Special thanks to my beta, Underthenorthernlights.
A huge thank you to all the readers who took the trouble to leave a comment: your support means a lot to me!

No danger lurking here, no major event, but a more intimist turn in this story. Hope you'll enjoy it!

From where he was, sprawled on his bed, his arms flung above his head against the pillow, the naked woman standing by his window was impossible to miss despite the dim light of dawn: brown hair that flew down her shoulders and her back, pale skin that invited his eyes to focus on the small of her back and on her pretty bottom; long, never-ending legs.

As neither of them worked on that Sunday morning - Sansa would go to the hospital after lunch, though - they enjoyed the sunrise from Sandor's bedroom and by the way she stared through the window, he knew she relished the moment as much as he did.

"Should buy some curtains," he informed her, his voice still sleepy.

Sansa glanced at him over her shoulder. "Why?"

"Because-" he sat up with a grunt, pushed the sheets aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Because I'm getting jealous. Deers and rabbits could see you." In three strides, he crossed the room and stood behind her, as naked as she was. "I can't tolerate that."

She laughed. He took advantage of the situation to grab her hips and to pull her close, making her laugh. "So you're jealous of deers and rabbits?"

"Yep." He buried his nose in her hair and kissed the crown of her head.

"When did you buy this house again?" she inquired, tipping her head back and leaning against him. "Three years ago?" He grunted in approval. "And you never bought curtains for your bedroom window? Why buy curtains now?" There was a hint of mockery in her tone.

"Because deers and rabbits didn't have a naked girl to check out before."

"Maybe it's a naked man they were checking out, all this time," she retorted, squirming in his arms and finally turning around to face him. Her hand traced his pecs and slid down, stopping a few inches above his cock. "It feels like a lot of changes happened in this house lately."

Changes. There were changes aplenty in his house.

It had started with him buying a decent mug for Sansa's morning tea and an extra pillow - he had never bother to buy another one so far. Then, in two weeks, new items had popped up in the house, mostly in the kitchen, the bathroom or his bedroom. There were three different blends of tea in the kitchen cupboard and a freshly cleaned tea ball lying on the table. There were vegetables in the fridge and instead of buying something from the food truck, he often ate from the lunchbox she had convinced him to prepare with her.

Spot the difference. It also worked with the bathroom; not that the bathtub or the sink were swamped with Sansa's things - he suspected she kept the invasion to a minimum, but he had come to think that it would eventually happen - but the fragrance of her shampoo and body wash was something new in his bachelor's bathroom.

If he was being honest, Sansa's presence had shed a different light on his house: sometimes he told himself he had more or less discovered his place with her, through her eyes. Maybe the way he saw it had changed as they created new memories together in his house.

It all started with Sansa's suggestion concerning the kitchen table and the way they could use it the night she had come back to him. As Sansa had mischievously implied, he didn't have tea for her breakfast, but he had nonetheless given her a good reason to spend some time in the kitchen the morning after. According to Sansa, the kitchen table was more comfortable than the cold bathroom tiles, but less handy than the couch.

A few days before, she had straddled him with a triumphant smile as he lied down on the living room floor, watching TV before she came back from the hospital. In retaliation, he had waited for her to immerse herself in the paperwork she inevitably brought back from work; she liked to do that on the couch, sitting back against the cushions, unaware the sight of her skater skirt made his mind wander to dangerous places. He had sat next to her, feigning innocence, before pushing the skirt up. Sansa had flicked his fingers and cleared her throat to regain her composure, but the harm had been done and she was already aroused. Another brush of his fingers against her thighs had been enough to make her part her legs but she still held the ridiculous file, where she tried to hide her blush behind. Did you convince yourself you can keep reading this shit while I touch you?

