Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The coffee stain won’t come out of the sweater.

It’s a soft cashmere thing, cream-colored with tiny gold buttons, something she bought after her first performance as the new cellist of the King’s Landing Philharmonic. Not practical or necessary, but pretty and soft. It’s a luxury Sansa let herself have.

Most of her closet is black—black sweaters, black blouses, black dresses—all part of the uniform she’s worn since she realized she wanted a life on the stage, a life of precision and control, of anchoring the cello firmly between her knees and guiding the bow with the practiced steadiness of her right hand. The rest is a scattered collection: jeans and cute tops she wears to class, floral dresses in bright colors, short skirts, soft cardigans. She left a lot behind in Winterfell. She packed light when she moved, knowing she’d be living most of her life in those simple black outfits she wears on stage.

This sweater is the first piece she bought in months and she would hate to have it ruined by her carelessness. 

Her mother would tell her to take the sweater to the dry cleaner, but unless she asks around for recommendations, she’s not sure she would trust anyone to get it right. 

Jon would’ve tried to clean it himself. He always did things like that in a quiet, careful, methodical way. The kind of care that didn’t ask for attention or reward. He knew how to get mud out of denim cuffs and scrub grass stains from his knees before he was ten. Growing up more outdoors than in, his mother had taught him how to take care of what they had.

After they moved in together, he tried teaching Sansa too—gentle instructions, little tricks, the right way to blot instead of scrub. But it was always easier to smile at him, kiss him, tilt her head and ask, can you do it for me?

And he always would.

She leaves the sweater in a crumpled heap on her bed.

The phone in her pocket of her jeans feels heavier than it should. It’s always the mundane things that gut her the most.

She could call him. 

It’s been four months since she moved out, four months of deliberate silence, four months of carrying her heartbreak like an extra limb. Still, she could call. She could ask him how to get coffee out of cashmere. And he would joke, say he’s switched all his cashmere for silk, that he got her a pack of stain remover pens for a reason, that he’ll be home in 20 and to soak it for now, but he’ll fix it for her. 

But there’s no calling him, not Jon coming home soon to kiss her cheek and roll his eyes, not when Jon is across the country. 

And Jon broke up with her. 

Still, she wants to call. 

Before she can stop herself, her fingers move. She dials the number from memory. She deleted his contact months ago like that would change anything. Like she hasn’t had his number memorized since she was a teen with a massive crush on her brother’s too-quiet college roommate. 

For a second, her heart stumbles. What if the call doesn’t go through? What if he’s blocked her? What if he’s with someone else and sees her name and laughs?

It rings. Once.

Twice.

She hangs up.

It’s unfair to call him, she thinks. Unfair to ask anything of him.

But wasn’t unfairness his offense first?

He’s the one who didn’t want to try. The one who said long distance would ruin everything. The one who smiled so gently when she got into her dream grad program, who said he was proud of her when she auditioned for the Philharmonic.

The one who sat her down before dinner while her cheeks were still pink from the wind and from the massive smile she’d been carrying all day, and told her it would be better if they split up. His words had been measured, like he had rehearsed them over and over again. The premeditation had hurt almost more than the breakup itself. 

He’s the one who walked away like none of it broke him. And still, here she is, calling him like some love-struck idiot.

She turns off her phone and prays he didn’t see the call or that he’ll think it was a mistake, a pocket-dial, a glitch.

Then she opens her browser on her laptop and searches for dry cleaners near her apartment. There are too many, none of them familiar.

That night, she falls asleep thinking of Jon. She thinks of how he used to twist a lock of her hair between his fingers as he drifted off. How he would press soft, absentminded kisses to the nape of her neck. How he always came home smelling like grass and soil, like the outside world clinging to him after a long day of classes and work and research.

She misses him and she hates how much she misses him. Maybe hates him a little too.

And though she knows it’s cruel, she hopes he lies awake missing her just as much.

Maybe more.

Chapter Text

It’s been four months since the breakup and a few days since the call that had made his hands numb in that familiar way they used to get when he was younger, right after his mother died and every memory of her could tip him into an anxiety attack. His body felt like it couldn’t hold the weight of Sansa’s name lighting up his screen.

Jon is still wondering whether she meant to call or if it was an accident. 

The call dropped after two rings. He didn’t answer and he’s not sure if he would’ve if the call hadn’t dropped. 

Regardless, he’s always thinking of Sansa. 

He goes to class, to work, eats when he remembers, sees friends, smiles when he’s supposed to. And the entire time, she’s in the back of his mind with her beautiful hair and her soft smiles and her kindness and her intelligence.

He remembers the way she looked at him that night with disbelief, with heartbreak, when he told her he didn’t want to do long distance.

He tries to stand by that decision, tries to believe it was the right thing.

Originally, she had planned to stay in the North. She’d already been accepted into the program at Winterfell, where she and Jon could have commuted together. But when the Philharmonic called and asked her to audition, everything shifted. The moment she hung up, Jon had started preparing. He knew that she was going to get it.

There was no world in which she wouldn’t.

She had been radiant with joy the night she told him about her plans. Everything had lined up perfectly. She would pursue her master’s in Music Theory while performing with the King’s Landing Philharmonic, balancing school and stage in the city where her future suddenly seemed brightest. She said they could make it work. And yet, he could see as she told him about her plans how his presence presented an obstacle, how she was already reshaping her new life to fit him in it. 

He’d waited a few days, let her enjoy the glow of her success, before finally asking her to sit down and talk

Sansa had cried, accused him of not loving her enough to even try.

He had spent the entire morning alone in his cramped cubicle, writing and rewriting what he would say. He needed to make it clear that this was all on him, that none of it was her fault.

He listed every reason he could think of. That their schedules were already too full. That she’d be touring, immersed in classes, building the future she’d worked so hard for. That he’d be buried in the most intense phase of his research and wouldn’t be able to travel south to see her. That she needed space to focus on herself and her success without the weight of him holding her back.

With every reason, he broke his own heart a little more. 

He even tried to work in that they were still young, that no one expected a relationship that began when they were twenty and twenty-two to last forever, that it was okay to grow apart.

Never mind the fact they’d been together for three years, lived together for two.

Never mind the fact that he’d been saving for a ring for months.

Never mind that he’d fallen in love the moment she started at their same university—when she stopped being Robb’s little sister and became Sansa Stark: tall, beautiful, and brilliant in a way that made it hard to look at her for too long.

She was a freshman. He and Robb were juniors. Jon had spent two full years quietly pining like a fool.

It had been her who finally kissed him at his graduation. Who laughed when he froze and told him he was ridiculous for thinking he’d ruin things with Robb. Who told him to stop being afraid.

Jon thinks the Starks must hate him a bit. Robb doesn’t speak about her at all. Sansa went to stay with her parents for the month leading to her departure after they broke up. Still, her mother had practically thanked him when she stopped by with Arya to pick up the rest of Sansa’s belongings. She told him he’d done the kindest thing by sparing Sansa from even considering turning down her offers. 

Her siblings seem to have forgiven him for the most part. They probably share Catelyn’s opinion. Sansa was always meant for more. 

He misses her presence in their apartment, but at least the lease is up in two months. For weeks, he kept finding traces of her: hug strands of red hair everywhere, one of her socks tucked behind the dryer, a grocery list in her handwriting. 

She had slept in their bedroom alone during her last night at the apartment and in the morning, he had left for campus without saying goodbye. He’d come home to the hollow shape of her absence.

He let her go.

Four months later, he’s still miserable.

He printed her photo from the Philharmonic’s website and folded it into his wallet. It’s pathetic. He knows that.

This was what she was meant to do. She was meant to go south. To play. To shine. Not to stay with him.

Still.

He opens her contact. The picture is old from after one of her college performances, arms full of flowers, with Jon behind her, grinning like he’s never been happier.

He just wants to hear her voice. Not to ask if she misses him. Not to ask if she hates him. Just to ask if she’s doing okay.

He lets it ring. Once. Twice. Then voicemail picks up.

He listens for a second, her voice bright and casual, and hangs up before the beep.

He’ll have to settle for not knowing.

And if that’s the cost of her happiness, he’ll pay it.

Chapter Text

Sansa prides herself on her ability to give good gifts. She’s careful and thoughtful, always managing to find that perfect balance between utility and sentiment. It’s why her siblings never even bother trying anymore when it comes to their parents’ anniversary. They just ask her to figure it out and send her the money after.

This year’s no different. The date is coming up and she’s stuck between two options: a weekend vacation or a framed collection of handwritten notes from each of the kids. Both good, but she’s been staring at her notebook for too long to make a decision. 

She calls Arya first, but it goes to voicemail. A few seconds later, a text comes through:

im in clsss

With a sigh, she tries Robb. He picks up on the second ring, voice low and hushed.

“Hello?”

“Hey. Do you have a second?”

“Hold up.”

She hears him walking, the muffled click of a door closing, then he comes back, clearer.

“Sorry. I’m in a meeting I don’t think will ever end.”

“Sounds brutal.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us can live the glamorous musician life.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, a little amused. “I can call you later if you need to—”

“No, now’s good. I needed an excuse to step out anyway.”

“Okay, this will be quick, I just wanna run the gift options for mom and dad by you. Also why did you need to leave? Do you have lunch plans?”

There’s a pause.

“Yeah. Kind of.” He doesn’t explain. “So, what are the options?”

She launches into it. She walks him through both gift ideas—talking through the tone, the logistics, the cost. She and Robb both have jobs now, Arya and Bran contribute from their part-time jobs, and even Rickon gets involved. He’s been the “gift announcer” since he was a little kid, and they’ve never had the heart to take that role away from him even if he’s now taller than half of the siblings.

The presents have gotten better over the years—more polished, more expensive—but it’s never been about the cost. It’s about giving something back to their parents, to make them feel cherished and celebrated. It's one of Sansa’s favorite Stark traditions.

“Well,” Robb says after a moment, “I say we go all out. Full surprise. No warning. They find out when they get there.”

“I mean…Mom would hate that,” she says, smiling despite herself. “Maybe we do like a list of things to bring and a couple of hints.”

Robb laughs.

“You’re prob—”

He cuts off mid-word. Background noise filters in—voices, footsteps—and then the line mutes with a quick, muffled, “Hang on.”

She waits.

When he comes back, his voice is lower again. “Hey, sorry. I’m heading to lunch now. Can I call you later?”

“With a girl?” She teases, grinning into the phone, expecting the usual back-and-forth.

But Robb doesn’t laugh.

“No. A friend.”

“Oh?” She says, still playful. “From work?”

There’s a pause. A long , careful pause. She already knows.

“Jon,” Robb says finally. “He’s here.”

The name lands in her chest like a dropped stone. They don’t talk about Jon. Not anymore. No one brings him up, not even in passing. And that silence, that collective avoidance, makes something ache inside her. Not just because she misses hearing about him (she does, more than she’ll admit), but because it makes her worry that he’s drifted.

His mother had been his only family and she died during his freshman year, just a month into the semester. Sansa remembers that blur of grief and how suddenly Robb’s college roommate became a fixture at the Stark household—holidays, vacations, lazy summer weekends. He had folded into their family so easily. She remembers attending the funeral with her parents and Robb and seeing Jon for the first time and thinking no one should ever be that sad and alone. 

So she says, softly, “Can I…can I say hi?”

Robb hesitates again. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels.

There’s a quiet shuffling, maybe a phone being passed, and then a familiar voice cuts through the static.

“Sansa?”

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

The silence stretches.

“So,” he says gently, “how are you?”

There was a time she would’ve answered that honestly. Bad. I miss you. I think about you more than I should. I’ve loved you for so long that now I’m scared I’ll never stop. I’m still so angry at you.

But instead she says, “I’m fine. You?”

“Good…yeah. Good.”

Then finally, he says, “I saw your performance. Last weekend. The livestream was kind of glitchy, but…it was incredible— you were incredible.”

“Oh, thank you, it was—” 

“Sansa,” he cuts in. “I’m so…” 

Another pause. Longer this time. Heavy enough to fill a room. She wonders if he was going to say he’s sorry. 

“It was great.” 

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

He clears his throat. “And school? How’s it going?”

“Good,” she says. “Busy. Just trying to make it to winter break”

She laughs, but it comes out thinner than she wants, polite, not the kind of laugh he used to love from her. The one that made him grin, the one that pulled a real laugh from him no matter what. She doesn’t think they’ll ever share something like that again.

Neither of them mention the missed calls. She thinks she prefers it that way.

In the background, she hears Robb say something—too muffled to make out.

“Yeah,” Jon replies, probably to him. “Robb looks like he’ll kill me if we don’t leave for lunch right now.”

“Right,” she says quietly.

There’s a pause. And then—

“Sansa, it was…I hope you’re well.”

“Yeah. You too.”

She ends the call. Puts her phone down. Stares blankly at the counter in front of her.

She should eat something. She has rehearsal at three.

But all she can think about, for the rest of the day, is whether he was going to say he’s sorry. 

Chapter Text

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Harry Hardying. Or maybe there is—but she’s not invested enough to care about his flaws. He’s not her boyfriend, exactly. Just a boy who’s a bit more than a friend. One who stays over sometime, who pays for dinner, texts her first more often than not, and has sent flowers to her job during rehearsals twice. He’s never made her cry except for the time she got home after they slept together for the first time and that had been more about Jon than about him. 

Harry is…fine. He’s not the love of her life and she knows this will end, probably sooner than either of them is expecting. But for now, he’s a distraction, a band-aid over something deeper. The part that makes it easier is knowing, without a doubt, that she’s not the love of his life either.

He took it upon himself to plan her birthday dinner at one of the really nice places in town, the kind she only goes to when her parents are visiting or when she needs to feel better about the state of her life. Harry had asked her for a guest list and had handled all the details, probably with help of his assistant. 

He bought her a pretty scarf in a shade of pink that will clash with her hair, but she’ll probably wear it anyway once it gets cold if they’re still dating. 

They don’t need to leave for another fifteen minutes, but Harry got to her place early and now he’s in the living room waiting while she finishes her hair in the bedroom, trying not to sweat before she can put on her new black satin dress.

She’s listening to the kind of upbeat pop that always makes her feel better and more energized.

“Hey, want some wine?” Harry calls out, head appearing in the doorway.

“Yes, please!” Sansa replies as her phone starts buzzing on her vanity. 

She assumes it’s a friend or someone else calling to wish her a happy birthday, so she doesn’t check who the caller is. Her phone has been pinging all day with texts and calls.

“Just a second,” she says into the receiver.

“Can you bring me some of the white we opened last weekend?” She adds, calling after Harry.

“Hi,” she finally greets the other person. Her eyes are still on the curl she’s trying to coax into place.

There’s a pause. Then:

“Hi, Sansa.”

She freezes.

It’s Jon.

Everything around her stops: the sound of cars outside, the clink of glasses in the kitchen, the low buzz of her curling iron. She sets it down, afraid she might burn herself. They’d only spoken once since that brief conversation when he was with Robb. Jon had texted to ask what he should do with a box of sheet music he found while packing. She told him to give it to Robb, that she’d get it eventually. Maybe she’d just been too shocked that he was moving out of the apartment they used to share to say anything else.  

“Hi,” she breathes.

“I just…I wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” she says too fast, her voice thin and breathless. This is the first birthday in six years they haven’t spent together. Even before they were dating, Jon and Robb always made plans with her for her birthday when they were in college. 

“How—how’s it been?” He asks.

“Good,” she lies. “I’m going to dinner.”

She hesitates. “With friends,” she adds, like it matters.

“That sounds nice.” A pause. “I won’t keep you—”

“Sans, here’s your wine,” Harry calls as he walks in. “Want water too?”

Her stomach drops. There’s no way Jon didn’t hear that. There’s no way he didn’t hear the familiarity in Harry’s voice. “Thanks,” she replies without looking at Harry.

“I’ll call a cab in a bit,” he says, kissing the side of her head.

Jon says nothing. She can hear his silence just as clearly as if he’d spoken.

“I—” he starts, but stops himself. “Well. I hope you have a nice rest of your birthday.”

She nods reflexively, forgetting he can’t see her. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He doesn’t ask who Harry is, doesn’t say he loves her, doesn’t say he misses her.

He broke up with her, she’s single and allowed to date whoever she wants. She hasn’t lied or snuck around or done anything wrong. And yet it still feels like a betrayal.

Chapter Text

It starts with a text from Robb asking where their mom keeps the first aid kit. Never mind the fact that neither of them has lived with their parents in years. Then Rickon texts her, Robb, and Jon saying “Sansa dont freak out its not that bad.”

That’s enough to get her to call.

She tries Rickon first, but it just keeps ringing, no answer, even though he texted less than fifteen seconds ago. Robb doesn’t pick up either.

She hesitates before calling Jon. She saved his contact again after he called on her birthday. At the end of the day, she just wants to make sure Rickon is fine.

Jon answers on the second ring.

“Hey, Sansa. Hello?” His voice is slightly breathless, like he’s been moving around.

“Hey. Is my brother okay?” She asks, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Well,” Jon says, “your older brother seems to be having a panic attack. Your younger brother might need stitches on his forehead.”

Sansa has been on the couch all afternoon, but now bolts upright. She has the urge to put on her shoes, grab her keys, and drive home, but she’s hours away from her family now. 

Her parents are away this weekend for their anniversary, finally taking the trip she and her siblings gifted them. Her mom has already sent several photos of the view from their room in Crackclaw Point, the little pier, the seaside dinners Sansa personally booked for them weeks ago.

Sansa had offered to come up north to look after Rickon, but her parents insisted it wasn’t necessary. Robb would stay over, they said. Sansa guesses he must’ve recruited Jon for backup.

“What happened? Is he—has—” she stammers, unable to even finish the question.

“Sansa, Sansa, he’s alright,” Jon says quickly, steady but firm. “He just tripped in the kitchen. Hit his forehead on the counter.”

“Is he concussed?”

“No, we don’t think so. I promise he’s alright. He only texted you because Robb started freaking out and said he was calling you.”

“Yeah, he asked about the first aid kit,” she mutters. 

Jon laughs, “I think they might not have one.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I checked all the usual places,” Jon replies. She can hear him moving around, his voice shifting with distance. “Hey, I’m gonna run to the drugstore for some first aid supplies, okay?”

She hears Robb say something she can’t understand and then Rickon yelling he’s fine. 

“Is he bleeding a lot?”

“A bit,” Jon replies and she hears what must be the front door closing. “But Robb’s got it handled.”

“Why don’t you just take him to the hospital? Get him checked out?”

“We don’t think he’s concussed,” he replies. 

“Jon, I’m serious.”

There’s a pause. 

“Sansa? Please trust me, okay? If he starts feeling bad, I promise we’ll take him to the ER.”

She bites a snarky comment back, swallows it.

“Hold up, let me connect to my car,” he says and Sansa waits. She should hang up, tell him that she’ll text Robb later to get an update on Rickon. She doesn’t. 

The line goes silent for a moment and then she hears Jon again.

“Hey, you there?”

“Yeah.”

Jon starts driving, or at least she assumes he does. He doesn’t say anything for a while. She hears the low hum of the engine in the background.

A part of her wonders if he wants to bring up Harry. She knows he told Robb, because Robb had mentioned it offhandedly, something about her bringing Harry north now that the cat’s out of the bag. She’d laughed it off, waved away the implication that now Jon knew she was seeing someone. 

“Are you off today?” Jon asks suddenly.

“Huh? Yeah. I am,” she says, a little caught off guard.

“Good.”

Silence falls again, heavier this time. It stretches, thick with everything unsaid.

“Did—” she starts.

“What—” he says at the same time.

Jon laughs, and it’s easy and genuine, like muscle memory. The sound tugs something loose in her chest. Gods, she misses this. Misses him so much it makes her stomach twist.

“You go,” she says, too soft.

“I was gonna ask what you were doing on your day off.”

“Would it be super boring if I said nothing?”

“No. You know I’m boring too.”

“You’re not,” she says more sharply than intended. She hates when he says things like that, even as a joke, even now. “You’re not.”

“Compared to you I am,” he murmurs. Then, a beat later, not giving her time to reply, “Hey, did you know Robb’s seeing someone?”

She leaves the couch and walks into the kitchen, placing the phone on the counter and putting him on speaker.

“Please say more. I get no gossip here.”

“Oh yes,” Jon says with excitement in his voice. “He won’t tell me who it is, but I went to his place, and there was definitely a girl in there. He was trying to get me to leave.”

“That coward,” she mutters, opening a cabinet. “Think it could be one of the Frey girls?” 

“No,” he draws it out like he’s still considering it. “I don’t think so. Or, well, maybe? Would your mom have set him up?”

“Maybe.”

“Hey, I just parked at the drugstore,” he says.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah.”

“Keep me posted on Rickon?” She asks, her voice softer now.

“Yes. Of course. I’ll let you know.”

Sansa stands in her kitchen, staring down at her phone once they say their goodbyes and hang up. 

When they first started dating, every phone conversation would last hours. It was so hard to hang up, so easy to find things to speak about. She wonders if it’ll ever be that simple and lovely again.

Chapter Text

As snow begins to fall, Jon fumbles with his beanie on the way out of the bar, fingers clumsy, brain slow. Eventually, he shoves it into the pocket of his coat. He doesn’t bother with his gloves. They’re an old pair and he won’t be able to tap on his phone if he’s wearing them.

Her number still sits at the top of his favorites. He never had the courage to remove it. Letting go of her would’ve felt like pretending he’d stopped loving her and that’s impossible.

He should be inside with his cohort. They’re all drunk. So is he. But they’re celebrating. Some grant finally came through to fund the expedition to the Lands of Always Winter. He’s been talking about it for years. Sansa would remember. She always remembers everything.

He’s been thinking about her since he got the news. He wanted to text her, even considered calling her when he got in his car to drive to the bar, but by that time he figured she would be getting ready for the night’s performance.

Now, it’s late enough that she’ll be home but early enough that she’ll still be awake. She can never sleep right after performing, always too full of energy from doing what she loves.

