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On the first day of sophomore year, Sansa Stark is so concerned with not tripping in her retro platform boots—pale pink, manufactured thirty years ago, in mint condition, by far the trophy of her thrift store finds— that she keeps her eyes firmly trained on her feet. When she swings her backpack blindly and sends several books and the boy holding them to the ground, all she can feel is complete mortification. One minute in a new school and she already royally screwed up. She can see several people holding phones up, maybe anticipating a fight, and Sansa’s palms feel clammy. She doesn’t like fighting.
Hoping to make amends before the boy has a chance to get angry, Sansa crouches on the floor and starts gathering the strewn books and papers.
“I’m sorry, I really am, I wasn’t looking—”
A hand on hers where it lays atop one of his textbooks—Chemistry Essentials, I have that book too—makes her pause. She stares at his hand for a minute, the square thumb, the broad palm and the defined knuckles. The sheer size of it over hers.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to do that.” His voice is low, making something tingle in her stomach. Making her afraid to look at him.
But she does, aware of the fact that they’re in a crowded hallway, aware of the fact that she really, already, desperately doesn’t want this guy to think she’s weird.
His curls, his full lips, even the shape of his nose—he’s so good-looking she nearly looks away again. But she is spared the agony of making that choice as the boy turns his hand over and extends it, palm up, and as Sansa takes it her skin prickles everywhere it touches his.
Once they’re both standing, Sansa gives him a little nod. “Thank you.”
He smiles, a slight quirk of the lips that somehow seems to light up his face. “No problem. I’m Jon Snow… are you new?”
“Yes, I’m—”
“Jon Snow?”
A man in a bright green blazer and horn rimmed glasses has just popped his head out of the door, not two feet from where they’re standing.
“Jon Snow?” he asks again.
“Yes, here.” Jon raises his hand and takes a step towards the teacher before looking back at Sansa apologetically. “Sorry, I have a meeting with the guidance counselor—”
“No, no, I’m sorry—for dropping your books—making you late—um, it’s fine.”
Before he has a chance to respond to that horribly ineloquent mess, Sansa moves down the hallway, letting herself get swept up in the tide of students.
On the first day of junior year, Jon Snow is squinting at his phone so hard he’s giving himself a headache. He’s been trying to memorize the lines in the email before the meeting with the guidance counselor, a meeting arranged by his foster parent. His most recent foster parent has proved to be more attentive than the others, though Jon is hesitant to use the word “caring”. For once thing, he’s opened his home to Jon for four months so far, a record stint in one place. For another, he insists Jon call him “Uncle Benjen”, despite the lack of blood relation between them… yet, much much better than being forced to call a foster parent “Dad”.
Jon isn’t looking as he walks, and when a solid brick of canvas hits him square in the side, he’s just grateful his phone is still clenched in his fist.
He drops to his haunches to quickly gather the strewn materials, expecting whoever hit him in the crowded hallway to have already moved on, and suddenly frightened of being late for the meeting with Mr. Seaworth. He doesn’t want to give Benjen a reason to be angry.
“I’m sorry, I really am—”
Despite his worries Jon glances up when he realizes that melodious voice is directed at him. He sees shiny pink boots and a stretch of white fishnet socks in the space above them, pale skin peeking through. He swallows, has a moment to think cool shoes before they’re hidden away as the girl joins him on the floor, replaced by a curtain of bright red hair.
He’s overwhelmed by her sudden closeness, the scent wafting off all that hair. She smells like dessert. Her slim-fingered hands are all over his stuff and Jon is seized by some madness, stretching out a hand to stop her.
When she looks at him it feels like being hit with that bag again. I wouldn’t mind being hit with that bag again, if it means she’ll talk with me. His gaze immediately goes to the curves of her rosy lips, glistening with some glitter or something— then, afraid he’s being weird by staring at her mouth, looks up. Her eyes are a blazing blue, her cheeks a cute pink to match her shoes.
Cute? Shoes?! What’s wrong with me…
She takes his hand and Jon hopes they aren’t sweaty, he can’t really tell, his skin feels hot all over. She looks nervous, pretty eyes skittering everywhere, and considering Jon’s never seen her before (he’d definitely remember if he had) he asks if she’s new.
And when Mr. Seaworth interrupts, causing the gorgeous girl to disappear down the hallway before he can get her name, Jon curses his luck.
The house the Starks moved into halfway through the summer is six blocks from the high school. Last year, Sansa took the bus to school, but this year they can walk, even if it makes her parents nervous. Dad told Sansa and Arya very sternly they were to walk home directly after school; no delays, no stops. So Sansa is thoroughly shocked when Arya, arriving five minutes late to the meeting spot by the old oak they chose that morning, pulls her arm in the opposite direction.
