Jon is already outside as Sansa slips out the door, huddled in his jacket under the eave. The rain has stopped but for a light sprinkle, water dripping from the roof. He gives her a quick glance, and silently they both cross to his car and step inside.

Sansa's heart beats strangely loud in her ears as Jon pulls out of the driveway. But Jon doesn't say anything, and the silence only settles deeper between them as minutes tick by without either of them speaking, seeps into the ragged upholstery of the chairs and scuffed carpet. Sansa finds the silence settling into her too, dampening the beating in her ears to leave her both strangely calm and hyper aware of the car around her at once.

The sun is starting to fall by the time Jon pulls off the highway. After what feels like a very short time they're rolling into Lysa's neighborhood, trimmed and manicured lawns stretching out on either side of the road. The light is almost gone as Jon pulls under the broken streetlight opposite Lysa's house and shifts into park. He switches off the lights but doesn't pull the keys out, fingers fiddling with them. "It's not that I didn't want to this morning," he says quietly. "It isn't."

Sansa tightens her fingers on her bag. She looks out the window. "You don't have to say that, Jon. It's ok."

"No it isn't." Carefully, Jon reaches up and brushes back the hair from her forehead, fingertips light. "It's not that I didn't want to," he says again, a low and husky note slipping into his voice. "You have no idea how much I wanted to, Sansa. But not… not like that. Not like you owed me."

All the hurt in her has settled to a marrow-deep ache in Sansa's chest, but a knot still lodges itself in her throat as she stares out at the street. "I don't know how to be any other way, Jon. I like you, I can't stop liking you, and I don't know what else to do with it. No matter how hard I try I can't be Margaery or Val or some girl who's cool and sexy and strong."

"You don't have to be." Something almost pleading frays the edges of Jon's voice. "I know you think you're broken or something, but you're not, Sansa. You would never have left Joffrey if you were, would never have kept going after the crash and everything else you've been through if you were. You don't have to try to be anyone besides Sansa Stark. I like Val, but she's not you. She's not who I care about, not half as strong or kind or fierce."

She wants to believe Jon. More than anything she's ever wanted in that moment Sansa wants to believe him, to bury her face in his chest, to believe he's right about her, to believe that she isn't broken, that she's still worth something. But there are so many thing she's wanted throughout her life, so many things that have turned out to be nothing but smoke and lies that she doesn't know if she can stand this one too turning out untrue, that she won't simply snap in two if she looks at Jon and sees he's only being kind.

It would be easier to slip outside than to face him. To nod and mumble a thank you and flee to Lysa's house, not look back, keep being the girl she's sworn she would be after the crash, after Joffrey. But Sansa is so tired of it: hiding, fighting, running, lying, being the girl who isn't something instead of the one that is. And so, carefully, she raises her chin and meets Jon's eyes even though it feels like it's going to tear away everything she is as she does. "You really think I'm strong?"

Jon's eyes don't waver: don't flicker or flinch or shy away, just meet hers with a sad warmth. "I know you are, Sansa."

"Then show me." Sansa rests her forehead against his. "Show me you don't think I'll break, Jon."

He does, mouth capturing hers in a long fierce kiss. Hesitantly, Sansa curls the fingers of her right hand in his shirt, pulls herself to him like she had that morning, opens his mouth and lets her tongue slip inside. He doesn't draw away, free hand fitting to her waist, fingers slipping under the hem of her sweater and Sansa shudders at the feeling, can't help the gasp that slips from her lips as his fingers tickle up her spine.

She deepens the kiss, lifts herself up and Jon reaches down and slides his seat back as she pulls herself astride him. She sits back on his lap, a sharp shudder shivering through her as she does, the thin material of her leggings all there is between her and his jeans and the stiff length she can feel pushing up against them.

Jon pulls back a little, forehead still touching hers, voice ragged. "Tell me if it's too much."

Sansa shakes her head, pulls his mouth back to hers with the fingers tangled in his shirt. With her other hand she reaches back, slides his arm out from behind her back and guides it to the inside of her thigh, shivers as his fingers ghost along the curve of it. She gasps into his mouth, can't help but rock her hips forward to try and meet them.

Jon hand slips away just far enough to make her groan with impatience, and his other hand slides from her cheek to tangle in the hair at the nape of her neck. He pulls her back to meet his eyes: half lidded and dark, as though he were drunk on her. "You're sure?"

Sansa nods, a shaky movement. Guys have fingered her before: clumsy and awkward and she'd never enjoyed it, just closed her eyes and made the right noises so they'd hurry up. It'd never been like this, like her whole body is aflame. She needs more: needs Jon to keep looking at her like he is, needs his fingers on her, in her, opening her. "Touch me, Jon."

And he does.

