just leaving." Sansa couldn't keep the pique out of her voice. Maybe she should schlep to the library.

"Monster games upstairs, right?"

Sansa nodded.

Jon glanced at the pile of textbooks stacked at Sansa's feet. "You look like you're studying."

This is the longest conversation we've ever had, Sansa thought. "Yes. I know you need to take the fort down." She started gathering her things.

"No, wait. I can do it later. I know it gets crazy here. Stay if you want."

He vanished, and Sansa spent a peaceful afternoon learning Spanish vocabulary words. After that, she kept "studying in the castle", as Arya called it, most weeks. She and Jon would take turns taking the fort apart, and putting the couches back together.

Marg put down her eyeliner and whistled. "Willas is gonna freak out when he sees you in that dress. You're going to be the belle of the ball."

"It's sophomore prom, Marg, not a beauty pageant." Sansa was glad Margery had come over to help her get ready for the dance. She was nervous. She hadn't been sure about the knee-length blue gown sprinkled with sequins, but Marg's squeal when she'd stepped in front of the three-way mirror at the store decided her. Sansa strapped on silver heels. "Is Oberyn picking you up?"

"Yes. He's gorgeous, isn't he? Tall, dark, and handsome."

"Could you cram another cliché in that sentence?" Sansa was smiling.

Margary pouted. "Tell me it's not true."

Sansa gave in. "It's true. Can you help me with my hair?"

"Sure. You wanted a chignon, right?" Margaery started brushing. "I wish I had hair like yours."

Sansa was confused. "Why? Oberyn loves your, quote, 'tumble of golden locks', unquote."

"He's a poet." Marg smirked at her in the mirror. "Seriously, guys love redheads."

"Name one."

Margaery shrugged. "Jon does."

"Jon? He's had one girlfriend with red hair." Jon had brooded for weeks when Ygritte left for Nepal. When Sansa had asked, Jon had just muttered Ygritte hadn't wanted to be tied down.

"Right, what was her name, Ygritte? And then there's you."

Sansa stilled. She had a fluttery feeling in her stomach. Jon didn't think about her that way.

"Sansa? Hello?"

Sana shifted on the vanity chair. "He's practically my brother, Marg."

"Mm." Margaery took a bobby pin out of her mouth. "Right. That's why he looks at you as if he wants to kiss you." Sansa blinked. Did he? And why was she blushing? She tried to tamp the unruly sensation down.

"He put Mickey Mouse band-aids on Arya and me when we were learning to ride ten-speeds and fell in the driveway, Marg."
Margaery rolled her eyes. "That was, like, nine years ago, Sansa."

"I think cartoon band-aid history sticks with you."

Margaery tutted. "All I'm saying is, brothers usually don't turn that shade of pink when a girl tries on a dress in the living room." She had a point. Jon had tripped on the rug when she was modeling her gown for Margaery and Jeyne the week before. Margaery clipped the final pin in place. "There. Stunning." She kissed Sansa on the cheek. "I think you tune Jon out, hon. You might want to tune him in."

After the dance was over and she'd peeled off her shoes, Sansa laid in her bed, twirling her peach rose corsage between her fingers. Jon had turned pink when she came in the door. And she'd die before she'd admit it to Marg, but Jon was handsome, if she let herself look, with soft dark hair and stormy grey eyes.

When she dreamed that night, she was dancing with Jon, rather than Willas.

Willas soon gave way to Joffrey Baratheon. At first, Joffrey was everything Sansa had wished for in a boyfriend – gallant, and charming. Then he started pulling her away from her family and friends, checking up on her aggressively at night, trying to control what she wore and where she went.
She'd seen uncertainty flicker across Robb's face a few times when Joffrey grabbed her arm too hard. She'd waved Robb off with a smile. She didn't want to worry Robb, and she didn't want to look too closely herself at why she kept Joffrey around.

A month later, Joffrey caught her texting Willas as they were driving home. He screamed at her and pushed her out of the car onto the lawn. Sansa stumbled onto the grass. She tore into the house, and up the stairs. An hour later, she was chopping carrots with extra force in the kitchen.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Jon was standing in the doorway.

"I'm fine, Jon." She'd splashed water on her face and smoothed the frizz in her hair, and she'd thought she'd managed to look composed. "Why do you ask?"

Jon motioned with his chin. "You don't usually use the cleaver on the carrots."

"Since when do you know how I chop carrots?"

"….Since you were twelve? Can I help?"

"Sure. Chop some celery." Sansa gritted her teeth.

"Should I use a cleaver too? Do we need cleaver chopped vegetables?" Sansa smiled in spite of herself.

"No. We don't have two cleavers anyway."

Jon stood next to her at the butcher block island and got to work. Sansa could say this much for Jon, he didn't shirk. Even her dear older brother would sometimes use his dazzling smile to slip out of chores, especially if Jeyne was in town. Jon might not say much, but he showed up on time, and he didn't wait around for a list. She slowly relaxed as the mixing bowl filled up with carrots and celery.

"I'm not stuck up," she said.

"What do you mean?" Jon's voice was low.

"Joffrey thinks I'm stuck up, that I talk too much, and I flirt with other guys. I did everything I could to convince him, Jon. To keep him happy. I texted him every hour. I stopped talking to Willas and Renly. I didn't wear short skirts."

Jon's knife was still.

"Damn, now I'm crying." She wiped her eyes. "I can't figure it out, Jon. I can't figure out what I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Sansa."

