Thunderstruck
Chapter Seventeen
"Who's gonna tell you when
It's too late?
Who's gonna tell you things
Aren't so great?
You can't go on
Thinking nothing's wrong
Who's gonna drive you home
Tonight?"
-Drive, The Cars
Sansa's legs burned and she raced like the cold morning wind, heart pounding in her chest covered with just a thin t-shirt. Halfway across the quad, the scrunchie fell from her hair and she bid it farewell. Someone would find it. Neon pink wasn't known for being subtle. Maybe the groundskeeper would toss it in the trash. It didn't matter. She didn't have time to go back. She sprinted across dew-covered grass, soared over a stone bench like a gazelle, and yanked open the gym's back door.
"I'm here!" Her shouts echoed off the gym walls covered in paper flowers, string lights, and a giant glitter-encrusted heart with three pink triangles inside in case anyone forgot that Tri Delta was hosting this affair.
Sansa bolted across the basketball court and to the table at the back where Jeyne, Dany, and Arianne all sat with a veritable craft store worth of supplies in front of them.
"I'm sorry," Sansa panted and crouched over, hands gripping her knees. "I overslept, but I'm here."
Overslept was a gross understatement. She was an hour and a half late. She might've tried to lie and say that she didn't hear her alarm, but she'd heard it just fine. With each jab of the snooze button, she knew damn well she was toying with trouble.
The truth was she didn't quite care and couldn't summon the motivation to climb out of bed. As it stood, Sansa poured all her energy into showing up for class and that alone zapped her. So exhausted with the effort, last night she passed out on her bed at eight o'clock.
But Sansa didn't need to cover up the lie. She could've paraded out the God's honest truth and it wouldn't have mattered. Jeyne didn't spare a passing glance. The girl tapped a tube of glitter over poster board. The pink sparkles stuck to cursive glue letters that spelled out the name of each Tri Delta girl.
"You were signed up for last weekend." Jeyne glared at Sansa from beneath her brow.
Sansa gripped the edge of the table lined with open tubes of glitter all in different shades of pink.
"What?" she breathed, gulping down air to catch her breath.
"Watch it," Arianne muttered and shot Sansa an offended look as the glitter tubes wobbled on the table.
Jeyne carefully set the glitter tube down and eased back in her seat. Arms folded, she tipped her chin high and proud and with a snooty glint behind her eyes as she stared at Sansa.
"Over a month ago, we all signed up for a weekend. Yours was last weekend." Jeyne grabbed a piece of paper from the table and shoved it at Sansa who took it and scanned the list of names.
Sure enough, in her very own handwriting, her name was next to last weekend's date. She meant to write it down or commit it to memory, but then Sandor had careened into her life from left field and nothing had been the same. The date had simply vanished from her mind, completely lost and only now finding its place again in faded memories.
Sansa cast incredulous eyes towards her sorority sisters at the table. They toiled away over decorations that just looked shitty and stupid and doused in way too much glitter. None of the girls would look at her.
"Why didn't anyone come get me?" Sansa pled. "I was already moved into the Tri Del house. Someone could've gotten me." Her eyes landed on Jeyne and she pointed at the girl. "I saw you that morning! You could've said something, Jeyne."
"It's not my job to babysit you, Sansa." Jeyne's upper lip curled in a scowl. "If you were more responsible, you wouldn't be in this mess."
Sansa replaced the sign-up sheet to the table and launched into her last-ditch effort to reason with Jeyne, to remind the girl of who she used to be before this cult of cattiness and backstabbing had gotten the best of her.
"You didn't used to be like this, you know that?" Sansa whispered so that the others might not hear. "I remember when you were actually kind and considerate and—"
"And you didn't used to be such a slut!" Jeyne's outburst echoed through the gym and she leveled cruel eyes on Sansa whose cheeks burned now. "Looks like both of us have changed."
Old Sansa would've cried. She would've been mortified, humiliated, and would've taken this lying down. Then again old Sansa wouldn't have been in this situation. She would have yielded to Jeyne and Margaery, done their bidding, adopted their thinking, and certainly would've never given Sandor a second glance, much less the time of day. And her life would've been sadder, hollower, and more boring because of it.
Sansa had changed into a version of herself she liked much better and that version scooped up the tubes of glitter in both hands, threw her arms in the air, and watched with delight as a sparkling pink gradient rained down on Jeyne, Dany, and Arianne who all shrieked in unison. Sansa dropped the empty tubes to the floor and waltzed off as Jeyne desperately tried to save her hideous glitter-and-glue creation.
Sansa pushed through the gym's double doors and into the vestibule beyond where she found Mya cross-legged on the floor next to a window. As sunlight streamed in, the girl shaped pink tissue paper into a flower, but stared up at Sansa with grey eyes gone wide.
"What the hell happened to you?" she asked and gaped at Sansa's hands covered in a sheen of glitter.
Sansa gazed down, noticing now how her white t-shirt was dusted in pink and so were the tousled ends of her hair. Her stunt was well-worth the glittery collateral and a smirk of pride creased her lips. Before she could answer, the double doors behind her burst open and a red-faced Jeyne came screaming through. Arianne and Dany scampered behind.
"And now we have to clean it all up! It's a disaster! She ruined it!"
"Is that your handy work?" Mya grinned like mad and motioned to the hall where Jeyne wailed like a banshee all the way to the bathroom.
"Yep, sure is." Sansa plopped down next to Mya. She rested with her back against the window and pulled her knees to her chest.
"Sweet." Mya chuckled, but her gaze drifted to the misshapen flower in her hand. A dozen more were scattered around her on the floor, equally as crumpled and asymmetric.
"Need some help?" Sansa asked.
Mya surveyed her work and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. It couldn't hurt."
The problem wasn't Mya. Sansa layered tissue paper and tried to glue the pieces together at the center. The glue stick tore at the paper and her attempt at a flower ended up just as deformed. The flowers in the gym seemed expertly crafted in comparison, lovingly created by girls who still gave a shit.
Sansa frowned at her flower and tossed it to the pile of wasted effort. These flowers just wouldn't make the cut and would end up in the garbage anyhow. Why am I even here?
Mya seemed to ponder the same question. She wadded up the tissue paper in her hand and chucked it to the side.
"Hey," Mya murmured. Her eyes shifted in a tentative gaze to Sansa. "There are worse things than not having a date for tonight's mixer."
Like a broken heart. This was more than just not having a date. Sansa couldn't conjure enough leftover emotional energy to even feel sorry for herself. One night of her life didn't matter. It was all the other nights alone and without him that loomed like an uphill battle she might not win.
"You're right." Sansa nodded. Tissue paper clung to the tips of her fingers tacky from the glue stick. "Like being here with this stupid…flower…" Sansa flung her wrist to free the paper, but to no avail. "…bullshit." She ripped the tissue paper off and tossed it to the floor. "God, a year ago I could hardly contain myself setting up for this thing."
A year ago, Sansa was also the picture of a dutiful sorority girl: manicured fingers deftly shaping perfect decorations; her dress procured weeks before the dance; her planner filled with all her responsibilities, the ones she'd rather drop dead than miss—or worse—forget.
Mya snorted a laugh and stared at her hands that no longer bothered with decorations. "I remember."