His thumb brushes her clit and suddenly there isn't space for anything in Sansa but the whimper that spills from her lips as all her muscles spasm at once. Her hips rock forward, grind against the hard line of him pressing up against his jeans, desperate for more, but his thumb doesn't speed up even as she pushes against it, pace slow and maddeningly unhurried. Distantly, Sansa knows she should be reaching down, pulling Jon free, doing something for him, but she can't seem to think straight, all the world a haze around her but for the callused pad of his thumb rubbing slow circles around her clit. And God, the way he's looking at her, hawk-sharp like she's all the world, like he could drink her in.

His thumb leaves her clit and he slips his hand under her leggings, warm skin against warm skin as he slides his fingers down. "Jon," she pants against his mouth, but it's ok, ok because it's Jon, Jon who knows, knows and still wants her. "God that feels good, don't stop Jon, please don't stop-"

Her voice gives way to a moan as Jon slips a finger in her and she shudders at how good it feels, at the way his finger curls upwards and hits a spot that makes all her muscles clench. She arches onto his finger, eyes closed, panting, barely able to keep back the tide rising in her, the heat dancing beneath her skin. His thumb settles back on her clit, this time skin on slick skin, and she's gasping, panting, writhing in his grip, the whole world the crook of his finger and rub of his thumb. He pulls her back to him, opens her mouth with his. She moans into it, shudder after shudder arching her against him as she rides his finger and clutches his shirt, world dimming and narrowing to the glorious friction of his fingers.

Sansa doesn't know how long she rides out her orgasm like that. A minute or an hour or a year and she'd never know. All she knows is that as fast as it came it's gone and she's collapsed against Jon, forehead sweaty against his shoulder, very aware of every way they're touching: the whisper of his breath against her ear, the still slightly ragged rise and fall of his chest, the soft of his cardigan's weave, the gentle sift of his fingers through her hair.

Though she feels as though she never wants to move again a gentle warmth hums through Sansa. Slowly, carefully, still straddling him, she sits up. He smiles at her and brushes back the strands of hair sticking to her forehead. "You ok?"

She smiles back, soft and shy, and gives a small nod. "Very."

"Good." Jon fits his palm to her cheek and Sansa turns into it, nuzzles his palm. "You have no idea how beautiful you are, Sansa," he says, voice hoarse.

Sansa smiles against his palm. "You could always tell me."

Jon gives an exhausted laugh. "Stop wearing that red push up bra and I'll actually be able to focus long enough to think of something to say."

Sansa hums a pleased note deep in her throat and lets her eyes dip closed. "You noticed."

"Hard not to." His voice is sheepish. He strokes her cheek with his thumb. "I couldn't stop looking that night at the party. It was embarrassing."

Sansa shakes her head. "It wasn't. Not with you. And there's nothing wrong with being a boob guy."

Jon laughs again, low and husky, and Sansa realizes she wants nothing more than to feel the sound against her lips. So she kisses him, slow and languid, less urgent than before, and when she's done rests her forehead against his. "I don't want to go."

"Me either." Forehead still pressed against hers he takes both her hands in his, runs his thumbs along her knuckles. "But we don't have to wait for another holiday to see each other again, you know. I do have an apartment that's empty like half the time."

"I remember." Sansa hides her smile by glancing out the window, at the dark street and Lysa's house just up the road. It's not just the possibility of repeating what they've done that sparks a warmth in Sansa's stomach: it's the future it hints at, the promise that this isn't just a fluke, a mistake Jon will regret come morning. And as much as she wants that future to hurry up and arrive now, Sansa knows it won't, that she can't put off going back to Lysa's forever. She forces herself to lift herself off Jon and fall back into her seat. She rearranges her skirt, grabs her bag, and curls her fingers around the door handle before turning back to Jon. "I should go."

Jon nods, eyes half lidded and dark, but just as she's opening the door and turning to leave he catches her face between his hands and pulls her to him again, presses her mouth to his, fierce and urgent in a way that makes Sansa tingle all over, that makes her realize just how much he must've been holding back for her, makes her ache to find out just how how badly he needs her and how rough his fingers can be. And she wonders if she'll get tired of it: of the taste of his lips and feel of his tongue, of the way he catches her bottom lip between his teeth and pulls a groan from her.

They do eventually part again though, Jon slowly drawing back. He smiles at her. "You should go."

A smile teases Sansa's lips, and she sticks out her tongue. "I am."

This time she does, cracks open the door and slips out. She hurries through the cold to the door of Lysa's house and glances back to find Jon watching her from inside his car. Something tugs at her chest as he pulls out from under the broken streetlight, as she watches his Chevy drive down the street; and though she's not sure what it is, it isn't hurt, and so she opens Lysa's door and steps inside. And later, when she's up in her room and warm again, she pulls out her phone and texts Arya with a wisp of a smile on her face. When did you get so wise?

And when her phone chirps a minute later she can almost hear Arya's snort in her answer. I've always been wise, idiot.

AN: As always you can follow me on my tumblr at tacitwhisky