"Then why did he leave?"

"Sansa, he doesn't like you for who you are. He's an idiot. You deserve better."

Sansa turned into Jon's shoulder. Jon put his arms around her, and she leaned into him. It felt right, and good, to tell Jon. He wouldn't gossip, or treat her like a kid. His dark green sweater was scratchy, but he was warm, and solid, and reassuring, and she held on longer than she needed to.

"Are you ok?" Jon murmured into her hair.

Sansa had started to drift off. She had the crazy urge to ask Jon to come to her room and curl up with her. She shook herself awake, and pulled back.

"Yes. I mean, no, but I will be."

Jon smiled. Jon should really smile more often, Sansa thought. He was beautiful when he did.

"Ok. If you need help, tell me. Please, Sansa."

"It's called bedding, Jon."

Jon stared at the rows of patterned covers hanging on rails at Ikea. Polka dots, paisley, and stripes clashed together on the wall.

He looked down at the list in his hand. "Duvets? Duvet covers?"

Sansa pointed to a rolled up comforter in the cart. "That's the duvet. We're picking out the duvet cover now."

"What, does it need to hide its shame, or something? Why can't you just put a blanket on the bed and be done with it?"

"You're setting a mood with a bed, Jon. It's a way of decorating. I want Marg to be surprised when she gets here." Margaery had spent the summer in France, but was coming to stay at the Stark house for a week. Sansa wanted the guest bedroom to be perfect. "Once we're done with this, we need pillow shams. Oh, and a bed skirt."

Jon snorted. "Now you're just messing with me."

"Not everyone sleeps on a futon with a quilt, Jon."

"Works fine for me. Besides, I'm not sure Robb would let me live down a bed skirt."

The Stark home was lovely, but the last time someone had redone the guest bedroom was in the 1970s. Sansa sighed. "I wish we could do something about the paint. I think it's called avocado green." She wrinkled her nose.

"It's…distinctive." Jon said.

"That's one word for it. I promise, Jon, just one more stop after this."

Sansa had felt a twinge of guilt asking Jon to come with her. Jon was studying hard for the LSAT, but he hadn't blinked an eye when Sansa had asked him to come on this excursion, and oh by the way, could he bring his truck?

"It's fine, Sansa. Besides how else am I going to complete my education in how to dress a bed?"

Sansa flitted around the bedroom when they got back, adjusting accent pillows and tugging the comforter down. There really was nothing to be done about the avocado green, but she'd selected neutrals for the bedding, and it would have to do. She'd called Jon in to check out her handiwork.

Jon looked at the heap of pillows and blankets. "Um. Did you set the mood you wanted?"

Sansa pushed a strand of hair back from her face. "Yes. Calm and restful is what I'm going for."

Jon poked at the afghan folded at the foot of the bed. "She won't get cold, that's for sure."

"Thanks again for your help. The truck was a lifesaver. I'm sure this wasn't what you wanted to do with your Thursday afternoon."

Jon winked. "I don't know. You might have turned me around on accent pillows."

"We can pick them out for your futon next time. I'd better hop on the road." Sansa was driving out to pick Bran up from violin camp. She'd be back the next day to meet Margaery.

"Drive safe."

Sansa was perplexed by the paint cans at the top of the stairs. She heard a muttered curse from the guest bedroom. "Who's there?"

Jon was perched at the top of a metal ladder, a black bandanna tied around his head, touching up a beautiful blue coat of paint. "Hey. You weren't supposed to be home for another hour."

Sansa was speechless.

Jon mistook her silence for disapproval. "Sansa, I promise, I'm almost done. The rest of the paint is dry, it's water-based paint, it only takes four hours, I googled it."

"This is beautiful." Sansa turned in a slow circle. The blue was light, lighter than a robin's egg, vibrant and warm, transforming the room.

"The woman at the paint counter said blue was good for bedrooms. Calming." Jon's brow was creased.

"Jon. I love it." Jon looked relieved and came down from the ladder. "Why did you do it, Jon?"

Jon rubbed his hands on a rag on his belt. "You haven't been this excited about something in a long time. I like to see you happy, Sansa."

"But I was picky and pushy and I made you go to six stores –"

"You were yourself again. I missed you." Sansa flushed. She'd thought she'd dragged him around all day, and he'd liked it?

Jon took a shaky breath. "I shouldn't have said that. I know you probably think about me like a brother."

Jon's shirt was splashed with paint and his grey eyes were uncertain and Sansa wanted to kiss him right then and there. Seize the day, wasn't that what Margaery said?

Sansa took his hand. "No. Not like a brother." She reached for him and brushed her lips against his. "Definitely not like a brother." His lips were soft as he kissed her eyelids and her cheeks. He stopped when she put a hand on his shirt. "You'll get paint on your sweater." His pupils were blown and he was breathing faster. Sansa shivered in a good way. "Don't care." She hooked a finger into his belt loop and pulled him closer. Jon traced his thumb behind her ear. "You're beautiful, you know that, right?" Sansa blushed. "So are you, Jon." Sansa wrapped her arm around his neck and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Jon sighed against her as his hesitance shaded into confidence. He tugged gently on her bottom lip and pressed his hand into the small of her back. When they broke apart, Jon rested his forehead on hers. "I'm painting all the rooms in the house if it means I get to kiss you afterwards," he whispered.

Sansa smiled. "You might be signing up for more Ikea trips. We have to set a mood, after all."