He knows he should wait. Save the news for when he’s not freezing, not spinning with alcohol, not sick with how much he misses her, but maybe he’s just too drunk to care. In all honesty, he shouldn’t be telling her at all. 

He squints down at his phone, making sure he taps the right number.

He doesn’t expect her to pick up. Doesn’t even really want her to.

But she does.

“Jon?”

“Oh. Sorry,” He laughs, unable to help it, already regretting the call. But isn’t that what he does now? Think of her and regret everything?

And really, this isn’t even the dumbest thing he’s done.

He actually booked a flight after their phone call on her birthday, after hearing some guy on the phone with her. Harry. What a stupid name. 

He was ready to go down to King’s Landing and ask her to take him back, to grovel, to tell her she still deserved better, but that he would do anything to make it work.

By morning, he’d canceled the flight. Took the day off instead.

He’d asked Robb about it once, casual as he could manage. That’s how he got the name. Robb had just nodded and said yes, Sansa was seeing someone. Had been for a few weeks. And Jon had wanted to be mad at him, his best friend, but how could he? Robb’s her brother. Of course he’s going to protect her and take her side, even if he won’t say it out loud.

“Jon? You there?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry I called.”

“Give me a moment.” He hears a door closing. Wonders if she’s with Harry. Wonders if she stepped out of the room to talk to him. “Are you drunk?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “There’s this type of pearlwort…it only grows in the Lands of Always Winter.”

“…Okay?” She says, slow and a little confused.

“We got the grant,” he manages, breath catching. “A pretty substantial one. We’ve been trying for over a year. It’s going to help with my thesis. A couple others too. And…yeah. We got it.”

“Jon, that’s amazing,” she says. She sounds genuinely happy. And that undoes something in him. “You’ve mentioned it—the plant. I’m glad you’ll get to go.”

“Thanks. Yeah.” He swallows. She remembers. “I’m really happy. And I’m…happy to hear your voice.”

There’s a pause. Then a soft sigh.

“Jon,” she says gently. “Why are you calling me ?”

He swallows hard. “You’ve been the person I tell my good news to for so long. I didn’t know how not to. We found out this morning and I almost texted you before I remembered I can’t do that anymore. And then we were out, drinking, and I thought you’d be home, after your performance, and…”

“Jon,” she says again, and he thinks she might be crying. Somehow, they always end up here, with her crying and him being the cause.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have called.”

“Jon, wait—”

“No. I’m sorry.”

He hangs up.

His hands are numb from the cold. He hadn’t noticed until now. He tucks the phone into his coat pocket, pulls out the beanie and the gloves, puts them on with clumsy fingers.

Back inside the bar, he hovers just long enough to tell his friends he’s heading out. Says he’ll walk home, pick up his car tomorrow. He gets a few hugs, a couple of blurry well-wishes.

Snow is falling harder when he steps outside. The cold cuts straight through his coat, and he walks without really feeling his feet. His thoughts float somewhere between drunk and sober, memory and regret.

And all he can hope is that by the time he makes it home, he won’t feel anything at all.

Chapter Text

When Jon wakes up, still half-dressed on the couch Sansa picked, he briefly wonders what it would take to move the research trip up to this afternoon. Two weeks with no cell service sounds like exactly the punishment he deserves for his stupid fucking decision to call Sansa drunk.

He’s always thought he was decent at avoiding clichés, especially for someone with a dead mother and no real father. And yet, he walked straight into the drunk ex-boyfriend cliché like it was nothing.

His phone is dead, facedown on the coffee table. He stares at it for a solid five minutes before finally dragging himself up to plug it in. Then he takes the hottest shower his electric bill can justify and not even the scalding water, pinking his skin and stinging his chest, manages to wash away the shame.

By the time the phone powers back on, it’s nearly noon.

There’s a message from Sansa. Sent the night before.It takes him another hour to open it.

In that hour, he cleans the kitchen, starts a load of laundry, and forces himself through three pages of edits on a research report due at the end of the week.

Sansa: Did you make it home safe?

He replies quickly and tells her he’s fine, tells her he’s sorry. He figures that’ll be the end of it.

But then his phone rings. He doesn’t even hesitate before answering.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey,” Sansa replies. There’s background noise—cars, footsteps, the rush of city life—so she must be on her way somewhere.

“Thanks for checking in on me,” Jon offers awkwardly. Then, more quietly, “And…I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Yeah,” she says simply.

He waits for more, hopes for more, for her to say it’s okay, or that he can call her anytime, but she doesn’t. And he knows that wouldn’t be fair to ask for.

“How are you?” he asks instead.

“TIred,” she answers. “Didn’t sleep well. My neighbor’s dog woke me up barking.”

They fall into small talk. He doesn’t ask if he’s part of the reason she didn’t sleep. She doesn’t bring it up either. She asks what he’s doing today and he admits, without much effort, that he’s nursing a hangover, adding he needs to work on edits to his report. It’s oddly normal and weird and so impersonal it makes him want to scream, but he’ll take it if that’s all he gets.

After a while, she says, “Sorry, I’m getting lunch, just got to the restaurant. But I wanted to tell you…I’m going to Winterfell.”

“Oh,” he says. The word hovers in the air between them, open-ended. “Okay.”

“Yeah, so…I thought maybe you’d want to catch up?”

“Yes,” he replies, too quickly.

“It’ll be next month,” she says. “I don’t know when your research trip is, though.”

“Not for a few more months. It’s too frozen up north right now.”

“Oh, right. That makes sense,” she says. Then adds, “So…maybe we could get a coffee?”

“Yeah. I’d love that.” The words come out softer than he means. And then, before he can stop himself, “Are you coming alone?”

There’s a beat of silence. He almost expects her to hang up.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m coming alone.”

“Alright.”

“Look, I have to go,” she adds, her voice gentle.

“Yeah, yeah—of course,” Jon replies quickly. “Enjoy your lunch.”

“Thanks. Talk soon?”

He’d like to think there’s a bit of wistfulness in her voice, but maybe that’s just him, wanting too much.

“Yeah. Bye, Sansa.”

“Bye.”

She hangs up. By the time he sets his phone down and sits back at the kitchen table to return to his research edits, his mood is higher than it’s been in months. 

Chapter Text

She’s adding night moisturizer to her never-ending Notes app shopping list when the FaceTime call from Jon lights up her screen. The TV is loud in the bedroom, so she closes the bathroom door and sits on the edge of the tub before answering.

She’s not wearing any makeup. Her face is covered in a thin, glossy layer of what could be mistaken for strawberry jam, but it’s just a hydrating mask. Jon’s seen her in worse. They lived together for two years.

Still, this is new. There are calls now and casual texts and a tentative friendship. It started after the night he called her drunk and it’s been quietly building ever since. And now, next weekend, she’ll see him in person for the first time in six months. Last time she saw him was the night they broke up and she locked herself in the room until he left for work in the morning. 

She picks up.

“Hey,” Jon greets her, smiling wide. “Nice face mask.”

“Hey.”

“Is this a good time?” He asks. She nods, and he turns the camera around. “Okay, you said you wanted to see the new place. Here it is. I’m warning you, it might be underwhelming, but I really like it. Gets a ton of natural light.”

“You’ll finally be able to get as many plants as you want,” she teases.

Their old apartment barely got any sun. They had picked it for proximity—close to campus for both of them, and to the theater where Sansa played. It was tiny, and dim, but it had been theirs.

“Oh, I’ve already got a few things set aside at the lab,” Jon says.

“Is that legal?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not illegal to take cuttings of plants to propagate.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

He laughs. “Do you want to see the apartment or not?”

“Yes, please.”

He pans around the living room. It’s mostly boxes and disassembled furniture, but she can tell it’s spacious. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the distant lights of the city. She bets it looks beautiful during the day.

“I love it,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s great. Show me the rest.”

Jon takes her on a full tour—still using a lot of their old furniture—but she sees touches of him everywhere. He has a new couch and a new bed. In the kitchen, he points out the counter where he’s unpacking.

“One of my professors had a garage sale,” Jon tells her. “Ended up giving me half his kitchen.”

She’s smiling until her gaze catches on something by the sink.

“Is that my mug?”

Jon swings the camera back to his face, feigning innocence. “It’s my mug now.”

“I demand you ship it to me, Jon Snow.”

“Nope.” He grins. “You know it’s the perfect mug.”

She knows. He made it at a pottery class they took, one of those couple things. Hers had collapsed on the wheel in seconds, but Jon had crafted a slightly misshapen one with a blue glaze. He said the color reminded him of her eyes. He gave it to her the week after.

She had left it behind on purpose and thought he would throw it away. 

“I can’t believe you stole my mug.”

“I’ll consider returning it when you visit.” 

She huffs, “I will be expecting it.” 

He shows her the closets and all the storage space. She immediately envies the pantry since her King’s Landing apartment barely has room for spices, let alone dry goods. Back in the living room, he’s debating where to put his desk.

“By the window,” she suggests. “You’ll be able to focus more if you have a view.”

“You’re right. Thank you.” He smiles. “And I’ve got a thesis to write.”

“How’s that going?”

“I try to remind myself I love what I do. And I’ll love it even more once it’s done.”

“Can’t wait to read it.”

“You’re not going to read my thesis,” Jon says. The camera is back on his face and she sees him rolling his eyes. 

She laughs. “Don’t say that like I haven’t read everything else you’ve ever written. Sure, sometimes I have to look things up, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

“I’ll write you a glossary.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

She realizes the TV in the other room has gone quiet. It’s late. Time for bed.

“I should go,” she says, standing. “But thanks for the tour.”

“Of course. I just had an energy drink, so I’m going to try to unpack a little more.”

“Good luck.” She smiles. “Talk soon.”

She washes the face mask off and brushes her teeth. Back in the bedroom, she plugs in her phone. It has a different port than Harry’s and she doesn’t have a spare at his place, so she’ll need to remember to take it with her tomorrow. 

“What took you so long?” Harry asks. He’s scrolling through his phone now, the basketball game he was watching when she went into the bathroom apparently over.

“Did the Vale win?” she asks, avoiding the question.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching to pull her closer. “Were you on the phone?”

Sansa hesitates. She won’t lie, but she can’t quite tell the full truth either.

“My friend just moved. Wanted to show me the new apartment.”

“That’s nice,” he replies, already distracted again.

He falls asleep soon after. She doesn’t.

Instead, she lies still beside him, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about Jon’s new apartment, that stupid misshapen mug, and the fact that she hadn’t told Harry who she was really talking to.

Chapter Text

Later, she’ll feel awful when she realizes her first thought after leaving Harry’s apartment was that she no longer had a ride to the airport, but as she steps out to hail a cab, being mad about that stupid detail is better than questioning why she doesn’t feel more heartbroken.

It’s not the worst breakup she’s experienced, that spot goes to Jon, but it’s not her best moment either. TThere’s yelling on both sides. Harry gets upset when Jon’s name lights up her phone during appetizers at the fancy spot down the block, which turns into huffing and passive-aggressive comments during the entrée, and by dessert, Sansa’s ready to throw her raspberry tart at his expensive button-down. The fight only escalates on the walk back to his apartment and takes a turn for the end when she asks about the late-night texts he receives sometimes. Five more minutes of arguing is all it takes to learn about the girl from his office.

“You can’t stand there and act all sanctimonious when all you do is text your ex-boyfriend,” Harry shouts at her.

“Yeah, well, I’m not fucking my ex-boyfriend,” she snaps back, thanking the gods that Catelyn Stark is not there to hear her. “Can you say the same about—what’s her name? Saffron? Gods, what a stupid name.”

The fight devolves from there. Sansa doesn’t bother trying to fix it. 

By the end of the night, she’s waiting for a cab outside his building, holding a plastic bag of the few things she had left at his place, and thinking about how Harry was supposed to drive her to the airport because he’s one of the very few people she knows who owns a car in King’s Landing. 

Compared to her last breakup, Sansa thinks she’s taking this one in stride. She wakes up early to go to yoga and grabs coffee with one of the girls from the class before heading home to work on assignments and nap until it’s time to go to rehearsal. She doesn’t mention the breakup to anyone, not until she’s on the train on the way back to her apartment. 

It’s almost funny at first, or maybe it’s just funny compared to before . She texts her friend Mya, who plays the oboe with the Philharmonic, but missed rehearsal:

lost my ride to the airport tomorrow. oh and also my boyfriend (?)

Mya calls her immediately. Sansa tells her what happened, including that yes, she has been talking to Jon, but they’re just trying to rebuild a friendship after months of silence. Mya makes her laugh, but talking about it puts things into perspective. Maybe it would be funnier if it weren’t so bleak. By the time she gets home and sees the bag of her things, it’s not funny at all.

She doesn’t really regret the relationship. It was what she needed at the time, but she regrets how it ended and how far she let it get. Things were never clearly defined, which was a first for her, since her friends have always called her a “serious boyfriend type of girl. ” It still stings. And in some small way, she feels like an asshole for not being more torn up that it’s over.

She thinks about the days after the breakup with Jon. She would leave the TV on for hours, not really watching whatever was playing. Most nights, she would fall asleep next to her mom or Arya. She had convinced herself she’d never forgive him. And yet, he was the only one she wanted to talk to. In one of the worst moments of her life, the person who had caused it was also the only one who could possibly soothe it.

She could call him now, but she won’t. She has to be at the airport in less than 24 hours and she has friends in King’s Landing she could call, people who’d gladly help, who’d gladly listen to her vent, but she doesn’t. She can’t explain why.

After showering, she pulls on the oversized sweater her brothers gave her a few birthdays ago. It’s huge, like two sizes too big, and it’s her favorite. Her hair is still damp when she climbs onto the bed carrying a bowl of leftover pasta. The room feels too quiet. Harry hardly ever stayed over, she was usually the one at his place, but the silence still cuts. She thinks, briefly, she could get a dog or a cat, but her hours are weird and she’s leaving for tour in the summer. It wouldn’t make sense.

She tells herself she won’t call Jon.

So she calls Arya instead. Her sister is walking somewhere, Sansa can tell by the background noise, but she still answers.

“Hey,” Arya says. “What’s up?”

Sansa doesn’t mention the breakup. They speak about mundane things and what they will do over the weekend. She feels a little lighter by the end of the conversation. 

“Alright, love you, bye!” Arya says quickly, rushing to hang up before Sansa can say it back.

Bran and Robb don't answer when she calls, but Rickon does. He’s in the car with their mom, heading home from soccer practice. Sansa smiles at how bright and cheerful his voice sounds, it helps more than she expects. In the background, their mother tells Rickon to tell her she loves her, and Sansa nearly cries. Just under eighteen hours, she reminds herself. That’s how long until she’ll see them.

She leaves her pasta plate in the sink. There’ll be time for dishes later. A few things still need packing, so she handles those slowly, distracted. And all through the night while brushing her hair, setting her alarm, double-checking her flight, she tells herself not to call Jon. She wonders if she should be wanting to speak to Harry instead. 

She manages not to.

She’ll see him tomorrow anyway. They’d made plans to get coffee in the afternoon.

That should be enough for now.

Chapter Text

Letting her pick the coffee shop had seemed like the right thing to do when they made plans to catch up. She had picked a place closer to her parents’ house, somewhere they had never gone to together. Jon had understood the logic in that. There was a kind of safety in neutral ground, in sitting across from her in a space untouched by memory.

And yet the entire week leading to her trip he had been assaulted by memories of her while he also wondered how different it would be to see her in person for the first time in six months. He had known her hair was a little shorter around her face, something he had noticed on their sporadic FaceTime calls. He had guessed she might be a bit tan after months in King’s Landing, before winter settled in. None of that had prepared him for what it felt like to actually see her. 

She had mentioned plans afterward, said she could only stay for a little while. Jon had nodded and smiled, but he had wondered if she had arranged it that way. Maybe she was trying to make it easier to meet up if they had only a set time. She had already been waiting for him by the time he walked in, already had bought her own drink and not given him the chance to buy her coffee. 

In all the uncertainty, he had been sure she would look beautiful. And of course she had, in a deep green peacoat he’d never seen before and a cream sweater that looked like cashmere. Her shiny red hair was pulled back with a golden barrette and her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold.

It had been awkward and odd and the best hour he had had in months. He had asked about her flight and she had said it was fine. He had wanted to ask about Harry, but he hadn’t.

Even the topics he’d thought were safe had felt like landmines.

She had mentioned finding a new yoga studio and Jon had wanted to tell her how they still got flyers from the one she used to go to near their old apartment.

He had brought up some of the members of his cohort and almost added how they still talked about the elaborate dinners she used to make for them.

She had mentioned the holidays, and he’d had to stop himself from pulling out the list of gifts he’d bought for her family, wanting her opinion, like he always had, because for years they had done the shopping together.

So when she said she needed to go after an hour and he offered to walk her to the car, Sansa had declined.

They had not touched. There had not been a handshake, or a hug, not even an accidental brush as they both reached for the sugar. But he had seen her and they had spoken and he had not fallen apart the moment he left the café.

Yet all the warmth and familiarity that had made texting feel easy now felt cold and distant in person, like it had only existed through screens and could not survive the space between them.

Now he is walking to his car. He parked a bit far from the café when he could not find parking, which is why he was late, even though he had planned to arrive before Sansa.

The snow’s let up. His phone buzzes in his coat pocket. Her name on the screen stops him cold. He steps out of the way just in time, nearly colliding with an older woman. She mutters something about phones as she walks off. He barely hears it.

“Hey,” he answers, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” Sansa says.

There’s a pause on her end. Quiet enough that for a second he wonders if the call dropped.

“I forgot to ask about your research trip,” she blurts out.

“Oh. We leave in six weeks,” Jon says. “We wanted to wait a little longer, but if we do, some of the plants will be too far along in their cycle for what we need.”

“That’s exciting.”

“I’m really looking forward to it.”

There’s another stretch of silence. Not exactly tense, but not easy either, more like they’re both trying to figure out how to talk again. 

“That was kind of weird, right?” Jon says.

“A bit,” she agrees. “I thought it would be easier in person. I mean, we’ve been talking a lot on the phone.”

“Maybe we forgot how to be in person together.”

“I know,” Sansa says. She lets out a breathy laugh. 

“You in the car?” He asks.

“Yeah, about to start driving. You?”

“Still walking to mine.”

“Okay.”

There’s another pause. Then—

“I broke up with Harry,” she says suddenly. “Or...I guess we broke up. A few days ago.”

Jon’s chest tightens. He tries to sound neutral. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know if I should say I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know if I want you to,” Sansa replies, a small laugh catching at the end.

“Alright.” He smiles, even if she can’t see it.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she says.

“It was really good to see you, Sansa.”

“I don’t leave until Monday morning.”

“Yeah?” He asks. “Maybe we could see each other again before then.”

“I…yeah, maybe,” she says.

She sounds unsure, but Jon tells himself it’s enough and after all, he doesn’t deserve her certainty.  Especially after the day he came home and found her gone. Especially when he still remembers how sure he’d felt that letting her go was the right thing. Especially when nothing else since has felt quite right.

Chapter Text

Sansa vacuums her living room twice. Once because she’s cleaning the whole apartment and then again just to have something to do. She’s nervous, she knows that much, but if she sits down to wait for Jon, she’ll explode.

She also knows this is probably a bad idea.

At the time, it hadn’t felt like one. The plans were made in a rush not even five days ago, during a late FaceTime call after she got back from rehearsal and Jon was still at the lab. She had wanted to show him one of the new pieces she’d be performing that weekend, an original from one of her favorite Westerosi composers. So she’d propped the phone on the coffee table, moved it back, and slid the cello between her knees like she’d done so many times before to play for him.

By the end of it, he had looked sort of stunned. When he said he’d have to find another glitchy livestream to watch it, she hadn’t even thought before replying he could do that or he could fly down and see it in person. He seemed surprised, and she’d been just about to backpedal when he said, “I could.”

The rest of the call had turned into making plans. He would fly in Saturday morning. They would walk around the city that afternoon, then go to her performance at night. Then lunch on Sunday before her matinée. It was kind of perfect, if she ignored the part about her ex-boyfriend staying in her one-bedroom apartment.

The sleeping arrangements had been figured out fast. One of her classmates let her borrow an air mattress. Jon had offered to get a hotel, but she told him that was ridiculous and too expensive, he could sleep in the living room, especially with his PhD stipend and having to pay rent by himself. She hadn't said the last part.

Now, she’s kind of regretting that.

She hasn’t told anyone. No friends, no family. She suspects Jon hasn’t either because no one’s said anything. He should’ve landed  forty minutes ago, but he hasn’t texted. She hasn’t checked. Doesn’t want to seem overeager. Or desperate.

But she is a little of both.

They’re supposed to get lunch, but Sansa considers making herself a drink just to have something to do. She’s checking her school email, not because anything important has come in, but because the stillness in her apartment makes her nervous, when her phone rings.

“Hey,” Jon says. There’s noise in the background like train announcements, the distant sound of someone laughing. He sounds slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” Sansa replies, standing from the couch. “How was the flight?”

“I’m on my way now,” he says quickly. “Sorry I didn’t call when I landed. I turned my phone back on, checked the train schedule, and saw there was one leaving in twenty minutes, so I kind of ran through the airport.”

“Oh,” she says, walking to her bedroom. “Do you need my address?”

“No, I’m good. I saved it when you sent it earlier. I think I know where I’m going?” He says the last word like a question.

“Alright. So I’m guessing you didn’t check a bag?”

“Of course not. I’m only here for, like, twenty-four hours,” he says, mock-offended.

She laughs under her breath and opens her closet. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater, but now that it’s actually time to see him, it feels like too much skin. She grabs her phone and sets it on speaker on her dresser while she searches for something else to wear.

“I actually got a new travel backpack,” Jon says. “It’s really nice. Your dad helped me pick it out.”

She frowns. “My dad?”

“Yeah, I ran into him at that outdoor store near campus. You know how he is.”

Sansa hums, a small smile tugging at her lips. Her father and Jon have always bonded over tents and weatherproof gear and the merits of different hiking boot brands. One of her earliest memories of Jon is from the winter after his mother passed, when he’d stayed with them for the break and her dad had taken the older kids hunting. She had been there too, but mostly stayed behind in the cabin reading and texting her friends.