His fingers had found their way inside her panties, then inside her. That was when she had surrendered, the brownish file waving in the air in lieu of a white flag before landing on the floor. She had arched her back and moaned, suggesting in an undertone they go upstairs. Sandor had said no, even if his cock was hard: what he wanted at that moment was the pleasure of seeing her giving in and coming there, with her clothes still on, on his couch. Somehow, the old grey couch had acquired an erotic quality it didn't possess before.

Sansa had spent a lot of time at his place - much more time than he spent at hers - but she had also paid him some visits at the gym. Sandor had spotted some of the highschool kids laughing under their breath as Sansa and him locked themselves inside his office. The first time, she was too shy to allow more than heated kisses and burning touches here and there and she had escaped his arms too soon. What he expected to be a home run had turned into a fiasco, leaving him hard as rock and frustrated: he had barely touched second base. The second and third times, the notion the others could hear them still panicked her, but she had given in. Now he always kept condoms in his pockets because he never knew when he would use them and whenever he shoved his hands in his pockets and found their plastic wrap, he felt like a bloody teenager.

Sandor had thought she would come back to the gym for more impromptu visits so the next time she had stuck her head in the door while he was reading his mail behind his desk, he had told himself he was a hell of a lucky bastard. Smiling to himself, he had watched her coming in before closing the door behind her and leaning back against it.

It was right after lunch and what she had in mind was probably an afternoon sex romp, judging by that sparkle in her eyes he knew too well by now. She wore a beige oversized shirt dress, with black pantyhose - something he found quite strange in June - and a belt that made her waist look even smaller. Just the sight of her standing there was enough to arouse him.

After they exchanged glances Sansa walked around the desk and planted herself in front of him. "What are you doing?" she murmured.

"Boring stuff. What have you been doing?" He knew she had a day off; they had spent the night at her place for a change and she had slept in, while he had an early start.

She giggled, leaning forward and allowing him to see her cleavage. "Things," she

finally replied. At that moment, Sandor sat back in his swivel chair and her hands landed on the armrests. She had put on makeup with extra care, applying jet black eyeliner as if she was going out. No, he thought, not sure she puts this on her face when she goes out, I'm sure she keeps it simple. He nevertheless smiled at her boldness but there was something he couldn't quite place, something that prevented him from enjoying the moment and the sight of his girlfriend's luscious lips and tempting curves.

"I drove to the mall and did some shopping," she explained, a hint of mischief in her tone. "Want to see?"

Before he could answer, she stood up straight, removed her belt and started buttoning down her dress. Am I fucking dreaming? Sandor asked himself, suppressing an incredulous laugh.

He caught a glimpse of black lace as she went on, buttoning down the skirt of her dress without the slightest trace of hesitation it seemed. When it was over, she shrugged off her dress ever so slightly so that he could have a good look at what she had bought; her knee found its place between Sandor's, on the edge of his seat. Fuck. As if her black lace bra and matching panties weren't enough to make him hard, she wore a black garter belt and black stockings. Now the odd detail of the pantyhose made sense. Sansa waited for his reaction with a triumphant smile playing about her lips; her smile vanished when he stated, a bit coldly: "You're beautiful."

He saw the astonishment and panic in her eyes; he realized she would be hurt if he spoke his mind; she already was. For a moment, Sandor hesitated and told himself he could pretend there was nothing bothering him. He could very well give her a wolfish smile and fuck her there and then because it was apparently what she wanted. However, in the end, the urge to say the truth won.

"You don't like it," she stammered, tilting her chin up. She was too upset to do a good job at hiding the tears that welled up in her eyes and threatened to ruin her makeup.

"You don't get it, Sansa. You're breathtaking, but this is not you. This is not us."

She stared at him, with a mix of anger and disbelief.

"What's with the stupid act? Are we pretending I'm a fucking CEO and you my secretary? Are we pretending I screw you in an office during lunch? Is this something you really want?"

She wiped away a tear. Realizing how furious he sounded, he softened a bit: "If so, if this is a sort of game you want to play, I'll play. But don't do this for bad reasons."