“You’re going the wrong way.”
“We’re not going home,” Arya says without looking back.
After several failed attempts to separate herself from Arya’s vice grip on her arm, Sansa grinds her heels into the sidewalk and demands an explanation. Blushing and not meeting her eyes, Arya brings up the long lost Gendry Waters, her childhood friend who she’d met at karate lessons, and lost touch with after one of their moves.
“He was so annoying,” Arya rolls her eyes. “But now… he’s…”
“He goes to this school?” Sansa squints. “Arya, are you telling me you have a crush?”
“Shut up!”
But Sansa squeals and claps her hands in delight. “Arya, that is so sweet! Thank you so much for telling me!”
“Whatever,” Arya grumbles. “Anyway, here’s where we’re going...”
Arya explains that she overheard Gendry telling his friends that he’s working a shift at the local pizzeria after school. She also reveals, in a series of inarticulate grumbles, that she was so shocked at the sight of him that she didn’t approach him to say hello.
“Why don’t you just wait to talk to him in school tomorrow?”
“Because he’s older than me and he might not want to talk to a scrawny freshman in front of his friends?”
“Well, if that’s the case, then he’s not very nice.”
“Come on. I’ll buy the pizza. I can’t, like, talk to him alone.”
The thought of disobeying her parents and possibly getting in trouble makes Sansa nervous, but Arya has never asked her for her help before, and the temptation is just too great. She decides not to reveal her own embarrassing fumble with a cute boy earlier that day, not wanting to ruin Arya's sudden dependence on her.
“Okay, let’s go.” At Sansa’s agreement, Arya resumes walking at what seems like twice her normal speed, leaving Sansa struggling to keep up. “But you’re telling Mom and Dad this is all your fault.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Arya! I’m serious!”
The pizzeria is two blocks away, welcoming and quaint with a cherry red awning. They settle themselves at a corner table with a good view of the window of the kitchen. A teenager with sandy blonde hair stands at the register, looking bored.
“You have to order up here,” the boy calls out, a bit rudely in Sansa’s opinion.
“Just a minute,” Sansa calls back. Then, to Arya in a stage whisper: “Is that him?”
“No… he has dark hair… seriously, do you not remember what Gendry looks like?”
A minute later the kitchen door opens, and Arya slaps her arm. Sansa almost starts to chastise her, then realizes Gendry—for this has to be Gendry, considering the way Arya’s eyes are boggling over her menu—is bringing two plates of what looks like lasagna to the table directly to the right of them.
“He’s so cute,” Arya whispers.
Sansa can’t fight a smile. “Oh my god, you’re scaring me.”
“Shut up. That’s a threat.”
He passes by Sansa as he delivers the food, and Sansa, struck by sudden inspiration, decides to try something she saw in a movie once. One of her favorite romantic comedies that ended in a flower soaked wedding in Paris.
She grabs her water bottle from the outside pocket of her backpack, quickly unscrews the top, and shoots up from her seat. As she does, she pretends to “accidentally” spill the water all down Gendry’s back.
“Gah! That’s—cold,” Gendry complains as he turns to face her.
“I’m so sorry. I was getting up to order and I knocked this over by accident—”
“Arya?!”
Gendry isn’t even looking at her; Sansa doubts he’s heard a word of her fake apology. Her heart feels all tingly as she watches Gendry’s wide eyes focused entirely on her sister.
“Oh, hey! Gendry, right?” Arya responds, shockingly smooth.
“Yeah, it’s me, oh my god what are you doing here?”
Sansa hovers awkwardly as the two reconnect, and she’s wondering if she should go to the counter and order something or just leave when Gendry asks Arya to spend the afternoon with him.
“Aren’t you working?” Arya asks.
“Well, my aunt owns this place, I just help out… she won’t mind if I duck out for an hour, I think. Or we could stay. Have some pizza?”
Arya looks pointedly at Sansa, who quickly says, “Yeah, I have to get home anyway…”
She’s smiling as she leaves the pizzeria and through the whole walk home, headphones popped over her ears with her favorite playlist blaring, until the car comes out of nowhere.
Jon is speeding through a turn onto Spring Lane when it happens. He never speeds—he’s an obscenely careful new driver, but he's late to get home. Thorne, the worst goddamn teacher in the world, was picking on him again, and now he is late, and on the first day of school, the first day Benjen allowed him to drive his old car that he hasn’t managed to sell yet.
He doesn’t see her, on the corner of the sidewalk, until the very last second.
He swipes by her, close, way too close, the car lurching over the curb as he swerves for a wild, heart stopping second as he tries to avoid her. He slams on the brakes and vaults out of the car.