“He helped me pick out the backpack and some snow gear,” Jon continues casually.

“Right,” she says. Jon’s trip to the Land of Always Winter is in two weeks. He won’t have access to his phone while he’s out there, just a few payphones on base and maybe the occasional email when they pass through a research station. They’d already gone over the details during one of their calls after they saw each other during her trip. That first meetup had been stiff and awkward, but things had eased since then. Now they’re…whatever this is. Friends, probably. Or something close enough to it.

They haven’t really talked about it, about what happened with Harry, or what they’re doing now. She heard through Theon that someone in Jon’s cohort had tried to set him up with a friend and he’d turned it down saying he was too busy with school. She hadn’t asked him about it. She’s still not sure if she wants to know.

“How was the flight?” She asks again as she continues to search for a top.

Jon laughs softly. “Sorry—yeah, you asked. It was fine. I read school material most of the way. I’ve been tutoring a bit on the side.”

“Yeah?”  She finds what she’s looking for: a long-sleeved lavender top with a sweetheart neckline. Still flattering, still pretty, but it covers her collarbones. She pulls it over her head.

“Kind of a favor. High school bio. They’re the nieces of one of my professors. The extra cash is nice though.”

“Will you have time to keep doing it after the trip?”

“Probably not,” Jon replies. “Once we’re back, we’ll barely leave the lab.”

She grins. “Well, it’ll be worth it. Just a few more months until the year’s over.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Jon groans. “I needed a silver lining.”

“Oh, you know me. World’s most positive person.” She jokes as she tucks the shirt into her jeans and adjusts her bra. 

“You’re joking, but…” he pauses. “I don’t know. I’ve always admired that about you.”

The words land heavier than he probably intended. They remind her of what she’s been telling herself ever since they made these plans. That nothing will happen. Nothing can happen. They’re friends. They won’t kiss or hold hands or have sex or fall asleep tangled together. This is just a visit, the kind she’d have with Jeyne or Theon or anyone else.

“Thanks,” she says softly. Then, trying to shift the tone, she adds, “You kno—”

The doorbell chimes.

She startles. “Hold on, someone’s here,” she says into the phone, already heading toward the living room.

She pulls the door open.

Jon is standing there with his hair mused by the beanie he’s now holding in one hand, still bundled in his winter coat. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder and a look on his face that’s almost shy. 

And then he smiles, soft and wide and familiar, like this isn’t strange at all. He’s still holding his phone and so is she. 

Sansa feels her heart stutter just a little.

“Hi,” she says, voice catching somewhere in her throat.

“Hi,” Jon echoes, his smile growing. “I think I found the right place.”

Chapter Text

From: Sansa Stark <[email protected]>
To: Jon Snow <[email protected]>
Date: Tuesday, February 11, 6:04 AM
Subject: Hello from the South :) 

Hi!

Emailing your school email instead of your personal because I figured you’d check this more often. I hope you made it to the research base. 

I’ll need all the details when you get back.

Please don’t freeze :)  

Take care,
Sansa

________________ 

From: Jon Snow <[email protected]>
To: Sansa Stark <[email protected]>
Date: Wednesday, February 12, 7:47 AM
Subject: re: Hello from the South :)

Hi, 

We arrived late on Monday and spent most of the day yesterday getting the lay of the land (no pun intended) and going through planning. I’m only able to use the communal computer to check my email.

Seeing your name in my inbox made the weather a little less miserable. 

I’ll be off base for a couple of days, in case you don’t hear from me. Hoping to find the damn pearlwort. 

Also, any reason you were awake at 6am?

—Jon

________________

From: Sansa Stark <[email protected]>
To: Jon Snow <[email protected]>
Date: Wednesday, February 12, 6:35 PM
Subject: re: re: Hello from the South :) 

Hi, 

Question. Would the pearlwort grow if you brought it south? I mean like Winterfell south, not King’s Landing south, though I would not be opposed to having something from the Lands in my apartment. (If anyone is reading this and determines it’s illegal, I’m JUST JOKING)

Anyway, I hope you’re taking a lot of pictures, even if they’re just of all the plants.

How are your friends? Do you have a lot of adult supervision? (I know you’re all like in your mid-twenties to early thirties, but you know what I mean). Are you all partying after research? 

And to answer your question, in an effort to have more time between class and work, I have started working out in the mornings. I’m miserable! Anyway, I hope your days off base are safe and productive and I hope we can talk soon. 

From a warmer place with working internet,
Sansa 

________________

From: Jon Snow <[email protected]>
To: Sansa Stark <[email protected]>
Date: Saturday, February 15,10:50 PM
Subject: re:re:re: Hello from the South :) 

Good evening to you, 

We’re back on base. Got the pearlwort and a lot more and didn’t even get frostbite. 

To answer your questions:

Yes, it would potentially grow, but it would die during the first thaw. And while not technically illegal, it is generally frowned upon to take any specimens from the field for personal use. I know you’re thinking about plant cuttings for propagation, and no, that is not the same. (Also, for whoever is reading this email, that was an inside joke and in no way reflects me taking cuttings from the lab)

That said, if I were to take anything from the field, it would be for you.

My friends are well. I think Sam is in the middle of an existential crisis and Edd slipped on ice and fell on his ass. We all made the mistake of laughing, so now he looks ready to keep walking north and leave us all behind. Everyone else is pretty well. 

We technically have adult supervision in the form of Dr. Mormont and one of the field researchers who’s serving as lead, but they mostly leave us alone to do our own work.

As for “partying,” that’s a generous term. There’s been some drinking, but mostly for warming purposes. The most excitement we’ve had all week was when the kettle exploded. And when Edd fell.

I am taking a lot of pictures. You’ll be glad to know some of them are even in focus.

I’m off to have soup, shower, and pass out until tomorrow. Even being from the North, I always forget how much worse it gets up here. Trekking through the snow really took all our energy. I think a few people in the cohort might be reconsidering their career choices. We might need to go back out for a few more days, but we get back to Winterfell in a week.”

Congrats on your journey to becoming a morning person. I’ll believe it when I see it. 

—Jon

________________

From: Sansa Stark <[email protected]>
To: Jon Snow <[email protected]>
Date: Saturday, February 15, 11:57 PM
Subject: to anyone reading: this email is a joke 

I appreciate your willingness to steal a plant for me. 

Love,
Sansa 

________________

Jon steps into the phone booth and closes the door behind him, feeding a few coins into the slot and dialing her number from memory with stiff fingers.

“Hi, you’ve reached Sansa Stark. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you! Unless you’re one of my siblings, in which case, text me!”

Jon smiles when he hears her new voicemail. He remembers calling months ago just to hear her voice on the recording, to feel a little closer. Now he’s calling to talk to her for real and somehow they do feel closer, even with half a continent between them.

She signed her last email Love, Sansa . He can’t stop thinking about it.

There’s only one working payphone on base and every time he’s tried to use it, someone’s already there. Some of the researchers have a kid or a partner back home and it’s sort of an unspoken rule that they get priority. Jon never wants to interrupt that. He waits sometimes, other times he walks away before it’s even his turn.

“Hi,” he says after the beep. “Figured you would be free, but I’m now realizing it’s Sunday and you have an earlier performance.”

He shifts, leans against the wooden side of the payphone booth. His voice softens.

“Just wanted to talk to you. I think I've gotten used to hearing your voice almost everyday.”

A beat of silence.

“I’ll try to call tomorrow. Alright. Bye, Sansa. Hope all’s well.”

Another pause. I miss you. 

“Talk soon, I hope.”

He hangs up.

________________

From: Sansa Stark <[email protected]>
To: Jon Snow <[email protected]>
Date: Sunday, February 16, 4:58 PM
Subject: sorry i missed your call! 

Hello, 

Sorry I missed your call. I was, in fact, at the matinee. It was a pain today, but at least I’m off for the next couple of days. Who would’ve thought that performing while going to school would be so exhausting?! 

At least I’m almost done with my first year. Can you believe that?

Anyway, I’m typing this while I wait for the train. I hope you’re staying safe and congrats on the productive trip! Please send a picture of the pearlwort, I'm dying to see it. 

—Sansa

________________

From: Sansa Stark <[email protected]>
To: Jon Snow <[email protected]>
Date: Monday, February 17, 1:17 PM
Subject: Checking in 

Hi,

I never asked, but are you all completely disconnected from the world while you're out in the field? I figured you probably had some sort of satellite phone for emergencies, but I never asked.

Anyway. I've been thinking about when you came to visit. I know we talked about me visiting Winterfell agaisn soon, but I don’t know when that’ll be. We have a one-week break coming up and I was planning to go, but now it looks like I might go on vacation with some of my classmates. We were thinking Wickenden since we could take the ferry. I think it might coincide with your spring break. Do you have plans already?

Robb is coming down tomorrow for a few days. I don’t know if he told you. I think things are over with his secret girlfriend, but I’ll do some investigating while he’s here.

Hope you're staying warm!
Sansa

________________

He starts replying to her last email before realizing he could call her instead. The chance that she will be up are slim, but she can listen to his message in the morning, 

It rings twice before going to voicemail.

He waits for the tone, then says quietly, “Hey. I know it’s late and you’re probably asleep, but I wanted to let you know we’re going to be leaving tomorrow morning for another three days. ”

He exhales, trying not to shiver. “There’s this fungus Edd’s convinced only shows up after sunset, so he’s going to make us go out at night. I think he’s either insane or trying to get me killed. Wants my desk, probably.”

He sighs.

“Anyway. I meant to call earlier since you’re off, but everything ran long. I’m sorry we haven’t spoken on the phone. I know I said I would try, but it never seems to work. I’m glad at least we have the emails. And yes, we do have a satellite telephone for emergencies while we’re out. I hope you have fun with Robb.”

His fingers drum lightly against the side of the phone.

“It’s going to be awfully cold, but I’m telling myself this is for a good reason and I'm getting the data I need to work on my thesis. Feels like something you would tell me.”

He swallows, glancing out the glass at the dark. “I don’t have anything planned for spring break. Maybe we can talk about that when I get back? I hope you sleep well tonight. And I hope we talk soon. Bye. I miss you.”

He hangs up gently, the click loud in the booth. Then he steps back out into the wind.

________________

From: Sansa Stark <[email protected]>
To: Jon Snow <[email protected]>
Date: Thursday, February 20, 11:15 PM
Subject: re: Checking in 

Hey, 

I know you probably won’t see this until you’re heading back to Winterfell, but I was wondering if we could speak once you’re home. I hope the rest of the trip goes well and that you are able to get everything you need. 

Let me know when you're back.

Take care,
Sansa

________________

Jon rereads her email from the previous day three times before heading to the payphone. It’s empty, but he’s so on edge he might’ve let someone else go first just to buy himself time.

He digs into his jacket pocket for coins, punches in the number from memory and gets it wrong, so he has to start over.

This time it goes straight to voicemail.

The mailbox you are trying to reach is full and cannot accept any more messages at this time. Please try again later.

He exhales and tries one more time. Same thing. 

Jon lowers the receiver, presses his forehead to the glass. It’s freezing.

She said she wanted to talk. He’s here. He’s trying.

He puts the rest of the coins back in his pocket. There’s nothing else to do now.

Just wait.

Chapter Text

They’d spent the afternoon of Jon’s twenty-four hour visit walking around King’s Landing. She took him to her favorite bakery and then down to see Blackwater Bay. They sat on a bench and watched the water and she pretended not to notice when their hands touched briefly as they both reached into the bakery bag for a lemon tart.

Back at the apartment, she’d said they should set up the air mattress before leaving, knowing they’d be too tired by the time they got back from her performance. It was better to make sure that the place where he would sleep that night was ready instead of playing with fate. She had showered while he heated up the leftovers she’d pulled from the fridge.

By the time he went in to shower and came back out, she was already dressed, makeup done, her hair braided into a crown. Her mother had taught her to do her hair this way. It had always made Sansa feel comfortable, polished, and a little regal.

Her black taffeta dress hit just above the knee, the skirt flaring whenever she moved. It had short sleeves and a boat neckline she kept tugging at. Jon was in slightly wrinkled slacks, a shirt she didn’t help him pick, and a light purple tie that brought out his grey eyes more than she had wanted to admit.

“You look beautiful,” he’d said for the first time in almost eight months and it still felt like it did when she was twenty, when he’d whisper it to her in the darkness of his bedroom. 

Bundled up in their coats and laughing and talking they had taken the train to the venue. Jon’s hand had lingered on her back longer than necessary as they walked through the crowd. 

As always, she performed to the best of her ability, always focused and steady, but knowing he was somewhere in the audience wasn’t lost on her. He had waited outside with flowers and she had introduced him to a few coworkers as a “friend from home.” It was all she could say, the only thing that made sense.

They took a cab. Neither of them had said much and she had wondered if he was also thinking about Sansa calling him a friend.

Back at her apartment, she had poured herself a glass of wine, grabbed him a beer, and they had sat on the couch and talked for hours about his program, her family, his friends, gossip. They spoke about little things, safe things. When it was time to go to sleep, when she kept yawning and he kept trailing off and not finishing sentences, she said a quick good night and retired to her room.

The next morning, they had woken up mildly hungover but thankfully in different beds. They grabbed brunch before parting ways — she headed to perform at the matinee, he to the airport. They walked to the train station together.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said, his smile soft, honest. “It was really good to see you.”

She smiled back and when he hugged her, she hugged him back.

The rest of her day was full. She played, picked up groceries, made dinner plans with coworkers. And it wasn’t until she got home around six that she let herself acknowledge it: in all the time they’d spent together, they hadn’t once talked about the breakup or her heartbreak or the strained, tentative friendship between them or the way he had refused to give their relationship another try.

And she hadn’t brought it up. Not once.

The next two weeks are busy for both of them, but the rhythm between them holds with steady texts, phone calls when they can manage it. The night before he leaves for his research trip, they spend two hours on FaceTime with him packing as she’s deep cleaning her kitchen.

They email while he’s gone. They still can’t get their schedules right for real phone calls, but she listens to his voicemails over and over. She listens to the first one five times in a row at first, then a few more throughout the week, especially when he’s off-site and unreachable for days.

One night, drunk with Mya at a bar in Eel Alley, she signs off an email with Love, Sansa.

Her classmates start planning a spring break trip. Someone mentions bringing guests, partners, friends and when they ask if she’s bringing someone, her first thought is Jon, even though it’s probably a terrible idea. She still mentions it to him on her email. 

Robb comes to visit. He’s in town for work and crashes on her couch for a few days. They barely see each other because he’s in meetings when she’s home and by the time she gets back from performing, he’s already asleep.

On Thursday, Robb’s last day in King’s Landing, Sansa fakes food poisoning so she can spend the day with him. They walk around the gardens of the Red Keep all morning and then go to all the museums their parents used to take them to during trips when they were little. 

They end up at a touristy spot on Visenya Hill for an early dinner. Robb says he’s picking up the tab and insists on ordering three entrées and a bottle of wine to split, even though they both know they probably won’t finish it all. 

“So,” Robb says casually as they get their dessert, “Has Jon visited?”

Robb has inherited from their mother the capacity to ask questions he already knows the answer to. 

Sansa cuts into the crème brûlée with unnecessary focus, letting the silence stretch before saying, “Yes. A couple weeks ago.”

Robb just leans back in his chair and takes another sip of wine. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.”

“Robb.”

He lets out a breath. “I’m not going to say what I want to say.”

“Just say it.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He looks her straight in the eye. “You were wrecked after the breakup, Sansa. You were wrecked in a way none of us had seen you before.”

She flinches. “It was a hard time. And we’re friends again. Just friends. We talk and text. A lot. It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And I get that breakups are hard, but you’re my sister.”

Sansa presses her lips together.

“You’re not just catching up over coffee,” Robb continues. “You’re telling me you talk all the time. You’re texting. He flew across the country to see you. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing,” she says. “We’ve been talking. It’s been good. He’s…he’s important to me.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Robb says. “And I know that you’re important to him, but he still hurt you.”

“He didn’t want to do long distance.”

“Fine, he didn’t then, does he want to now?” 

Sansa has never been able to hide things from Robb. She shrugs. “It’s not like that. We’ve been…rebuilding something. There’s a break coming up and I might go on a trip with some of my classmates. I mentioned it to him.”

Robb raises his eyebrows. “So you might go on vacation together.”

“Maybe.”

“Right,” he says. “So Jon didn’t want a long-distance relationship. But now you’re doing exactly that, except that you’re just calling it a friendship."

Sansa blinks.

“You’re still in it, Sans. You’re just not giving it a name. That doesn’t make it any less real or less confusing.”

She crosses her arms. “You don’t understand.”

“I do,” he says. “More than you think. And I’ve tried to stay out of it.”

She glares. 

Robb leans forward. “You were devastated by the breakup and so was he, but at the end of the day he ended things with you .”

Sansa’s voice is low. “I think we’re trying to move past that.”

“And have you spoken about it?” 

Her silence answers his question. 

“No,” he replies for her. “I know what I saw. I saw you blaming yourself. I saw you crying because Jon broke up with you seemingly out of nowhere when you were supposed to be celebrating. If you ask me, saying he didn’t want to do long distance is a shit excuse.”

Sansa swallows hard. “He’s your best friend.”

“Yeah, he is and that’s why I have to say something" Robb replies. “Because I’ve spent months trying to stay neutral, trying to believe he had his reasons, but all I see now is you getting pulled right back in. He’s looked happier lately, but I didn’t know it was because of you .”

Sansa doesn’t speak. Her hands are shaking slightly in her lap.

Robb lets out a breath. “I just want you to be okay. Both of you. I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

She nods, once, but doesn't say anything else on the topic. Robb lets her drop it. They take the train to the airport together at her insistence and she walks with him to baggage check. Sansa just wants to spend a little more time with her big brother. They walk to the security line together and, before he heads in, Robb presses a kiss to the top of her head and pulls her into a hug.

 “I’m always here,” he says.

She watches him disappear into the crowd.

After the train ride back, she doesn’t go straight home. She walks toward the baywalk instead, letting the wind sting her face until her eyes water.

Robb’s words come back to her calm, steady, too close to the truth.

She keeps walking.

It doesn’t take long to realize he was right. Figuring out what to do with that takes longer. A few hours pass.

When she gets home, she sits on the edge of her bed and types:

From: Sansa Stark <[email protected]>
To: Jon Snow <[email protected]>
Date: Thursday, February 20, 11:15 PM
Subject: re: Checking in 

Hey, 

I know you probably won’t see this until you’re heading back to Winterfell, but I was wondering if we could speak once you’re home. I hope the rest of the trip goes well and that you are able to get everything you need. 

Let me know when you're back.

Take care,
Sansa

Chapter Text

Sansa gets a text from Jon the moment he has signal again.

Hey, I got your email. I should be home tonight by 9. You can call whenever you’re free. 

She reads it over and over again throughout the day. It’s not like the words will have different meaning, but she can’t stop opening the text thread and reading it every time she thinks of Jon.

She considers replying, even starts drafting something when she’s on the train on her way to work, then once more on the cab she shares with one of her coworkers who happens to live in the same neighborhood. 

Her phone is still in her purse by the door. 

Her apartment is freezing. She scrubs the makeup off her face until her skin is stinging and splotchy and brushes her teeth. In her room, she changes out of her concert dress and puts on the sweater her brothers gave her years ago and thick wool socks. 

It’s almost eleven. She thinks about waiting until morning, about calling him after breakfast, or maybe after class, maybe by then she will feel steadier. However, the thought of sleeping on it makes her stomach turn because if she waits, she might never do it and she’s already waited too long. 

The last few days, she’s been thinking about what Robb said, letting it hurt, letting it echo in her mind. She’s thought about Jon a lot and not just the calls and texts and little moments in between, but the shape of the thing they’ve been building, or pretending not to.

She’s realized something that makes her chest ache when she names it: she’s been lying to herself.

She’s called it a friendship. She’s told herself it’s fine, that it works, but when she compares it to the actual friendships in her life, it doesn’t hold.

Jon is not her boyfriend, but he’s not nothing. 

And the truth is, whatever this has become, this quiet in-between where neither of them has to admit anything, it's only been stretching the pain out longer.

It’s not love. It’s not gone. Having Jon in her life this way is something that keeps her tethered and lonely at the same time and she can’t do it anymore.

Sansa fishes into her bag for her phone and comes back to the room. She closes the door behind her even though she lives alone, but it’s an old habit from growing up with four nosy siblings. She sits on the edge of her bed for a long moment, staring down at the screen, thumb hovering over the call button until she finally presses it. Jon picks up on the second ring.

“Sansa, hi.”

“Hi.”

There’s silence between them. She places the phone on the bed and sets it to speaker, tangles her hands in her throw blanket. She wonders if Jon knows what she’s going to say, but that would be stupid because she doesn’t even know herself. She thinks about asking if he’s fine after the two week research trip, but doesn’t.

“Jon, what are we doing?” She finally asks him. 

“We’re…I don’t know,” he replies. “We’re trying to be friends again, I think.”

She closes her eyes. “We’re not friends.”

“Sansa—”

“No. You said you didn’t want to do long distance. That’s why you ended it, but that’s exactly what this is. It’s what we’ve been doing.”

“Sansa.”

She talks over him. “We text every day. We call. We FaceTime. You came to visit. We’re talking about vacations. And I know I'm at fault here too, I know I initiate a lot of this, but…I think about you all the time, I miss you when we don’t talk, I read your emails over and over again. That’s not friendship. It’s like we’re still in a relationship. ”

“I know,” he says, low. “I know it’s not.”

“Then why?” She asks. “Why did you end it?”

He takes a long breath. “Because I thought...I thought it was what you needed. I didn’t want to hold you back from everything you’d worked for, from the life you were building.”

She stiffens. “So instead of talking to me, you decided for me.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“You ended a three-year relationship with someone you claimed to love,” she says, “because you assumed I couldn’t make it work.”