"But-"

"Ask yourself why you're doing this," he insisted, adamant. "If that's what you wanted, fine. If you did this for some other reason…" He didn't find the strength to go on.

Sansa fought back tears and whispered: "I- I wanted to please you. To surprise you. I was also curious and I wanted to know what it was like to wear these." She gestured at the garter belt. "Truth is, it's not comfortable."

"So why?" he nearly shouted.

She bent forward ever so slightly, as if she wanted to suppress a sob; he guessed she would have doubled over had she been less proud. The tears came all the same: "Because I still feel terrible for what I did to you two weeks ago."

As she started crying, Sandor pushed himself from his swivel chair and took her in his arms; she didn't resist and buried her face against his chest. So that's why she did it. A lot of things made sense now: the coffee pot she had offered him and all her kind thoughts. Sandor squeezed her sobbing form, careless of the makeup that would eventually stain his T-shirt. Through her spasms, Sansa clutched to him; he nevertheless stopped rubbing her back when doubts crept in. Was she sincere when they had sex? When she almost jumped on him, like she had done the past couple of weeks, did she want him or did she act out of guilt, because she thought she had hurt him and needed to make up for it? The notion she might have had something in mind when they were in bed sickened him. If she did it out of compassion… Sandor wasn't sure what he would do in this case. His fingers slowly curled in balled fists. He didn't even know if he could restrain himself.

All of a sudden, he broke their embrace: Sansa's red, watery eyes settled on him. "There's something I need to know," he rasped. "Today you bought this and you came here because you still feel guilty about running away that morning? What about the other times?"

"What are you talking about? What other times-"

"It's a simple question. When we fuck, do you do it out of guilt?"

Her eyes widened and she gasped in shock. "How can you say something like that?" she asked in a strangled voice.

She was wet every time he touched her and she visibly loved what he did to her but as soon as doubts had crept in, the indisputable evidence she wanted him had vanished. Craning her neck to look at him, Sansa jabbed a finger in his ribs. "I do have feelings for you. That's why I came back. That's why I'm here today. Never doubt that."

"But you still feel guilty?"

She nodded. "I hurt you. I hurt you and I came back like nothing had happened. I was so happy you still wanted me I pretended everything was fine. It wasn't. It's probably my fault; we should have talked… Perhaps we should have waited a bit more but-" She hung her head then raised her eyes to meet his again. "I was so relieved I didn't want to worry about the rest."

Deep down, she was as hurt as he was and Sandor realized her sudden departure after their first night together, had consequences on her too. She put up a front, he mused. She told herself it would be OK, that things would settle down. She did all this in the hope that I'd wipe the slate clean, finally. Because I'm such a moron I never told the little bird I had forgiven her.

His grip on her tightened and she nestled against him once more. "You don't have to do all this. You wanted to make it up because I never had the guts to talk about it afterward and to tell you we were good."

Sandor's hand went up and down her back, clumsily trying to give her all the comfort she needed; she had stopped crying and she stayed there, in his arms, silent.

"I'll always be afraid you will leave me, Sansa. Because we're so different. Because I'm a sort of backwoodsman. Because you make more money than I do."

At that, she wriggled in his arms and locked eyes with him. "Is it a problem?"

"Fuck, no. You worked hard to get your degree and your job is quite demanding. It's only fair you make more money than a guy who never went to college and runs a boxing gym."

Sansa shook her head. "You think I could leave you for that reason?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat and held her gaze, as calm and collected as he could. "In my experience, people just leave."

She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger before hugging him. "It's over," she whispered against his collarbone, "I'm not leaving." In the end, he didn't even know who was comforting the other one, if it was her who needed kisses and warmth because he had ruined her surprise or the pieces of his broken heart she was helping to put back together. They held each other until Sandor asked: "The garter belt… Is it uncomfortable?"

She nodded, self-consciousness making her eyes drift away from him. "It is."