"You do?" Sansa felt the heat of shame and embarrassment rush to her cheeks. "I'm sure I was totally annoying. I'm annoyed just thinking about it."
God, I hope I never acted like Jeyne. Sansa scanned her memories for moments of cruelty, times she judged others too harshly, or said things that wounded other people or made them feel less than.
Mya was quick to douse the rising panic in Sansa. She gave a firm shake of her head.
"No, not annoying." The girl paused and fiddled with a glue stick that occupied both her hands and now her eyes as she contemplated it. "You've always been nicer to me than any of the others. I'm different and not everyone accepts it like you do."
Sansa knew well enough what Mya meant. The whispers drifted around campus about the girl who dressed a little too androgynous and couldn't be bothered with frat boys or jocks. Joffrey had had truly cruel things to say about it and Jeyne, though not as cruel, certainly shared in the blatant intolerance.
"I remember you this time last year," Mya continued. "I remember how excited you were and involved and up Margaery's ass. I remember thinking, 'Here's this really cool chick who's genuinely kind and cares about people and dresses awesome and is smart. Why the hell does she care so much what Margaery and the others think of her?'
"You have more depth than Jeyne could ever hope to have; more integrity than Margaery; more class than Myranda. I just never got it. They're cheap knock-off versions of you, Sansa. They should be rising to your level, not trying to drag you down to theirs."
At the end of it, Sansa felt the familiar burn of tears, but these were so different than the ones she'd shed for the past few weeks. It's okay to be who you are now, Mya probably meant, and the girl would know.
Sansa leaned over the wreck of tissue paper and hugged Mya. The sun streamed bright and warm against her skin.
"Thank you for being a good friend to me," she whispered before settling back on her knees. "You know I think the same about you, Mya, and I'll always stick up for you, right?"
A faint smile painted Mya's lips and she nodded. Jeyne stomped back down the hall, still ranting and with Arianne and Dany trailing after her. She glared at Mya and Sansa and flung open the gym door.
"I wish we could just start our own sorority or something," Sansa grumbled.
"Or quit this bullshit." Mya huffed a gentle laugh, one that said she considered the prospect a pie-in-the-sky dream, but it fire started something in Sansa.
Why hadn't it ever occurred to her to leave? She wasn't bound by oath or law or even friendship now to Tri Delta. She didn't owe them her loyalty or time or allegiance. And what exactly was she getting out of this other than misery?
Sansa lifted her eyes to Mya and found the girl staring back with the exuberance of the same realization.
"I will if you do," Sansa said with a mischievous smile.
"I'm in," Mya nodded and tucked her dark curls behind her ears. "But I say, first, we have the time of our lives tonight to rub it in their faces. We can't let them think they drove us away."
"Deal." Sansa extended her hand to Mya who took it and gave a firm shake.
"Deal."
"Who's upstairs?" Ned asked Cat in the kitchen and knew damn well what the answer was.
He'd heard the shower come on and, not so long after, the scent of peaches wafted down the hall. He knew Sansa's graceful footfalls, far gentler than all his other children who stomped around like elephants. It was a wonder the subfloor hadn't given up the ghost by now.
"Sansa is getting ready here." Cat glanced up from her magazine resting on the counter. "The sorority house is too crowded with all the girls getting ready for tonight."
"So she says." Ned dunked his hand into the container of Cheez Balls and popped them into his mouth.
He never would've hoped that Sansa's experience living at the sorority house would be hell. He garnered no satisfaction from it, especially not with how she left home—giving him the silent treatment and only mumbling a goodbye. He had talked to her little since; mostly stilted conversations rife with awkward silences and ultimately ending when Sansa asked to speak to her mother.
"So she says," Cat repeated on a sigh. She knew all the details. Sansa called her once a day, often in tears. "Are you going to talk to her?"
Cat's question had only one answer. By Ned's calculation, that didn't make it a question at all; only a suggestion disguised as a query.
"Ned." Cat stared at him from beneath her brow and his name came long and drawn out like a warning.
He stuffed more Cheez Balls into his mouth. "What if she yells at me again?"
Ned never pegged Sansa to share in Arya's temper, but, when it burned, it burned bright and blindsided. Hers wasn't anger for the sake of outlet—things said in the heat of the moment. It cut to the bone with truth and illuminated all the things Sansa was too polite to point out otherwise. The great mistake was assuming she didn't notice or see those things. He could handle being yelled at, but not so much the blinding truth.
"You are a grown man. Start acting like it, darling."
Cat flipped the magazine shut and tucked it beneath her arm before circling around the counter. "It's been weeks and she's your daughter. You have no excuse."
She pressed a kiss to his cheek and wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "She's leaving here at seven. I sincerely hope, and also expect, you to have talked to her by then."
Cat pressed another kiss to the tip of his nose and wandered out of the kitchen. Ned had precisely one hour to figure out what to say to his daughter. He hid in his office, the sacred place his children knew not to disturb him. It was a firewall for Arya's flippant needling, Rickon's wild shenanigans, and Bran's philosophical musings. Only now, Ned likened his retreat here to burying his head in the sand. At a quarter to seven, he decided to face the music and crept from his office and down the stairs.
He found Sansa in the living room struggling to put on a delicate gold bracelet. She stunned in a petal pink dress he'd never seen before. Ned didn't know the first thing about fashion trends or that Madonna lady who seemed to influence those trends with an abundance of jewelry, lace, and those weird gloves with no fingers.
What he did know was that his daughter was a timeless beauty and never more so than now. She looked a classic queen from the silver screen—an elegant quarter-sleeve satin dress that fell just below her knees and a simple white evening jacket; soft curls of her long hair pulled back at her temples; and just enough makeup to enhance her already gorgeous face without mucking it up in bizarre shades of eyeshadow like blue and, God forbid, green.
Ned stuffed his hands in his pockets and entered the room in tentative steps. He cleared his throat to announce his presence and pointed to Sansa's wrist when she lifted her head with a dejected frown and sad eyes.
"Can I help?"
Sansa nodded and dropped her head again as she held out her arm, bracelet draped over the back of her wrist. Ned fumbled with the clasp for many moments fraught with silence and the unspoken. When he finally managed the task, Sansa smoothed down the skirt of her dress.
"You look beautiful, Sansa," he said. She responded with a dull smile.
Ned settled in front of her. "I only ever wanted you to be happy. I hope you know that."
"I know," Sansa whispered.
Did she know? Did she truly know? If she didn't, he couldn't say that he blamed her. By all appearances, he'd busted into her romance, made a fine mess of it, and then cold-shouldered her for weeks.
"I overreacted," Ned continued. "You were right. It wasn't my place to intervene. I was a jerk and an embarrassment and I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
That was the least of it. With deep shame, Ned had confided in Catelyn about that rampage he went on at the auto shop; how he'd lost his cool and destroyed a Michelin Man; how he'd called Sandor a raging asshole among other things. It all had gotten so out of hand.
He must've worn his contrition now. Sansa relented with a small smile, still so sad but at least she'd look at him. She wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her head against his chest.
"You were a huge jerk, but I forgive you, Daddy," Sansa whispered, her gentle nature prevailing as always.