“I’m so sorry—are you hurt?!”
He doesn’t think the car made contact with her; he hopes to god the car didn’t make contact with her. His eyes rove over her, scanning for injuries—he sees red hair, pink boots, and his heart lurches with recognition. She’s shaking, her hands twisted together beneath her chin, a low stream of “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god” coming out of her mouth.
“Hey…” He touches her shoulder, and when she doesn’t flinch away, he holds her tighter and steps closer so that her glazed eyes have no choice but to look at him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? I’m so sorry… please tell me if you’re hurt.”
“I—I don’t think so.” Her eyes focus on his. She draws in a breath. “Oh my god, it’s you.”
Despite the terrible situation, Jon’s heart swells with pride at the fact that she remembers him. “Yeah. Jon—”
“Snow,” she finishes, then blushes.
Jon, overwhelmed by her once more, decides to quickly examine her for any visible sign of injury once more. Except for the denim jacket slightly askew and the headphones slung around her neck at an awkward angle, she seems more or less intact. Her backpack lies a few feet away, upended. Her water bottle, an expensive looking glass one with a pink cozy, is shattered, pieces of glass littering the sidewalk. Jon winces, his eyes immediately running over her again to see if she’s been cut.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Just spooked,” she says shyly, as if she should feel embarrassed for that. Regret shoots through him, and he vows to never speed again, no matter the circumstances.
“You didn’t hit me,” she says, reassuring him, and god this girl is sweet.
“Thank god,” he mutters, then raises his voice, hoping to communicate how awful he feels over what happened. “I’m really sorry. Your water bottle… I’ll replace it, and anything else that’s ruined.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I insist.”
“Really, my parents bought a set. I mean, now the pink one’s gone but there’s a couple nice colors.”
“Well…” Jon’s mind flounders, failing to think of something he can give her. “If you change your mind, I’ll get you a pink one. Or I’ll have to make it up to you some other way.”
She bites her lip. “Thank you, Jon. Just… drive slower?”
“I will. I’ll be more careful, I promise.”
She nods, opens her mouth to say something else, then stops—head turned to the side, listening. “Wait… what is that?”
She steps closer, her chest nearly touching his, and Jon’s body has a single moment to absolutely freak out before she sidesteps him entirely, approaching the car. She crouches and leans towards the driver’s side of the still running car. She presses her ear to the closed window. She smiles. “That’s so weird.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
Compelled, he does what she asks. He stands behind her, as close as he can without letting their bodies touch, and presses his ear to the window like her. He doesn’t need to; he already knows what song is playing. It was playing on repeat.
She looks over her shoulder at him, then removes the headphones from around her neck. Carefully, she moves to place them over his head, and Jon holds his breath, the gesture too intimate for him to handle.
He shakes his head. It can’t be.
Her face is still turned up to his, and he watches it break into the widest, most brilliant, most delighted smile he’s ever seen. She laughs.
“This is so weird.” He’s grinning too.
“I know.” She swivels in place, so that she’s facing him properly. He removes the headphones so as to hear her voice unobstructed. “What are the chances?”
“You mean, the chances of almost getting hit by some asshole who happens to be listening to the same song you are?”
A close lipped, sweet smile. “Well, I did knock over your books this morning.”
He nods; that makes it even stranger. Jon’s never really thought about fate—he doesn’t think he believes in it. But it’s such an odd coincidence.
“Consider us even?” she says.
“I think I still owe you.” Almost running her over doesn’t even come close to accidentally bumping into someone, and he still feels guilty, despite how nice she’s being about it. Actually, he can’t believe how nice she’s being about it.
“Do you want a ride home?”
She looks him up and down. “Are you serious?”
That makes him laugh. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“How old are you? Do you have a license?”
“Sixteen, and I have a permit, so…”
“So, that’s illegal, right?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely.” Benjen didn’t seem to care, and neither does Jon, but now he’s reconsidering.
She responds with a short, surprised laugh. “Well, I’ll pass. I hope you don’t mind.”
He isn’t ready to let her go. “Wait. I don’t even know your name.”
“Sansa.”
Jon sounds it out in his head—Sansa. It’s glorious. He already wants to say it aloud, to see how it tastes in his mouth.
“Sansa Stark,” she adds, completing the most perfect name he’s ever heard.
“Can we listen to music together sometime, Sansa?”
Her blue eyes go all soft; her voice, when she answers, is even softer. “I’d love to.”
Jon breathes in, feeling everything else wash away in this moment of triumph. With Sansa standing in front of him, with the the possibility of Sansa in the future, he feels better than he has in a long time. He feels like himself.