"Let's get rid of it, then." Her eyes widened when he got on his knees, grunting when his wounded leg hit the cold floor; he looked up at Sansa, waiting for her to give her assent. Slowly, he untied the garter belt, fumbled with the suspenders then tossed the damn thing to the floor. He went on with the black stockings, rolling them down on her leg.

When it was over, he contemplated her disheveled state, with her open shirt dress and the black underwear and said: "This is more like you."

"What am I to do with those?" she asked, pointing at the discarded stockings and garter belt that formed a small heap on the floor. "I should probably throw them away."

"Don't. They look beautiful on you. Just wear them for no particular reason. Because you feel like it. It's good as long as you don't wear these to make up for something." He paused, looked at her cheek stained with makeup and kissed her forehead before cupping her chin. "There's something you should not forget. Lace doesn't arouse me. You do."

Eyes closed, Sansa heaved a sigh; it almost sounded like a snort and he couldn't help frowning. Did I sound that bloody ridiculous? He stood up straight, gritting his teeth when a sharp pain reminded him of his old wound.

"Must be the most erotic thing someone ever told me," Sansa murmured. She avoided his gaze, as if his words suddenly made her shy.

He caressed her jaw, relished the softness of her skin and he placed his fingertips under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. None of them said anything. They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, wondering what to do. Her remark could have been the signal for him to make her sit on his desk and to take her, but Sandor acted as if her momentary shyness had rubbed off on him. It's not the right moment, he told himself, wrapping his arm around her waist and ducking his head to kiss her.

Sansa's lips were soft under his; they took their time and it felt like this was happening for the first time. Her hands cupping his face, she placed light kisses on his mouth, not yielding to him yet. He didn't rush anything either, breathing her in, nibbling at her lips, waiting for her signal to become bolder - or to stop.

"What do you want?" he asked against her mouth.

Another chaste kiss and she replied: "I want to stay in your arms."

With a sigh he sat down on the swivel chair and she settled on his lap, readjusting her dress as best as she could, yet not buttoning it up. Her calves dangling over the armrest, she stayed there, true to her word, her nose buried in the crook of his neck. Sandor could have complained about the turn of events; he nevertheless found himself wondering how he would react when she would leave his office and get back home. At the thought the warmth across his chest and on his lap would disappear, he had a knot in his stomach.

"I have something to tell you," Sansa said abruptly, startling him. He had asked her to speak her mind, yet he feared what she might say. Why the hell am I freaking out? What had happened earlier had made him as defenceless as a child. Although she was the one who looked vulnerable with her cheeks stained with makeup and her open dress, he felt like any word coming from her could hurt him. "You remember the night you left, seven years ago?"

How could he forget a night filled with the sound of gunshots and tasting of ashes and blood? Booze usually brought oblivion, but not that night: oddly enough, alcohol had only made every detail more squalid. Every single memory he had of that night looked like a fucking nightmare. He grunted and she took it for a yes.

"For years, I thought you had kissed me, that night," she went on, her voice quavering.

What? Why? He felt his hands trembling on Sansa's hips and on her waist; he fisted the fabric of her dress to prevent her from witnessing his moment of weakness. Sandor scolded himself for having stupid reactions, but whether she noticed it or not, she added: "I can't explain why, nor tell you when I stopped believing you had- you had kissed me," she trailed off.

Her head resting against his collarbone hardly moved and Sandor asked himself how it would be to look at her in the eyes after she had confessed him one of her most intimate secrets.

"Why tell me now?" He managed to ask her, kissing the crown of her head.

This time, she shifted, propped herself up and looked at him. "Because I trust you. I never told anyone. You were the only person with whom I could share this secret and now we're together I can tell you." Solemn, her blue gaze moved between his mouth and his eyes. She looks so young. She looks as bloody vulnerable as she did that night.