Ned broke the hug and gripped her shoulders as he stared at her. "I'm sorry I messed things up with you and Sandor."
He'd heard of their break from Arya. Sandor wanted better for Sansa but, too consumed in her own fury, Arya didn't understand. She blamed it on the guy's stupidity and a whole host of other reasons wrapped up in colorful language Ned had been at a loss to address in his youngest daughter.
For Ned, guilt came hard and it came swift. He found no joy in the news, no vindication. It only solidified the bitter truth he'd avoided—he'd been wrong and somehow he'd contributed to it. Maybe he put the idea in Sandor's head, telling the man that he was far out of Sansa's league and had nothing to offer her.
Sansa shook her head and dabbed at tears that welled in her eyes. "You didn't mess it up. It just wasn't meant to be, I guess."
Ned retreated across the room and sunk into the couch. Sansa followed and sat next to him, her head resting against his shoulder.
"Your Grandpa Tully didn't like me much when I started dating your mom," he admitted. The memories of that time were faded and some altogether missing, but this one was technicolor in its vividness.
"I can't imagine why," Sansa huffed on a laugh.
With a smile, Ned gazed towards the ceiling. None of his kids believed any of his stories from the Sixties. Not a single one. They couldn't quite reconcile their square, boring dad with the crazy tales and he'd only shared the mild ones.
"I know you don't believe me, but I was wild back then," Ned tried again and glanced at Sansa who listened in dubious rapt. He'd take what he could get.
"I had long hair and worshiped rock n' roll. Your mom smoked pot for the first time with me and I dropped her off at home. We were too stoned to cover our tracks. Your Grandpa smelled marijuana on her the moment she walked through the door and acted about the same way with me as I did with Sandor."
In some subconscious bid for history to repeat itself, Ned drew inspiration and even some direct quotes from Hoster's furious diatribe in his own outburst with Sandor. The name calling, the threats, the warning to never speak to his daughter again—they all came courtesy of Hoster Tully. Nothing about Ned's embarrassing display was truly original, all just derivative of an age-old story of a father's misguided efforts at protecting his daughter.
"It worked out for you and mom, though," Sansa said and, while she had the right of it, she didn't have the rest of the story; the hard parts that so often precede happy endings.
"It did after I apologized to her father and promised to clean up my act."
Sansa sat up and stared at her hands in her lap. When, she spoke again it was soft and resigned, a girl who'd given up. "I don't think Sandor will be apologizing to you."
"Well, I don't think he owes me an apology," Ned chuckled. "I can see now he really does care about you."
"Then why'd he do it?" Sansa lifted her eyes to him. Tears broke free and spilled down her cheeks. Ned took her hand.
"Men are idiots sometimes. The right one comes along and we get scared and do stupid things. I'm sure you'll find your way back to each other. If not, there are many men in this world who would be lucky beyond belief to have you."
He didn't know what camp Sandor Clegane fell into—scared or stupid or maybe even both—and couldn't rightly say if they'd come together again, but considered Sansa's time with Sandor, in the very least, a lesson and an opportunity to grow. Sansa had taken that opportunity and ran with it.
Ned lifted Sansa's hand and pressed a small kiss to her knuckles. "I'm proud of you," he whispered.
Her brow wrinkled in confusion. "For what?"
"For sticking to your guns when it counted. And for the woman you've grown—and are growing—into."
Sansa looked like she wanted to cry again but was no longer awash in sadness. She beamed and threw her arms around him. "Thank you."
When the clock chimed seven, Ned stood from the couch. "You're going to be late. You should hit the road. I didn't even have time to teach you my signature dance move so you can impress the other kids."
Sansa stood and burst with laughter. "I've seen it before, Dad. I think I'll manage just fine."
She retrieved her purse from the coffee table and Ned followed her to the door where he kissed her cheek. "Have a wonderful time. You deserve it."
Sansa smiled and gave him a hug, and Ned retreated down the hall towards the kitchen and the giant container of Cheez Balls.
"Dad," Sansa called out after him. He turned to her as she stood beneath the front door's frame and a chill of the night's air swept down the hall.
"The guy Arya is seeing, Gendry, he's a good one too. He loves her, treats her well, and makes her happy. He's a calming presence for Arya and we all know how much she needs that. I hope you give him a chance."
Don't make the same mistake twice, was the warning, delivered with the simultaneous delicacy, compassion, and astuteness that only Sansa could manage with such effortless grace.
"I'm happy to hear it and I will," he nodded. "I'd love to meet him. I'll tell Arya to bring him by for dinner one night."
The dim lights hid the flaws in all the decorations and maybe that was by design. It all came together nicely—twinkle lights drizzling down the walls, all those tissue paper flowers, and a small stage at the front of the gym lined with carnation and rose arrangements.
"Well, I'd say it's official," Mya laughed and was illuminated in the pink glow that enveloped the gym. The disco ball whirled up above and cast glittering beams to slowly circle the space.
Next to Mya, Sansa stared at Jeyne's gaudy poster board creation, only partially disappointed that her scene this morning hadn't sabotaged it. Sure enough, every Tri Delta name sparkled in swirling cursive letters; all but two—Sansa and Mya.
Their exile wasn't carved in stone but emblazoned in glitter. By sorority standards, that probably carried more permanence and Sansa didn't rightly care. Neither did Mya. The girl smiled up at the poster board with smug satisfaction.
Sansa lifted her plastic cup to Mya. "Here's to freedom."
"To freedom." A smile crept across Mya's punch-pink lips.
That freedom carried a small price. Mya and Sansa hung on the outskirts of the gym, thoroughly ignored as the space filled with muscle-bound frat boys all sporting some version of a pink shirt—polos, button downs, even some in t-shirts. The Tri Delta girls all opted for elaborate get ups—poufy dresses, even poufier hair, bangles for days on their wrists, and as much pink lipstick, blush, and eyeshadow as they could plaster to their faces.
The whispers and dirty looks moved across the writhing room as music pulsed and the night wore on. Many cast offended glances at Mya's black dress—a reminder that she was different—and some looked disgusted at the girl's choice of shoes, black Doc Martens. Many burst into laughter at Sansa's dress.
"As if dressing like a prude makes her any less of a tramp," one girl said to her Sigma Chi boyfriend as Sansa passed them.
Mya looked primed to hurl herself at those people, but Sansa simply lifted a delicate hand and offered a smile to the gawking couple.
"Not worth it," she whispered to Mya.
Weaponized kindness, her mother called it, and Sansa wielded it well into the night. She slaughtered by not giving a shit and this wasn't some feigned attempt at forcing the cruelty to roll off her shoulders.
In the back corner of the gym, well away from judgmental looks, Sansa and Mya danced their hearts out. Mya wasn't one for dancing. At first, she awkwardly tucked back her curls behind her ears, perhaps too self-conscious to really let loose, and merely swayed to the beat with downturned eyes.
Sansa had cajoled her and, much like her sister had weeks ago, employed all manner of ridiculous dance moves to bust up Mya's residual embarrassment. She even trotted out her dad's signature dance move—a strange gyrating number he claimed was all the rage in his hippie heyday.