“No, I thought you shouldn’t have to,” he snaps and it surprises her. “You were accomplishing all your dream, Sansa. You worked so hard. I didn’t want to be the reason you gave something up.”

“You wouldn’t have been,” she shoots back. “But you didn’t trust me enough to believe that.”

“I did,” he says, frustrated. “I did trust you. I just—” he falters, then says, “I didn’t trust myself not to hold you back.”

She shakes her head. “So you broke my heart to protect me.”

He goes quiet again.

“You made yourself the martyr,” she says bitterly. “Like you were being noble, but you weren’t protecting me. You were protecting yourself from being the one left.”

Jon doesn’t respond.

“I thought you didn’t love me enough to try,” she says, quieter now. “That’s what I’ve believed all this time. Do you know what that did to me?”

“Sansa—”

“I think I was half-right. You thought I didn’t love you enough, that I could never make it work because you’ve always thought you loved me more. That’s how it’s always been with you.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” she says. “You thought I’d move on and I didn’t. I tried to and it didn’t work. And now I just—I think I  thought if I was patient enough, we’d find our way back. Forgive me for being so fucking naive. I see now that you were never going to let that happen, not really. Because somewhere deep down, you didn’t believe I loved you.”

He breathes out, wounded. “Sansa—”

“No,” she says. “You didn’t think you were enough, but I did. I did love you. I still do and I don’t even know why anymore. You never gave us the chance and I think we could’ve made it work. So many people make it work, Jon. So many people do long distance, but you decided that lying to yourself and to me was easier.”

“I’m sorry.” To his credit, Jon does sound apologetic, but that means nothing to her now. He also apologized back when he broke up with her. 

She stares at the floor.

“If you really think this was the right thing,” she says, “then why are we still doing this? Why are we still in each other’s lives?”

“I love you,” he tells her. 

She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. She hadn’t even realized she was crying.

“I don’t want to keep doing this,” she says. “It’s not…we can’t.”.

“What do you want me to do?” Jon asks, desperate now. “Tell me how to fix it. Please. Let me do something.”

She closes her eyes. It hurts, but she already knows the answer.

“You can stop reaching out,” she says. “And I will, too. We can’t keep doing this. We’re not friends. We’re not anything right now. We have to…I think it’s time we accept that.”

He breathes in like he’s going to argue, but doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

She taps the button and ends the call without saying goodbye. Then she puts the phone down and pulls her blanket up to her chest. 

The lights in her room are still on and even when she closes her eyes, they’re too bright. She grabs her phone once again, opens his contact, blocks him, throws the phone across the room. 

It’s not even ten minutes later, when she’s cried so hard her head hurts and she can barely breathe, that she gets out of bed, reaches for her phone, and opens his contact again to unblock him. 

Chapter Text

When Sansa hangs up, Jon stays on his bed with his phone still warm in his hand.

The black of his lock screen replaces the picture of Sansa’s contact. He changed it while waiting for his flight back from King’s Landing, choosing one he took by the Bay where her hair is whipping across her face in the wind and she looks annoyed but as beautiful as ever.

He’s too wired for bed.

He wheels his suitcase out to the living room, unzips it on the floor. He starts pulling things out: colors in one pile, whites in another. His fingers slipping into every pocket, just in case there’s something left behind like a pen or one of the coins he got to call her on the base payphone.

When the first load is in the washer, he moves on to smaller things. He puts toiletries, his razor, his toothbrush in their places, shoves the travel case under the sink.

He’s trying not to replay the call, but it keeps breaking through anyway. We’re not friends. She’d said it like she had caught him in a lie. 

Jon moves on to folding and putting away his winter gear. They should be getting warmer weather in Winterfell in the coming weeks, so he probably won’t need the heavy stuff for months. At their old apartment, they had kept seasonal clothes in a storage unit in the basement, but it was mostly Sansa’s things. The same things he had neatly packed for her to pick up, because she couldn’t take everything the day she left while he was at work. In the end, it was her mother and Arya who came for them.

He can still see the way Catelyn looked over the neatly labeled boxes, the small smile when she saw how everything was in order, the light touch on his arm before she left. “You’ve done the kindest thing,” she’d said. “Spared her from having to think about turning down her offers and put her future at risk.”

It had sounded warm then, maybe approving. Now it just rings hollow, after hearing Sansa’s voice harden when she told him he’d never trusted her to make things work.

He wasn’t cruel or careless, but he wasn’t a Stark. He didn’t have the money, the name, the web of people who’d open doors for her. Her mother knew it. He knew it. She never said it outright, but he had heard it in the polite questions about his work and school, the “ that’s interesting ” that ended the conversation.

He pushes the rest of the winter gear to the back of the closet and stands there for a while.

Then why did you end it? Sansa had asked.

He’d told her it was because he didn’t want long distance. That was the line he’d clung to for months, but the truth is uglier. He hadn’t wanted her to have to fit him in.

He’d pictured her days, the places she’d go, the people she’d meet. Hated the idea of her working around him.

At the time, it had felt like mercy. Now it just makes him look like a selfish coward who lied rather than admit he didn’t think he was worth the effort.

You made yourself the martyr. Like you were being noble, but you weren’t protecting me. You were protecting yourself from being the one left.

She was right. 

When the washer beeps, he moves the clothes to the dryer and starts a new load, the motions mechanical.

You didn’t think you were enough, but I did. I did love you. He’d wanted to tell her she was wrong. That he’d thought he was enough sometimes. But she would’ve known it was a lie. I still do. I don’t even know why anymore. That part burns because he loves her just as much, and now it doesn’t matter.

The suitcase is empty by the time the washer buzzes, but there is still a pile of dark clothes on the floor. He’ll handle drying and washing the rest tomorrow. He’s not sure how long it’s been since the call. He folds the warm clothes into stacks, setting each one down with more care than they need.

He puts the laundry away, then grabs an notepad and a pen, writes a grocery list slowly: eggs, bread, coffee, spinach, detergent. The pen digs into the paper. He stares at the list like it might tell him what to do next. It doesn’t.

Sansa had thrown the truth at him, and now he has no idea how to start moving forward. Tomorrow, he tells himself. He’ll figure it out tomorrow. But tomorrow feels like something meant for other people.

He goes back to the bedroom and picks up his phone. He needs to speak to someone, but he can’t think of anyone who’d even understand what he’s done, scrolls through contacts until he finds Robb’s name. His thumb hovers over it, taps once, just enough for the call screen to pop up. He stares at it for a long moment, waiting for…something. He sees the time at the top of the screen, nearly two in the morning. He hangs up. It’s unbearable to think about telling someone, especially Sansa’s brother, about what happened. But maybe he just wants someone to confirm the things he already knows. He powers the phone off entirely.

He showers, brushes his teeth, and sets his alarm clock for six. When he lies down, the bed feels too big in every direction.

Chapter Text

The morning of the anniversary of their breakup, Sansa is too busy fighting with her landlord to think about it.

The apartment above hers has been allegedly vacant for months, but that doesn’t explain how she woke up to a leak in her kitchen coming from said apartment.

The landlord takes forever to answer her call, and when he finally does, it’s another three minutes before he even acknowledges that she’s, in fact, one of his tenants. She has nothing to do today—it’s a Monday, so no performance, and school has already ended. It’s her first official full summer in King’s Landing and the potential for things to do is endless. Her plan for the day was to catch up on all the shows she hasn’t been able to watch while the semester was ongoing.

After an hour of arguing back and forth over text and calls, the landlord finally agrees to check the apartment above hers, which results in a half-assed apology not even an hour later because someone, somehow, left the kitchen faucet running. He promises to fix it tomorrow but assures her the water has stopped.

Sansa is typing a quick thank you to the landlord when she notices the date. It sneaks in on her. She used to be hyperaware of any detail related to him. Now it just…happens. She’s not sure if she likes the feeling.

She thinks about calling him—about addressing every point from their last conversation or even just to hear his voice and hang up. Jon is giving her the space she asked for four months ago. They haven’t spoken, but she manages to keep tabs on how he’s doing, at least to the extent that Robb lets her. He is usually the one to give her updates, good at dropping hints without going into detail, just enough to satisfy her curiosity. She wonders if there will be a day when she doesn’t want to know how Jon is doing. She’s not sure if she hopes for it or dreads it.

She makes a cup of tea before heading back to her room. She hadn’t bothered making the bed this morning, knowing she’d spend most of the day napping and watching something on her laptop.

A part of her can’t believe it’s been twelve months of this. Another part wishes they’d broken up ages ago—maybe then the ache in her chest would be nothing but a dull sting. She can’t bring herself to wish they’d never been together.

For lack of things to do and people to talk to, she calls Robb.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hey, Sans.”

“Hey. Are you busy?” Her voice comes out lighter than she feels.

“Not really, just going over some emails. What’s up?”

She hesitates, then says it plain. “It’s been a year.”

“A year of what?” He asks, confused.

“Since Jon and I broke up,” Sansa clarifies.

“Oh.”

“Feels weird,” she admits.

“I bet,” he says, and she can picture him leaning back in his chair in his office. “But you’ve done a lot this year. We’re all so proud of you, Sans.”

It’s meant to be encouraging, but it still lodges like a stone in her chest.

“What about him?” She asks before she can stop herself.

Robb hesitates. “He’s doing okay, I think. Busy. Heading to Skagos for the summer—last-minute research trip because someone dropped out. Sounds like it’ll be even more remote than the Land of Always Winter. I think he’ll be gone for the rest of the summer. I’ll be watering his plants.”

“He’ll be pissed at you if you kill any of them,” she tries to joke. 

“He’s excited about the trip,” Robb adds quickly. “Said it’ll be good for his dissertation. He’s… more grounded lately, you know?”

Sansa does not know. That’s the whole point. “Yeah.” Her grip on the mug tightens.

She knows they’ve spoken about her sometimes. Back in February, after she and Jon stopped talking completely, there was a rift between him and Robb. Robb never gave specifics, just that he’d told Jon some harsh truths, and Jon hadn’t even argued. But then Jon stopped answering his calls for a while. She still doesn’t know how they fixed it and is not sure if she wants to know.

“Are you going to call him?” She can hear the reluctance in Robb’s voice. 

“No,” she says. “It wasn’t about him. I just…needed to hear a familiar voice today.”

Robb doesn’t press. “You keeping busy?”

“Trying, but now that the semester is over I have a lot of free time,” she says, setting her still-full mug on the nightstand. “I still have rehearsals and work, I joined a book club, I'm trying to make more friends. Sometimes I still miss the North.”

“Then come home for a bit,” Robb suggests. “Even just a long weekend. We’ll find something to do. I’ll introduce you to Jeyne.”

“Who’s Jeyne?” She prods, though she has a good idea.

“If you visit, you’ll know,” Robb teases.

She smiles faintly. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

They talk a little longer, about Rickon’s soccer games, Bran’s and Arya’s classes, what their parents are busy with these days. She feels steadier after they hang up, though also missing home more than she realized.

She picks up her tea, now lukewarm, and takes a sip.

A year. And still, some days feel like the wound is fresh.

Chapter Text

By the time the plane touches down right around noon, Jon is already missing the salt air, the damp weather, and the smell of the sea.

The summer in Skagos has left him with a tan somehow. Despite the temperatures constantly dropping and the summer snows, he spent most of his time outdoors.

He turns his phone back on and texts Robb to say he’s landed before the barrage of notifications comes through or before it dies, since he only charged it for ten minutes before boarding. He’d had to ask a stranger to borrow her phone to call Robb about missing his earlier flight, realizing too late that his phone was dead. He was supposed to be on an earlier flight, but his ferry to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea was delayed which meant he missed it and, by some miracle, got on the next one. 

The only service or internet they had at the research site was a satellite phone for emergencies and a hotspot they all had to take turns using throughout the day to upload notes and pictures. Skagos had been as remote as promised. They had weeks on end with nothing but the sound of wind off the cliffs and the rhythmic crash of the tide against black stone. No signal. No email. No late-night temptations to type her name into his phone and break whatever fragile boundary they’d agreed on.

It had been sort of freeing.

It’s strange coming home after so many months with barely any contact. He’s lighter now or at least that’s what he tells himself. Maybe it’s that he’s been too busy to think about Sansa and the wreckage of their relationship, but he likes to think he’s made an effort to move forward.

Robb is, in part, to thank for that. Jon still remembers every beat of that argument back in February, the way Robb had looked at him like he didn’t even recognize him anymore. Robb had told him he’d spoken to Sansa, that she was hurt, that she’d told him the real reasons Jon had broken up with her. Jon hadn’t argued, had just sat there, letting Robb’s words hit because every one of them was something he’d already said to himself.

It still stung to hear it from someone else, especially Robb. And you didn’t even walk away clean, he’d said. You didn’t want to be with her but still kept her around, still talked to her all the time like nothing changed. That’s fucked up, Jon.

And when Robb had finally said, maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not good enough for her, Jon had still stayed silent. It was just more confirmation  for what Jon already knew. You broke my little sister’s heart, Robb had said, and Jon had had no defense for it.

Robb had tried to apologize later, tried to see his side, but Jon had avoided him for weeks. He was simply too embarrassed to face him, too wrapped up in the truth under the anger.

Until one afternoon a couple of weeks later in early spring, Jon had looked up from a pile of field notes to see Robb leaning against the doorway of the lab. He didn’t look mad anymore, just…done with it.

“Stop being such a fucking idiot, Snow,” Robb said.

Jon arched a brow. “Nice to see you too.”

Robb stepped inside, glancing around at the cluttered tables. “You’ve been walking around acting like you’re some hopeless case, like Sansa’s this unreachable thing and you were lucky she even looked at you.”

“That’s not what I—”

“It’s exactly what you’ve been doing,” Robb cut in. “I shouldn’t have said you weren’t good enough for her. That was me being pissed off. And I’m sorry, but Jon, you have to stop thinking this way. You need to get over this.”

Jon didn’t answer, so Robb kept going. “You’ve got to stop measuring yourself against some imaginary version of her life without you. She loved you. Not in spite of you, not because she didn’t have better options. She loved you because you’re you .”

Jon let out a slow breath. “Doesn’t change the fact I hurt her.”

“No,” Robb said. “But you don’t make it right by hanging onto it forever. And you don’t get to keep her halfway, like before. Either you’re in it or you’re not. And if you’re in it, you’ve got to see what’s already there. You’re good at your work, you’re good to the people you care about. That’s enough for anyone. For her.”

Jon hadn’t had anything to say to that. But for the first time in months, he hadn’t felt like arguing.

It had taken some time for their friendship to get back to normal, but it had also changed Jon’s view of his relationship with Sansa or, at least, it had started to.

By the time he gets out of the plane and goes to get his suitcase, Jon is ready to crash for ten hours.

Robb is leaning against a pillar near the security exit now, a coffee in one hand, his free hand stuffed in his jacket pocket. He grins when he spots Jon. “Hey, man.”

Jon smiles back. It feels easier than it used to. “Hey.”

They hug briefly, then head toward the parking garage. The air smells faintly of rain, but the bite of late August air signals the arrival of fall in the North.

“How was Skagos? Any cannibals?” Robb asks once they’re in the car.

“No cannibals. It was cold,” Jon says, settling into the seat. “And windy, but also beautiful and productive. I think I’ve got enough material for the next chapter of my dissertation.”

“That’s great, man.”

“Yeah. Finally got the coastal erosion models to line up with the old plant surveys—pearlwort, sea thrift, all that. Took me two months and about a hundred moments where I nearly threw my laptop off a cliff. The idea’s to see how the shoreline’s shifted and what plants have managed to hang on.” He huffs a small laugh. “It was good for me, though. Being out there, with nothing to distract me, I had to actually sit with myself. Think about… you know…all of it.”

Robb glances over, curious but not prying. “That’s good.”

“How are my plants?” Jon asks teasingly. He was going to ask Sam when Robb offered to water his plants and pick up his mail for him.

“They’re alive and that’s what matters,” Robb replies with a laugh. 

They talk about research logistics, missed flights, and the small disasters of fieldwork—like a storm that nearly took out one of the coastal sensors, or when Jon twisted his ankle running from a massive bee and couldn’t walk for three days, or the week they had to ration coffee after a shipment went missing. Jon describes the quiet mornings on the cliffs, how strangely freeing it felt to measure his days only by the tides, how much more there is to see out there.

“It was the first time in a long time I felt…normal?” Jon admits. “Like I wasn’t chasing anything or trying to prove something. I was just…there. I was just doing the work and it was enough.”

He doesn’t say and I was enough, but Robb must sense it.

He focuses his conversation with Robb on other things like his job, or his other siblings, or Jeyne, the nurse Robb has been seeing for a few months now, who makes him blush every time he talks about her.  

Maybe months ago, his first instinct would’ve been to check in on Sansa, to ask Robb for scraps of knowledge about her life. But now he can’t or maybe he just won’t. She asked for space and that’s what he’ll give her. It still feels strange, but it doesn’t feel like the end anymore.

Chapter Text

Sansa hears the kettle clicking off, so she sets her bow down and leans her cello against the stand. She stretches, twisting her back to relieve the knots that have formed with the stress of her daily life. 

She joins her parents in the kitchen.

“Are you done rehearsing for the day?” Her mother asks, sliding a mug toward her.

“Maybe,” Sansa says. “There are just too many new changes for the fall program, but it’s coming together.”

“And school?” Her father asks as he joins them at the table.

“It’s good,” she replies, setting her cup down. “I have a meeting soon to discuss my thesis topic. I think it will be fine.”

“That’s great to hear, sweetheart,” her mother says, giving Sansa’s hand a gentle squeeze. 

She’s on her first visit since the new semester started. It’s nice being home.

Sansa has been busy. It has been a summer of inventing new shapes for her days. Tour in late June and all of July—buses and hotel coffee and the same joke from a different stage manager every night. In early August she hid in the Riverlands for a week, letting her uncles spoil her and then letting the slowness of the river flatten the noise in her head. The rest of the month meant the North: early mornings here, walks with her father, long naps on the couch with a book face-down across her chest. She’s visited a lot this year, more than she meant to. It turns out missing people is an excellent travel agent. She still peppered in a couple of visits while she was on tour. While most of her coworkers would go back to King’s Landing, she decided to spend those breaks with her family.

Some of it was for good reasons like holidays and birthdays, but some of it was just because she wanted to. She tells herself it’s normal to miss the North this much, that it’s not a sign of anything bigger.

It’s been a strange fall so far. Her closest friend in the city, Mya, moved back to the Vale after seven years in King’s Landing. They still text, but it’s not the same. Last year she could walk a few blocks to Mya’s apartment or meet her at a café before rehearsal. Now there’s no one to call on impulse, no late-night walks just because they felt like it. The city feels bigger. Emptier.

This trip is her last chance to come home for a while before performances start again, so she’s making the most of it. Her parents don’t even ask why anymore when she calls for an airport pickup. Sometimes she tells herself that wanting to come back this often is normal, that it’s only because she grew up here. Other times, she’s less certain. There’s comfort in the familiar, but it has an edge now, as if the North remembers her differently than she remembers it.

Her phone buzzes. lunch Friday? from Jeyne.

Sure , Sansa writes back. Where?

Anywhere with food. I’m off all day. I’ll pick you up from your parents’ at noon?

Sounds perfect, Sansa replies.

Her mother glances over. “Who’s that?”

“Jeyne,” Sansa says.

Her mother smiles knowingly. “Those two are moving fast. Feels like just yesterday Robb brought her home to meet us.”

Sansa hides a small smile in her cup. “Yeah.”

Most of her friends from before she left Winterfell are scattered now, so she doesn't make a lot of plans with people her age, but she sees Robb and Jeyne and some of her friends from before, including some of the people she met through Jon. It adds to the comfort of visiting the North. 

She recently saw Sam and Gilly and their kid. They met for lunch and it had been nice until she realized that they were skirting around the topic of Jon. She noticed it in the way they referred to everyone by name in their stories except for when they would mention a “friend,” which Sansa realized was a placeholder for Jon’s name. She had appreciated the kindness, even if it had made it worse, but she had not said a thing.

A few days ago, the email alert pinged with a notification for a new publication under Jon Snow. She opened it before she could talk herself out of it. A paper with Dr. Mormont and another PhD student. She read the abstract twice, the familiar itch starting in her fingers to call him, to sit down together and go through every line. Back when they lived together, she’d just walk into the living room with her laptop and he’d take it from her, reading aloud and pointing to the parts he liked best. She had closed the tab before she could think too long about hitting “reply” and adding his email to ask for a glossary.

Though she’s in her second year of grad school in the city, surrounded by music and people, there’s a different kind of solitude there. Here, at least, she knows every creak of the floorboards, every shade of the sky before it rains.

And yet, even with the air sharp and familiar, with her parents’ voices carrying from the next room, she feels that small, steady drift. She is still looking for the version of home she remembers and not quite finding it. She thinks she is happier now, or closer than before. School gives her something to reach for, the Philharmonic keeps her busy, and the quiet she comes home to is not as heavy. But there is still space between her and whatever happiness is meant to be. It is close enough to see, too far to hold.

Chapter Text

Jon’s birthday lands on a Thursday that feels like any other day. He wakes up before his alarm thanks to his neighbor’s dog, sits on the edge of the bed for a minute, and decides he will not do the thing where he pretends it doesn’t matter.

He makes eggs and toast with jam, sits down to eat instead of scarfing down his breakfast by the sink. He leaves ten minutes early so he can buy coffee at the nice shop by the lab instead of drinking whatever’s in the break room. He tells himself this is what starting again looks like. It feels a little silly, a little embarrassing to have to remind himself, but no one else needs to know how hard it gets sometimes. Still, he’s better or at least not as bad as before.

By noon, he’s replied to the simple birthday messages. The repetition of “thank you so much” and “thanks!” makes him feel a little bad, but he’s grateful. Sam sends a voice note of his kid attempting to sing happy birthday. The guys at the lab order lunch for him. His advisor forwards a grant draft with three lines of feedback and a rare smiley face. The small kindnesses stack up until his shoulders drop an inch.