And suddenly, the only appropriate answer escaped his lips, unbidden, and he had the gut feeling it would set them on equal footing: "Maybe you thought I had kissed you because that was what I wanted."

One day, Sandor found himself trying to act like a civilized guy who had a girlfriend and a social life. An ordinary guy. Since the day Sansa had come back in his life, he had not given a lot of time to the Elder Brother and he felt uncomfortable; the doctor had saved Sandor's life a few years ago, he had spared no effort to patch him up then to make him change, slowly, into the man he had become. He couldn't just let him down because he had a girlfriend. He therefore called the Elder Brother one morning, asked him if he wanted to have dinner with him and Sansa and they settled on the next Friday. Very proud of himself, Sandor shoved his cellphone in his pocket with the feeling he had done something very grown-up and he grinned until the mass of flesh and scars near his mouth slightly hurt.

When Sansa knocked at his door, later that day, after he had closed the gym, he couldn't wait to tell her about his plans - our plans, he corrected himself in petto.

"The Elder Brother is coming for dinner on Friday," he announced, excited like a kid, as Sansa walked to the kitchen. Excited like a dog, perhaps, he told himself when she froze mid-stride and turned around to look at him, eyes widening in shock. A dog wagging his tail because he's fucking sure his mistress will pat his head. Except that Sansa didn't look pleased at all. He couldn't miss her furrowed brow and that sort of incredulous gaze that involuntarily hurt him.

"Wait a minute, Sandor-"

"But you're free on Friday night, I checked it on your schedule," he protested. He now sounded like a kid, minus the high-pitched voice.

Sansa sighed, eyes closed, then lifted her hands as if she was trying to calm herself down. "So you invited him to have dinner with us?"

He nodded. How the fuck was I supposed to guess she would be mad at me? Where did I screw up? "OK, OK, I got it," he said, after a flash of inspiration. "You want me to ask you first before inviting someone. I'll remember it next time."

"It's not the point- Well, yes, I'd like you to ask me first, but Sandor-" She closed her eyes again, then looked through the window instead of gazing at him. "The Elder Brother is my boss."

"He's my friend," he retorted. "My closest friend. He comes here as a friend, he won't talk about work with you or I swear I'll stick my fork in his big red nose."

Sansa heaved another sigh. "It's not funny. You don't seem to realize what it means. Nobody at the hospital - except him - knows I'm dating the Elder Brother's best friend."

"It's an open secret, little bird. Everybody knows me in orthopedics," he said smugly. "That's what happens when you keep coming back for check-ups."

"I just said I was dating someone , I didn't tell them your name."

Sandor shrugged, a poor attempt to hide his offended pride. "So you won't tell them?"

"The day I'll tell them I'm dating one of the patients, the girls will stare at me with a look that says 'This is so cliché'. When I'll explain my date is the Elder Brother's best friend, they'll think strings were pulled to get me this job." She folded her hands about her chest. "I don't want them to think I'm a sort of teacher's pet."

"You're not."

She was hurt; he could tell it from the unshed tears in her eyes she tried to hide behind her loose hair when she hung her head. Disregarding his own feelings, he came closer and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. She stayed still under his touch, but he heard the slightest of sniffs.

"My whole life, I've been known as Eddard Stark's daughter, Joffrey's fiancee, then Baelish's protegee. People never saw me for what I am, but for what I... represent," she said bitterly. "An heir, a wealth holder, a well-dressed girl holding someone's hand… For once I had a chance to be considered for what I'm good at - taking care of people. I don't want them to think I got this job thanks to my connections."

At a loss, he squeezed her shoulder. "Ask yourself two questions, girl. Did you hear anyone in this damn hospital whispering a nurse or some employee was the Elder Brother's darling? The answer is no because the Elder Brother is not that kind of person. And do you feel the Elder Brother is any different towards you since we're together?" She hook her head. "See. We won't shout from the rooftops we have dinner with the Elder Brother but there's no need to pretend it never happened either. And if people ever talk, let them talk."