It worked. An hour and a half into the mixer, Mya Stone lost all inhibitions. The girl cut it up like the best of them and joined Sansa in shouting out the lyrics to each sugary pop song and even a few rocks songs Mya requested from the DJ. Others looked on with horror that Sansa and Mya weren't the hapless wallflowers they were supposed to be. They were anything but and some people even paid them envious looks that meant, "why should those two be having so much fun?"
Sansa's body hummed, her skin flush from dancing and the sugar rush of overly sweet punch that she and Mya gulped down to cool off. Sansa's cheeks and chest ached from laughing and she fanned herself with her crossbody envelope purse. Against the bleachers, she and Mya took a well-earned break.
A sweet little blonde-haired girl named Lily with rosy cheeks and shy eyes broke through the crowd and approached Sansa and Mya in uncertain steps. She was a freshman and Sansa had completed group assignments with her in Baelish's class. The girl was soft spoken and so often steamrolled by the other sorority girls, but she was smart and funny and had plenty to say if only people paid attention to her. And Mya certainly did.
"I like your dress, Mya," Lily said and wrung her hands in front of her.
She nervously tugged at the end of her butter blonde curls pulled up in a high ponytail. When she lifted her eyes again, they landed on Mya who blushed something fierce. Even in the pink light, Sansa could see it well enough; if not for the color, then the way Mya's chest rose and fell in a frantic breath and her eyes had gone wide.
"Do you want to dance?" Lily asked Mya over the beginning choir harmony of Madonna's "Like a Prayer".
Mya's mouth hung open and she stammered disjointed words, none of which culminated in a "yes" or "I'd love to". She turned to Sansa with a tortured expression—so clearly wanting to have her moment but not intent to abandon Sansa here alone.
Sansa gently nudged Mya forward. "Go on," she encouraged with a smile. "I'll be fine."
And she was fine—all alone or with someone else—Sansa was just fine.
With Lily leading the way to the dance floor, Mya turned to Sansa and mouthed a "thank you", lit up from within and disappearing into the crowd with Lily.
Against the wall and watching all the others, Sansa swayed to herself. With the others too lost in the rhythm of the song, she didn't field any judgmental looks or whispered taunts. She scanned the gym, realizing the mistake it would've been to bring Sandor here. If Sansa didn't fit into this world, then neither would he.
She lifted her eyes to the gym ceiling where a net held up hundreds of white and pink balloons. If it's meant to be, let it find a way, was her own prayer she sent to the heavens.
The music cut out and, for a moment, the gym fell quiet until Margaery took the stage. The room erupted in cheers. Sansa had seen Margaery floating around all night—mingling amongst the crowd and doing her duty as president with Jeyne scampering at her heels. The Sigma Chi boys catcalled, and Margaery breathed a gentle laugh into the microphone.
"I must say," Margaery began and flipped her hair over her bare shoulder. "Sigma Chi, you boys clean up nicely and are certainly pretty in pink."
Another round of cheers deafened with hoots and hollers and yowls of delight for the queen who had spoken. Sansa rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.
"As you all know, this is my last homecoming mixer as a Northwest Wildcat and as the President of the Tri Delta sisterhood."
Boos echoed through the gym. Margaery giggled and waited until the crowd quieted again.
"While we still have another semester, I am announcing my replacement early. I've watched and evaluated several girls over the past year. Most had their merits, but one was a standout."
Sansa's heart pounded in her chest and she couldn't quite say why. Instinct bid her to move away from the tucked away bleachers and towards the back of the gym. She wasn't so delusional to think that she was still the top contender as Margaery's replacement but throughout the crowd people turned to Sansa.
First, Harry Hardyng with a devious sneer who then turned to another Sigma Chi brother who also cast a knowing glance in Sansa's direction. Then there were her sorority sisters. Peppered throughout the crowd, those girls looked to her too and then to one another with eyes that betrayed a horrid secret.
Sweat covered Sansa's palms, which she wiped against the skirt of her dress. She shifted further away from the crowd and towards the back double doors of the gym. Her limbs trembled as Margaery spoke again.
"This girl is the pinnacle of class and moral standards. She didn't diminish herself or her worth for cheap thrills with the wrong kind."
Even through the dim light, Margaery's gaze found Sansa well enough at the back of the room. And so did more eyes from the crowd. They all followed Margaery's sickening smile, full of mocking and disingenuous placidity, to the where Sansa froze.
"This girl didn't disrespect the sisterhood at every turn with her bad behavior and even worse decision making. She didn't tarnish her reputation with a long haired, leather-clad loser who left her anyway because she will always be a disappointment."
The entire room turned. Sansa could scarcely breathe as tears welled in her eyes. This was a nightmare, a pink-tinged nightmare. She closed her eyes and opened them again. Like something out of movie, people pointed, and they laughed. In graceless steps, Sansa eased backwards, but her legs went weak, knees about to buckle. She couldn't let them see her cry.
"This girl is everything a true Tri Delta should aspire to," Margaery's voice rose into the speakers. "This girl is Jeyne Payne. Congratulations, Jeyne. You're the next Tri Del President!"
Thunderous applause and cheers shook the room as the balloons rained from the ceiling. Sansa punched her way through that cascading pink and white wall as the tears broke free. She sprinted towards the gym door and collided into the cold night beyond.
A sob escaped her as she clutched her stomach. Her frantic breaths manifested on white puffs. Sansa retreated across the parking lot and, with the back of her hand, swiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks. Trembling fingers fumbled for the car keys in her purse.
She just had to tempt fate with her smug musings about being fine. She hurried to her car before someone slipped out the back door and saw her like this. Sansa unlocked the car and pelted her purse inside.
She slammed the door shut and rested her arm against the car, forehead against her forearm. She worked to regulate her breaths and all that effort was ruined in an instant when scuffling footfalls sounded behind her.
Some asshole had a lot of nerve to come out here, to kick her while she was already down and waving the white flag with burning cheeks and bitter tears of humiliation. With her face buried in the crook of her arm, Sansa stilled. Maybe they'd go away if she ignored them, but then she recognized the sigh that escaped him, heavy with want, and the scuffle of boots. She'd heard it before. Sansa lifted her head and turned around.
Ripped from one of her dreams, the kind that left her in breathless devastation when she woke, Sandor stood before her. Faintly out of breath himself, he panted through parted lips and wide eyes roved over her body, head to toe and back again and then another pass for good measure because he looked just as bewildered as Sansa felt.
Her heart slamming in her chest said this was no dream and she wasn't merely wading in a pool of memories. Sandor licked his bottom lip and hurried towards her. His brow folded together, seemingly at a complete loss to see the tears staining her cheeks.
"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on tour," Sansa said and wrapped her arms tight across her chest to shield against his advance.
It worked. He stopped a few feet from her. The wind picked up and carried with it the scent of him—woody, earthy, masculine, leaving her adrift and yearning for everything she wanted, for him.
"I left," Sandor whispered with a softness she'd seen only intermittently from him. He so often hid behind lewd behavior or sternness he carried as a shield and, just when he let that guard down, he'd let her go. Perhaps she'd seen too much.
A deluge of tears wet Sansa's cheeks more than she could keep up with, so she gave up the effort.
She cleared her throat. "I thought you had a contract. A commitment."