He’s not expecting a text from Sansa, of course not, but he still wonders if she will reach out. He remembers last year on her birthday when he called her. He also remembers the voice of her ex-boyfriend ( other ex-boyfriend) in the background. Arya called him on her way to class, Bran sent him the exact birthday meme he sends every year, Robb texted him first thing. Still, he wonders. 

The buzz on his desk around two makes his mouth go dry when he sees the last name Stark, but it turns out to be Rickon. 

happy birthday old man, congrats on being 57 

Jon replies quickly with an eye roll emoji and then a THANK YOU . After, he decides it’s time to do as much work as he can so he tucks the phone into his backpack.

For the next hour, he edits the same paragraph until it sounds like it came from a fourth-year PhD candidate and not a freshman on drugs.

Around five, when he’s finally packing his things to head out, he tells himself to stop waiting for her text. 

Walking to his car, it hits him, he had wanted her message to decide his mood. To tip the day into one category or another. He doesn’t want that anymore. He wants the center of his day to be the work, the drive home, the dinner he’ll eat, the friends he’ll see. It feels strange to think it without guilt. It also feels true.

He meets Robb and Jeyne at a pub near his apartment, stopping home first to drop off his car and change into a casual shirt. They’re early, as usual. Jeyne hugs him and kisses his cheek; Robb pretends he’ll do the same but settles for a lingering hug.

“Happy birthday, brother.”

“Thanks,” Jon says as they walk in.

Jeyne’s in a yellow dress with a big chunky sweater, so probably not working today. Jon is used to seeing her in scrubs. They’re seated quickly in a booth near the window.

Robb scans the specials board. “I get the burger, you get the ribs, we split?”

Jon nods. “Deal.”

Jeyne laughs. “Wow, it’s like I’m not even here.”

Robb plants a kiss on her cheek. The conversation drifts easily with Jeyne telling stories about the ER, rolling her eyes when something’s especially absurd.

By the time their food arrives, Jon’s relaxed. He’s halfway through his shared plate with Robb when the servers show up clapping, breaking into Happy Birthday . Robb and Jeyne join in, loud and off-key, and Jon can feel his ears burn. The sundae they set down is drowning in whipped cream and sprinkles.

“You’re the worst,” he says as Robb takes a picture.

“Memories,” Jeyne grins.

When the check is paid, Robb stands. “I’ll get the car. I’m not making Jeyne walk halfway across the city in heels.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t offer to carry you,” Jon says when he leaves.

“I know,” she sighs. “How’s your birthday been?”

“Surprisingly good. Had a nice morning, got work done, spent most of the day with friends. Can’t complain.”

He hesitates, then says, “Heard from most of the Starks.”

Jeyne raises an eyebrow. “No Sansa?”

Jon shakes his head. Jeyne already knows all about his history with Sansa, partly from Robb telling her and partly from Jon himself. She’s been a good friend, and it’s been nice to have an outside perspective on their relationship. He also knows she’s close friends with Sansa, but, like Robb, she’s great at not bringing it up.

“Were you expecting one?” 

“Maybe? I would be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting something .”   

“Robb told me you three used to celebrate together in college,” Jeyne tells him as they walk outside. 

“We did. Usually ended with the birthday person getting carried home by the other two,” he says with a laugh.

“You seem different,” she says. “Like since I met you. In a good way.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “I’m working on it.”

“Good. You’re allowed to be different.”

Robb offers to drive him home, but Jon declines, choosing to walk instead. He doesn’t reach for his phone when they drive away, no matter how much he might want to. With his hands in his pockets, he cuts through the neighborhood under a sky slipping toward night, choosing the long route home.

He thinks about summer and how quickly the weather is turning cold and with it the date he’s been half-avoiding—the anniversary of his mother’s death. She would have loved Skagos. They could never afford trips like that when he was a kid, yet he’d had the best childhood. She’s the one that taught him to love nature and the outdoors. 

At home, he unloads the dishwasher, sets his laptop to charge, and steps into the shower. Later, with a beer, he puts on a movie he won’t finish, tapping out replies to the last of the birthday messages. The shape of his day didn’t depend on hearing from her. That feels like a quiet kind of win.

Chapter Text

She knows what day it is before she even reaches for her phone.

Still, she opens the text thread with Jon, skimming the last messages from before his research trip in February, then scrolling farther back to before they broke up even if it takes her a while.

Last year, sometime between the breakup and when they started speaking again, she’d gotten a new phone. While setting it up, she’d thought for a moment she’d lost all their texts. The panic had been sharp and immediate. That sort of panic is gone now, but on days like this she still finds herself looking. 

She’d said nothing to him last year, too tangled in grief and anger and the sour aftertaste of resentment to reach out, but she’d still asked Robb how Jon was doing.

This year feels different. The anger still flares now and then, but the resentment is gone. Maybe it’s the more than seven months of silence. Maybe distance really does work and this is who they are now. 

And because this year is different and because some things are bigger than heartbreak, she closes the text messages and opens the browser to look up the website for the flower shop her parents always order from. She scrolls until she finds the blue winter roses his mother loved.

She never met Lyanna Snow in life, only in death. 

Sansa remembers the funeral in sharp detail—blue roses everywhere, Jon’s face so stricken it made her want to fix something unfixable. He’d worn a dark suit she never saw again. Years later, when they were friends, she’d asked about it while she helped him shop for some gala he had to attend for his scholarship. Did he own any suits? Only one, he’d said, which his mom had bought for his high school prom and he had worn again for her funeral. He’d thrown it out after.

On the first anniversary of Lyanna’s death, Robb dragged him to the Starks’ for the weekend. They were both sophomores and Sansa was a high school senior. The entire weekend, all she wanted to do was make Jon smile a bit. She’d stuck around them, probably annoying them, but told them to get used to it, because she’d be on campus the next year. 

And she was. For the next two years, she and Robb spent the anniversary with him, skipping class or work without a thought.

During his senior year, the three of them got high and went to a midday horror movie she can’t remember the name of, only that it turned her stomach. At some point she looked over, saw tears tracking down his cheeks. She’d taken his hand, rested her head on his shoulder. They’d stayed like that for the rest of the movie, even with Robb on his other side.

That night, after Robb passed out on the couch, Jon had told her, It hurts a little less. I know it’ll never not fucking suck, but it hurts a bit less, and I know part of it is you guys.

We didn’t do anything, she’d said, still too warm and hazy from the high.

Yeah, you did, he’d replied, kissing her cheek before telling her she could sleep in Robb’s room and that he was going to bed. She’d wanted to follow him to his room, but knew he needed to be alone.

When they started dating, the tradition stayed the same, but it felt warmer now, threaded with comfort. 

She places the order, checking his new address three times before hitting send. She’s sure he’ll be home, but she doesn't know his new address from memory. She hesitates over the note, then settles on something simple before she can start overthinking:

Thinking of you today. —Sansa S. 

She stays in bed afterward, letting the quiet stretch. She has the day off, but plans to go to the library to do some work and then to the gym on campus. She wonders if he’ll think it’s awful that she didn’t say anything on his birthday but is sending him flowers on the anniversary of his mother’s death. She thought about it, even drafted several options of what she could say. In the end, she didn’t let herself open that door. For now, she drifts back to sleep.

By afternoon, the delivery confirmation comes through. There’s a photo, but she can’t tell if it’s his door. She doesn’t know what his door looks like anymore. He lives somewhere new now, a place where the only traces of her are what he’s chosen to keep.

By night, there’s still no word. She cooks dinner, calls her parents, finishes a paper, starts a new book. 

Her phone buzzes as she’s brushing her teeth.

Jon S.: Thank you so much, that was really thoughtful of you.

The text is paired with a picture of the flowers and part of Lyanna’s tombstone. She knows it instantly. She answers without giving herself time to think:

Sansa: You’re welcome. I hope you spent time with her today.

No reply, just a heart on her message.

She gets into bed, wondering if grief ever truly fades, or if it just learns to live with you.

Chapter Text

He meets Ygritte at a lecture on environmental conservation. He’s only there because one of the speakers is presenting research focused on the resilience of northern vegetation under shifting climate patterns, which overlaps with his own studies.

Her hair catches his attention, but what gets him is when she asks a pointed question about glacial erosion that makes the speaker stumble and then turns to smirk when Jon catches her eye. Later, she asks him for his number at the reception. 

They text for a few days. He learns that she’s doing her postdoc in Environmental Conservation at Winterfell, but is from far north. She’s a couple of years older than him, sharp, and a little abrasive. 

Leaving his apartment for the first date takes twenty minutes of pacing, telling himself he can do it, that it might even be fun, and about six messages from Sam and Robb insisting he needs to “get out of the cave” (Sam’s words) and that he’ll have a good time (Robb’s). They aren’t wrong.

At the coffee shop, her red hair catches the light when she leans back in her chair. It’s not like Sansa’s or even her siblings’, it’s more flame than silk, but still it reminds him of her and it makes something in his chest ache. He feels bad immediately, like he’s betraying both of them just by noticing. He pushes the thought away.

They stay until closing, the barista stacking chairs around them. She argues with him about whether Winterfell counts as “the South” (it does, she insists, compared to where she grew up) and laughs when he tries to defend it. 

Neither of them suggests going separate ways when they step outside. She just points toward her apartment and he follows. It’s a little stuffy, a twenty- or thirty-minute walk from campus. They end up shoulder to shoulder on her bed, which she insists is basically her couch, talking until talking blurs into something else. He leaves the next morning with his hair a mess and running late for a meeting with his advisor. 

They keep seeing each other after that. A few weeks of hikes that leave him sore, beers at loud bars where she seems to know half the people inside, nights that end with him staying over more often than not. She never comes to his place, even when he suggests it because it’s closer to wherever they are.

Jon likes that she’s older, finishing her postdoc, sure of what she wants. It’s easy to admire, even if it also makes him feel like he’s just trying to keep up.

There's a dinner with Robb and Jeyne one night. It happens almost by accident because Jon was supposed to see Ygritte and had also promised to meet Robb and Jeyne, so he just merges the plans instead of canceling.

At first it seems fine. They agree to meet up at a small pizza place near Jon’s apartment. Ygritte tells stories about her postdoc fieldwork, quick and cutting, dropping in the word “idiot” for colleagues and professors alike. Jeyne laughs politely, asks her questions, but Robb just keeps his smile fixed, his eyes shifting between Jon and Ygritte.

They say their goodbyes outside the restaurant. Ygritte asks him if he wants to go over and he says no, explaining that he needs to do some work when he gets home. 

Jeyne heads to her car and Ygritte says she will walk home. 

When Robb offers him a ride home afterward, Jon finally asks.

Jon clears his throat. “So. What’d you think?”

Robb keeps his eyes on the road. “She’s…strong-willed.”

Jon huffs a small laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“She’s not boring, I’ll give her that,” Robb adds, tone light but edged.

Jon watches the streetlights flick past the windshield. “You don’t like her.” 

Robb glances at him briefly. “You looked happy tonight. That’s what matters.”

Jon nods, but later, lying in bed, he keeps wondering if Robb meant it or if it was just what he thought Jon wanted to hear. 

After about a month, the shine is gone. One night over takeout, the conversation drifts to what they’re doing, what they want. Jon says he can’t see himself anywhere but Winterfell long-term. His friends, his work, the life he’s built is all here. Ygritte shrugs and says, “This is temporary for me. Once the postdoc’s done, I’m heading back north. Don’t see why I’d waste my time anywhere else.”

It lands heavier than he expects, almost like a repeat of the long-distance talk with Sansa, different words but the same hollow finality. Except this time he isn’t the one ending it.

Her bluntness had been a novelty at first, something he thought he admired. Now it cuts. When he tells her Winterfell is his home, she snorts and says, “You don’t even have family here, Jon. What are you clinging to?”

She’s smirking as she says it, but it feels too sharp to brush off. He laughs anyway, quiet, but later the words stick.

By the next week, he knows. They want different things, live at different speeds. Her honesty doesn’t feel refreshing anymore. It feels careless. Everything between them feels temporary, like a fire burning too fast to last.

When he finally tells her maybe it isn’t working, she doesn’t look surprised. Just smirks, kisses his cheek, and says, “Knew you were soft.”

He walks home under the streetlights, lighter than he thought he’d be. Not crushed. Not even sad. Just a little guilty, the way you feel when you waste someone’s time, even if it isn’t much.

Later, stretched out in his own bed, he thinks about how different it was after Sansa. The raw ache, the way her absence filled every corner of his life. With Ygritte, there’s no echo. No hole. Just quiet.

And he knows it isn’t because he’s comparing. Ygritte simply wasn’t right for him like he wasn’t right for her. She’s already planning to leave, already pointed in a direction he won’t follow.

He doesn’t feel relief, exactly. More like confirmation that love is not supposed to feel like forcing yourself to keep up with someone else’s pace, or waiting for the inevitable end.

When Sam asks how it’s going, Jon only says, “We weren’t a match.”

Sam nods, kind. “That’s alright.”

And it is. For the first time in a long time, it really is.

Chapter Text

After the third passive-aggressive comment from Jeyne’s mother about Robb and Jeyne’s decision to host the elopement party in the Starks’ backyard, Sansa decides to play nice and introduces her to Aunt Lysa so she’ll have someone equally miserable to talk to.

Her mother catches her eye from across the lawn, giving her a grateful smile before heading back inside to check on the caterers.

It has only been two weeks since Robb’s call.

“Hey, are you busy?” He’d asked, not waiting for her answer before continuing. “Okay, I have Jeyne here, and we have something to tell you.”

Sansa had stopped walking in the middle of the sidewalk.

“We got married!” Robb blurted.

She squealed so loud two older women passing by jumped. “Sorry! Sorry,” she called after them, then pressed the phone back to her ear. “You got married?”

“We did!” Jeyne’s voice chimed in, giddy.

“When did this happen?” Sansa asked, hurrying toward the station. If she missed her train, she’d be late.

“Like twenty minutes ago,” Robb admitted.

“In the middle of the workday?”

“Yes!” Jeyne laughed. “Your brother told his boss he had a doctor’s appointment, so we went to the courthouse instead.”

“Wow. You’re married.” Sansa’s throat tightened. “Do Mom and Dad know?”

“Yes,” Robb said. “We told them first. Well, technically we told Jon first because he was with us. You were next on our list, then my parents, then your siblings—”

“Wait, what about Jon?” She asked before she could stop herself.

“He was with us,” Robb said. “He was our witness. We actually just dropped him back at the lab.”

“Did he take pictures? He’s terrible at taking pictures, but I need to see you.”

“He did,” Robb laughed. “Promised he’d send them once he was done with his meeting. He was already late.”

“Okay, well send them to me, please.” Her eyes stung. “My big brother is married.”

“I know,” Jeyne teased. 

Later, once the excitement had dulled, Sansa had called Jeyne privately, asking the question everyone else must have been thinking.

“I’m not pregnant,” Jeyne began, laughing softly. “But we thought I was and I took the test. It was negative. And then we realized…we would’ve been happy if I was. We probably would’ve married right away. So why wait? We love each other. We know we want to be together.”

Something had shifted in her heart after that call. 

Her mother had insisted on at least throwing a party, which was why everyone has gathered this afternoon.

Of course Jon is coming. She knows he will, but she isn’t expecting to run into him the moment she steps back inside. He is in the kitchen, pouring ice from a bag into a cooler while her father holds the lid.

Jon’s hair is carefully done, she would bet that he spent even more time than usual on it. He’s wearing dark slacks paired with a hunter-green sweater over a white button-down. The shade isn’t far from her own emerald dress. He looks good, great even

“Hi,” Sansa greets him, because she can’t think of anything else.

Jon startles, dropping a handful of ice cubes that Shaggydog immediately scrambles to eat. “Hi,” he echoes, smiling. A real smile, the kind she hasn’t seen from him since before the breakup. It makes her chest ache.

“Do you guys need some help?” She asks quickly.

“No,” her father says, closing the lid. “We’re done here. I need to find your mother.”

“I thought she was in here,” Sansa murmurs, glancing around.

“No,” Jon says lightly. “I think she was hiding from Jeyne’s dad.”

“Then I’ll hide too,” her father chuckles, clapping Jon on the shoulder. “Nice seeing you, son.” He leaves them alone.

She panics for a moment, unsure what to say. Thankfully, she’s saved by Rickon barging in and throwing his arms around Jon before she has to try to fill the silence. A moment later Jeyne’s voice floats down from upstairs, calling Sansa to help with her dress.

The party itself goes smoothly. Robb is wearing a dark blue suit without a tie and Jeyne beams in an off-the-shoulder white dress with a puffed skirt. They can’t stop smiling at each other. Jon and Sansa find themselves taking on the unofficial roles of the wedding party, with the help of Jeyne’s sisters.

“Oh, you two are matching,” Aunt Lysa says brightly, then catches herself. “Oh, no, that’s right, you broke up, didn’t you? Catelyn has so many children, I can hardly keep up.” She wanders off without waiting for a response.

“She’s always been a cheery one,” Jon deadpans, making Sansa laugh.

It happens again. This time from Arya. “Did you plan this?” She asks, smirking.

Jon balls up a napkin and tosses it at her before Sansa can answer.

The worst is later, while putting away leftovers.

“We’re not even really matching,” Sansa insists to her father, who pointed out they look coordinated. “His sweater’s hunter green, and my dress is—”

“Emerald,” Jon finishes.

“Exactly! Thank you, Jon.”

“You’re welcome. I know how seriously you take your colors.”

They both laugh, not noticing the looks exchanged by the rest of the family.

“Okay, who wants to drive me to Hot Pie’s?” Arya pipes up, far too chipper.

“Arya? At this hour?” Their mother asks, checking her watch.

Sansa glances at her own. It isn’t late, barely nine-thirty.

“Yes,” Arya grins. “I’m never home.”

“I’ll drop you off,” Jon offers.

“Perfect.” Arya high-fives him and dashes upstairs for her bag.

“We’re going to bed,” their father announces, kissing Sansa’s head.

“Thank you both for all your help today,” her mother adds, giving Jon a small smile, which he returns.

And then they are gone, leaving her alone with him.

Sansa thinks about pulling out her phone, but that would be too obvious and rude.

“How was your flight?” Jon asks, leaning against the counter, fidgeting with his sleeve.

“It was fine, thank you.”

He nods.

“How’s your dissertation going?”

“Pretty well,” he sighs. “Making progress every day.”

“That’s great,” she says quickly.

“And your thesis?”

“Huh?”

“You’re graduating in Spring, right?” Jon asks. “So I’m guessing you’re working on your thesis.”

“Oh. Right. Yes, it’s going well. And how are you?”

He looks surprised, then smiles faintly. “I’m alright. You know. Just staying busy.”

She doesn’t ask about the girlfriend, the girl Robb and Jeyne won’t talk about, though they told Arya and Arya spilled enough for Sansa to find out, including that they broke up. Sansa would be lying if she said she hadn’t spent an entire evening digging through the girl’s digital footprint.

“Good,” she says softly. “I’m glad.”

“You?”

“You know. Just staying busy,” she echoes and he laughs.

Arya returns then. She changed into jeans and a hoodie, a bag slung over her shoulder. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Cool.” Jon straightens, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Nice seeing you, Sansa.”

“Yeah. You too,” she says.

He doesn’t turn back as he leaves, but she follows him with her eyes. Seeing him isn’t so bad, but it leaves her with the itch to see him again.

Chapter Text

Time doesn’t exist at the airport when your flight is delayed in the middle of the holidays. Or at least, that’s what Jon tells himself as he orders a beer at Twins International Airport at eleven thirty in the morning.

He can practically hear Sam’s voice in his head, scolding him for not paying the extra fifty dragons for a direct flight. One of the friends they made on that research trip to the Lands of Always Winter is getting married, and everyone has been invited.

Jon had been stubborn. He’d convinced himself that the eight in the morning flight from Winterfell to the Twins, followed by the noon connection to Oldtown, would be plenty of time to get him to his hotel, rest, change, and still make the welcome reception. Now he’s stuck in what has to be the most miserable airport in all the seven kingdoms. 

At least he’s not alone. Nearly every flight is delayed or canceled because of “weather,” which Jon thinks is a laughable excuse because it isn’t even snowing that badly. So for now he settles at a table he’s somehow managed to secure, opens his book, and takes a long drink of his beer.

He’s only a few pages into it when he hears her voice. She’s at the counter, asking the bartender if there are any open seats.

Jon looks up.

Her hair is pulled into a messy braid and she’s wearing a big yellow sweater slouching over jeans. For a second he thinks he must be imagining her. Then she turns and their eyes meet.

“Sansa,” he says, waiving at her like an idiot, like she can’t see him sitting there. 

Her face lights up at the sound of his voice. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. 

Sansa weaves through the tables dragging her carry on and making her way toward him. 

He stands up to greet her and he can sense the awkward hesitation between them. Sansa gives in first, leaning forward for a quick half hug. Her bag knocks against his chair. The wool of her sweater feels soft under his hands.

It’s a very short hug, but Jon is sure he will continue to feel it for the rest of the day.  

“Hi,” Sansa says, adjusting the strap of her purse. 

“Hi,” Jon echoes. He clears his throat. He’s still not sure she’s real. “What…what are you doing here?”

“Last-minute flight home for the holidays. I was missing my family and I thought, why not? Just booked it last night, so I didn’t get anything direct.” 

He nods slowly. “I’m heading to Oldtown. One of my friends from the research trip is getting married.”

“That’s nice,” she says softly. 

“Yeah. Should be nice.”

They remain standing and after a few seconds it feels even more awkward. Sansa fiddles with her bag and looks around like she’s looking for another empty seat. 

“Do you want to sit?” Jon asks, gesturing at the empty chair. “It’s a miracle I even found a table.”

“Oh—I don’t want to bother you,” she says quickly. “You’re probably busy.”

Jon huffs out a small laugh. “I’m not busy. I’m just killing time. Trust me, you’d be doing me a favor.”

Jon knows her well enough to know when she’s fighting back a smile. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he says, trying to sound casual and hoping the buzz of the bar is enough to hide how loud his heart is beating. 