Under his fingers, he felt her shiver; the next second, she threw herself in his arms and held him tight, whispering: "You're probably right." She cried a bit, then wiped her tears silently and he instantly knew it was over: he had already noticed her outbursts never lasted long. Sansa craned her neck to look at him and inquired: "What do you plan to cook on Friday?" The little bird was always practical.

When she had moved past him in the kitchen, smelling of almond and flowers, wearing a floral printed dress which revealed the top of her breasts and most of her legs, he had stopped focusing on the rib roast and threatened to take her on the spot.

"Be good," she had said, laughing at his wolfish smile and flicking his fingers.

Later, during the dinner, she had talked with the Elder Brother and joked about the vagaries of everyday life in the hospital; then she and the Elder Brother had turned to Sandor to tease him and Sandor had accepted their sarcasm about his habits and the spartan comfort his house offered.

"You know he never actually invited me for dinner?" the Elder Brother informed Sansa before sipping his wine. "I told myself you had convinced him to do so when Sandor called me."

"Actually it was his idea," she answered, disguising her embarrassment between a smile. Protected from sight by the table, Sansa's small hand landed on Sandor's lap. At that moment, his elbows rested on the table; he glanced at the Elder Brother discreetly before shifting and placing his hand on hers, then he squeezed her fingers. Sansa gave him a fond smile and only moved her hand so that their fingers were intertwined, their hands hanging between their seats.

Single-handed, he nevertheless kept eating to pull the wool over the Elder Brother's eyes. It's happening, he told himself. One month ago I thought I would grow old on my own and now we're holding hands under the table like two fucking teenagers. Sansa's thumb traced circles on the back of his hand; as they were sitting next to each other, facing the Elder Brother, Sandor knew it was a matter of time before the man noticed their clumsiness and how their shoulders bumped from time to time. Doing his best to remain stone-faced, he sought the slightest trace of amusement on his old friend's features, until Sansa did something unexpected.

All of a sudden, her little hand escaped his grip and she put it on Sandor's thigh, only a few inches from his cock. Forgetting the Elder Brother was observing them, he swiveled his head and gave Sansa a quizzical look; a smile on her face, she was listening to the Elder Brother who listed the most picturesque sites of around Quiet Isle. When she felt his gaze on her, she briefly glanced at him and her shy smile struck Sandor. Then, she turned her attention to the Elder Brother again and Sandor could have sworn she ignored him had her hand not slid between his thighs, leaving little room for imagination. His cock hardened instantly and he suppressed a sigh. Fuck, what does she think she's doing? He felt a slender finger rubbing his length, up and down, like a reminder of what he had done to her a few days before, when she was sitting on his couch, trying to focus on her notes. What is it? Retaliation? Torture? No matter what it is, you'll get what you deserve as soon as the Elder Brother shows a clean pair of heels.

He wondered if he was blushing or not and he did his best to regain his composure when Sansa announced it was time to eat dessert and walked to the kitchen.

When she disappeared, the Elder Brother couldn't help chuckle.

"What?" Sandor asked, grumpy. What he needed right now was a cold shower and his own helplessness when it came to Sansa's effect on his senses somehow infuriated him.

"Holding hands under the table, really?" the Elder Brother sighed, while Sandor poured some more wine in his glass. At least he didn't figure out Sansa was groping me.

He put down the bottle on the table a bit too forcefully and held his friend's gaze. "And now you're telling yourself I'm acting like a fucking kid."

"Nope." The Elder Brother leaned forward and whispered: "You're acting like a kid who thinks he's behaving like a grown up."

"Even more pathetic, huh?" As if he toasted his own ability to make a fool of himself, Sandor raised his glass and drank his red wine.

"Pathetic, maybe… In this case, it warms my heart to see your pathetic behavior. Oh, here she comes."

Sansa was back from the kitchen, carrying a lemon pie she had made herself. "So, who's still hungry?" she asked playfully.