Sandor shuffled forward and Sansa sunk against the car lest she hit the ground for how her knees weakened.
"Some commitments are more important." He matched her eyes, but Sansa faltered, her gaze dropping to the ground.
"Why aren't you inside?" he asked.
When Sansa lifted her eyes again, they drifted to the gym and the music pulsing from inside. One of the double doors had been left open and the crystalline beat danced into the night.
"I wasn't having a good time." She bit her bottom lip to quell its ridiculous quivering.
"I can see that," he said with defeat splintering through like a soft crack at glass. For a moment, he looked like he was breaking apart too. "I thought you had an obligation to your sorority sisters."
He motioned to the rose-tinted glow that emanated from the open door and deceived with its lush allure. It might as well have been a gateway to hell. Sansa was never going back. And here she stood at the crossroads once more and Sandor wasn't the only one breaking apart again. That horrid ache returned, the one she swore she'd finally staved off well enough to muddle through each day.
"Some obligations aren't that important."
Her stilted response left them nowhere to go and hadn't that been the idea? He left her. It was done. The road they'd traveled together ended abruptly and he'd tossed her aside to live out his dream without her in it.
Sandor's hands found their way into the pockets of his jeans that fit him like a glove. She hated that he looked so good; that his leather jacket looked warm and familiar; that his hair tumbling across his shoulders and drifting on the breeze reminded her that he once loved when she played with it; that he felt like home and she was in bad need of shelter now with nowhere to go; and that she wanted him just as desperately as ever but he'd cast her aside.
Sansa said none of that and instead decided to stand tall against the pain. Her hands curled into tight fists and not because she was all that strong in the moment. She still shook and her throat still burned, but she'd suffered enough humiliation for one night. The least she could do was feign some composure.
"Sansa," he sighed with a pained expression he had no right to. "I know things have been hard and I—"
"No, you don't know!" she cried when she meant to be a silent sentry to her own heart; collect his words and move on, but it felt like the world was falling away from beneath her feet and she was going down with it. "You bailed when it got a little bit hard! Not even a lot hard. Just a little. You weren't the one left blindsided and broken hearted, so don't tell me it's hard."
She spun away but stumbled and Sandor dashed forward to catch her. Sansa steadied herself against the car and felt his strong hands at her waist. He urged her to turn towards him and tried to pull her into his arms in a desperate bid to close the distance. As much as she wanted to be wrapped up in his embrace, the pain he'd carved in her ran too deep.
"Sansa, please," he pled with her and she turned in the cage that was his arms now. Her eyes met his chest where her palms pressed against him. She pushed him away and though it wasn't by any means hard, he stumbled backwards with a look like she'd shattered the earth beneath him.
"Why did you come back? Tell me!" she demanded, all her hate poured into the way her voice trembled and how she was crying again.
Sandor's mouth opened but nothing came. At such a profound loss, his gaze darted across her face and he looked for the first time scared. Petrified. Coming undone at the seams and he swallowed hard, gulping down the night's air but didn't manage an answer.
Whipped up in a frenzy of her own grief, Sansa lurched towards him, her turn to close the distance. How was he holding onto stray bits of composure while she was coming apart? What right did he have?
"How is it that you have all the right words, can somehow manage the lewd little quips and innuendos, but you don't have anything to say when it really matters? Why are you here, Sandor? Why did you come back?"
"I wanted a dance with you," he scrambled to answer, and the words bled together in one long, anguished exhale.
He wasn't holding it together. He had no upper hand here, that was clear to see with the way his hands shook and his breathing looked labored and painful. And he looked like a man so at war with himself, torn up from the inside out and he was something of a mirror to her own pain.
"What?" Sansa breathed.
He took a step towards her, deliberate now and something quieted in him. She stepped backwards until she settled against the car again.
"I wanted a dance with you. I made a commitment. I told you I'd be here. I gave you my word."
With another step towards her, he found his voice, deep and sincere, and gained the ability to meet her eyes.
"If I'm going to spend my life coming through, showing up, being there, I want it to be for you. Not everything else. Fuck touring and fuck contracts. Those things come and go, and it doesn't really matter, but you do. You matter to me so much more than all of that."
Gravel crunched beneath his feet. Sandor was closing the space between them. He stood taller and the intensity behind his eyes hadn't waned.
"I don't fall in love often or maybe I've never really been in love until now, so I'm sorry if I don't say the right things or if I get this part wrong. I had all these eloquent, well-spoken things to say. I rehearsed it over and over on the plane and I'm fucking forgetting it all now. So, I'm gonna have to wing this and I won't try to make it some goddamn sonnet because that's not me anyway."
Nearer. A foot apart now. He could reach out to touch her if he wanted and he dropped his voice low. The world around them seemed to still, as if it were only them in this moment. It might as well have been.
"I ended it because I was afraid you'd fade away from me; that it'd be a slow death in losing you and I didn't know—I don't know—how to manage that kind of pain. I've never had to before and I didn't know if I could bear it."
The distance melted away. She could smell the leather of his jacket, feel the warmth emanating from him as he pressed his hands against the car on either side of her shoulders. He leaned towards her, bending over slightly until they were eye to eye.
"And it turns out I can't manage that kind of pain. It doesn't matter how it happens. I just can't. Without you, I can't. I was a coward and I was stupid, and I don't want to lose you. I can't lose you."
A ragged little breath passed Sansa's lips as he removed one hand from the car and cupped her cheek. The other hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers buried in her hair. Forehead to forehead and nose to nose, he spoke again, each word a whisper against her lips.
"And if it's too late and you tell me to leave, I will if that's what you really want, but I had to come back because I love you, Sansa. I needed to come through for you and I needed you to know that I am so in love with you."
By the end of it, he was shaking; fingers in her hair, lips against hers, and one arm slipping towards the small of her back to pull her against him and throughout it all she felt the way he trembled. In his arms, Sansa trembled too.
"You love me?" Her question came with a lump burning in her throat that dissolved now into more tears. Sansa gazed up at him and felt the frantic rhythm of his heart beating against her palms pressed to his chest.
He nodded. "More than anything. I don't…" He bit his lip, choking on the words. The man who could turn a phrase better than anyone was fumbling and her hands at his chest rose and fell with the deep breath he took. "I can't…without you. I need you."
Enough was enough. Sansa rolled to her toes, arms tossed around his neck, and falling into him. Her lips collided against his and her urgency alone sent him gasping for a change. And now it was her deepening the kiss with so much want that he stumbled back on his heels and laughed.
"Do you too?" He asked and she felt him tense beneath her, as if there were any answer other than yes; desperately, completely, head-over-heels yes.
"Yes, of course! I love you too. More than anything." Sansa gave an eager nod, words spilling altogether and interrupted with ceaseless kisses she planted to his lips.
Sandor smiled in a way she'd never seen before; dumbfounded relief with something stirring deep that said he'd collected few declarations of love in his lifetime, if any.
He wrapped her tight in his arms as if she might fly away. "I hoped you might," he muttered in her ear.
The steady thrum of music that'd pulsed from the gym's open doors waned to silence. The quintessential rhythm of a slow song now lilted through. Sansa draped her arms around Sandor's neck and felt his embrace tighten around the small of her back.