Sansa sets her bag down next to his backpack and lowers herself into the seat opposite him. He glances at his book while she checks her phone. 

“Do you want something to drink?” 

Sansa looks up and raises her eyebrows. “Just coffee probably. I think they’ll just cancel my flight and if that happens I’ll rent a car and drive the rest of the way.”

He flags the waiter to their table and Sansa orders the coffee with extra creamer and sugar. 

She looks at Jon after ordering and smiles at him, “The sugar will keep me awake.”

He doesn’t even fight the smile. He puts his arms up defensively. “Hey, whatever it takes.” 

The conversation drifts for a moment. The silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable. Jon wouldn’t mind sitting with her in silence for hours. Her coffee gets delivered to the table and he almost asks to have it added to his tab, but decides against it. He doesn't want Sansa to feel uncomfortable. 

Jon thinks of the elopement party. He had turned around in the kitchen and suddenly she was there in that emerald dress. She had looked so beautiful. It had undone him then and it undoes him now. As he was driving home that night after dropping Arya off, he had not been able to rush that seeing her again had caused. He was practically giddy. He also had realized he still wanted her so badly he had almost called her and asked to see her.  

He’s been telling himself he should be over her. It’s been almost a year and a half since they broke up and almost ten months since they stopped speaking. But, it’s like his body and mind don’t recall any of that distance or heartbreak when she’s in front of him. 

“You’ll like Old Town,” she says after taking a sip of her coffee. 

Jon clears his throat and forces a nod, curling his hand around his beer to anchor himself. “Yeah. I’ve heard good things.”

They talk in fits and starts, awkward at many points and normal at others. Sansa asks about his work, he asks about hers. At some point Jon blurts, “By the way, thank you for the flowers. On my mother’s anniversary. I know it was months ago, but I never got the chance to thank you in person.”

Sansa blinks, then lowers her eyes to the table. “I wasn’t sure if I should but…I don’t know. I remembered before when we would spend the day with you. I wasn’t sure if you were spending the day doing anything. And I wasn’t sure if you would even want me to send them.”

“Of course I did,” he says, surprised at how rough his voice sounds. “Blue winter roses. She would have loved them.” He hesitates. “It meant a lot.”

The moment stretches, until her phone buzzes on the table. She glances down and he watches her face shift.

“Canceled,” she says flatly. “They finally did it.” She exhales, pushing her hair back from her face. “Guess I’m renting a car after all.”

Jon frowns. “That’s a long drive in this weather.”

“I’ll be fine,” she insists, already reaching for her bag. “This isn’t even that bad. I don’t even get why they would cancel.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying. We learned to drive in worse weather.” 

Sansa checks the directions to the car rental center before standing up. Jon stands up too. 

This time, he’s the one that reaches for a hug. Sansa returns it and this time, they linger a little longer. 

“Text me when you get home,” he says before he can stop himself. It comes out more urgent than he intended. The second the words are in the air, he regrets them. 

But she just pauses and nods. “I will.”

He can’t tell if she means it or if she’s only being polite.

His plane lands in Oldtown three hours after the original arrival time. He will still have enough time to make it to the welcome reception, but won’t be able to just nap for a bit as he had planned. He turns his phone back on while waiting to deboard, scrolling absently through the useless notifications. Then he sees it:

Sansa Stark: Got home safe. It wasn’t even snowing pass Moat Cailin 🙄

A knot of worry loosens in his chest. He types back quickly:

Jon: I’m glad you made it. I just landed .

He doesn’t expect more, but then his screen flickers and the three gray bubbles appear, pulsing like a heartbeat.

She’s responding.

Chapter Text

Sansa had made a list of goals at the beginning of the year she promised herself she’d stick to.

Near the top she had written don’t fall into old patterns.

And yet, here she is.

She’s supposed to be writing her thesis. The next draft is due in a week and she doesn’t have much time. Between volunteering at the community center to teach a couple of music classes and preparing for her own scheduled performances at the Philharmonic, her days are already overstuffed. Still, her phone sits on the kitchen table at full volume, screen lighting up with texts from Jon live-texting her Robb and Jeyne’s moving day antics. It’s mostly the ridiculous things Jeyne’s mother says and descriptions of the increasingly strained expressions on Ned’s face that make it look like he wants to banish her and every Westerling except for Jeyne from Winterfell.

She shouldn’t be doing this. They both know they need to talk. They’ve even admitted as much, but they haven’t.

After their run-in at the airport over the holidays, which Mya had called serendipitous while it had made Robb roll his eyes and call it inevitable given that eighty percent of Winterfell flights connect through the Twins, they’d started texting here and there. Mostly about work, school, family. Safe topics.

But sometimes the topics are not so safe. A week ago they talked on the phone for two hours while she was cleaning the apartment and running errands and Jon was on a hike by himself. The conversation had drifted from their own situation to their exes. Strange, how “my ex” no longer meant each other but Ygritte and Harry.

Sansa had told him the truth. Harry was a rebound, something to keep her busy, fine while it lasted but never built to last. Jon, sounding sheepish, admitted Ygritte had been fun, that he’d liked her, but they wanted different things. Long distance would’ve broken them anyway. Sansa had almost teased him bitterly— we both know that’s not your strong suit —but bit her tongue. Instead she told him she was sorry it hadn’t worked out. She wasn’t, not really, but it was the polite thing to say. He’d only said, “It’s fine.”

They don’t talk the way they used to before and not like during those strange, stretched-out months when they weren’t together but weren’t apart either. Now it’s sporadic texts, the occasional call. But in that long conversation, Jon had said it outright: they still need to talk about how things ended, especially since it’s been a year since they stopped speaking the second time.

Sansa sighs, pushes back from her laptop, and decides on a break. She makes tea and cuts herself a slice of the lemon meringue pie she bought days ago, knowing she’d need sugar as motivation to write.

When her phone rings, she tells herself she won’t rush to answer. That she’s not that eager to talk to him. That she doesn’t need to prove it by running.

And then she does.

But it’s not Jon. Still, the number has an area code from the North, so Sansa answers. “Hello?”

“Is this Ms. Stark?”

“Yes, who’s speaking?”

“Oh, hello. I’m calling from the Northern Symphony. My name is Donella Hornwood. We received your résumé. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

Sansa straightens where she stands. “Not at all.”

She sent the résumé months ago, somewhere between going home for Robb and Jeyne’s elopement party and then again for the holidays. It was mostly out of boredom, mostly because she’d been homesick. She’d had zero hopes of getting a call or even an acknowledgement. 

Ms. Hornwood explains that their principal cellist, the one who’s been with the orchestra longer than Sansa has been alive, is retiring at the end of the season. “We were very impressed by your résumé and understand you’re currently finishing your masters in Music Theory?”

Sansa blinks at the wall. It takes a moment for the words to register. “Yes?”

“And you’re performing with the King’s Landing Philharmonic, correct?” Mrs. Hornwood asks. 

“Yes,” Sansa confirms. 

“Well, we would like to invite you to audition.”

“You… you would?”

“Yes,” Ms. Hornwood replies, a small laugh in her voice.

Sansa hears herself agreeing before she fully processes it. She’s asked for her Monday availability in a month and Ms. Hornwood gives her an email to follow up.

When the call ends, Sansa sits down on her couch in the quiet, phone still in her hand. Her tea has gone cold. The thesis feels impossibly far away. All she can think is I said yes. The symphony wants her. Maybe. Possibly. At least they want her to audition even if she embarrasses herself. This is real.

Sansa thinks about calling her parents and telling them she might be coming home in a few months, but she stops herself. Better to keep it secret in case it doesn’t work out.

She opens her notes app instead and adds one more line to her goals for the year: Audition for the Northern Symphony. 

She stares at the words until the screen dims, but the possibility doesn’t.

Chapter Text

The audition is over, yet Sansa can’t remember half of it.

This is what she’s been doing since she was a child, practicing until her fingers ached. And now she could potentially perform at the same hall her parents used to bring her to, the same place where her father would lean down to whisper, that’ll be you one day.

There are only vague memories in her mind. She remembers the director’s quick smile, the scrape of her chair when she stood, the band of her pantyhose digging into her waist. Then nothing.

It’s almost a blessing she hasn’t told anyone because, if they asked how it went, she wouldn’t know what to say. She’s pretty sure she blacked out.

She takes an Uber to the hotel, buys a slice of pizza, a mini cheesecake, and an overpriced bottle of wine from the lobby store. In the room, she carefully sets her cello case in the corner, drops her purse on the desk, and peels off her shoes and her dress, leaving them where they fall. She lies on the bed in her underwear and pantyhose and finally, finally breathes.

If she’d told her parents she was coming to Winterfell, she could be in their living room already, her mother pushing food at her, her father telling her stories about people she barely knows, but he swears she must remember because she met them when she was a kid. It would be so sweet, so comforting and easy, to let herself sink into that.

But keeping it to herself is right. She doesn’t want their hopes climbing as high as hers already are.

Her phone buzzes in her purse. She drags herself over to reach it. Jon.

She debates letting it ring out. She doesn’t. She answers and hits speaker and leans back. 

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Jon says. Sansa hears voices in the background and wonders where he is. “Sorry I missed your call earlier.”

Right. She called him before the audition and nearly told him she was here. Nearly. She’s not sure if she’s glad she didn’t. 

“Oh. It’s fine. I don’t even remember why I called.”

“How was your day?” He asks.

“Busy.” She keeps it vague and throws it back at him. “You?”

They talk about work. The weather. A couple he and Robb knew in college who are suddenly divorcing. He rambles and Sansa lets him. 

Then he goes quiet. “Sansa…we still need to talk.”

Her stomach tightens. “I know.”

“We don’t have to right now,” he offers. “Maybe tomorrow morning, or afternoon before you go to work?”

Sansa could take that out, but she knows it’s better to get it over with, no matter how awful she might feel after. In some ways, it feels safer this way with no preparation, no rehearsed lines, no time to spiral. Last time, when they spoke after he got back from his research trip, they both had too much time to think. That call had been the beginning of over nine months of silence.

“No,” she says at last, sighing. “Let’s talk now.”

“I can’t stop running it in my head,” Jon says. “The way I ended things. Before you left. And then that limbo afterward. I—” He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry for how I handled it.”

She laughs once, no humor in it. “You dumped me, Jon. Made me feel like I wasn’t worth the work of even trying. You didn’t give me a chance. You didn’t give us a chance.”

“I thought—”

“Don’t give me ‘I thought.’ You broke my heart. Twice.”

“I was…so fucking insecure,” he says, the words rough. “I kept thinking you’d resent me if you had to fit me into your new life.”

“So you ended it before I could resent you.”

He’s breathing harder now. “Yeah. Yes. I ended it first because I was a coward. Because I couldn’t sit here waiting for the day you figured out I wasn’t enough.”

Her throat burns, but she pushes through. “You were enough. You are. And it wasn’t just losing a boyfriend. You were my best friend. I was about to start this new part of my life, something I had worked so hard for and the person who had been there for me all along suddenly wasn’t anymore. I called you about everything. You were the first person I wanted to tell things to. Losing that hurt as much as losing you. It felt like none of it mattered to you.”

Silence. Then, low: “Gods, Sansa. You mattered more than anyone.”

“It didn’t feel like it,” she replies and her voice shakes. “And then you tried to be…whatever that was. Friends . It wasn’t friendship. It was leftovers. I still loved you and you kept me close enough to give me hope.”

“I know,” he says. “I know it now. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I didn’t trust myself.” He swallows. “I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve given us the chance instead of deciding for both of us. That’s on me. I was a coward and I hate that I made you carry it.”

She stares at the ceiling. “You told me long distance was the problem. Like you were doing me a favor. People do it all the time, Jon.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “It was a shitty excuse. I hid behind it because the truth was worse.”

“What truth?”

“That you deserved better,” he says, blunt, almost ugly. “That every time I looked at you I thought, she’s going to see it . And that everyone could see it too.”

“Well, that’s really fucking stupid.” 

“Sansa—” 

“It is. I’m not a child, Jon. I don’t need you to know better on my behalf. I know what I want and what I deserve and I can tell you I didn’t deserve the way you treated me.” 

“I know you didn’t. And I’m sorry, Sansa. You—you don’t even know how much.” 

“You chose for both of us.”

“I did,” he says. No defense in it. “And then I made it worse. I kept you half in, half out, because I couldn’t let go and I was too selfish to give you real space. That limbo? That was me being weak. That’s not who I want to be.”

It lands. Not cleanly, because nothing between them lands cleanly, but it lands.

She rolls onto her side, tucks her knees up. “Do you have any idea what it did to me, believing I wasn’t worth the pain and—and missing each other if we did long distance?”

“I made you feel like that,” Jon says. “I’m sorry. I can’t fix the past, but I can own it. It wasn’t on you.”

They’re both quiet. She can hear the radiator hiss, a car horn somewhere outside, his breath steadying on the other end.

“We used to be good at being friends,” she says, feeling the tears burning behind her eyes. “You were one of my best friends. But then everything got too complicated and I was still too in love with you to see that we weren’t actually friends.”

“No,” he says. “We weren’t.”

“We kept lying about what it was,” she adds. “Calling it friendship when it was just the two of us too scared to say what we wanted.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I miss you. I know this is…I know it’s never going to be like before, but we can try. If you’d let me try.” 

“Yeah.” 

“If we tried now…it has to be honest. Clean. No more late-night pretending. No mixed signals. If it hurts, we say so. If it’s too much, we stop.”

She almost smiles. “You think we could actually do that?”

“I think we would try,” he says, steady for once. “I know I would. We’re still in each other’s lives. Even if we’re not friends. I don’t want to hurt you again and I don’t want you to resent me. And even if you can’t forgive me for the things I’ve done, at least we can be polite, right? We still might see each other when you come North to visit.”

She lets that sit. We still might see each other when you come North to visit. What would he say if she told him she’s trying to move back after she graduates? 

The ache in her chest is still there, but it isn’t all sharp edges. “I don’t know if we’ll ever be great at it.”

“Probably not,” he says. “But maybe we could try.”

She closes her eyes. “Friends,” she says, testing the word again. It doesn’t taste like ash this time.

“Friends,” he echoes. No wobble in it.

They don’t pretend that fixes anything. They don’t make plans. They sit in the quiet and breathe. For the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel like she’s talking to the ghost of what they were. It feels like a door cracked open, not wide, not all the way, but open nonetheless.

When she hangs up, the room hasn’t changed. The cello is still in the corner. The wine is still too expensive. Her chest is still tight.

Sansa eats the pizza while she calls her parents, pretending she’s still in King’s Landing. She saves the cheesecake and the wine for later and has those when she draws herself a bath before bed. By the time she finally crawls under the covers, hair damp and bathrobe knotted, she’s a little tipsy and bone tired. She reminds herself she has to be at the airport by eleven to make it back in time for her evening performance.

Sansa is jolted awake at nine by her cellphone. For a moment she thinks it must be her mother, or Arya, or Mya, or even Jon—people who’ve always been better than her at mornings.

But it isn’t. It’s Mrs. Hornwood.

“Good morning,” Sansa croaks and immediately regrets answering before she’s had a glass of water. Her voice is raw, heavy with sleep.

In the breath before Mrs. Hornwood replies, Sansa’s mind sprints through every possibility: rejection, a second audition, maybe an offer.

“Good morning, Ms. Stark. Is this a good time?”

“Yes, of course,” she says too quickly, scrambling upright and pawing through her purse for her water bottle.

Mrs. Hornwood wastes no time. “I’ll keep this brief. We were very impressed with your audition. The committee has decided to extend you an offer for the open position. I’ll follow up with an email today outlining the terms. Please, feel free to take until tomorrow to consider and let us know when you’re ready.”

Sansa presses the heel of her hand to her temple. “Thank you,” she manages, the words thin.

“Congratulations,” Mrs. Hornwood says, and then the line goes dead.

The phone slides from Sansa’s hand onto the bed. She stays there a while, staring at the ceiling, the silence louder than anything.

When she finally moves, it’s clumsy. She puts on jeans, a sweater, a quick swipe of mascara. Her cheeks are still hot from the call. She folds her dress into the suitcase, fumbles with the cello case until the zipper closes. For a moment she presses her palm flat against the leather, waiting for her hands to stop shaking.

She checks out of the hotel and drags her bags to the curb. The Uber app is still set for  the airport. She stands there, staring at it, and feels the decision hit her chest: she’s not ready to leave yet.

She calls the airline, voice steady enough, and pushes the flight back a day. The hold music feels endless, the change fee worse, but she gets it done. She then calls her boss. “I can’t make tonight’s performance,” she lies, pressing two fingers hard against her forehead. “Allergic reaction. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.” He sighs but lets it go.

She has to change the address for the dropoff as she gets in the Uber and then explain the change to the driver. Sansa watches as the streets unspool through the window and turn more familiar. Her stomach is tightening with every mile.

The email with the formal offer comes through when she’s five minutes away from the house. It’s a good offer, more than she makes at the moment and life is cheaper in Winterfell than in King’s Landing. It also comes with great perks and benefits, but she will need to sit down and review those carefully. 

The porch looks the same as it always has. She hauls her suitcase up and rings the bell before she can change her mind. She still has her key, but that’s back in her apartment. 

Her mother answers. For half a heartbeat she just stares like she’s looking at an apparition. Then her face folds in on itself and she gasps, “Sansa?”

“Hi, Mom,” Sansa says softly. Her smile wavers but holds.

Catelyn cups her face, then pulls her into a hug so fierce Sansa can’t breathe.

“Come in, come in,” her mother says, tugging her over the threshold as if she might slip away. The suitcase bangs against the frame.

“When did you get in? Why didn’t you tell us?”

Sansa drops her bag by the counter, exhales. “Yesterday morning. I came for an audition with the Northern Symphony.”

Her mother blinks, stunned. “An audition? Do you want some tea? I was making some when you knocked.”

Sansa nods. “Yeah. I didn’t want to tell anyone if it went badly. But it didn’t. I got a call this morning. They’re offering me the position. I have until tomorrow to answer.”

For a moment Catelyn just stares, lips parted, eyes wet. Then she seizes Sansa’s hands. “Oh, Sansa. You should have told us. You shouldn’t have carried this alone. I would’ve driven you myself. You could’ve slept in your room.”

“I didn’t want you to get your hopes up in case I bombed,” Sansa says. “It felt safer.”

Her mother squeezes tighter. “We’d carry it with you. Always.”

The kettle clicks and Catelyn fusses with mugs though her hands still shake. “If they’re offering…does that mean you’d be moving back here?”

“Yeah, if I take it.” Sansa curls her hands around the mug though the tea is too hot. “I graduate in April. My contract in King’s Landing ends in June. I could finish the season, come home in summer, finally get a break because I wouldn’t be touring. Then start fresh in the fall.”

“You’d be home,” her mother says quietly, as if testing the words.

“Yeah,” Sansa admits. “I’d be home. Though I suppose I would get my own apartment.”

They sit in that sweetness until Sansa blurts, “There’s something else. I talked to Jon last night. We…tried to clear things up. But I don’t want him to be a factor in this. I don’t want him to know. This has to be about me.”

Her mother studies her, then nods. “He won’t.” She hesitates. “Your siblings won’t say anything if you ask them. Neither will your dad.”

“Thank you,” Sansa tells her. “Things are still up in the air between us. I don’t think we will get back together, but I think we’re in a better place to be friends now. I think he’s in a better place.” 

“You should know,” her mother says and her tone makes Sansa nervous. “When I went to get your things from the apartment, Jon was there. He’d packed it all, labeled the boxes. He told me he wanted you focused on your offers, not him. And I told him he’d done the kindest thing.”

Sansa frowns. “So you agreed with him? That ending it was better than giving me a choice?”

“Yes and no.” Catelyn doesn’t flinch. “Because he was drowning in his own insecurity. He couldn’t see himself as your equal. That wasn’t yours to fix. At the same time, he should’ve spoken to you instead of ending it the way he did. But when I saw him that time, he looked devastated. I thought my words would offer some comfort.”

She shakes her head. “Our relationship wasn’t just his to drop without a real explanation.” Sansa looks down, blinking hard. “He kept saying I’d outgrow him, that I would resent him if I had to fit him into my new life.”

“It was never your job to prove otherwise,” her mother says evenly. “He had to fix that himself. And he would’ve felt that way regardless of where you went. Even if you had never left for King’s Landing, he would’ve gotten to that point eventually.”

The ache in Sansa’s chest lingers, but she knows her mother is probably right. She wonders if Jon saw their conversation that way. 

“I can’t let…whatever Jon and I might try to rebuild sway me,” she says after a pause. “I won’t. But I have been missing home. I’ve been homesick for months. I want to come back. I just don’t want it to look like I failed in King’s Landing.”

Her mother reaches across, clasping her hand. “You could never be a failure. You’ll return with a master’s degree in Music Theory and two years with the Philharmonic. You’ve kept every part of your contract. None of that could ever be called failing.”

Something loosens in Sansa’s chest. She doesn’t wait. She dials Mrs. Hornwood before she can second-guess herself.

“Ms. Stark,” the woman answers. “I hope you’re calling with good news.”

“I’d like to accept the position,” Sansa says. Her voice holds steady.

“Wonderful news,” Mrs. Hornwood replies. “I’ll send you an email today to arrange a meeting and go over your contract. We’ll discuss start dates then.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says, meaning it.

When she sets the phone down, her mother is already covering her hand again. For the first time in months, homesickness feels less like an ache and more like a direction.

She calls her father next. He answers on the third ring, voice booming: “Sansa? Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, smiling even though he can’t see her. “Better than alright. I’m in Winterfell.”

A pause. Then a laugh that breaks in the middle. “You’re here? Where?”

“At the house. And I had an audition yesterday. At the Symphony. They offered me the position. I said yes.”

For a beat he says nothing, and she wonders if the line’s gone dead. Then: “Sansa. Gods, that’s wonderful. You’ll be home. I’m so proud. Does your mother know? She’ll be so happy.”

“She does. I’m with her now. And I know,” she says softly. “That’s why I wanted to tell you myself. I already accepted, but I will need your help looking over the contract. I’ll forward it to you.”