I am, he thought, I'm starving when I see you wearing this dress and if the laws of hospitality authorized it, I swear I'd kick the Elder Brother out to have you for myself. Sansa placed the pie on the table, cut it and daintily served everyone before sitting down next to him; when she did, Sandor wrapped his arm around her shoulders, surprising her. He noticed how she blushed because of his public display of affection, but after a while, she relaxed and leaned in. Her long hair brushed against the inner side of his arm, promising more caresses later. Once we're alone.

Imagining this is a fucking video game, how many lives do I have?

It sounded like a good idea, at first. He had only seen the convenience and the relief Sansa's solution offered. Now he saw what he could have done. What I should have done. He had been stupid and so obsessed with material concerns he had overlooked the possibility of showing her what she meant for him. Not that I ever was good at showing anything, he admitted bitterly, but this time, I was such a moron I outdid myself.

It had started with a call from the roofer who had informed him he was too busy and the date they had set to check the house's roof didn't suit him anymore. "We have to postpone it," he had told Sandor.

Sandor had reminded the man he worked late every day and couldn't just leave the gym when he wanted to. If the damp patch he had noticed on the ceiling of the bathroom was a roof leak - and Sandor was bloody sure it was one - he didn't want to wait before the roofer fixed it. At that moment, he was at his place with Sansa; the phone had rung while they were making out on the couch and it made the postponed appointment all the more annoying.

"Alright," Sandor growled. "Why don't you tell me when you can come? See, the roof is leaking, I'd bet my bottom dollar on it and I want you to fix it before it rains again."

The roofer gave him bad, convoluted excuses: maybe he could come the next day, at 6:00 PM. Great. He wants to come when there's not a single locker left in the gym. "Don't you understand I run a gym? 6:00 PM is the busiest time. High school kids, employees, executives... everyone's in the gym at 6. I can't leave!"

As the man babbled his excuses, Sandor felt Sansa's hand on his shoulder. "I leave the hospital after lunchtime tomorrow. I can be here at 6:00 PM, if you want," she whispered.

He looked at her, incredulous and didn't find anything to answer. Afterward, he would tell himself years on his own and the tenacious feeling he could only count on himself had made him unable to rely on others.

"So, what do you say?" she insisted, her blue eyes serious as ever although his inability to speak at this moment bordered on silliness and would have made anyone else laugh.

"Should I- should I give you a copy of my keys?"

She nodded. "In case he wants to see the attic? It's settled, then."

Scratching his head, he told the roofer there would be someone waiting for him at his place the next day, at 6:00 PM; the man mumbled it was about time and Sandor made an effort not to shout at him. What's wrong with me? he told himself as he shoved his cellphone in his backpocket. The roofer was a jerk, that was for sure, yet Sandor couldn't quite place what irked him, beyond the sudden change of plans. Later, he gave Sansa the copy of keys he kept in the kitchen and shrugged at his own foolishness. Nothing serious, he told himself, shrugging off his uneasiness. He saw in her eyes she didn't understand the fuss he made about an appointment with the roofer and some keys, he perceived the hesitation as well, when her slender fingers curled around the keys. Did she wonder about his attitude? Did she imagine he gave her his keys with reluctance? As he couldn't tell, he change the subject and called himself craven.

When he came back home, the next evening, the lights inside his house were a surprise; with all lights turned on, his house that looked more like a bear's den sometimes seemed welcoming, almost a beacon in the night. After he got out of his truck, he stayed there, in his yard, listening to the humming of insects he couldn't see in the dark, mesmerized by the lights he saw inside. A moth hovered over his face and he impatiently brushed it off. Time to go inside.

He had actually never thought he would come in and find the radio turned on, the kitchen smelling of cheese and smoked bacon - was it pizza? He had never suspected there would be someone there, before his arrival, waiting for him.