"You owe me a dance," she said.
His lips swept against hers in a kiss, warm and tender. "I owe you more than that," he countered but it sounded more like a vow to her ears.
"This will do for now," Sansa whispered against his mouth and swayed with him, gentle and slow. She pressed her cheek against his chest and soaked up all his warmth as he held her against him.
In a parking lot, Sansa got her dance and with each swell of the music understood what he'd meant all along. Sandor lost a bit of his eloquence when it came to words of love, but never his pointed perceptions. He'd had the right of it.
They didn't belong in either of their worlds, but it wasn't so mutually exclusive to mean they didn't belong together. They'd both drifted in the liminal spaces, not really a part of their own worlds but seeking belonging anyhow.
What he probably meant was this moment right now; at the homecoming mixer that would've surely been a disaster had he come with her, but where they found their place outside of it and that place was with one another; that place was right where she was, in his arms and in raptures for this man she loved so deeply. The temporary separation from him defined new meaning of being lost, drifting at sea and looking for shore. And now he was here, pulling her in.
Sansa swiveled her head, chin to his chest, and gazed up at him. Sandor stilled his swaying and his hands smoothed up her back and over her shoulders until his palms cradled each of her cheeks.
"I don't wanna be here anymore," Sansa murmured, and Sandor's brows drew together, his countenance painted in concern.
"Where do you want to be?" he asked on a voice deep and she'd happily drown in it forever.
"Where I belong." Sansa's fingertips swept against his chest and found their way to the ends of his hair. She busied her trembling hands twirling the thick, jet-black locks around her fingertips.
Sandor removed one hand from her cheek and stilled her movements as he pressed her palm against his chest, covering over the back of her hand with his. Once more, she felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
"And remember where you belong?" He gazed down at her, more handsome than he had any right to be. A man in love was always more handsome.
"With you." Sansa smiled. The last time he asked this, she had answered his question with doubt woven through her words. The conviction in her answer now bid a broad smile to sweep across his lips.
"You belong with me. We belong together." It sounded like a vow again and he tilted his head, leaning towards her for another kiss to seal the words. His tongue swept across her bottom lip and she responded with a gentle sigh.
"Then take me home. Your home," she said.
Sandor pulled away and gazed down at her. No one had ever looked at her this way and it was enough that Sansa's cheeks burned, and her heart soared, and the night suddenly didn't seem so cold or harsh, but decadent in warmth and sweetness.
"I want it to be ours," he said haltingly, testing the waters. "I don't want you to live in the sorority house, Sansa. I want to come home to you every night. I want to wake up and fall asleep next to you. See you naked in the shower whenever I want. Watch you get ready in the morning. All of it. That's what I want."
"Ours," Sansa beamed. She dropped her eyes with a timid smile and cleared her throat before lifting her gaze to him again. "Can we get real furniture?"
A deep rumble of laughter escaped him and sent Sansa soaring over the moon again, falling to pieces now for all she'd missed; things she'd exiled out of her mind lest it tear her apart. Like his laughter and how it crinkled the corner of his eyes, the way he looked at her with placid wonderment sometimes, the feel of his hands, the urgency of his touch. It all came bounding back to her now.
"Anything you want, it's yours. I'll leave you in charge of the decorating." He kissed her again, this time soft and now his hand slipped into hers. "Come on. It's time you and I go home. We've got more making up to do," he added with a wink and a smirk.
Sansa retrieved her purse from her car and, with her arm looped in his, she rested her head against his shoulder. He led the way across the parking lot to his Mustang to drive her home. Their home.
"Aren't you tired?" Sansa had asked when they stumbled through the door, joined at the lips and hands roaming each other with lust burning wild. Sandor couldn't reconcile the indelible desire coursing through him with the need to be delicate; not just for her, but the dress he assumed she didn't want ruined because he couldn't contain himself.
Tired? No. Time differences didn't mean shit. He was alive and electric, thrumming with resounding relief that somehow also reminded him of what failure might've looked like.
A cold shower was in order; not just for her sake—he'd been sweating bullets on the plane and in the car, all the pressure pounding through him—but his own sake too. His dick was painfully hard from the moment Sansa climbed into his Mustang. Cock tease that she was, she did him no favors on the drive home, her fingers toying with his jean zipper and her perfect lips plush against the pulse at his neck.
He toweled off now and couldn't quite recall a time he felt nervous in the prelude of sex. He was shaky, hands fumbling as he wrapped the towel low on his hips. That was also for her sake. Two could play this game of teasing and he'd finally met his match in the coy, entirely put-on innocence of the woman in his bed right now—the love of his life, the only one who mattered, his for as long as she'd have him.
Sandor found Sansa where he'd left her. She sat on the bed and had removed one layer of pillows but hadn't slipped beneath the covers. Her dress hung in the closet and Sandor likened it to breaking ground, more symbolic than practical. Sansa didn't give a shit if it got wrinkled, even said so herself.
But they had done it together. She had slipped out of her dress and, in nothing but her heels, bra, and underwear, intent to tease him straight into insanity, Sandor had handed her a hanger and she hung her pink dress next to his leather jacket in the closet.
In his arms, warm against his side, they'd both stared at the pairing and agreed it felt right, like consummating a new beginning of their relationship. He'd handed her his favorite Black Sabbath t-shirt then, another symbolic gesture because Sandor never let women wear his clothes. Take a man's shirt and you own a bit of his soul, he always believed. Sansa could have it all.
Sandor leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom now. His Sabbath t-shirt slipped off Sansa's shoulder. By design or by accident, it didn't matter. She bit her lip and gazed at him beneath thick lashes and lust-laden eyes. The long auburn waves of her hair were glossy even in the dull light of the bedroom. God and her legs. He'd die a million deaths with the gorgeous expanse of those legs wrapped around his hips.
"What are you doing?" she giggled and, in a timid gesture that wasn't as fraudulent as before, tucked her hair behind her ear. She licked her bottom lip she'd been biting just moments ago.
"Memorizing," he said after scanning his mind for the right word.
Appraising didn't do it justice. Admiring was much the same. Remember this moment forever, something told him, and he was already lightyears ahead of it, drinking in the details of her.
"What are you memorizing?" She turned to her side towards him, propped up on her elbow that sunk into the pillow beneath her and her head resting in her palm.
Everything was the answer, right down to the shape of her lips he'd missed so badly, the sound of her voice that'd haunted him in dreams, the way her perfume lingered on him and in secret moments when she hadn't been around, he set out in search of the smell of her on his clothes. Every bit of her being, he needed to commit it to memory. All of it.
"Right now. You. This," he said through a smile. Sansa looked like a dream with the soft light encasing her, so bone-crushingly beautiful.
"Had you forgotten?" She rolled to her stomach, legs bent, and toes pointed.
He wasn't the only one memorizing. Sansa eyed the towel and Sandor wondered if she knew that she was just as adept at leering as he was. He could almost hear her inner narrative hoping against hope that the towel would drop.
Beads of water rolled from his damp hair, down the taut muscles of his chest, and over his abs. He ran his palm down his chest and relished the way her lips parted in anticipation as his hands traveled towards the towel, but ultimately settled at his sides.
He shook his head and crossed the bedroom. "Forget? No, not for a minute."