When she hangs up, she starts a group call with her siblings. Robb and Arya answer. Bran and Rickon don’t so they must be in class.

“Wait,” Arya blurts, squinting at the screen. “Are you in Winterfell?”

Robb’s brows shoot up. “You’re home? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sansa laughs, covering her face. “Because I didn’t want to jinx it. But—I had an audition with the Northern Symphony. And I got it. I just accepted the position.”

They just stare for a second, then Robb grins so wide his whole face crinkles, Arya whoops loud enough to make her wince.

“That’s amazing,” Robb says. “You’re going to be brilliant.”

“You’re coming home!” Arya crows. 

Sansa texts Bran and Rickon the news after, apologizing for catching them in class. Both reply within minutes—Rickon with a mess of emojis, Bran with a short line about how proud he is.

The noise of the calls fades, leaving just the quiet kitchen and her mother across from her. Sansa runs her hand over the side of her mug. The tea’s gone cold. She feels wrung out, heavy with exhaustion, but lighter than she has in a long time.

Chapter Text

By the time Sansa finally tells him she’s moving back to Winterfell, Jon has already known for a week.

He pretends to be surprised. It isn’t hard, he still gets to tell her how exciting it is, how proud he is of her, how he’s going to convince every person he knows to buy tickets for her first performance.

They’re on FaceTime, Jon in his kitchen stirring pasta, phone propped against a half-empty bag of flour. With his free hand he scrolls through bakery listings, hunting for one that will deliver lemon cakes to her apartment later that night.

On the other side of the call, Sansa sighs. Jon’s chest tightens. For a second he braces for the words he dreads. Something like just because I’m moving back doesn’t mean I want to see you.

But she doesn’t say that.

They’re in a better place now. Strange, sure, but better. A big part of their talking happens in the group chat Jeyne made with Robb and them, originally for house renovation updates, now the main thread of their lives. And after that long, gutting conversation two weeks ago where Jon apologized, they’ve touched the topic a few more times. He knows it won’t be the last. It’s just what they do now. They pick apart their breakup, the pieces sharp in their hands, then talk about it until the sting fades.

Jon worries sometimes that’s all they’ll ever do. And then he remembers the hour they spent last week with him walking through the campus greenhouses, showing her every plant, every specimen from their research trips. That hour had felt easy, almost like before.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Sansa says suddenly. Her tone is almost disappointed.

Jon clicks off the stove and pulls the pot from the heat. He carries the phone to the tiny dining table and sits down. “Yeah, but I was waiting for you to tell me.”

Her brow furrows. “Who told you?”

“I can’t reveal my sources,” he says, trying for lightness.

“Jon.”

He sighs. “It was Rickon, but you can’t be mad at him. He was just excited his big sister is coming home. He didn’t mean to spill. So, pretend I’m hearing it for the first time, alright?”

Sansa rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it.

Jon leans forward, elbows on the table. “I am proud of you. Really. And, by the way, I’m sending you lemon cakes in—” he drags the word out, squinting at the delivery app, “—twenty-five minutes. They should get there around eight.”

Her mouth curves, faint but there. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply. “I would send congratulation flowers, but I think you’ll appreciate lemon cakes more.”

They sit with the silence for a moment. She’s the one to break it.

“Are you mad I didn’t tell you?”

He looks down at the table. “I’m not mad. I know I don’t have the right to be mad. But…maybe a little hurt? That you felt you had to keep it from me.”.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No, you don’t have to—”

“Jon.” She cuts him off gently. “Let me say this, okay? I’m sorry I hid it from you on purpose. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be a factor in me making the decision.”

The words sting, sharper than he expects. “Right,” he mutters, looking away.

“Sorry,” she says quickly. “That came out wrong. But we’re trying to be honest with each other, right?”

He forces himself to meet her gaze again. “No, I get it. You wanted it to be yours alone. And it should be.” His voice lowers. 

Sansa bites her lip, thoughtful. “It was about…I didn’t want to confuse things. With us.”

He lets out a breath. “We’re already confusing, Sansa.”

That makes her laugh. “Yeah. We are.”

He’s tried explaining their friendship exactly three times.

The first was to Edd, during a night out where they’d ended up the last two people at the bar. Jon had been halfway through stumbling over the words she’s not my girlfriend anymore, but I like talking to her, she used to be one of my best friends when Edd, glassy-eyed and swaying, muttered something about Jon needing to get it together and promptly dropped his head onto the table. Useless.

The other two times were with Sam and Gilly.

Sam had listened, the way Sam always did, chin in his hand, nodding along while Jon talked himself in circles. “I don’t think I understand what the two of you are trying to do,” he’d admitted finally, not unkind. “If you want to be friends, then be friends. Why do you need a reason…” He’d trailed off, shrugging, like it didn’t make sense to him either.

Gilly had been sharper. She’d let him get through the whole ramble not together, but not nothing, trying to be friends before saying flatly, “You love her. And she loves you. You just don’t want to call it what it is.”

Jon had bristled. “We’re not in love with each other.”

The look she gave him then made his stomach twist, like she didn’t believe him for a second.

The look she gave him made his stomach knot. Later, alone, he knew why. Maybe he wasn’t in love with Sansa the way he’d been before, but he’d never stop loving her. That was the truth. Letting go had never felt possible.

Jon runs a hand through his hair, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “But still better than we were.”

“Better,” Sansa hesitates. “Mom told me about the conversation you had with her. When she came to get my things from the apartment.”

Jon stiffens, hand lowering. “She told you that?”

“She said she thought it would be comforting for her to tell you that you did the right thing,” Sansa says carefully. “She told me she thought you’d done the kindest thing.”

Jon exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half a scoff. “Kindest thing. What she really meant was I wasn’t enough for you.”

“That’s not what she meant,” Sansa pushes, though her voice wavers.

“Sansa, she’s your mom and she has always been nice to me,” Jon says with as much tact as possible. “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t want more for you. And the truth is, I felt that way, even if she hadn’t thought it. I won’t pretend otherwise.”

Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t see it then.”

“I know,” Jon admits. His voice is low, steady. “And I’d like to think I’m not that man anymore. I wish I could go back and do it differently.”

Sansa studies him through the screen, something loosening in her chest. “I wish that too.” She draws a breath, then says, “When I was little, obsessed with fairytales and songs, Dad used to tell me I’d find someone brave, gentle, and strong. And you were always that for me.”

Jon’s eyes soften, surprise flickering there. “Sansa—”

“I mean it,” she insists. “I don’t know what I could’ve done to reassure you, but you were it, Jon. You always were.”

He looks down for a moment, pressing his thumb against the table’s edge, then back up at her. “You were it too”

Her shoulders sag, a laugh escaping that isn’t really a laugh. “I’ve missed you. And sometimes talking to you now feels…weird. Hard. Like we’re stumbling through something neither of us knows how to do.”

Jon nods, lips pressed together. “We don’t know what we’re doing.”

“No,” Sansa agrees softly. “We don’t.”

They stay like that, holding each other’s gaze through the phone, the silence jagged but not unbearable.

“Alright,” Jon finally says. “Tell me more about the new job.” 

Sansa smiles brightly. 

Chapter Text

Sansa’s last months in King’s Landing pass in a blur. 

She's already scrolling Winterfell apartment listings by the time she gathers the courage to tell the Philharmonic she won’t be renewing her contract. As much as she loves her parents and how nice it would be to stay in her old room, she’s grown used to living alone in her own space. That doesn’t mean she’s opposed to sharing it someday. Far from it.

The Philharmonic doesn’t let her go easily. They offer more money, new perks, development opportunities, basically anything to keep her, but her mind is set. She’s going home. Besides, her new contract has already been signed after getting the blessing from her father’s review. 

Once her work situation has been sorted, her landlord has been notified that she will be moving out, and she’s found someone to sublet her apartment for the last six weeks of her lease, she turns her focus to school. She’s so eager to be done that she finishes her assignments and thesis two weeks before the deadlines.

One night on FaceTime she complains to Robb and Jeyne about how bored she is now that all she has to do is show up to class and work. 

They go to visit for the weekend a couple of weeks later. Sansa has one of her favorite weekends in her time in King’s Landing. They stay up late talking, go out for dinner, even to a club one night. That’s when Sansa notices that Jeyne isn’t drinking and how her hand hovers over her stomach almost like she’s not noticing she’s doing that. By brunch the next morning, when she orders orange juice instead of a mimosa, Sansa’s sure.

Robb catches the way Sansa watches Jeyne and when Jeyne gets up to use the restroom, his grin is impossible to miss.

“Don’t tell her you know,” Robb warns. “She wants to tell you herself.”

“Oh, Robb.” Sansa grabs his hand so tightly she’s surprised she doesn’t break it. “You’re going to be parents. I’m going to be an aunt!”

“Sans, you look like you’re about to cry.”

She is. Her eyes are wet, her chest is bursting. “I’m just so happy for you.”

“Thank you,” he says softly and Sansa thinks about how much older he looks these days, more settled. Though he still can’t grow a beard.

“Who knows?” She asks, cautious.

“Mom and Dad, Jeyne’s parents, her siblings. We’ll tell the kids when we get back, but Jeyne wanted you to hear in person.”

“Oh, Robb.”

“You still look like you’re going to cry.”

“Because I might!” She squeezes his hand again. “I’m just so happy for you.”

“Love you, Sans.”

“Love you too.”

When Jeyne comes back, they pretend they’ve been talking about anything but the baby.

On their last night Sansa insists on cooking for them. Robb gets wine and dessert, Jeyne hovers in the kitchen trying to help anyway and when they sit down she makes a toast with teary eyes. “To Sansa finishing school and moving back to Winterfell.”

She wipes her cheeks and then takes Sansa’s hand. “I know you have a sister and I have sisters, but you’re my sister too. And I’m so glad you’re moving back.” She looks at Robb beside her, squeezing his fingers. “Our baby is going to need Auntie Sansa.”

Sansa doesn’t even let her finish before getting up and hugging them both. “You’re going to have a baby!” She keeps saying, laughing through tears. “I’m going to be the best aunt.”

They end the night on the couch, Jeyne curled against Robb while he and Sansa trade childhood stories and the three of them try to predict who the baby might look like.

Sansa starts packing her apartment not long after Robb and Jeyne leave, even though the move is still two months away. King’s Landing is deep in spring and she knows she won’t need her winter things again. She finds herself folding sweaters into boxes anyway, looking forward to the cold, to snow on the ground, her nose turning red, her breath fogging in the air.

Packing gives her something to do, something to keep her from growing restless.

Jon is a steady presence through those last months in the capital. He’s across the country, but there all the same. They speak often, they text, they send each other articles and posts they think the other will enjoy. He calls her when Robb and Jeyne tell him they’re having a baby and she thinks Jon is as emotional as she is. 

She tries to talk about the breakup again, pressing on the wound every time it threatens to scar over.

Jon just listens. His voice is careful when he finally speaks. 

 “Sansa…do you think we can move forward? I don’t mean forgetting. I just—I want us to be better than we were and I’m scared we never will if we just keep rehashing this.”

Her throat tightens. She thinks of all the times she’s dragged them back into this, how she can’t seem to stop herself and how Jon follows her every time. He keeps answering, keeps bringing his own points to the conversation. Sansa knows she’s just scared that if they don’t talk about it, they’ll forget about how bad things got, but when they do talk about it, it feels like they’ll never heal. 

“I don’t know how,” she says at last. Her voice sounds small to her own ears. “I don’t know how we move forward without just ending up right back where we were.”

“We can figure it out then.” 

She doesn’t have an easy answer, but she no longer feels the same sharpness in her chest. It’s almost comforting to know they’re both still trying.

One night, Jeyne asks the question directly. It’s late. Sansa is just back from a performance, too wired to sleep, wandering her apartment as she tries to sort which books she’ll keep out to read over the next couple of months and which can be packed. Jeyne is up too thanks to a bout of pregnancy insomnia.

“So,” Jeyne says, voice low and careful, “what’s up between you and Jon?”

Sansa pauses, a book still in her hand. “We’re—”

“Friends. Right?” Jeyne interrupts her. 

“Yeah,” she adds, quieter, sheepish now. She sinks down onto the floor, sets the phone beside her. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? To be holding on like this when it ended so badly?”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Jeyne says at once.

“Maybe it is.”

“Sansa, you know it’s okay if you want to get back together with him, right?”

“It’s not that.”

“No, listen. It’s okay if you don’t. But if you do—and if he feels the same—you can. You don’t have to justify yourself to anyone.”

Sansa doesn’t answer. There’s just the sound of her shifting against the floor. After a moment she murmurs, “Yeah,” so Jeyne knows she’s still there.

“It was such a mess,” she says finally.

“Do you love him?”

“I’m always going to love him in some way.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Sansa presses her hand to her forehead, but she doesn’t answer. 

Soon enough, she’s too consumed by preparing to present her thesis to examine her feelings for Jon too closely. And then, almost before she’s ready, graduation day arrives.

Her entire family flies down. They get to King’s Landing three days before the ceremony and stay at a hotel near her apartment. Sansa spends the time showing them around the city that has been hers for a little while and that she knows she’ll miss, but is ready to leave behind.

Sansa takes them to all her favorite spots. They take pictures everywhere they go. Each place already holds its own memories, but together they layer on new ones. Arya, usually the most graceful of them, trips and nearly sprains her ankle, her mother accidentally gets drunk at brunch and spends the afternoon telling Sansa how proud she is of her, her father claps and whistles so loudly after one of Sansa’s concerts that her coworkers tease her about it for the rest of the week.

And if she thought her father had been loud then, it’s nothing compared to the noise her entire family makes when she crosses the stage at graduation.

That night they go out for dinner, all of them crammed around a long table, her mother raising a glass to her, Arya stealing food off everyone’s plates, Rickon taking pictures of everything, Bran laughing so hard at one of Robb’s stories that he nearly chokes.

When it’s time for them to leave, Sansa takes the train with them to the airport. On the ride, she’s hit with the sharp memory of Robb’s visit early last year and how she had gone with him to the same airport, and how, on her way home afterward, she had decided she and Jon couldn’t keep talking. The memory presses down on her chest, bittersweet, but it passes.

Back in her apartment, she calls Jon and he picks up quickly. 

“I’ve been thinking about getting a dog,” he says without preamble. “But I keep looking at the shelter listings and every time I think I’ve found the one, someone else adopts it before I can even call.”

“You should absolutely get a dog,” Sansa says, smiling into the phone. “A really big one.”

He laughs softly. “Maybe. I’d like that, though.”

“I’ve been looking at apartments.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Though I have to say, I don’t even know how I felt so comfortable signing the lease for this place without touring it first. I guess this time I could just fly to Winterfell and see the places in person.”

“Any good places you like?” 

“A few,” Sansa says with a sigh. “I just want something that’s within my budget and near work and not super far from my family. Oh and with a big kitchen so I can get a big dining table.”

Jon hums like he’s weighing the pros and cons with her. “Dining table sounds nice. For family dinners.”

“Or friends,” she says lightly.

“Or friends,” he echoes, voice softer now.

She scrolls through the listings again and describes each out loud while Jon listens, throwing in the occasional joke or question, until it almost feels like he’s there beside her, leaning over her shoulder to look at the screen.

Sansa flies to Winterfell for a weekend to tour apartments with her parents. By the time she leaves, she’s chosen a one-bedroom in an old row house divided into flats. It’s a ten minute drive from work, fifteen from her parents, and a short walk to Robb and Jeyne’s. She will look into getting a car once she’s settled in Winterfell. 

Her last performance with the Philharmonic is sharp with emotion. She’s in tears before she even leaves the theater. That night her coworkers drag her and others who are not returning next season out to the bars. The whole night is blurry, but in the morning she wakes up with a headache the size of the Mountains of the Moon and a text from Arya, who she seems to have called at some point: let me know if you got home alive.

On a Saturday in early June the movers finish loading the truck that will take her things north. She’ll fly later that day. She takes a photo of herself with two suitcases and a backpack in the empty apartment and posts it with the caption north bound ✈️

Her parents insist she stay with them until the furniture arrives and Sansa agrees. For a few days it feels like college again, just a summer break. She drives out to the lake with her siblings, spends afternoons stretched in the backyard, letting the sun warm her skin.

It rains on the official moving day when the moving truck delivers her things to her new apartment. It’s on the first floor with a small backyard she already imagines filling with herbs and tomatoes. Jon has promised to help.

He’s at her parents’ house by seven. Sansa has been up early, finishing the last of the packing from her old room. Some of the things she left behind when she first moved to King’s Landing, some of them from even before her and Jon moved in together. Jon borrowed a friend’s truck, which makes the loading easier.

Her parents greet him when they enter the kitchen together. Her mother sets a cup of coffee in front of him without even asking. Her father claps his shoulder and thanks him for helping. Sansa tries not to blush when Rickon rolls his eyes and mutters, “Of course Jon’s here.”

Arya is away traveling and Bran’s stuck at his internship, but Robb and Rickon haul boxes and help rearrange furniture alongside Jon. Their father takes charge of hanging frames, while Sansa and her mother work on the kitchen and bedroom, shooing Jeyne to a chair when she insists on helping.

By evening, the apartment is mostly unpacked. Sansa is so full of love for all of them she can’t stop smiling, hugging everyone tight as they leave.

Sansa falls into the rhythm of the new place fast. She runs around the neighborhood, learning which streets loop back toward her apartment and which spill out toward the park. She keeps a running list in her notes app of cafés she wants to try, little shops she passes with their doors propped open. Sometimes she cuts her run short at Robb and Jeyne’s, and if one of them is home, she ends up with a mug of coffee at their kitchen table.

Jon turns up a week after she’s moved in, arms loaded with pots and bags of soil, a trowel sticking out of his back pocket. They set everything together as Jon explains how to keep her new garden alive.  

Sansa makes lunch and they eat outside. The sun is warm on her shoulders. Jon talks about drainage and soil acidity and she tries to follow, but it’s hard not to get stuck on the way the sunlight reflects on his grey eyes. 

“Thanks,” she says when she walks him to the door.

He grins, brushing his palms on his jeans. “Anytime.”

There’s dirt on his cheek and before she thinks better of it, she reaches up and wipes it away with her thumb.

He raises an eyebrow.

“You had some dirt,” she mutters. 

“Oh,” Jon says, grinning. He reaches out and rubs at her cheek. “Well, in that case…”

The urge to kiss him rises so fast and strong it startles her. Sansa pushes it down, ushers him out, and thanks him again for the garden.

She paces the apartment back and forth between her bedroom and kitchen and tries to shake the feeling. She tells herself she won’t run from it, but she won’t throw herself at it either. Somewhere around her tenth lap, she finally admits the truth she’s been circling: she’s still in love with Jon or maybe she’s in love with him again. No amount of pretending otherwise is going to change that.

The day sneaks up on her again this year, but she’s not full of dread like last year. She thinks they could even get a laugh out of it this year. 

She rehearses it. Fakes the laugh. Smiles at herself in the mirror like she’s already told the joke.

It’s all for show, really. What she wants is simple: to call him and say she misses him even if she saw him two days ago at Rickon’s soccer game. She wants to tell him she still loves him. Instead, she settles for something stupid.

“Happy breakup anniversary.”

She plans to say it with a laugh, the kind that sounds effortless. The kind that says: I’m okay. This doesn’t hurt anymore. 

She taps his name in her call log.

They spoke last night. His name is still wedged in her phone between her mom’s and a childhood friend who wants to meet for lunch.

She’s ready. Light. Playful. Casual.

He picks up after two rings.

“Hey,” he says. “I was just about to call you.”

She opens her mouth and her voice gets buried under the weight of all the things she promised herself she wouldn’t say.

What finally escapes is soft, almost apologetic:

“I don’t think we’re very good at being broken up.”

Jon is quiet for so long she’s worried he didn’t hear her and she’ll have to repeat herself. 

“I don’t think so either,” Jon replies. 

Sansa lets out a shaky laugh as she feels tears pressing at the back of her eyes.

“What do you want to do, Sansa?” Jon asks. His voice is rough, almost pleading, like he’s begging her to give him something—anything. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know. You.”  She admits. “What do you want?”

“I want to see you,” he says without hesitation.

She goes still, then answers quietly, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jon echoes, like he needs to be sure.

“Yeah,” she says, steadier this time.

A pause, then his relief slips through. “Alright. I can be over in fifteen.”

“Okay.”

“Sansa?”

“Yeah?” She’s pacing the length of her living room.

“Can you say something other than okay? I’m kind of freaking out here.” Jon’s laugh comes thin and nervous.

She presses her knuckles to her mouth, fighting a smile. “Just stop freaking out and just come over.”

“On my way,” he says, and the line goes dead.

The minutes that follow feel endless.

Sansa changes clothes twice, brushes her teeth again, pulls her hair back, lets it down. None of it feels right. Her pulse won’t slow.

Then her phone buzzes: Here.

The knock comes seconds later.

Jon is there with his hands in his pockets when she opens the door. For a moment they only look at each other.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says finally, voice rough.

Her throat tightens. “Okay.”

Jon tilts his head, almost desperate. “Sansa—”

She cuts him off, stepping forward. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

The kiss is urgent and hard and Sansa feels years of restraint tearing loose. His mouth is warm, familiar, and it knocks the air from her lungs. Two years since the last time. Two years of silence of anger, of missing him, and here they are again. Her body remembers every second of it.

Jon groans against her mouth. She pushes closer. Her pulse is racing. 

When they break apart, it’s only barely, foreheads pressed together, both of them breathing hard.

“Hi,” she whispers.

Jon lets out a rough laugh, eyes still shut. “Hi.”

Two years without kissing him and it feels like she’s been holding her breath the whole time.

Chapter Text

They spend hours on her couch the day they get back together. They talk and kiss and stay silent and then start over again. 

At some point, when they’re both a little dazed and quiet, they agree to go slow and to keep it between them for a while. 

It’s Jon’s idea to go slow. They built a life and a relationship together for three years, were friends for even longer, they have time again now. Sansa agrees, but secretly wonders what it will be like to have sex with him again. 