"Ah, finally you're here. I thought I'd make dinner for two before you came home. Maybe we'll have some leftovers for tomorrow; frankly, I don't see myself cooking something else for tomorrow's lunch…" Her chirping always delighted Sandor, yet the confused sensation something was amiss still bothered him and ruined the moment.

"I saw the roofer," she went on. "He said there's a roof leak but nothing spectacular. I insisted and I reminded him you wanted this to be fixed as soon as possible. He'll come back next week. Satisfied?" Planting herself in front of him and puckering up, she begged him for a kiss which he gave her gladly.

His hands lingered on her hips after she broke their kiss. "Thanks," he said lamely, brushing aside her locks. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd waste your time shouting at not so obliging roofers and you'd eat out of cans," Sansa replied mischievously.

"I cooked for our first real date!" he protested.

"Maybe... and I admit you impressed me, Sandor Clegane, but since that day, I have to beg you to help me with dinner."

"You won. I'll make dinner for you til the end of the month. Scout's honor!" he said, holding up three fingers. Sansa burst out laughing. "So, what's for dinner?"

Her eyes narrowed, but she suppressed a smile. "Look at you… the typical male who expects to be waited on. There's quiche - with prunes because Old Nan always made it this way - and some salad, because the only kind of vegetable I can find in your fridge is lettuce."

Whether their banter had drawn on attention on everything but his unease, Sandor couldn't tell. They had dinner in the kitchen and he restrained himself from having another helping, lest Sansa had nothing for lunch the next day. He insisted to do the dishes, while she distractedly watched TV, then they went upstairs.

It was only later he realized what bothered him so much and it ate his peace of mind away. Sansa was asleep in his arms, her head pillowed by his chest and her leg resting on his thigh. As he lent an ear to her even breathing, like he had stayed outside earlier that night to listen to the bees and cicadas, a realization dawned upon him. Wrong. I have it all wrong.

And suddenly he saw himself the day before, giving Sansa a copy of his keys. He noticed every detail of the scene, as if he floated outside of his big, clumsy body: Sansa's eyes had widened ever so slightly when he had placed the keys in her palm and she had remained perfectly still for a second, wondering what to do before taking his keys and putting them in her purse. She sensed it was important and I was so fucking pissed off by the asshole who's never here when he's needed, I didn't realize what I was doing.

I gave her more than a bunch of keys; I gave her the right to come here when she wants without knocking at the door. I gave her my trust. But I was too blind to see it. Staring at the ceiling although he couldn't make out anything in the dark, he gritted his teeth and hoped she couldn't feel his muscles tense underneath her. I gave her something I never gave anyone else and instead of doing this the right way, looking at her straight in the eyes and telling her how important it was, how important she is, I fucking did it offhandedly. Fuck me, I'm a hopeless case.

When Sansa mumbled something in her sleep, he instinctively drew the covers to her chin and wrapped his arm around her. She snuggled up to his chest, like she always did at night. She doesn't even resent me, he mused in disbelief. I had one occasion to show her what she means for me and I screwed up everything. Imagining this is a fucking video game, how many lives do I have? I wasted one life by acting like giving her my keys was no big deal and it's too late now, I can't take back the words I should have said, but didn't.

As shitty as the comparison with video games was, there was some truth in it. Beyond its childishness, he sensed the image wasn't completely ridiculous: the keys were a perfect way to tell her how much he loved her without saying the words that terrified him. He had let the chance pass him by.

Sansa's warmth against his skin, so exhilarating at first and so necessary now that they had been together for a few weeks, became slightly uncomfortable; he felt the weight of her head and upper body on his chest rather than the excitement of holding her. I failed her.

She didn't say anything and she'll probably never admit I disappointed her but deep down I know I did, he told himself, his chest constricting. And I'd better do something to make up for it.

To Anon (guest): Thank you. I'm delighted you enjoy this story! I'm doing my best to update on a regular basis but it's not easy, with long chapters...