Sandor crawled onto the bed and laid down next to her. When she turned to him, he did the same and his hand settled in the dip of her waist. Now was the time for admiration. Face to face, he felt like he was looking at her for the first time.
"If you didn't forget, then what did you do?" she asked on a quiet breath and dropped her eyes, which were a brighter blue than he could ever recall. "Did you cry?"
She lifted her gaze again just in time to watch him respond with a solemn nod.
"I don't believe you." She exhaled a delicate laugh that seemed to soften the edges of any inadvertent offense.
Sansa took his hand in her own and held it between them. With the other hand, she traced one fingertip over his knuckles. Sandor shifted closer to her and rested his head against the pillow. His forearm now hung over her waist.
"Calling me a liar again?" he chuckled.
Sansa was quick to shake her head and the corner of her mouth lifted in a smile.
"No. Calling on you to make a believer out of me."
He leaned forward and kissed the apple of her cheek and then her forehead. She was too far away still, so he tugged her closer until her legs entwined with his and every word, every affirmation of longing—that was really what she was after—could be spoken with his mouth pressed against hers.
"Yes, I shed tears. I drank too much, slept too little." His tongue parted her lips in a deep kiss. He'd missed how she tasted. "I'm not good with words."
Still too far, he wrapped her tight in his arms, the never-let-you-go kind of embrace, the one she should've been in all along. Nose and mouth pressed against the side of her neck, he sighed.
"It was a hole in my chest," he whispered. "I couldn't breathe, and nothing really filled it. I didn't know what to do with the pain. I couldn't bury it and I didn't want to live with it. But the worst part was knowing I'd done that to you too. I couldn't live with that either. There was only one choice to make. It's this. Right here. It's you. It was always going to be you."
Rolling to her back, Sansa yanked him on top of her and an insistent tug came from her arms wrapped around his neck. Her hands rested on either side of his face, thumbs sweeping against his cheeks, unmarred and ruined alike with just as much tenderness on either side.
"See, you are good with words, good enough to put in a song even." She kissed him sweet and pulled him closer, her legs and arms coiling around him and hanging on now like she never wanted to let go. He hoped she wouldn't.
"What makes you think I haven't?" he murmured, and the confession bought him a girlish gasp and a flurry of kisses against his cheek, neck, and mouth.
"You wrote me a song?" Sansa asked, breathless and hopeful and looking at him like he hung the moon in the sky. Her cheeks were a pretty pink, lips plump from kissing him.
With Sansa beneath him, Sandor propped himself up on his elbows. "Maybe," he shrugged with a sly grin.
"When do I get to hear it?" She cradled the back of his head, fingers laced amongst the damp tendrils of his hair.
"When the time is right." He planted a slow kiss to her lips. "And if you don't believe me now, you'll believe me then."
Before he could say much more, Sansa was demanding his affection again, lips crashing against his, urgent in the attention she lavished upon him. She sucked gently on the small crevice of space right below his ear and at the corner of his jaw, the part that drove him wild. It hadn't taken her long to find it their first night together and she'd been wielding it as a weapon against him ever since.
"In the meantime, there are other ways to make you believe," he groaned, and his hands disappeared beneath her t-shirt to the bare skin underneath. She gave a heavenly sigh at his touch, eyes softly closed.
"Sit up," Sandor commanded on a murmur and she did as she was told.
He followed her movements and gripped her waist, but his fingers swept to the bottom of the t-shirt and he pulled it over her head.
Sandor laid down, hands behind his head and his gaze roved over her body, bare breasts faintly heaving with each breath, and blue eyes gone wide with delight and mischief as she reached for the towel.
His hand encircled her wrist before she could make it there. With a devious smirk, he simply shook his head and, good girl that she was, Sansa understood what it meant but it didn't stop her from pouting.
She rose to her knees and hooked her thumbs on either side of her underwear. In a show of defiance, she took her sweet time sliding them down her luscious thighs towards her knees and purposely bent over to obscure the view between her legs as she unburdened herself from her last bit of clothing.
Sansa settled back on her knees, legs slightly spread. Wet and pink and perfect between the legs, just like he remembered, he took a deep breath and matched her eyes now, her desire plain to see. At her tentative reach for the towel, Sandor nodded, and Sansa lit up like she was opening a present and damn near burst at the seams with delight when she unwrapped the towel and his cock sprang free.
She wrapped her hands around his shaft. Sandor covered his face with his palms, a deep exhale escaping him with each pleasured pass of her fingers tight around his cock. Sansa shifted on her knees and wrapped her sweet little mouth around the tip and gave such a ladylike sweep of her tongue. So eager to please, he'd put that instinct to good use, but not tonight. Tonight was about her.
He sat up and the abruptness sent Sansa up too. "Lay down," he murmured into a kiss at her lips, but let his tongue rove along the side of her neck and, once more, she obeyed.
In another exercise of memorization, Sandor trailed kisses over the shape of her body—between her breasts and across each perfectly pink nipple with a swipe of his tongue that made her shudder; the dip of her waist that made her giggle, over her slender hips, down the gorgeous length of her legs to her knees, up the inside of her thigh and she wasn't laughing now. The only sound she made was a gasp of anticipation when he eased her legs apart.
She used to be embarrassed at this bit and he used to call her bluff. She fucking loved it and wasn't ashamed to show it now. Sansa fingers sunk amongst his hair and she simultaneously lifted her hips and urged his mouth to meet the juncture between her legs, as if he might miss.
Sandor exhaled a laugh. The burst of his breath between her legs elicited a moan from her. Forearm draped across her stomach, his thumb swiped at her clit in soft movements, just how she liked. He'd never forget how she liked it and would make damn sure she'd never forget how he delivered.
His tongue sunk between her folds. Gentle at first, dawdling, taking his time as he interspersed licks and kisses and gazed up at her. He knew she liked to watch, and he'd give her a show if that's what she wanted. And she wanted it. Sansa gave a little nod and hummed with each wave of pleasure. Sandor lifted his head slightly, enough so that she could watch his tongue swirl in deft, tight little circles at her clit.
Her legs fell further apart with a heavy moan and Sandor quickened his rhythm. Head thrown back, she gripped the sides of the pillow beneath her.
"More. Please. More," she begged.
Sandor dipped one finger inside her, easing in and out, dripping with wetness and she bucked her hips to meet the rhythm and demand his mouth. He obliged, every flick of his tongue rewarded with her crying out for God and him and things completely indecipherable as she writhed like wild beneath him.
Another flush of wetness meeting his lips, Sansa burst with another moan, music to his ears and the sound more beautiful than he remembered. Sansa went limp beneath him and panted, body covered in a sheen of sweat. Sandor sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Her arms reached for him, intent to draw him near, but instead he circled his hand around her wrist and pulled her up.
"Come here," he rumbled, voice deepened with desire.
He sat against the headboard and pulled her towards his lap. She knew what it meant. He wanted her close. He wanted to watch; to catch every exhale she made with his mouth, to whisper in her ear, to have her flush against his chest, wrapped up so thoroughly in one another.