It’s Sansa’s idea to keep it a secret, but the second she says it she can already see the wheels turning in Jon’s head. 

“I don’t mean forever,” she says quickly. “It’s just—I just got back. And I just got you back. I want to be selfish for a little bit. Because once people know, everyone’s going to have an opinion or a thought or something to say, and I don’t…I don’t want to hear it. I just want you. I just want to be near you.”

Jon doesn’t argue. He leans in, kisses her forehead, and says, “I understand.”

And she thinks maybe he really does.

“This is good, right?” Jon asks as she walks him to the front door. “Now we’ve got a better anniversary to celebrate.”

Sansa nods. She kisses him once more, then tucks her face into his chest, hiding there because it’s better than crying and telling him how much she’s missed him.

It’s easier than she expected to slip back into a relationship with him. Easier to be his girlfriend again, easier to trust that they can keep moving forward. 

They speak a lot more. Sometimes those talks run late, stretching past midnight, but they don’t happen over phones or glowing screens anymore. Now, they happen in person, in her apartment or his. 

No one knows about them for the first week of their new relationship. She ends up telling Mya because she can’t keep it in. She desperately needed to tell someone even if it was her idea to keep it quiet, so she blurts it out in the middle of a call where they’re gossiping about former coworkers. 

She tells Jon sheepishly that she broke her own rule. Jon just laughs and asks her to tell him more about Mya and their friendship. She asks if he will tell anyone and Jon replies that he’s already bracing himself for telling Robb, but they will do that together. 

The next person to find out is Dr. Mormont, Jon’s mentor. 

Dr. Mormont knows because, in their second week back together, she brings Jon lunch and he happens to walk in on them kissing. 

Sansa shows up half out of boredom, half just wanting to see Jon in the middle of the day. He texted her earlier that the rest of the people in his office are out for lunch and she had wanted to do something nice for him.

Jon is surprised to see her and then even more surprised when he notices the lunch bag she’s carrying. 

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Jon tells her with a smile that completely contradicts what he’s saying. 

“I wanted to,” she replies. “And I wanted to see you.”

When Dr. Mormont walks in to tell Jon something about some article, Jon has just reached for her to kiss her. Thank the gods it’s only a quick, chaste thank-you kiss, not the kind they share when no one’s around. Those are not suitable for an office.

Jon doesn’t even blink when he introduces her again, steady as anything: “ This is my girlfriend, Sansa Stark.”

Dr. Mormont just nods. “Ah, yes. I remember you. One of Ned’s girls.” And then he leaves telling Jon he will come back later. 

The second the door is closed behind him, Jon turns the lock and his mouth is on hers again before she can laugh. This time, they kiss until she ends up perched on his desk. 

“You’re going to be Dr. Snow next year,” she teases him.

Jon laughs and kisses the slope of her shoulder. “Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, I can,” Sansa says before pulling him back for another kiss. “Kind of hot, to be honest.”

Sometimes Jon comes over and brings his laptop and works while she watches TV or reads. It’s sweet and it reminds her of when they lived together. She’s wondered more than once if they will live together again, but it’s turned more into a question of when than if . 

One night, he sprawls on her couch while Sansa plays some of her favorite pieces for him on the cello. Jon goes quiet as soon as she starts to play her favorite. It’s only a short piece, one she learned after they broke up, but when she finishes he’s still looking at her like he can’t believe she’s real.

“You’re incredible,” Jon says simply.

Sansa rolls her eyes and tries not to blush. “You’ve heard me play before.”

“Not like this.” He shakes his head. “Not in so long.”

It’s late by the time he leaves. Jon hesitates at her door, then kisses her once, twice, like he’s reminding himself it’s allowed. Sansa has to hold herself back from asking him to stay. 

“Goodnight, Sansa.”

She watches him go, already aching for tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Nothing about kissing Sansa feels like “taking it slow.” If anything, it feels like he’ll forget how to breathe unless he gets to kiss her every day. The time they spend together doesn’t look much like restraint either, but it’s so easy to fall back into a rhythm with her that whole days disappear before he even notices.

If Jon isn’t buried in his dissertation, he’s with her. The speed of it unsettles him sometimes, but mostly it thrills him. He tells himself it’s what he wants and that it’s alright to want her, to love her. Besides, he knows one fall arrives he’ll be busier with school and she will need to acclimate to her new job. Taking advantage of this time they have is the right choice. 

It’s been weeks now of ending up on her couch, her body warm against his. Weeks of pulling apart too late, of promising they’ll stop before it goes too far. Every time it feels like they’re one slip away from tumbling over.

He’s pretty sure they’ve kissed more in the past three weeks than in the three years they dated. Absurd. Yet he doesn’t mind.

Sansa makes it worse when they’re around other people—the brush of her hand on his arm, her knee knocking his under the table, a smile that lingers, the drag of her finger along his neck when no one’s watching. If she keeps it up, he swears she’ll be the death of him.

They still spend plenty of time with Robb and Jeyne. Jon is half convinced they know, but neither has said a word.

Sansa sits across from him at lunch at their house now. Jon asks her to pass the pitcher of lemonade near her elbow, but instead of doing that, she pours some for him. Their fingers brush when she hands him the glass. Jon has to act like it wasn’t those same fingers wound tight in his hair the night before, when he kissed her good night outside her place.

“Thanks,” Jon tells her and tries not to meet her eyes, convinced he’s blushing. Actually, he tries not to meet anyone’s eyes. He’s probably being so obvious. 

After lunch, he carries boxes up to the nursery with Robb as Jeyne talks about paint swatches. 

Sansa laughs from another room and the sound hits him harder than it should. For a second it’s almost like the years folded in on themselves and he’s back in his and Robb’s college apartment, the three of them crowded together with nothing more serious to worry about than who’d be stuck doing the dishes.

By mid-afternoon, Jeyne’s pressing leftovers into their hands before they leave. Jon hears himself offer, “I’ll drop you off,” like Sansa doesn’t live just a few blocks away. Jeyne raises an eyebrow at him. 

They’ve formed a habit of always touching in some way when he’s driving. Sometimes they hold hands. Sometimes her fingers slip into his hair like it’s nothing. Today, Sansa rests her hand on his knee.

The car ride stays quiet. Her hair’s tied up, loose strands catching the light and Jon keeps forcing his eyes back to the road when he catches himself staring.

Sansa doesn't reach for the handle right away when they park. She turns to him. 

“Want to come in?” 

It’s not the first time she ask,  but this time it feels charged somehow. His throat goes dry. “Yeah.”

They barely make it through the door before they’re on each other.

Later, Jon won’t be able to say who moved first. His mouth is on hers and she’s pulling at his shirt and they’re stumbling down the hall. 

“This is—” he gasps as he lifts her onto the bed, “—this is not slow.”

“Yes, it is,” she mutters, breath ragged against his neck. “It’s been what? Three weeks?”

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound muffled against his own shirt as Sansa tugs it over his head. “Last time we lasted, what, two days?”

“Two and a half,” he manages before kissing her so hard they both forget how to breathe.

Last time it was different. They had been harboring feelings for each other for years. So by the time they got together, they could barely be apart. That’s how they ended up sleeping together just a couple of days after Sansa kissed him at his college graduation. She had stayed at his apartment while Robb was out and in the morning, when he had gotten back from wherever he was, he had just texted them in their shared group chat saying I’m going to pretend that’s not Sansa’s car outside and also I’m leaving again and I don’t want to know anything. 

It’s clumsy at first. Her skirt gets tangled with her underwear. He nearly elbows her in the ribs trying to shove his jeans down. She curses when her hair gets caught under his arm. They laugh, out of nerves more than humor, mouths finding each other again and again as if kissing will steady them.

And then they’re past it. His hand steadies her hip, her fingers drag down his back, and suddenly it’s not awkward anymore. It’s familiar and new and different. Her body finds its rhythm with his.

It’s been over two years since he last touched her like this and the weight of that presses down even as he moves with her. 

Jon can’t stop thinking of all the nights he wanted this, all the mornings he woke up missing her, all the chances they wasted.

Her hands cradle his face when he falters. “Jon,” she moans and it’s the same as it ever was.

When they finally collapse against each other, the room is quiet except for their breathing. Sansa’s hair is bright red against her white sheets in the afternoon light and Jon realizes with a jolt that it feels exactly like old times. It feels like all those afternoons they spent together in bed just because they wanted to be close to one another. It also feels entirely different and thrilling. 

They don’t speak for a long moment. Then, softly, Sansa says, “I love you.”

Jon freezes. She looks embarrassed the second the words leave her mouth. “Maybe it’s too soon—”

He shakes his head fast, “It’s not.”

Her eyes widen. “Jon—“

“It’s not too soon,” he says quickly, though his chest is tight. He pulls her closer and presses his mouth against her hair. “Sansa, I love you too. Always have.”

She laughs once, shaky, and kisses him again.

He replays everything in his head as he drives home later. All the small, ordinary things. All the terrible moments they’ve experienced. All the beautiful things they’ve shared. All the moments that have made him realize how much he loves her. 

For years he thought what they had could only live in memory. And yet here it is again, alive and real.

It doesn’t feel like starting over. It feels like returning.

Chapter Text

Their first real fight happens a week before Jeyne’s baby shower.

“I think we should tell everyone about us before the shower,” Sansa says.

She’s been turning it over in her head for days, running through ways to break the news. First she thought they’d tell each person one by one. Then she had the ridiculous idea of dumping everyone into the same text thread and sending out a single announcement: we’re back together. Now she’s somewhere in between. She thinks they need to tell her parents and siblings, tell Jon’s friends, and let the rest spread on its own. That way, by the time the shower comes around, everyone will already know. 

And Sansa will get to stand next to Jon openly and hold his hand and blush when one of her mother’s friends teases her that she’s next. The thought of a future with Jon and their children is a sweet one, though Sansa knows they’re nowhere near ready for that. 

“That’s probably a good idea,” Jon replies, standing at the stove. He holds up a spoon toward her. “Try this.”

Sansa leans forward to let him feed her a spoonful of stew. They’re still in the middle of summer, but she mentioned to Jon she was craving some good northern stew and two hours later he texted her to go over to his apartment because he had bought the ingredients and was making her dinner. 

“It’s so good,” she says and follows the compliment with a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Jon smiles and continues stirring. “It just needs a few more minutes.” 

“I was thinking I could tell my parents this week,” Sansa goes on. “Just me and them. I don’t want to blindside them at the shower. And we should tell my siblings together.”

Jon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer right away. He keeps stirring.

“What is it?”

“I think we should tell your parents together,” Jon says. “That way it doesn’t feel like—like it’s something to hide.”

“It’s not about hiding. I just want to talk to them first.”

Jon opens then shuts his mouth and shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else. 

Just like that, the air between them turns heavy. 

“Just say what you’re thinking,” Sansa asks and moves closer to him. 

“I’m serious about you,” Jon tells her. “About us . I don’t want your parents thinking we’re just messing around.”

Her voice rises more than she would like. “This, our relationship , is complicated, and my parents are protective of me. They watched me go through a really horrible breakup with you.”

His face tightens. “You think they’ll take it better if I’m not even there?”

“I think they’ll take it better if they hear it from me first, without feeling like they’re being cornered into smiling and nodding while you sit there.”

“Sansa, do you think they will tell you this is a bad idea? And if they do, then where does that leave us?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You kind of are,” he mutters. “You don’t need to protect me from their reaction.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Sansa replies. “I need them to know that despite everything, we found our way back to each other. But they saw me, Jon. Fuck—they saw you . We were both in a bad place after the breakup and I need them to know that’s not how it is anymore.” 

Jon still doesn't say anything. 

“Can you trust me with this?” 

That seems to soften him somehow. He steps toward her and cups her face in his hands. “There’s no one I trust more, Sansa.”

They have dinner together and the conversation circles back to how she’ll tell her parents. The longer they talk, the easier Sansa feels about it.

It’s nothing like the ordeal she imagined in the end. Sansa goes alone after asking if she can come by after her father gets home from work. Her mother tells her to stay for dinner.

Sansa is almost certain they suspect something, because once they sit down her father asks what she’s been up to and then, pointedly, if she’s seen Jon.

When she admits they’ve been back together for about a month, the support comes, surprisingly, from her mother first. There are encouraging words from her and a few cautious ones from her father. 

“I love Jon like a son,” Ned says. “But I don’t ever want to see you so upset again. And I never want to see him like that either.” 

It’s easier than she expected to tell them the truth: that she loves him, that he loves her, that this time they’re sure.

Before she leaves, her mother asks her to bring Jon to dinner on Friday. Sansa kisses her cheek and says she will.

Telling Robb and Jeyne is more awkward and a little funny.

She and Jon arrive separately. He’s already there when she walks into her brother’s house. They’re supposed to be helping with the baby shower: Jon in the backyard helping Robb as they follow Jeyne’s instructions, Sansa at the table with scissors and ribbon. They wait until the four of them are gathered in front of the TV with pizza before Jon clears his throat and says there’s something they need to tell them.

“Jon and I are dating,” Sansa starts. “Have been for a few weeks.” 

At first, there are only blank reactions from Robb and Jeyne until Jeyne elbows him and that seems to get him to react. 

“Oh, we’re so happy for you,” Robb says at last, his tone a little too careful.

Sansa narrows her eyes. “You already knew.”

Robb shrugs. “Yeah.”

Jeyne smirks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Of course we knew. You two aren’t exactly subtle.”

“We thought we were being careful,” Jon says, leaning back against the couch and putting an arm around Sansa. It makes her smile so wide her cheeks might hurt later. 

“Careful?” Jeyne laughs. “I saw you at the grocery store by Sansa’s apartment last week, holding hands like teenagers. You were in the produce aisle, Jon. Holding hands in front of the tomatoes. I saw you kiss her.”

Sansa hides her face in her hands. “Gods.”

“And honestly,” Robb adds. “You didn’t even need to tell us. You’re always making eyes at each other every time you’re together and it’s so obvious.”

Jon shakes his head, but he’s smiling now, the tips of his ears pink. “Guess we’re terrible liars.”

“Not terrible,” Jeyne says with a grin. “Just obvious. Obvious and disgustingly in love.”

Sansa swats at her with a pillow, but she’s laughing too.

The news spreads to the rest of her siblings. They receive mostly sweet reactions and encouraging words from all. From Arya, they both also receive a threatening text. 

“How will she ‘deal’ with us if we hurt each other?” Jon asks Sansa after reading the text to her. He’s already in her bed while Sansa switches off the lights. They’re going on an early hike so Jon is staying over. Neither of them mentions that he could’ve picked her up in the morning. 

Sansa chuckles and replies as she kneels on the bed next to him. “I don’t know. I guess this is her contingency plan in case one of us screws up.” 

“Well, I guess we’ll never have to find out,” Jon says and before he can say anything else, Sansa straddles him and silences him with a kiss. 

That weekend at the baby shower, they only have to dodge questions from a few family members who don’t know when to stop. 

And when Aunt Lysa asks if Sansa ever plans to settle down or if she will continue working such late hours—the last part said with that haughty tone that has always made her mother roll her eyes—Sansa is just able to say her boyfriend likes that she’s so passionate about her career. Her eyes find Jon across the yard.  

He must feel her watching, because he glances back at her then, and the look they share is enough to make Sansa abandon the conversation and go to him. 

“All good?” Jon asks and holds his hand out to her.

“Great, even,” Sansa responds and leans in to kiss his cheek.

Chapter Text

The lease renewal agreement from the landlord sits in Sansa’s inbox for a week before she even mentions it to Jon.

She waits and waits and waits until the reminder to review and submit before the deadline pops up on her calendar. She will either renew or say she’s moving out. She knows which one she prefers. 

It had been easier the first time they lived together. Back then, by the time they had signed a lease, she was already staying over at his apartment most nights. Part of it was wanting to be with him, part of it was just needing more space than the dorms ever gave her. So when the semester ended and Jon finished with his first year of the PhD and Sansa was about to start her senior year of college, the decision hadn’t even felt like a decision. They’d just…slipped into it.

Now there’s more to think about. Sansa loves her neighborhood. She’s only ten minutes from Robb and Jeyne and her baby niece. She’s gotten used to taking the bus to work sometimes or drive if she chooses to. She knows the streets well enough to run them half-asleep in the mornings.

But Sansa loves her apartment even more than she loves her neighborhood. It’s where they have continued to grow as people and as partners. It’s where they said I love you again and where they’ve had late night conversations about their future. This is the apartment where one day a month ago while arguing about cellphone plans Jon told her he wants to marry her one day. 

“I don’t want to pressure you,” Jon had said and pushed his hair off his face in that way he always does when he’s frustrated or nervous. “Last time before we broke up I was looking at engagement rings. I just want you to know if you’ll have me, I want us to get married one day.”

“Is that a proposal?” Sansa had asked. 

“It’s a pre-proposal.”

“A draft proposal?” She teased him and it made Jon smile. 

“Yes, let’s call it that.” 

“Well, then this is my draft acceptance.” 

Cellphone plans had been forgotten for the rest of the day when Jon pulled her closer to kiss her. 

She even knows that, logistically, moving in wouldn’t be a problem for Jon. When his lease ended last year, he went month to month instead of locking himself in again.

“I’ll want more space if I get a dog,” he’d told her and she’d thought that made perfect sense.

He still has not gotten a dog, but the conversation has moved from “when I get a dog” to “when we get a dog.” 

This year has been one of the best of her life. She’s home again, with her family, with old friends and new ones. The Symphony has felt like the right place from the very first rehearsal. Now, with the season ending, she’s already looking forward to a month of touring. She misses visiting new cities, new halls, the chance to play more. Jon will be gone in July, off to Skagos for another research trip. And in the fall, his postdoc starts at Winterfell University. He’ll probably end up teaching there too. His friends joke that Dr. Mormont wants him to take over the department one day, but Sansa doesn’t think the joke is far from the truth. 

He is now officially Dr. Snow. Sansa had somehow managed to keep the surprise party she threw for him a secret. She can still feel how proud she was, standing beside him, slipping her hand into his under the table while Robb rambled through a too-long toast. Her mother kept refilling Jon’s glass, Jeyne cried when she hugged him, and Jon looked overwhelmed in the best way.

He had walked in thinking he was just picking Sansa up so they could head over to Arya’s new apartment. Instead, he found their friends and family waiting for him at Sansa’s place. She had spent two weeks planning every detail in her free time while he buried himself in studying. She had been the one to string up the photos on twine along the wall. She collected snapshots of him in the field, covered in mud and grinning. She had also included a few of them together and of all the people she knows have made an impact on his life, including his mother. Sansa had made sure to buy blue winter roses for the occasion. 

Jon had kissed her as soon as the last guest left and spent the rest of the night showing her just how grateful he was.

Sansa almost can’t believe they’re about to reach a year together. Again. They have a weekend getaway trip planned for their anniversary. Jon is renting a small cabin in the Wolfswood from one of his colleagues. A whole year of being back together and everyday they learn something new about each other, everyday they make an effort to love one another more than the day before. 

Moving in together seems like the next step on the progression of their relationship, but Sansa doesn’t want for it to be something they stumble into this time or because it’s expected. She wants it because she can’t imagine ending her days anywhere else. Even if work keeps them apart for stretches of time, even if their schedules are messy and demanding, she wants to come home to Jon every night. 

She’s still thinking about all of this, staring at the renewal email in her inbox, when she hears the door. They’ve had keys to each other’s places for months now. Another reason moving in together makes sense. They won’t need more spare copies passed back and forth. So many of her things are at his place that sometimes she has to stop by his apartment on the way to work to finish getting dressed.  

He drops a kiss to her hair before setting his bag down. “You look serious.” 

“I was just…thinking.” Sansa closes her laptop before he can see what’s on the screen.

Jon washes his hands and then pours himself water from the jug she keeps in the fridge. 

“About me?” He teases, leaning against the counter.

“Funny.” She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “And yes.” 

Sansa watches him for a second, then says, almost too casually and like she hasn’t been spiraling about it, “We should move in together.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” Sansa shrugs. She’s trying to act light about it, but her fingers nervously tap against the table and she sees when Jon notices it. 

“I’ve been wanting to ask you the same thing,” he admits. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”

Her chest feels too tight all of a sudden, but in the good way. She stands up. 

Jon lets out a laugh. The relief in it is almost solid against her skin. He pushes off the counter and comes closer, kissing the top of her head. “So…yes?”

“Yes.” She laughs too. “Of course yes.”

They stand there grinning at each other like idiots. Sansa finally blurts out, “I don’t want to find a new place though. I love this apartment.”

“Then we won’t,” Jon says easily. “We’ll stay here. I’ll just move my stuff in. And hey, the garden’s half mine already.”

She swats at his arm, but she’s laughing. “It’s our garden.”

“Exactly,” Jon says and kisses her temple. “And I’m not giving it up.”

They end up sitting side by side on the couch with her head on his shoulder. They start talking through the small details like how he’ll bring his books, what he’ll do with the furniture he’s getting rid of. Sansa doesn’t really care about the logistics. She just keeps thinking how easy it feels to plan a life with him again.

Regardless of anything that happened, here they are, still moving forward, still choosing each other, more in love each day.

Sansa looks at him and studies the slope of his nose, how his grey eyes look darker inside her apartment at night, the scar above his eyebrow he can’t remember how he got. 

“I really love you, you know,” Sansa says softly.

Jon’s lips curve with the full, steady smile she still can’t believe she gets to see this close again. “I love you too.”

It’s simple, but it’s enough.

Jon offers to go pick up dinner and she waits until he leaves to go back to her laptop. She doesn’t hesitate. She fills out the renewal, adds Jon’s name to it, clicks submit, and shuts the computer.

Sansa can’t help but smile when he gets back. She all but throws herself into his arms and nearly makes him drop the takeout bags.

“All good?” Jon asks and tries to steady them both.

“Yes,” she answers quickly and takes one of the bags so she can catch his free hand. Her smile doesn’t falter.

She laces their fingers together before he can reach for his food, holding on like it’s the easiest promise she’s ever made.