Sansa straddled him and Sandor wrapped his hand around his shaft as she gripped his shoulders to steady herself. She eased deliciously slow down his length. Head tilted towards the ceiling with her hair cascading down her back, she loosed a long sigh and Sandor took the opportunity to let his lips lavish her neck. His arms coiled around the small of her back and he drew her nearer until her breast pressed against his chest. He took one in his palm and rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger.
His mouth faithfully followed the trail of her chin up to her cheek and she hummed with each pass as they rocked in slow unison together, the give and take driving him deep inside her with each roll of their hips. Sandor exhaled against her mouth, a low grunt escaping him. Warm and wet, she was heaven on earth, her arms tight around his shoulders and her lips divine as he deepened the kiss.
The pace quickened as Sansa rode up and down his length. He gripped her waist to guide her movements and breathed her name, hand at the back of her head, fingers buried in her hair.
"Did you miss me?" she panted against his mouth. Sandor rested his forehead against hers.
"Every second, every moment." With a roll of her hips, his confession spilled from his mouth on a moan. She could take them all, every last one.
"Me too." She wrapped her arms tighter around his shoulders as he thrust deep and hard, wanting more of her, every bit he could manage.
"Fuck," Sandor seethed through clenched teeth with the blinding pleasure threatening to burst upon him.
Sansa shifted, controlling the speed. Faster, she went, gliding up and down his shaft and tossed her head back, her cries of pleasure crescendoing through the room and her hips grinding against him.
Sandor yanked her against his chest. His lips crashed into hers. His fingers sunk against her hips. He thrust hard to meet her movements. Faster and she was laughing and sighing and losing herself until he felt her tighten around his shaft with her climax.
She cried out, almost toppling over as she dissolved in his arms, all her tension washing away. He drove himself deep inside her, thrust after thrust until his own release came hard, unfurling with waves of pleasure slamming into him.
For a moment, they held one another, each heaving for breaths, chest against chest, hearts racing in similar beats, and neither moved. When their breathing slowed, Sandor pressed a soft kiss to her lips and, with Sansa pressed against him, he collapsed back to the mattress and eased himself out of her.
Sansa settled against him, head tucked in the crook of his shoulder. With his arm draped over her side, he traipsed his fingers up and down the silhouette of her curves, every inch he could reach.
She stilled against him, but, in little loving gestures, here and there she pressed kisses to his bare chest or nuzzled her cheek against him or sighed so sweetly it'd pull him from the precipice of sleep and he'd wrap her up tighter against him and that just set the whole damn thing into motion again—more sighs, more kisses, more nuzzles.
Eventually, sleep finally prevailed. When it came, it came with a vengeance; pissed off he'd evaded it for so long, for so many weeks. With Sansa in his arms, some child-like fear took hold in Sandor that he'd fall asleep and this would all be a dream. He'd wake up in some hotel, in some city in the world, with Harwin or Beric pounding down the door.
In the end, that wasn't what woke him. Even in his sleep, Sandor sensed the weight of being watched and it lured him from the depths of dark slumber. When he cracked his eyes open, Sansa was turned towards him and gave a weak smile.
"You're supposed to be sleeping," Sandor rasped and reached for her.
"I can't sleep."
"Why can't you sleep?" He ran his palm up her arm and back down and shifted towards her.
Sansa's eyes settled on her fingers tracing the weave of the bedsheet beneath them.
"Because I know you have to go back soon."
Saturated in sorrow, her voice wavered and the city's aura coming through the window was just bright enough that, even in the dead of night, Sandor discerned the way her eyes glistened.
"Says who?"
"Says the people." Her full lips pouted in such an endearing way that Sandor almost laughed but thought the better of it as he propped himself up on his elbow.
"Who are 'the people'?" he grumbled and kissed her cheek.
"Your label people. Your band. All those people who are involved in your shows."
She still couldn't meet his eyes, probably afraid of what she might find; a night of passion and love and longing only to be left holding the bag again as he jetted off to the next tour stop and promised to keep in touch.
"You're the only 'people' I care about," Sandor assured. "I'm not going back if it means being away from you. And that's what it will mean."
In the darkness, she searched out his gaze and reached for his hand. Her fingers coiled around his palm.
"I don't want you to give up something you love and then resent me for it later."
"I love you. Not touring. You. And you know what I resent?"
Sandor paused and she shook her head at the question. "I resent being in this position because I let some fuck wit of a tour manager run roughshod over my life with an insane tour schedule. I don't resent you. Not ever you. So let that thought fly out of your pretty little head, my pretty little bird."
Lips still pursed, she gave a faint smile and a sigh that he wasn't so dense to think meant all was okay; that she'd drift off into sweet dreams now with the answer she needed to set her mind at ease. As it stood, the elephant still loomed in the room.
Sandor rolled on top of her, forearms sinking into the pillow on either side of her head and Sansa stared up at him expectantly.
"You know what we'll do tomorrow?"
His question bid her to bite her bottom lip, a habit after all this time she hadn't broken, and he hoped like hell she wouldn't break it now. From underneath him, her hips bucked against him with sensuous suggestion.
"That's a given," Sandor chuckled and willed his dick not to get hard; not right now at least. "Rest assured, we'll be doing that every day. You won't walk straight for a month."
Sansa giggled and Sandor matched her in mirth, but quieted. He studied the features of her face. His hand rested against the side of her neck, thumb sweeping across her cheek.
"Tomorrow, we will sit down with my tour schedule and you and I will decide together what works for us. As a couple. I'll be home as often as we want. If you see places you want to travel to on the schedule, then you'll come with me as much as you want and as much as your school schedule allows.
"I'll deliver our terms to my band and the tour manager. If it doesn't work for them, then I'm out. The only negotiating I'm doing is with you because you're the most important thing to me, Sansa. I'm not gonna let this come between us again. I already made that mistake once."
He only caught the beginning of her smile before she pulled him down on top of her to kiss him soundly. The smile was genuine, he could tell, radiant and not the kind meant to placate.
He recognized the shift in himself too, like the world put back to rights after all that sullen discontent. He scanned the pages of his memories and couldn't come up with a time he'd ever felt his soul settle like it did now.
"Anything you want, you will have. I will give it to you," he whispered, indulging the need for her to know, for it to have been said just in case she ever doubted or still did.
Even in the dark, he discerned that look she'd been giving him. He'd caught glimpses of its fleeting origins as they'd gotten to know each other, across the table at the diner, the times she climbed off the back of his motorcycle. Over time, he'd seen it grow and become more resilient; like the time she watched him make breakfast for her in the kitchen, at the guitar shop, backstage at his show. He knew how to place it now and, more importantly, how to accept it from her.
Sansa pressed her nose to his and whispered against his lips. "All I want is you. You're all I ever wanted. You are loved, Sandor Clegane. You are so very loved."
The declaration came deeper than a simple "I love you". The world had made those words empty—fans shouting it, groupies professing it, emblazoned on signs in a sea of faces, tossed out with no regard or meaning and he never believed anyone who said it to him; not that many had and certainly never up close, never like this.
He was loved and it felt like finding family and the place he belonged after drifting for years. She was it. And he'd regret and resent more than anything that he'd ever let her go but would exalt the grace by which she let him in again.
In her heart and all the light and love that Sansa carried with her, Sandor was finally home.
